Chow Chow

So it occured to me while working out last night that many of you have no real feeling for who the important people are in my life.
So here, for you, is the start of a series of handy reference guides using current pop culture fixtures.

Chow Chow, one of my most favorite people in the world, is very much one-half of the Skeletwins (TM Pink is the New Blog) meets John Cho from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle with alot of Patsy from AbFab. And a big heap of Janice Dickinson.

He spends more money on clothes a month than most people spend on rent, and he's a vicious she-bitch with sharp claws and a razor wit. I'd say he's part Naomi Campbell but everyone wants to be Naomi, including myself. Namoi is without a doubt the world's preminent Supermodel. No one else comes close to working the attitude that really defines the spirit of SUPERMODEL realness than Ms. Campbell. Go slap the help, sweetie, and do a kilo of coke off of your Louis Vutton luggage while touring Africa on some Goodwill Ambassador tour. While giving face. That's nerve.

I called him last night as he was out partying with our mutual friend Carly who's sexual orientation is harder to pin down than a greased pig at a Weight Watchers convention.
In mid-conversation, he began yelling at some car, "Take your ugly Jetta elsewhere, Jersey bitch!

What Happens in Vegas...

im being sent to vegas for work this weekend for the biggest fashion-buying event in the country.
MAGIC.
Bring it.
Alto I must say Vegas is disgusting. It's full of hick trash wearing oversized tees and ugly khaki shorts.
And there are NOO hot gay men there..its sort of a wasteland for the fags.
So am I excited about going? Eh.

I'll probably kill some anorexic blond bitch...or make tons of best friends.

Anyone know of a hot slutty gay stripper with tons of club and drug hook-ups?

The Best Week Ever

So last week was an incredible week for me.
My best friend Owen came out from Chicago to hang out with me for four days. He goes to medical school at Northwestern and he'll hopefully become a plastic surgeon someday and suck all the fat out of my ass when I'm 50 and look like Jabba the Hut.
At Stanford, we were the crazy druggie stoner bitches who thought we were so cool because we would cook K in the dorm kitchens, but honestly hanging out with him has always been more adventure and comraderie than just getting high.
Together we're like the Hardy Boys of the Circuit.
In his company though I've done some of the most rash and ridiculous things...he seems to be a catalyst for impulsive behavior.

One time during gay pride, I was drunk...natch...and while waiting in line to get into the END UP in SF (the most cracked out place on God's green earth...PERIOD), I met this FOBBY asian guy who barely spoke a word of English but was saavy enough to flash me his vial full of K. I did what any self-respecting crack head would do and proceeded to make out with the little rice paddy while swiping his K and handing it to Owen.
Karma bit fast becasue the both of us entered K holes and had to jump into the nearest cab...only to wake up on my bathroom floor the next day with a pool of drool around my head.

But this past trip was different. I had to work that weekend, and most of our time was spent catching up and working out. He's grown up to be a gorgeous man... but is refreshingly more concerned with life than looks. All in all...even though this reunion lacked black trannies, k holes, and a big party, it was nice to hang out with the man who's become my brother.

But the next time...it's on, bitches. I'm talking about Black Party/Alegria/Junior marathon, and I'm taking the House of Aviance with me... I want runway on K with a thousand buff daddies surrounding me while Abel spins. Work.

On Friday I arrived in Ptown and hung out with the EX and his friends. It was of course messy. And emotional... but completely worth it. because im criminally insane.

I could spend the rest of my life in his arms. He's coming out to visit next month and I can only hope that things become easier for us.

I love him so much that there are times I hate him. Loving someone complicates things, especially when the two people in love are control-freaks.

Well that's the update for now...
I'm going to Barry's Bootcamp sometime this week. An intense bootcamp work-out in which you do cardio for half an hour followed by free-weights. Some hot trainer I met at Crunch last night talked me into it. Supposedly they used to give t-shirts away to people who threw up, but they were giving away too many t-shirts, so now when you puke, you just get to take a break. It's totally the sick sadist shit I love.

Reporting from Ptown

I took the red-eye Thursday and got into Provincetown early Friday morning. In all, I got less than 3 hours of sleep, was wired on a gallon of coffee, and lost my toiletrie bag, but the four days have been worth it.
Ptown is a small paradise, and spending time with my ex has been a gift.
I'll write more on my time here when I return to LA.

What?!

A friend...I won't say who sent me this text this afternoon:

Our friends dog just ate our used condom. What do I do? I am so embarrased but afraid hes' going to vomit it up and there'll be a condom on the floor. Aaah!

Woody Allen on LA

I don't wanna live in a city where the only cultural advantage is that you can make a right turn on a red light.

Listing

Soooo much has happened and Im so busy at work I cant really write it down:

1) Went to birthday party for friend's personal trainer on Friday. Everyone there had a SICK ripped body. I felt skinny fat so I turned to patron gimlets. I kept wondering.. where the fuck do you find the time to work out so much? Oh yeah, that's your fucking job. The party was at Fiesta Cantina, which I realized is the high-school cafeteria for West Hollywood gays. We sat at a big table out in front...and at one point this salty gaysian friend of Kirks asks him, "Why are you sitting with all of the plastics? They're all porn stars and personal trainers."
And its then I realize those are the heros and idols of the shallow gays... and Im as shallow as a kiddie pool for midgets.
Just kidding..I'm not, but I did allow the body facism at the table to dazzle me and to make me feel bad about myself at the same time. After a couple drinks though, I was all about groping feels and hanging with Kirk.
2) I saw Carrie at the Hollywood Forever Cemetary with Kirk. So much fun. Tons of young 20 somethings packed the big lawn in front of the mauseloeum and drank their concoctions and ate their picnics. Kirk brought New York Style Deli sandwiches and cookies from Stolichnaya Bakery.
3) Met a really cute dressing-room guy at Club Monaco. But its hard for me to figure out whether or not I think he's cute because he's actually cute or because I'm a sick flirt and I like to make out with dressing-room guys.
4) I hate being poor. In trying to dress well for a job that's involved with fashion...how do you pull off a cohesive look without going broke? Shoplifting? That would be tragic. Look at Winona, she's never really recovered.
5) Michelle took advantage of Sephora's return policy which is the best in the nation. While working for her former PR agency, she got a BUTTLOAD of expensive facial products, didnt use any of them, and took them into Sephora claiming she got them at the one in SoHo New York.
She got herself a 300 credit. Now how do I convince her to get me some Strivectin-D?!
6) Jake's in town. He's still so hot it makes my head spin. He got asked to enter a stripping contest last night. Its only when you're with a really hot guy that you realize that you're not super fucking hot yourselfbecause the world all seems to fall all over itself to talk to Jake. If I wasn't fucking him, I'd hate him.
7) Work's really busy so I'll be quiet again for the next several days.

XOXOXO

Spank Me Daddy

So last night Michelle and I met up with my old friend Johnny at the Gauntlet.
Johnny is an insane nut.
He went to Berkeley and befriended this jewess who went to high school with a jewess in my dorm.
So of course the two gals tried to set us up even though we're so not each other's type.
We may have sucked each other off, but thats about it. He's like a sister to me now, but I only get to see him like once every year since he goes to law school in Ohio.

As I approached the seedy leather bar, he was waiting outside, his thin 6'2 frame leaning against the blue stuccoed wall. (blue stucco, ewww..)
He was holding a water bottle filled with jack and diet since he's still a lush even if he is broke.
He perked up upon seeing me, rushed over to me and without hesitation said,
"Oh my god, Astro, I met some guy off of Craigslist, and he came over and jizzed all over my ear. Can you get HIV from that?! My ear totally hurts!"

And he was being dead serious.

Anyways, I had forgotten that you can't bring a girl to a leather bar. Michelle screeched upon entering, the big burly men turned and glared at me for bringing vadge into their lair of testosterone, and John kept asking me about his cum-laced ear.

Of course I fell in love with the bartender and several of the patrons. I think I'm destined to become a bear. That or I'm just really tired of the skinny primadonna queens that frequent West Hollywood. I want a man with muscles, a bit of fat, and a little edge and not Lindsay Lohan. (Lin-Lo)

I suggested we hit Akbar, where we hung out for a hot minute. But I was tired, and wanted to go home to shop online for a cardigan and cashmere v-neck sweater. (I want Gucci, but Michelle keeps trying to get me to buy Polo Raph Lauren Purple Label. I'm a skank, not a prepster)

My best friend Chow called me a couple nights back about an attempted mugging that occured to him in the Lower East Side.
Fortunately, the cops apprehended the street rat and Chow is 100% fine.
Makes you want to carry mace and a big stick. And a security guard with an even bigger stick.

Tonight I'm going to my friend's party for his personal trainer's birthday. Oh yes, kids, that's LA for you.

Fixed that link on the previous entry

sorry bout that..
Tonight im going to that Wet Underwear Contest at the Gauntlet II. Their website displays the tagline "Upholding the Masculine/Leather/Fetish/Uniform Ethic."
HA! Whatever!
The queens there are probably two drinks away from doing runway.

Reading on...

My friend/fag hag Michelle sent me a link to this guy's weblog. Yet another sister fighting the good battle against crystal meth

Tina makes you crazy, kiddies...and it makes you look like Karen Carpenter with bad skin. 'Nuff said.

Being Courted

Its funny how things rarely go the way you think they'll go...

I totally thought Kirk was waaay too nice for me. He doesn't drink even though he was never an alocoholic, he rarey goes out, and likes to stay in and read instead of bar hopping. HELLO, I'm a crazy lush/bar slut, what the hell do I have in common with this guy?!?!?

But he's been courting me pretty steadily these past few weeks, and my resolve for us not to work is weakening...
the motherfucker bought me Harry Potter AND has already done the one thing that will guarantee a tug on my heart strings: he surprised me with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. The fat girl inside of me already loves him.

I still don't know if I want a boyfriend, because in examing my track record this past year, I've repeatedly developed big crushes on guys who were emotionally unavailable, complete drug addicts, or big himbos. In other words, I've dated
men who I knew I could never really fall for...or become really vulnerable to.
All the while lamenting my state as a singleton.
Have I met quality guys in that time? Yes.
And Kirk's one of them, but I STILL have whiplash from that little incident I like to call Chernobyl:The Break-Up Summer 04.
I don't know what I'm looking for...some miracle-worker blind date who'll trust immediately upon first contact? Or some built-hottie with a heart of gold who works with mentally-handicapped children? Because even if I did meet the perfect guy, I doubt I'd be ready or willing to give it a go.
But I'm trying.. just gotta breathe and not be too neurotic about it all.

My hottie tottie boy from SF is coming down this upcoming weekend...so let's see if I can focus on one guy for than a week. Speaking of...Jake sent me the photo of the Golden Gate from Baker Beach. Jesus, I forgot how beautiful SF actually is...it wasnt until I was in LA- the ugliest fucking city on the California coastline that I realized the extent of SF's beauty.

In other news, I've been extremely busy with work... which is good and bad.
Good because Im starting to like my job. Bad because I hate waking up at 6:30 to get to the office at 8am. WHO DOES THAT?! Fucking aye! JESUS!

And so far every friend I've made so far in LA seems to be a New Yorker. Probably because I can't deal with dishonesty, and I'm sorry LA but your residents tend to be full of shit.
Don't tell me your a model, dude, when you're 5'4 and slightly pudgy. Saying you're a model ain't going to make you look like one. And calling yourself an actor when the one thing you've done is a commercial 7 years ago is a bit of a stretch. And make sure not to name drop too much; it looks desperate.

A bunch of us are going to the Gauntlet's wet underwear contest tomorrow night. Wish me luck, boys...my goodies are gonna be wet.

Poodle's Pad

Okay, so I'm full of envy and spite.

My friend Paul was out of town this week on work so he gave me the keys to his lush pad in WeHo.
The aprtment complex he lives in is REE-FUCKING-DICULOUS.
The kind of place that perhaps 5 percent of the total world population can afford to live in. IT's that KIND OF PLACE.
So of course its full of childless gays with large incomes and big SUVs.

As I was dropping by to use the pool the other day, the door to the apartment across the hall opened up and out stepped POODLE, a classmate of mine from Stanford.

Poodle earned his name as an undergrad for his incesssant primping. As a freshman, he made weekly trips to the nail salon, tanning salon, AND hair salon. (YES HAIR SALON... barber shops just wouldn't do for this girl) He went on to continue his weekly coiffing along with increased gym time....making this Stanford belle a very hot commodity.
He's fairly attractive with a lean built body, bright smile, and dark eyes, BUT he's also one of the most smug individuals in existence. AND I HAAAAAATE SMUGNESS.
Every converation I've had with Poodle involves 1)his money, 2) his looks, and 3) a repeating of the first two.

Poodle squealed when he saw me, and insisted I check his apartment out.

Except Poodle didnt live in an apartment, he lived on the set of a lost gay Sex and the City character. Or a high-end furniture showroom.
He lives in a two-bedroom apartment by himself. Dark hardwood floors. Marble showers, custom-designed kitchen, and two bathrooms.
And he owns the place.

Normally this sort of thing wouldnt bother me, but lately as I'm dealing with car payments, insurance, and student loans, I've become sensitive to money problems.
And I felt jealous. Jealous that Poodle has his rich parents to bank roll his life.
I know its totally idiotic seeing as we're all pretty lucky to have the lives we have.

Being a rational human being, the gym manager piped in his two cents during that night's work out.

"Since he didnt have to work for it, he doesn't really appreciate it. It's not like he earned that apartment, so in some ways I feel bad for him."

Who wants to earn shit?! And why do you feel bad for him??

Eh, but such is life...
It just sucks when you catch yourself being jealous of someone who sorta rubs you the wrong way.

You've Got To Work It Out

Last night the manager of my gym worked my kitten to a pulp. He's this beefy southern queen with a huge drawl and biceps to match. Despite the muscle mass, he's all woman! WEEEERK! He had me doing crazy exercises that made me want to vomit..had me panting, sweating, and on the verge of tears.

And I absolutely loved it.

Knowing that I'm pushing my body beyond its limitations really eggs me on. Especially when I can lift more weight than even a month ago. It's disgustingly body facist and self-absorbed, but it totally turns me on.
So why is it that I can't be like that with my career? Am I destined to become a huge meathead?!
Eh! Whatever, at least I'm not doing crack, people!

In other news, it looks like I'm going to be in Provincetown for a long weekend next month, and I really can't wait.
Gimme some East Coast flavor with quality beach time.

I'm going to see Trannyshack tomorrow night at some tranny-bar called Illusions.

Eating in Glass Towers

Tim sent me a text message from Jean George's new restaurant Perry St, and once again, I'm mad with jealousy.
Not that I want to taste the culinary mastery of Jean George as much as I want to be in the Richard Meier towers, the architectural over-priced housing folly.

My plans for tonight include the Mean Girls DVD and some Carb-Karma Cookie Dough Ice Cream.

I got myself a fag hag

Tourists in LA always drive convertibles, and not cute ones like Mini-Cooper convertibles, but they'll have a Sebring. What kind of car is called a Sebring?!
And they're always red-faced from not wearing hats or sunblock.

On Friday, we headed to East West in WeHo.
Upscale, full of power fags, overpriced drinks and a full-on bouncer and line at the front.
As I stepped up to the bar, I laughed, and called Rachel, "Look, I'm not waiting in line for a gay bar in West Hollywood! Manhattan MAYBE, but WeHo...NEVER!"

Fortunately, Michelle got us in quick without too much of a scene, and this loud queen was silenced.

East West used to be Revolver, the video bar that showed Britney Spears clips and Sex and the City episodes. From what I hear, its been around since Pre-AIDS days, so I was sorta sad to see it go.
Now its home to the most upscale bar I've seen anywhere. Theres been talk that the management wants to institute some members only policy- which is laughable because of course faggots will be all over that like me on Collin O'Neal.
But come on, the bar isnt that nice...it's not like its the Soho House. But I feel like gays need to feel like they're members of some exclusive club in order to justify their catty behavior.
The guys there were honestly really hot. Probably the hottest collection of guys I've seen since coming here, but like all LA boys, they were all very manicured.

Michelle held court at our table at East West because she's the biggest fag hag I've ever met.

Now I know I've said I hate fag hags, because for the most part they're a cloying annoyance. And for most men, they're a crutch. Women who can't get a social life of their own so they latch onto the gay scene. And in doing so, become huge cock blockers.

But there's something very charismatic about Michelle.
She's incredibly witty, has a biting comedic edge, and is slightly crazy.
Which in my book, makes you family.
Plus she's elitist in the same ways I am and we've been ripping on people constantly.

She called me about a month ago out of the blue, and I had NO idea who the fuck she was.
Last year, I went into a friend's PR agency to interview for a job. I didn't end up getting the job (most likely because I was fifteen minutes late to the interview....) but I apparantly left a good impression with my friend's personal assistant. Now, I maybe talked to Michelle for 30 seconds...
This is the call I got:

Michelle: Hey honey, its Michelle!

Me: Uh..hey..

Michelle: Hey, long time no talk, but I heard you just moved out here so I thought I'd give you a call. I moved out here about a month ago.

Me: Great...now I dont mean to be rude, but who...are you?

Michelle: It's Michelle from Henry's office. We met last year, silly.

Me: Oh cool.... uhh, (trying to scan my memory for anything)

Michelle: Look doll, I have a harem of hot gay friends here, and if you're smart you'll come hang out and get cocktails ASAP.

Me (thinking): I'm now being telemarketed by fag hags.

And I of course perked up by the mention of "harem of hot gay friends."

I've met them, and they're soooo hot. Which sadly makes me happy. Looks like I have myself a fag hag.

New Crush

I usually don't develop crushes on porn stars, but I think I've become boring.
I mean I live for lunches and 6p. SAVE ME FROM THIS PROVINCIAL LIFE!
Let's vacay in Miami or Mexico.
Last night my friends and I went to Marix and got drunk on Margies.
Kirk stopped by and laughed at us because he's sober.
Anyway, here's my latest obsessive crush...
Collin O'Neal.

Everybody Get Krunk

Last night my friend Mikey dragged me to Here for their hip hop night. (read: African American Night)
It's sad that the gay community is so racially segregated, and as I walked around West Hollywood last night I found all of the white boys at the Abbey, blacks at Here, and latinos at Rage. As for the Asians, they were just dispersed everywhere although I hear they have an Asian night at Rage on Fridays.

Well I don't like imaginary racial lines, much less some stupid notion that I belong to a certain subdemographic of an already marginalized segment of society just because I was fortunate enough to be born latin.

But one wierd thing I've noticed is that because of the CONCENTRATED racism against latinos and Mexicans in California, a lot of latin men I meet are claiming to be mixed. Now, I'm sure thats true for some of them, but I get the feeling that most of them are lying in order to combat the pernicious racism against Mexicans. Because sweetie...having come from the latin tribe, I know what my people look like.

Latins are mixed by their very origins; being the result of imperialism and warfare, Mexicans have had German, French, and Spanish flags fly over their nation.
And South Americans are even more mixed with the huge influx of Italians, Jews, and fugitive German Nazi's seeking refuge during/after World War II.

Latins do come in all shapes and sizes, being the most racially mixed people in the world, but why is it that every gay latin man in LA is somehow half-italian? Have full-blooded gay latinos dissappeared? Is lying about your racial background become a way to upgrade your looks?

Take David for example. He works at my gym, and is pretty fucking hot. Great body, great face. Totally turns heads everywhere he goes with his insane bubble butt and pretty boy face. His last name: Rodriguez (well not really but its just as latin.) Now there is no way in hell that last name came from anywhere but the Spanish speaking world.
I could see the Phillipines because the Spanish did spread their seeds there, but this gym homeboy claims to be Hawaiian.

He wasn't born in Hawaii nor are any of his ancestors from there. He grew up in Bakersfield and his parents, I know for a fact, are Mexican. So why lie?!

And my buddy Mikey lets people guess. Since he looks like he's a white boy, people often think he's French, and he just lets them believe that.

What happened to ethnic pride?
I know that insecure people lie about their backgrounds all the time, but I for one think you should be BROWN and proud.

The latin tribe may not have been born with tons of money. We may have corrupt governments, a non-existent middle class, and may be the struggling work force in the United States, but I think those are all reasons to be proud of our advancements.
AND we were blessed with nice asses and gorgeous brown skin. Jesus people, how much more do you want?!
Fucking aye!
If you want further proof of the HOTNESS of latin males, check out Terra (the Spanish speaking world's Yahoo) and their montly feature of The Boy. Nuff Said.

Calls from the East Coast

Chow and Josie are having dinner at Matsuri at the Maritime-- and I'm insanely jealous I can't join them. Those fucking shits. It's war, bitches! I hope you eat bad sashimi and shit salmon for days.

Heading out of the office now to get some drinks with co-workers. I hate drinking with people I work with because my first reaction is to run away at the end of the day but I feel as if I should make an effort to make nice.

There was more to this entry but I've been censored.

Actually...

Karl Rove looks a little peddy- as in pedophilic.
I swear I saw him at Le Fleur's on 41st street getting a lap dance from a teenaged latino hooker in fishnet undies.

Karl Rove is in deep shit

Karl Rove has been fingered (haha, he's been fingered) as the man who leaked Valerie Plame's identity as a CIA operative to the press. Bush HAD promised to fire anyone in his adminstration involved with the leak, but OF COURSE Bush can't fire his BRAIN. Karl Rove bascially runs the show , and without him, Bush would be fucked...up the ass...without lube.

And lets face it, the Dem's don't have enough power or balls to actually do anything. Although we should be seeing Rove at a congressional hearing, my guess is that potentially explosive Watergate will blow over and once again Bush's cronies will get away with nothing more than a slap on their well-moneyed wrist.

and can I just say...Karl Rove is one ugly motherfucker. He may hate the gays but the gays think YOU IS UGLY!
check out the developing story...

And one more for good measure

I havent seen the Fantatstic Four movie yet, but I'm TOTALLY planning on seeing it as Chris Evans plays Johnny Storm aka The Storm.
Why am I still af 14 year old girl?
And how do I get abs like that?

Gratuitous Flesh Break

Okay, enough with the dramatics already. Enjoy a pic of my fav model hottie, Rafael Verga.

Let Go Already!

I'm posting a blog that I didnt post before because of its bitter tone...but seeing as I'm now making an attempt to finally let go of my EX and that messy relationship, here you go...on the web for the whole world to see. Yes, I'm a very messy queen:


Originally written May 18th:

Being away from New York for two months has given me enough distance to recognize a couple things that I couldn't see before because I was either too self-involved or too distracted. But I think that most of us, regardless of where we live, are like that. It's hard to be objective about the dramas and the people in your life when you're going through the motions of living. But it's particularly hard when you're knee deep in club openings, gay gossip, and one-night stands. And all of it is partly fun because they are distractions.

The most disturbing revelation being that I'm more of an angry little man than I had initially imagined. I mean I've always known I was angry, but the level of fury boiling inside of me is now scaring me.
I'm angry at Bush, my parents, my friends, BUT most especially...the EX. He's no doubt a good man, but he REALLY fucking hurt me. The ending of that relationship sent me into an emotional tailspin of epic porportions. And I've realized that I'm really fucking angry at him for continually telling me it was my abusive behavior that ended it all. Well, let me tell you, my friends, my EX was just as abusive as I was- if not more. I had to deal with as many breakdowns and tantrums as he did- and had to be told constantly BY HIM how lucky I was for being his boyfriend. Well, EX, I'm no longer going to allow myself to be your scapegoat. Go buy yourself a dog and kick it around.

The real KICKER is that the EX started a romance shortly before ours. I remember the pain I felt when I came over to his apartment four months later, and found pictures of the guy on his corkboad, in his kitchen, on the bathroom mirror, and in his bedroom. Only to be told by the EX that he was only dating the guy to sever our relationship....RIIIIGHHT. To that I say get a backbone. You're a 40 year old man and you couldn't break up with me without starting another relationship? Imagine the pain I went through knowing that the man I loved had a new boyfriend. And he's tried telling me that they were just dating...

Well being an experienced dater, I know that I don't put up 10 pictures of guys I'm casually dating unless I want to be reminded of the guy....OR did he put those pictures up only to hurt me? Whatever the case is...the knife is still in my heart.
Fuck....told you I'm still angry.

I can't even continue this posting, I need a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a minute of deep breathing.

A year anniversary

So Jake the hottie bartender called me a couple days ago from SF to try to schedule a visit at the end of the month...
but being as I'm stressed as I am from work and the recent move, I sorta freaked out on him when he reminded me that he doesn't have a credit card....and that I'd have to front him the cost of the flight..

Time Out: Jake's 30. And doesn't have a checking account. What about that said to me, "BOYFRIEND MATERIAL." It didn't. His abs distracted me. Fuck my DICK! It gets me into soo much trouble.

But lesson learned: If a man doesn't have a checking account, then he don't date him. FUCK HIM and then RUN!

Unless you want to be sugar daddy, but I'm WAY TOO YOUNG AND BROKE to be someone's sugar daddy.

Soo anyway...

Jake: Hey baby, I want to come down and see you.
Me: Oh that's great. When are you thinking of coming down?
Jake: I was thinking this upcoming weekend. (I swear he's so retarded I can hear him drooling on the phone)
Me: Well that's a little last minute but I'll clear up my schedule.
Jake: Could you pay for the ticket upfront with your card and I'll pay you back?
Me: Pay me back with what?! YOU'RE FUCKING BROKE, BITCH!

But I didn't say that.

Me: Fine. But you have to pay me back this time, Joey. I'm broke and I can't be paying for your ticket. Or else I'm giving Steve from Visa your phone number.

The thing is Jake is a good guy. He'll come down and fully "intend" on paying me back.
But he'll come down with $200 and the ticket will have cost $180, and then I'll end up paying for everything else while he's down here. Either he's really smart (which I know isn't the case) or he just assumes that I don't mind paying for things.

But because of his money problems and the fact that I can't hump his hot body over the phone, I've been looking for an excuse to finally kill whateverthefuck you call our relationship.
Because without the sex and the constant pot smoking, all we got are boring phone conversatoins.

I have a deeper relationship with Steve from Visa. (btw, fuck you Steve. Who signs up for a job to call people to remind them of their insolvency?!)

The real issue at hand is that ever since my Ex and I broke up, I've been somewhat unable to really date anyone who would ever become a real partner.

Jake was great, but he was clearly a really really good rebound.
Great Rebounds consist of several factors:
Hot Body: Check.
Hot Sex: Oh fuck yeah. Check.
Easy to date: Check.
Totally into you: Check.
Hot enough to make your ex crazy with jealousy at the thought of all the hot sex you're having, because you've made sure that his friends hear about it somehow and that it will get back to him: Check.

But enough with rebounds. I want to date a man with some substance. I mean I of course want all the great qualities that Jake had, but I want there to be some serious magic. The kind I had with my Ex. And I think that's what makes breaking up really hard; the memory of how magical things were with a person. It's very intangible and hard to define but I guess it's another way of saying chemistry.

It's almost been a year, and I'm starting to come to think that maybe I'll never get over him. And maybe that's fine. But I am looking forward to feeling that chemistry again.

In the meantime, I'll be humping hot rebounds.

Unicorns

Yet again, I've met a guy with a real job, brains, and brawn- another veritable unicorn in the world of gay dating who I have absolutely NO sexual chemistry with.

Kirk is a hot geek who makes me laugh out loud, but after two date, I have no desire to take it any further.

Five bucks says I hook up with a big dumb hot guy this weekend instead.

Mixed Blessings

My friend Sam apparantly got fucked so hard he ended up ripping his Kate Spade sheets.
Kate Spade makes sheets? Puke.
I hate Kate Spade. Hate the bags, hated the girls who had the bags, and think it's a mixed blessing that your tacky overpriced sheets were shredded in the heat of the moment.
I got a call from several friends who were in Fire Island this past weekend.
Seems that one of my friends managed to meet a cute nice guy out there after making out with half the island. Romance is still alive, it seems, even in New York's gay beach getaway.
My first time out there I was a complete wreck....
Imagine it: I had broken up with the EX. Had heard stories of him dating another guy, had gained about 10 pounds, and was still trying to grow facial hair. I looked like a fat latin hick. And I was depressed enough to make the Bell Jar look like a romantic comedy.
So when Jamie invited me out to Fire Island, I said yes to escape the humid city, and to escape my sad post-EX world.
At first I was a total loser; moping around the island writing in my journal, but thankfully Jamie's friends were a group of sexy sweet guys.
We made meals together, went and hung out on the beach, and skinny dipped about 6 times.
They reminded me that there was life after love; and taught me that some guys really do look hot in a speedo.

Don't Cry for Me California

I'm sorry I'm such a lazy fucking blogger.

In the past week, I laid out on some old man's yacht with my friend Jano. Got tan, got felt up, and got drunk.

I havent really been in my usual soriority girl party mode so I've been laying low lately.

I got my haircut at Shorty's in West Hollywood- which is apparantly THE bomb-diggity place to get your hair cut if youre a big fag in WeHo. Thanks go out to Kevin for the suggestion to go there.

And I moved to my new place in Los Feliz- more ghetto, more room, and the true indicator of gentrification- gays/hipsters abound with bad haircuts and converse sneakers.

Things that scare me: Tom Cruise, madras shorts, cystic zits, and car accidents.
Things I love: Reduced Fat peanut butter, Murad's skin care line, and my crunch gym on sunset.

Turning 26

I approached my 26th birthday with apprehension.
A year ago, I sat at at an outdoor table at the Maritime's La Bottega with about 10 of my best frends and my sweet hot boyfriend. It was a great night because I felt a lot of love, and I was in New York where I felt I belonged.
...BUT the EX and I broke up a month later. I now live in city I have mixed feelings about and I've been dating a string of "nice" but stupid guys.
So I knew right off the bat this birthday would be different.
No big party, no close group of friends, and no EX to carry me home after one too many shots of Patron.
What I had was two options.
1. Spending my birthday with my parents. Oh dear god.
2. Spending my birthday with my few friends in LA who all are on the brink of marriage and whose sense of adventures seems to have died.

So I looked at those two options and booked a flight to San Francisco...where at least I had Jake, my bartending hottie, where GAY PRIDE festivites filled the city, and where I thankfully DID NOT HAVE TO DRIVE.

25 was a hard year for me. I lost one of my best friends and my EX and I broke up. I left my bar job, and moved to LA.
So I sorta wanted a low-key birthday, and I knew that would happen in SF.

I slept alot and attended very few Gay Pride activities becasue frankly the event scares me.
I used to throw gay parties at Stanford for the gay community; so one of my best friends suggested that I should look into planning a city's gay pride event.

My response:
oh dear god jules, i hate gay people, i mean i like myself and my
friends, but the rest of them are awful.
if i planned gay pride parades, id have to institute dress codes and
exclude all sorts of ridiculous embarassments.
if you wear assless chaps, then you won't be allowed to march.
think more marc jacobs and less cirque du soliel.
----

But don't listen to this queen, because GAY PRIDE is supposed to be about loving thyself and self-expression...it's just that I find the whole affair to be tacky and slightly ironic.
And I'm all for costuming... but assless chaps?

Whatever.
I can't even write about GAY PRIDE without feeling conflicted about it. What's GAY PRIDE even mean anymore?
We're catty shits to one another. We propagate vicious body facism and elitism. We're fairly segregated along class and racial lines, and most of us live in gay ghettos.
And we celebrate pride over what? The new season of Queer Eye?

Most of the guys I know use Gay Pride as an excuse to go to big parties, get fucked up, and hook up with a couple of out-of-towners. Which I'm all for and while it is an excercise in faggotry, I don't know if its anything we should be calling Gay Pride.

But whatever, this rant isn't anything new to anyone.

I ran into my old hairstylist, Jay, at GIANT, the tea-dance, and he blessedly now seems off the crack because he has stopped shaking.
A hideous looking tranny walked by to which he remarked, "Look at the tranimal."

So that my friends is the word of the week, "TRANIMAL."

I woke up Monday morning to about 15 messages from friends, family, and my EX. All very sweet voicemails which reminded me that I'm a very lucky guy.

I may not have spent this birthday with my posse of friends, nor am I in the city in which I love, but after my stupid car accident last week, I'm very thankful to be alive and to have the great friends that I do in my life.

And SF was a suprisingly refreshing break from the ugliness of LA. Who would have ever thought I'd be happy to be in SF?! But I was... so I'm taking this opportunity to thank my friends for extending their love to me on my birthday. It means a lot to me.

Character Description

"Elliot: 25ish, American, happy-go-lucky, intelligent, but a bit geeky,
lives for the moment, good looking, but unaware of his looks."

My first reaction: "A Big Geeky??"

Jules' first reaction: "When are you not pretending to brood or unaware of your good looks?"

In Entertainment.

On my way into the gym on Sunday night, I ran into Chris, a former child actor turned television producer who I've had a slight flirtation with for the past several years.
I met Chris at Crunch on Lafayette where him and his buddies would usually hold court near the water fountain.
He's incredibly sexy with big arms, a big mischevious smile, and crystal blue eyes, but he's also a total player.

And I also made the biggest ass of myself with him right after we met.

While my buddy Kyle and I were walking into the gym, the subject of who we'd screw at our gym came up.

Me: "Well I think Chris is really hot, but he's a huge player, and really short. I mean he's like 5'6."

Kyle: "Um, what?!"

Me: "What do you mean, what?! Whats wrong with you? Chris is short, I mean he's not a midget, but you said yourself that he's not as hot as he could be becasue he's on the shorter side."

Kyle: "Hey Chris, how are you doing?"

I turn around and of course Chris is standing there.
In a panic, as I'm turning I drop my cup of coffee on his shoes. I help Chris clean it up and I go hide in the bathroom for the next 15 minutes.

Well he was shooting a pilot at Crunch here in LA and he apparently forgave me for my horrible transgression. He asked me if I'd be interested in being an extra.
I said yes not realizing that being an extra really sucks.

They shot a scene where a newcomer to LA runs into his friend at the gym, with gay men working out around them. I was on the flys and after about 45 minutes of having to do the same exercise repeatedly, I was ready to go home. Maybe Chris was punishing me?

I gave Chris my number but I sincerely doubt I'll be hearing from him; he's flirty but he's like that with everyone; it's the way he interacts with people. And he probably remembers what a dick I was.

In sort of related news, I recieved an e-mail from a guy I tricked with last October.
He's a British actor who resides in London, and had been visiting New York for a week.
I met him at my bar,and after a brief conversation, we ended up hooking up.
We hung out for the next couple days while he was in town, and had a really fun time.
Well, he wrote me letting me know that a play that he wrote has won a series of awards and is being performed at a festival. And that the crux of the story is a british actor going to New York where he meets a sexy American.
So he was writing me to let me know that his play has a character based on me.

How very sweet? I havent read the script yet but I hope I don't come across as too much of a slutty lush.

Crash

On Friday night, on my way home, I ran a red light and crashed into a BMW.
My cell phone had fallen onto the floor in front of the passenger side and when it rang, I went to grab it.

I don't know how I missed the fact that I was about to drive through an intersection.
I'm stupid. I'm so fucking dumb. And I'm so incredibly lucky I didn't kill anyone.

I remember looking up and realizing I had just run a red light and was headed right for a car.

The next 10 minutes were completely unreal. The sounds of two cars crushing each other, the feeling of the shards of glass raining on my face, and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline.

I immediately panicked. Is the other person ok? I couldn't open my door so I climbed over the airbags and out of the passenger side window, and ran to the BMW.

Inside I saw a terrified woman hysterically crying. I asked her if she could get out.
She couldn't.
I held her hand and cried. I cried for her pain, knowing that I had caused it all.

The police came, she was able to get out of her car, and thankfully she was fine.

Said "If there's any car you ever want to get in an accident in, it's that one."

She gave me a hug, and reminded me that we were both alive.

I'm so very sorry.

Throughout it all, the only person I wanted with me was my EX. I wanted his embrace more than anything. I wanted to feel safe again.

I called him and he stayed on the phone with me until I got home and into bed. My body aches, my nerves are fried, but god damn, I'm still alive.

Voicemails from Sample Sales

"Amazing, amazing, amazing.
Green bathing suit, green sleeveless hoodie top, and a tank top.
Ash got pants and some other shit.
Simply amazing"
That was the message Tom left me on my fucking voicemail after leaving the Y-3 Sample Sale in New York.

I live with a couple from the Midwest. I've called them trashy before, but that's because they are trashy.
Uneducated, racist, and fans of demolition derbies.
I'm not saying they're evil. Quite the opposite actually. They're sweet people who just happen to like Bud Light, cigarettes, and hawaiian shirts. It's sort of like living with the Simpsons or relatives of the Bundy's.

Last night they came home from a dinner party. They were both drunk, meaning one of them was behind the wheel intoxicated of course.

They were in the midst of a tense fight, ignoring each other and only speaking to me making me the medium by which there dumb angry comments were filtered.
Btw, don't do that to people, if youre fighting don't drag others into it. It was horribly akward for me....Ok, i'm lying...i thought it was really entertaining. Imagine Jerry Springer Live in your living room. Priceless.

She then ends the game by informing him that she was going to make a microwave pizza. He demands that she not eat anymore, and come to bed so they can have sex.
She refuses, I go to my room to laugh, and I hear him telling her she's in "deep, deep trouble."

She then pops open two bud lights and motions me to join her out on the building's balconies to smoke a cigarette.

It's there that we have our first real conversation since I moved in three weeks ago.
She tells me of her failed relationships, the friends she's lost, and the heartache of her current situation.

She showed me pictures of her circle of friends back in Chicago, of her father, and of her ex-boyfriends.
She's really lonely out here since she moved out here to be with her current boyfriend; a guy she met while waitressing at a TGIFriday's type restaurant.
She has no friends here, and her life is basically her administrative job and her boyfriend. He's kind of a jerk to her; telling her what to wear, demanding sex every night, and telling her she's lucky to have him.
I've heard firsthand all of his bullshit, and up until last night hadn't said anything.

She asked me what I thought she should do.
I told her to break up with him because she's in an abusive relationship. She deserves better than that.

I don't doubt that the guy loves her. He just needs to understand that he can't treat her like shit.

Blowjob on Aisle 4

So last night I stumbled upon a phenomenon that others had warned me was prevalent in Los Angeles; grocery store cruising.
I was buying my oatmeal, golden delcious apples, and reduced-fat peanut butter when a college kid wearing a UCLA sweatshirt gave me the look. I brushed it off and continued on with my shopping, getting my Silk Soymilk and turkey burgers. I had had a long day and wasn't feeling particularly sexy in my post-gym smell. Especially because someone had swiped my year-old sneakers while I was in the shower. Yeah, I don't get that either. I go to a gay gym so either one of the custodians took them or some fetish queen into smelly gym shoes. Whatever. have fun with them.

As I was checking out, the guy ahead of me in line gave me the unmistakable look over and smiled. I don't know what was making me so appealing last night...maybe guys are into b.o. Maybe he liked what I had in my basket.
This guy was in his early thirties, wearing the kind of casual clothes that are made to look casual and expensive at the same time. Deconstructed pima cotton polo, madras shorts, and haviana flips.
Really polished and styled. But looking to get it on as he was checking out.
He waited for me to exit the store and in the parking lot, he introduced himself with his business card. I was slightly freaked out and intrigued.
In a city like LA where you don't walk by people on the street, do people shop for prospective dates by shopping for food?

Well yesterday was one of those unexplainable days when you get lots of attention despite feeling like you look your worst.
On my way to the gym earlier that day, an ederly man entered my apartment building's elevator with his dog. He turned to me and said, "Youre quite the attractive man."
He kept looking at me, creating an incredibly akward moment. As he exited the elevator, he turns to me and smiles, and then the elevator door shuts on his face, the dog goes beserk, the old man falls back, and I have to then help him up.

He was totally embarrased, but I was so flattered. I was that much of a knockout for the guy.

Mysterious Skin

I saw Greg Araki's latest film, Mysterious Skin, a couple weeks ago with my friend Brian from New York. Brian used to work in the admissions office at Columbia, and he was the guy who would decide which bootlicking egomaniacal applicant would be offered a spot in the undergrad program.
Like many LA residents, he moved out to the city of angels to pursue his dreams of being in showbiz. Brian is an aspiring director; exactly the kind of guy who I like to watch movies with because I like to tear movies apart, and do it who has an educated opinion about it.

Mysterious Skin examines how childhood molestation affected the life trajectories of two young men. One's a hooker, the other a mama's boy dweeb. The hooker gets off on the dangers of turning tricks, the mama's boy has blocked out his molestation experience, and believes that the missing time in his life is due to an alien abduction.
The juxtaposition of the two tales bothered me because the hooker's story was dark, and the other boy's situation a comedy of errors. I thought it fucked with the pacing of the film, but others have loved it.

The movie really romanticized male prostitution, and I found myself wistfully reminiscing about my own experiences.
Like other sex workers, I too, was molested, and of course I can't help but wonder how much of that played into my decision to do it.

I know that I have had complicated feelings toward older men. A part of me had wanted to be eroticized by them, the other was disgusted by them.

That conflict is largely resolved. I think being a hooker was strangely therapeutic for me for a great number of reasons despite the fact that it does fuck with your head.

Sex is rarely ever just about sex, and in the case of prostitution its rarely just a financial transaction.
Most male hookers don't do it because they need to; you can get a real job, you aren't a gimp. But it's a hell of a lot easier to make 250 an hour sucking an old man off than it is working at Subway for minimum wage.
But it goes even beyond that. Hookers do it because it gives them a sense of affirmation, a sense of danger, and it makes them feel special. And I suspect that for some it gives them a way to deal with molestation.

Through my experiences, I think that most men hire prostitutes in order to feel intimacy. There are a lot of lonely people out there, and the need to feel someone else is basic. We as human beings need to feel affectionate touches. As I've gotten older, I don't demonize the older men who hit on me becasue they aren't the men who molested me as a child...no, those are pedophiles. Men like Michael Jackson who are sick, depraved, and need intense therapy and castration.

In the end though, I'm trying to fully exit (I still occasionally do it for the extra cash, and the rush I'm sure) the sex industry for several reasons.
One, it is dangerous. I never had that bad of experience, but shit happens because people are fucking crazy. You can't even imagine how many men tried to convince me to have sex bareback. Or to do crystal with them. Retarded.

Two, it makes you total crazy and inappropiate about boundaries. You start to completely seperate sex and emotions, and you end up fucking up your romantic sex life. You think that having group orgies on a regular basis is okay, and bascially debase the spirtual connection that makes sex so wonderful. If you're having sex with other guys more than your own boyfriend, then there's something wrong there.
If you need to proposition men for threesomes on a regular basis, then there's something wrong there. Sex should ultimately be about sharing an intimate experience with the man you love. And no, I doubt you can love half of Chelsea and West Hollywood, although you wouldn't be able to tell that by my own past behavior.
I'm not saying I'm about monogamy, because child, I'm not about to make myself a hypocrite, but as a full-time sex worker, you're basically having sex all the time.

Three, because of the amount of money you make, you strap on the same golden handcuffs that afflict bartenders. No job will ever pay you as much money as the sex industry will, and you'll end up wasting years of your life with no credible career momentum.

Interestingly enough, Raging Stallion approached my bartending hottie, Jake, in San Francisco yesterday to see if he'd be interested in being a model for them.
He thought it was funny that they said "model" instead of porn actor/star as if the euphemism would somehow fool him into being interested.
Like I've said before, this isn't the first time he's been approached off the street. Falcon and Hot House have both tried to scout him, but he has no interest in doing it. Says he doesn't want that kind of attention in his life, and doesn't want to have the type of extreme sex shown in movies. Which is part of the reason I think Jake is so hot; he's a porn star without having made a movie.

I had a second date last night with this Crunch hottie named Matt. Buffed tattooed and sweet, Matt is another guy that on paper should work out perfectly, but I feel as if he's hiding some dark secret.

I met him a couple weeks ago when he was working on his chest. He has gorgeous green eyes and an array of beautiful tattoos on his biceps and shoulders.

On our first date he showed me pictures of a trip he took his mom on, and beautiful dark wood furniture he made himself.

So even though his anxious shy demeanor stifled our conversations, I gave him another chance because I know that Matt has a good heart and spends time creating. (I fall hard for artsy types) That and he has the best ass god ever created.

He had been out celebrating LA Pride this past weekend, so he was yawning all through out our date. He eventually fell asleep while watching a bad movie. Now that's cute if you've been dating for awhile, but this is our second date. Muster up enough interest to stay awake.

I couldn't help but feel a little jipped. He knew our date was coming up and yet didn't make the effort to be rested up for our encounter.

He also let it slip to me that he doesn't change in the locker room, because he's uncomfortable with gay cruising, hates any form of gay PDA, and is seemingly annoyed by fey gay men. So in short, he has some issues with outward expressions of homosexuality.

For most people, that would be enough to drive them away.
For me because im clinically insane, I find it endearing. Matt is hiding a lot behind his good looks, a lot of internalized homophobia and somehting else i can't put my finger on , and I can't help but feeling like I should help him.
But thats why my dating life is a complete horror show.

You don't date projects.

I'm actually going on a second date with Ryan, the med student, in a couple days. The stalker, Phil, has called me literally 11 times since Saturday.

So what does this all mean? I really need to get that fucking dog.

The Story of the Marc Jacobs Bag

For some boys and girls their obsessions lie with shoes. For others its jewelry, and for me, as strange as it sounds its t-shirts. (yes, im trashy that way)

For my friend Josie, it's certain bags that carry her fancy. I think it started out back in college when she lusted after a coach saddle bag. then came the gucci bag, followed by the birkin. im not really good with remembering the types of bags out there, not like josie and her extensive knowledge of hobos and totes.
about a year ago, josie became obsessed with a certain green marc jacobs bag.
she talked about it endlessly like a new boyfriend. had me call her from a computer so we could look at it online together.

so when she stumbled upon one on ebay, the temptation was just too great. the photos of the green marc jacobs bag haunted her. it was the bag she so desperately wanted, and it would cost much less than if she paid retail. she placed a bid and anxiously waited for the results.

well josie got her bag. it was shipped to her within 4 days. but instead of getting what she saw on the photos of ebay, she got a cheap knockoff with a tear in it.

and that my friends is the other problem with trying to find dates online.
no matter what the product is, be it designer accessories or potential suitors, there's an element of advertising that's based on deception.
in the case of ebay handbags and online dating sites, the pictures are of products that are too good to be true; and more often than not, they are.

Men will always put their best pic up, tell you how hot and sexy they are, but I suspect that half of them are using someone else's pic, or are about 5 to 10 years older than they say.

The famous internet adage is that there is a difference between "internet inches" and real inches.

So if you find yourself cruising online, subtract about an inch from his cock size, add about 5 years, and prepare yourself for stalkers and tweakers.
What people should do is post their ugliest photos and tell the absolute truth about their statistic so that people will think youre more attractive when they meet you.

The Perils of Being Fresh Meat

As I posted a couple days ago, I had to work this weekend, and report to the office by 8am. Well, I talked them up to 9am, and that hour makes a world of difference.

Work has been easy despite the fact that I'm dealing with vicious female retail buyers who walk in their strappy wedge sandals with enough attitude to cut through Kimora's diamonds.
Buyers are used to being catered to since they wield in their well-manicured hands hundreds of thousands of dollars and the livelihood of designers.
They ask questions, don't grace me with eye contact, and since they know I'm new meat and thus lack experience, they'll ask me the same question repeatedly, hoping they'll eventually get the answer they want.
I'm used to dealing with this alpha personality, seeing as I tend to date and befriend it.
All in all, working this weekend has been fine. The job's not that hard, and I managed to go out for a bit last night, which was enough of LA Pride for me.
(Because frankly all PRIDES are the same fucking thing, plus or minus a couple of drag queens and GHB overdoses)

I met up with Ted, a buddy of mine from NYC. He's a law student who realized that being a law student in New York sucks. You're broke (even though his parents paid for his posh digs on the Upper West Side), you're saddled with a huge amount of work, and you're always missing some great party. Even JFK Jr. let the insanity of New York affect his studies while at NYU Law. The prince failed the New York bar twice.
Ted's trying to transfer to a LA law school, but for the summer he's interning at a firm downtown.
Ted and I have the same taste in guys- we like masculine laid back men who are comfortable in their skin- and that often means guys in their thirties.
We hooked up about a year ago after I stopped dating one of his best friends, pussy boy.
Pussy boy got his name from an intimate experience where he demanded I fuck his pussy.
Afterwards, PB asked if he could fuck me. My response "You have a pussy, there's no way you're ever fucking me."
Anyways, Ted called me up yesterday asking me if I'd be down to meet up for a drink.
I said yes knowing quite well that I might be bringing a date along.

I have a confession: out here in LA I've started chatting on online gay sites with the actual intention of dating and hooking-up. Something I used to do back in high school. I much rather prefer meeting guys in real life because it's much sexier to met a hot guy in a bar, not know the exact dimensions of his dick and asshole, and discover a man's story before knowing his turn-ons.
But I've gotten lazy with work and the gym, and in an attempt to meet guys, find online chatting easy and convenient. And I suspect that online chatting is a big thing out in LA where the bars kind of suck.
In the past, I'd simply swap pics when I was bored, because getting laid off the internet is just way too easy. Easy sex for me = boring.
And on the internet, you'll find your share of meth heads, sex addicts, and completely socially inept losers who's life is wholly comprised of the gym and sex websites.
You'll often find guys who have 14 pictures of themsevles with a long edict as to appropiate chat behavior, exclusionary clauses, and overuse of abbreviations. (No Fats, Fems. Be Masculine. Hot, worked out, you be too.PNP, BB, WS, FF for e.g.) To those people, I say walk the fuck away from your computer and walk out your door.

Saying that, I myself logged onto the internet, and after chatting for about half an hour, I met two potential suitors.

One is this recent Berkely grad who's a personal trainer. Ryan's about to start med school in the south, but is interning in LA for the summer.
He's sexy, has a great thick body, but is so cocky about being "the whole package" that he often comes across as a total tool.

The other kid I chatted with was Phil, a young gym bunny from Long Beach. Cute sexy kid, but it seemed thats all he really was. Perhaps too young and too aimless for my taste.

Phil and Ryan both asked to hang out last night, but seeing as Ryan was probably a better fit, I invited him to meet up for drinks before I was to meet Ted.
I figured that if Ryan was cool, i'd invite him along to meet Ted and keep things chill and casual. If not, I'd tell him I had to go meet my buddy.

Well a couple hours before I was to meet Ryan, Ted called me up to let me know that his friend Phil from Long Beach would be joining us. I laughed my ass off. Small fucking gay world.

Ryan, the gay med student, picked me up at my aparment and we started walking over to the Abbey. On the way over, we share dating horror stories, one of which is about a stalker of his. He tells me he's been hesitant to meet off the internet because he he had a really bad experience. Apparantly a guy he met off the net wouldn't take a hint and would text him 20 times a day, instant message him, email him, and call him. And true to stalker fashion, follow him home.

I stopped in my tracks, however, when Ryan mentioned that his freaky stalker was from Long Beach. The gay world got even smaller. Phil was in fact his stalker, Ted's friend, and my other online suitor.

I thought it was fucking hilarious. Of course this would happen to me. See what happens when you shop for dick online.

All in all, things turned out fine. We all met each other, Phil turned out to be crazy, but he was more freaked out by the whole thing than anything. Had a deer in the headlights look to him all night.
And I consider myself very lucky for having been warned ahead of time of a run-in with a lame guy with too much time on his hands.
But perhaps I too have too much time if I have time to chat with random guys on the net. Next time I get lonely, I'm going to get a dog, go to the park, and use that as a means to let guys talk to the "new meat" of LA.

Fighting Fists of Jealousy

its funny how hypocritical i can be with matters of the heart and my cock.

my EX and i had a friendly conversation last night in which we mentioned recent dates. this morning i saw that i recieved a text from him at 5am.

being strung out from exhaustion, i subtracted 3hours instead of adding them, and figured he texted me at 2am his time...thus assuming he must have been out hooking up with someone and texted me on his way home.

And impulsively I became jealous.
Ree-tard-dead.

Instead of bringing out the best in us as relationships should, too often they make us jealous jerks. And nothing, absolutely nothing ever good comes out of jealousy because its rooted in insecurity and mistrust.
If someone flirts with your boyfriend, why give a fuck--- someone just sees what you see in your man- and you need to trust your man to not do anything to hurt you.

Well in this case, I have no grounds to be jealous. We aren't together, havent been for a year, im still seeing the SF bartender and dating out in LA-- but there are still times I get caught up in jealously when it comes to my EX.

But if anything its an indicator that I still have romantic feelings for him despite everything.
With my other ex's, I could give a flying fuck if they showed me photos of them getting fisted by my best friends.

Family Ties

I'm so tired. I'm on my second cup of coffee and I've only been in the office for an hour.
Being tired at work is akin to chinese water torture. You keep looking at the clock, hoping that somehow time will speed up, and that the day will end...but it doesn't, and in fact the day goes by even slower. And off in New York, my old co-workers from the bar are still asleep despite the fact that they're three hours ahead. Lazy whores.

For some god foresaken reason, I can't fall asleep before 2am despite the fact that I've been getting up at 7:15a. My over active mind keeps me up. I read, jerk off, read some more, and then drink a glass of wine.
Well last night I miracously nodded off at about 12:30....only to be woken up by a phone call from my drunk aunt Ricki.
Don't get my wrong, Ricki, is awesome. At only 5 years older than me, we grew up acting like siblings. She's crazy, outgoing, and a full on dyke.
She blessedly made my coming out easier because she was such a wreck.
I may have been a fag, my parents thought, but at least he's going to Stanford, not dating a stripper, and not riding a harley. (Little did they know that their golden boy just did a better job of hiding his dark skeletons)

In the middle of a night, I was awoken by my alarm clock.
Scratch that.
It wasnt my alarm clock.
It was my cell phone, and it was only 1:30a. I had been sleeping for one hour.

Me: "Uhh..hello..."
Ricki: "uhh.....(sounds of crying)...Hello?"
Me:" Yeah, whats wrong?!"
Ricki: "Oh, im just really drunk. I love you! (more crying)"
Me: "I love you too. Whats going on"
Nameless girl/probable new girlfriend: "I'm sorry, we're really fucked up. We'll call you tomorrow"
Click.

WHAT THE FUCK?!
Toxic, thats what that was.
Get your shit together, Ricki, and if you need to talk to me don't do it pissed drunk.
Yes, I'm a little callous, but I've learned (from my own behavior with my EX, mind you) that you can't coddle such behavior.
It's ridiculous, rude, and selfish.
And once again, I'm not saying im immune to such antics.

Dressing Your Age

Last night my mom called me while I was at the Coffee Bean refueling for the gym. As we chatted, a well-perserved 40-something trophy wife pulled up in her Lexus SUV wearing a tight tank top and True Religion jeans. She was a size 2 on a fat day and had her long blonde locks were pulled up in a pony-tail. Inside she pulled off her Louis Vutton sunglasses and revealed a face that only a plastic surgeon could have concocted. Tight shiny skin. Large bee-stung lips, and an obscenely narrow nose.

Instead of looking hot, she looked like a plastic whore with her bright make-up and heavy cleavage. But I think that pretty much sums up the look of the ladies of LA.
There's absolutely no subletly in fashion here.It is all vulgarity.
The prescription is for the tight items- and that applies to the men as well as the ladies.

An otherwise hot buff daddy at Crunch last night had cut his t-shirt down the middle to mid-sternum, creating a look that reminded me of the J.Lo green dress at the Grammy's. I totally gave him a puzzled look. Why make your t-shirt into a sports bra when you're a man? And a hot one at that?

I'm starting to believe that while the fashion icon of the ladies of the East Coast is still Jackie-O, the fashion icon of LA is Pamela Anderson.

And the men all think they're Ashton Kutcher- even at 40. I saw a salt and peppered man wearing cameouflage shorts at the gym with an abercrombie tank-top. Why is it that the older people get in LA, the more it seems they are more determined to dress like juvenile deliquents.

It makes me think that LA lacks real class. The ladies who lunch in New York are real cunts, but at least they were clothing that while appropiate for their age, is still gorgeous. Think Vivienne Westwood tops with chunky jewelry and Chloe Jeans.

And while men in New York strive for masculine looks; pinstripe suits and vintage t-shirts, deconstructed, and slightly baggy jeans, the men of LA tend to wear skimpy Urban Outfitter type tees with faggy jeans.
If you're a man, try to stick to simple jeans like Premium Levi's. The flashy adornments on the ass are touches of feminity that look ridiculous on most men. That rules out most of the designer jeans. I mean, that's just my opinion, but I think that guys (and especially men over the age of 30) look absolutely retarded in True Religion Jeans, your ass highlighted by oversized buttons on pockets with thick stitching.
Only if you're a fashion icon like Chow can you pull this shit off, because he'll pair it with his Adam Plus Eve thin cashmere sweater and his school boy jacket. Hot look. Down.
I know that with time, my own fashion tastes will be influenced by LA, and I'll end up buying too much Diesel, and looking like a man afraid of showing his age.

Cash Money Ho, PS.

Btw, why the fuck is gas so expensive? At 2.50 a gallon, I miss New York City subways...anything to not drive, get tailgated by that bottle-blonde bitch in her tacky beemer convertible, and then to have to gas up at 40 dollars a pop.

Cash Money Ho?

Ever notice that when you're broke, everyone else seems to be flithly rich.
Well that seems to be the case here in LA, but to the Nth degree. No one my age seems to be struggling at all...but I sincerely doubt that the greater Los Angeles area is populated entirely by trust fund kids and hotel heiressses. NO, my guess is that most people my age are living way beyond their means and doing so on credit.

Driving around in my rented hatchback Daewoo, I'm surrounded by SUVs, Beemers, and Hummers. The most common car I see being driven by people my age are Volkswagon Jettas and Golfs.

It's not fashionable or glam to be broke...in fact, you're never supposed to admit to not having money, because if you are truly a child of glamour, then the money will come to you... Where that pervasive line of thinking comes from, I have no idea, but I do know that among my friends the idea of dropping a thousand dollars at Lisa Kline on Robertson on a pair of jeans and a jacket is nothing to be alarmed at, especially if you've got the latest Farmer Jeans, that really cute Paul Smith Oxford hat, or that Etro Seersucker jacket in your bag.

One of my friends, I fucking forgot which, told me that back in the day (probably in the 50's) the theatre was attended almost purely by older people. Not because they were the only ones who wanted to attend, but because they were the only ones who could truly afford to go- Now that whole concept; that certain luxuries should only be taken with a decades-worth of hard work has seemingly escaped the supposition of the world today.
It certainly has been something that's taken most of my early twenties to notice.
Maybe it's because we live in a world that's a "live for today" mentality- which translates into instant gratification and induldgence.
Especially since we seem infatuated with young girls with more capital than most African nations. Girls like the Skeletwins (Linday and Nicole) and Paris who are young and get to live lavish lifestyles. It's not enough to be rich at 40, now what people want is to be rich, hot, and young. Or at least appear as if they are rich and young.
Alls I know is...I'm broke- and I need to worry about apartment deposits and cars before I even consider a new pair of Blue Cult Jeans.

Out by 10p

I dont think I've ever fallen asleep before midnight unless there were several klonopin involved. Well I slept ten hours and still managed to wake up by 7:30. Craziness.

So do I like LA more than SF? Well, there's certainly more stimuli for my ADD-addled brain, but the standard of living is not as high as it is in the Bay Area. But I'm liking it more and more. I don't have a great circle of friends, nor am I being invited out to many parties, but it's a refreshing break. My liver is recovering. My skin is clearing up, and I've managed to gain another five pounds of muscle.

The guys here are waaay to fucking primp-y even for this queen. I'm talking about Ken dolls, people. Waxed, brushed, plucked,and tanned. I like to look hot without it looking like I was groomed by a staff of twenty.

Everybody wants to come to Hollywood

Okay so it's been a week and in that past week I've:
-Eaten too much In-n-Out. I'm afraid my digestive system is permenaently backed up, and frankly, I think it's worth it.
-Have spent about 10 hours in traffic. It's really that bad. There have been times that I've convinced myself that I entered a black hole/space time continum vortex and have backtracked. And other times, I figure I might as well park on the 405 and walk home.
-Attended the Sunday T-Dance party at the Standard Downtown. Think NYC fashionistas with better tans and more coke. I saw a girl in a white thong with cellulite. My friend Joanne told me that the THONGed one asked her for a tampoon in the bathroom. Quelle horror. Our friend who's a manager for the Standard invited us to the "in-crowd" event where everyone sported labels and flesh. It felt like everyone was trying really hard to be cool, and I found the dancing on furniture and smiling to be annoying as fuck.
My favorite over-used phrase, "My goal is to be bi-coastal." Duh, fuckwad, but I doubt you'll achieve that by shoving a kilo of coke up your left nostril.
-Have met more crazy people than my last visit to grandpa's mental unit. Including potential roommates. One girl was a complete sweetheart, but she told me she's really into going out to gay bars and hasn't had a date since high school. She's now 28. I had to pass on that one. I'm not Will, sweetie, go become someone else's Grace.
I don't do fag hags. Period.
-My hottie bartender came down to visit, and of course every where we went people approached him and asked him if he wanted to be an actor, model, or porn star.
I was offered a drink.

Have to go back to work. It's my second day here. will report more later.

I FCK LA

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dominic giving total evil villian. 

Dominic Purcell 

Nice pillow. 

Ad for NRA 

Abs. 

Ryan 

Here we have Ryan chained up in Blade Trinity. How fucking hot is that? Does that make me kinky? I couldn't find pictures of Dominic as Dracula...sorry. 

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.

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.