Reily, My Ex

I had dinner with my ex-boyfriend, Reily, tonight. He's the one I've always referred to as simply the EX.
When my cab pulled up to the gourmet diner, I stepped out, called his name out, and ran to him to give him a hug.

I pulled back from the hug and absorbed the beauty of his face. The bright sweet eyes, his stubble, and the warm effusive way he smiles at me when we're not fighting.

We're at a strange point in our friendship because we both have finally taken the steps to move on. More than dating other people, its a sense of finality that hangs between us- a sense that we'll be just friends, and nothing more.

Over dinner we talked about work, or rather how talking about work seems to stress me out, and we talked about our love lives.

The subject of your love life is tricky with any ex, but its especially strange with Reilly because as insane as it sounds, I'm still in love with him. In love with him like an alcoholic is in love with liquor. I know the relationship is horrible for me. We fight. We bicker. I break out. And all of our friends plead for us to break-up for good.

But as we spoke about the new men in our lives, it was comforting to know that Reily will most likely move on, and will find love again post-psychotic me. And that I will too.

And that no matter what the future brings, he'll still occasionally wait on a bench outside a restaurant for me, me always 10 minutes late, willing to give me that big hug once again.

Soak it up

On June 27th I celebrated my birthday. Actually it was really celebrated on 16th. On June 22nd, Gay Pride was celebrated and I sobered up out of that blackhole sometime on June 29th around 5:30 pm....ish. On June 30th, a big gaggle of faggles got into two rent-a-wrecks and headed to Ptown for five days of glorious sunshine and reality-show-level dramatics. Lets just say that many gays cried, make-up was smeared, and we all left that town with plenty of war stories, sore noses, and new friends (and for some of us, less friends)

On my actual birthday, June 27th, I had to run an errand for my boss here at the magazine. I walked into Midtown and the expanse of New York just seem to envelope me.

Those kind of moments happen every so often. When life becomes apparant, and you realize that shit....this is your life. And I started to cry. I couldn't fucking help it.

And it wasn't like I was outright sobbing like some fucking nut. But I was tearing up. I had to wipe away the tears and avoid eye contact.

Because I had one of those moments when it hits me how lucky I am. I've had an amazing ride so far, and if I were to die tonight, I could say that I've lived a great life, and I thank God for letting me be the crazy little shit that I've been. But I'd have to say His biggest gift has been the amount of love I've had. From my friends, my family, and all my ex-boyfriends (especially the big one).

And I can say this after 4th of July in Ptown, which was quite honestly akin to a stay at Abu Ghraib prison.
Start off with ten gays- several of whom are on a steady mix of prescription anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, and frequent users of the biggest import from Colombia- put them all together in two small hotel rooms, add a Tea Dance outside on the pool deck and you got SO MUCH shit that I'd rather jump into a porta-potty than go back into that hell again.

I'll fill you in on all the deets later. right now i have to leave work and breathe some fresh air.

New Obsessions: Nicholas Lemons

Preparing for the Storm

With Gay Pride a little more than a week away, faggots all over the Eastern seaboard are fasting, pumping, and plucking in preparation for the de riguer shirtless events that characterize the celebration of our faggotry.

What "Gay Pride" means and what it has to do with popping pills of Ecstasy is beyond me, but I'm fully complicit in believing that I must
A) get laid by not just any guy but a super hot fucking stud &
B) get so high that I must wear sunglasses as to not scare those around me with the intense look of inebriation in my eyes.

All in the name of "Gay Pride." All to celebrate my queer identity. All of it nonsensical bullshit.

Anytime I've attended gay pride events I've felt pangs of panic as I realized that my fellow queers are trashy losers. Because of:
1. Gay Pride Beads
2. Mullets
3. Cracked out crystal queens (Yes I'll dabble in drug use, but doing meth is not cute, because honey, everyone can tell you're fucking high as a kite on Tina. It scares everyone and makes me want to initiate a bill to banish you from Manhattan to some hickville community where you can bond with Oxycontin fuckettes.)
4. Bad House Music- How is Kristine W a gay celeb? Amber? And who keeps hiring these haggard cows to keep performing at gay events anyway? I love that you "support" my community but all you are is a D-list entertainer/opportunistic fag hag.
5. Small swimsuits on steroid queens. Just a style thing but if you're massively big, wearing speedos makes you look re-fucking-tarded. And to think you spent how many hours in the gym to look that stupid- if only you had spent that time working and saving up money to fix your busted face.
6. Body Glitter
7. Malted Beverages. I'm fine with the amount of liquor sponsorship at gay pride events because its the reality of our community. We're lushes, and if they want to support Gay Pride, then go ahead, but who drinks Smirnoff Ice and the rest of that gross shit. Drink a real fucking drink-either beer or a cocktail. All I taste when I drink that fruity shit is sugar, hardly enough booze, and a horrible hang over.
8. Blonde Highlights; especially on Asians.

Honestly I could go on forever... but I'll spare you.
And for the record, I'm not self-hating- I do like being gay, and I am proud of being a fag. As Americans we get shit on all the time, and get reminded that we're second-class citizens if we want to have out lives.

My favorite gay pride memory was circa 98. I was a college frosh or sophomore and I headed up to SF for the weekend. The night before the parade I spent at a house party getting wasted and making out with some hot 22 year old waiter. The next morning I stumbled to the parade and met up with my best friend Lyle. A skinny energetic little fucker, Lyle, was mischievous and a riot to hang with.
We were scheduled to walk with the Stanford contingent in the parade but as we got closer to the group, we saw that it was filled with band geeks and awkward computer science students. Lyle promptly grabbed my arm and turned us around.

me: What are you doing?
Lyle: We're not walking with them. Jesse smells like pulled pork.
me: So where are you taking me?
Lyle: I have an idea.

Lyle ended up taking me to the high school contingent of the parade. Comprised of high school students from around the Bay Area, the kids all carried signs of their respective high schools, and apparently a couple kids failed to show up, leaving signs for us to carry.
So in that parade of that year, I walked among young teenagers- many of whom were attending their first Gay Pride event. There was the dykey girl on the skateboard, a young gay boy who sung musicals the whole fucking time, and even an Asian boy with highlights, but I saw in them the wonder and excitement that we all felt our first years. Before we got jaded and became our sophisticated "over-it" selves.
Close to the end of the parade route, we ran into the PFLAG parents who unabashedly came up and hugged us all. And in the middle of the street, many of those kids cried and hugged those parents back. And it felt amazing to be there, to be gay, and perhaps to even be a little proud. Because posing as a "Sacred Heart High School" student, I was reminded what it's really all about.

Fabulous and Broke?

After an exhausting and debilitating work week, I was on my way to the gym on Friday night when it hit me that I had forgotten to deposit my paycheck. (Direct deposit doesn't start till after a couple paychecks...why? No one knows) And since Washington Mutual likes to hold paychecks for 48 hours, I then realized that I had $40 in my bank account. Glorious bankruptcy!

Anyone who's ever moved cross country can attest to the level of pissing away that occurs with costs. All the small incidentals that make up your apartment end up costing you a lot of money to either move or replace- and that is why I've decided to become a buddisht Zen freak who cares not about material possesions, but only of spiritual righteousness. IF ONLY! Who the FUCK can live without their down feather bed and 1000 thread-count egyptian cotton sheets?! NOT ME!

Fucking shit.

Being broke sucks donkey balls. I can't shop, eat, or drink. The only thing I can really do is be a big fucking slut and suck dick left and right, but who really wants to do that sober.

I'll be fine in a couple weeks, but for the time being it looks like I'll be playing board games at the local YMCA and watching "The Hills" on repeat.

Drama Sofa

Tonight my friends and I are watching our TIVO'ed premiere episode of "The Hills," the spin-off of the LEGENDARY INSPIRATIONAL Laguna Beach.
Laguna was MTV's "reality" show that followed the lives of a group of vapid rich high schoolers who dealt with serious issues such as clique in-fighting, hottie girl rivlary, and gossiping best friends.

So in other words the show is about faggots.

Now one of the breakout stars of Laguna, Lauren Conrad, is getting her own reality show that focuses on her adult life as she moves far from home (read: about an hour max if you take the 73 to the 405 to the 110, I've done the drive Lauren, youre basically in your parents fucking backyard) She's living in the hills of LA, and interning at Teen Vogue.

Check out the following youtube video from Mad TV spoofing Laguna Beach and read the great NYT article praising the merits of our favorite Laguna Tuna, Lauren.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/31/arts/television/31heff.html

Back from Hiatus

Okay gents, as usual, my life undertook some dramatic revamping in the span of a month.

1. I lost my last job after the company folded- but not before I dealt with the Old Skeez one last time. I worked one last fashion market in NYC and I made it clear to the old man that there was a bigger chance of me participating in a butch n' hairy muff diving session than us getting beyond basic handshakes.
2. I went into a complete panic mode- stopped eating basic meals- sustained myself on raw organic almonds and baby spinach leaves and lost 20 pounds in 3 weeks. some of us eat when we stress out, I regress to my former Nicole Richie eating habits. Completely unintentional. and so not appropo for a gay boy in love with biceps.
3. Was offered amazing job at Time Inc as an Associate Editor. Extreme joy. Thoughts of expansive benefits package and paid vacation filled my mind. Celebrated with a ketel one gimlet and a steak frites meal.
4. Realized inflexible start date meant that I had ONE WEEK to move to New York . Panic sets in. Return to nibbling on almonds.
5. Checked out approximiately 47 apartments in New York over a span of three days. Most looked like crime scenes from a CSI episode. Others consisted of lofted beds, with kitchens smaller than an office cubicle- which is fine but when the asking price is 1600- because its located in Manhattan- and not even cute Manhattan but a neighorhood like Kips Bay ---then you know you're fucked because you've returned to New York in the Springtime. The Gods laughed at me and I ate more almonds.
6. Found a decent apartment in Williamsburg but with three roommates- but it was honestly the only place I could find that was A) built and/or renovated in the past decade B) was close to a train and C) and wasn't inhabited by complete social wackos, odd hipsters, or fat people. (I'm sorry but we all have our prejudices, and I can't for the life of me live with anyone who could use a call to Jenny Craig.
7. Packed up my stuff in LA- and said goodbye to my LA friends who all cried and proclaimed me their best friend ever. They now have forgotten and replaced me with some other latin queen. Why? Because they're gay and live in LA. And you can't really miss anyone for too long while living in LA because there are many house parties to hit up.
8. I'm crazy because I honestly and genuinely miss LA. I miss my huge room and my car. I miss my garden and being able to see my family on the weekends if I fancied it. (which meant that I went once a month.... i'm lying, it was more like every 6 weeks, okay im lying again.....) and I miss my friends but I seem to meet incredible people whereever I go. Which either means I have really low-standards (slightly true) or I'm really lucky.

So here I am.
Back in New York with an amazing job. And a totally different take on New York. 9 to 6 in NYC? What the fuck?!

Here's to more steaks, Barney's Warehouse sales, taxi mishaps, and the return of the saucy latina to New York. I know that I have a lot more almonds in store for me but I gotta tell you, I'm really fucking excited about this job- and my new life in New York, post-LA, post-partying,and post-distressed denim.

Chicago

I'm in Chicago on the 57th floor of a luxury high-rise looking out of huge windows onto the the entire landscape of the city and the river. It's absolutely beautiful. Small churches and old brownstones in the distance, with behometh skyscrapers nearby. And the cars making their way like little ants on a trail on the freeway next to the river.

Taking in the breadth of the city is awe-inspiring, but I find myself not wanting to go down to explore. I don't know what part Chicago I'm technically in. Nor do I know the name of the River to the right. Omar told me the Sears Tower is here, but I haven't cared to know which of these is it.

So unlike me not to care, but as of right now I've maxxed out poor brain. I can't possibly absorb a minutiae of trivia, another piece of information or any detail because I am completely utter-fucking-ly exhausted.

I started March with a job, a shaky love life, and a overly friendly boss who seems to have found the joys of Viagra.
I end March with no job and as a completely battered singleton. But somehow my scheezy sexual-harassing boss is still a player in my life for another 4 days.

I'm in Chicago for my final business trip for what will hopefully be my last stint as a sales rep for women's contemporary clothes.

Yes, I sell clothes. Women's clothes. How fucking gay is that?

But I sell them to boutique owners and department store buyers.
Which means I sell them to overwieght middle-aged women who dress like whores. (Boutique Owners.) or to former soriority girls who've realized they want their MBA by the time they hit 30 (department store buyers)

Half of the time they're completely evil vacuous cunts; the other half they have no clue what they're doing and are kind of affable in a retarded child sort of way.

So I've never really liked this job, especially because I was getting gross come-ons lodged at me by my 60-something year old boss.

Boss: Astro, is it okay for us to share a hotel room? Since this past season was so slow for us, we need to cut back on expenses.

Me: Oh sure, I guess that's okay.

Boss: And I won't try anything.... unless you want me to.

(Silence)

Boss: I was kidding, you know that right?

Astro: (Horrified) Yeah. what?

Boss: I was kidding. We don't have to do anything if you don't want to.

Astro: (Flabergasted and scared. Astro speaks very quickly, almost not stopping to breathe as he says) Oh. haha. Well you know I just realized that one of my closest friends has a huge place in Chicago. His parents bought him a luxury high-rise apartment to live in while he goes to medical school. I'll just go stay there with him. He's awesome, my best friend. Omar. And that way everyone will be more comfortable. Yeah. Oh I should go, the other line is ringing.

Boss: Oh, okay. Uh. I'll talk to you later.

So after such an exchange, which actually played out pretty much as I wrote it, you'd think my boss would get the hint and move on.

But no. He hasn't. He really wants my milkshake.

And he's now offering a job in New York. Working with him.

Life is so fucking twisted. I so badly want to move back to New York yesterday. Fuck fuck fuck.
I just got a call from my co-workers. I have to meet them at their hotel and get some work done.

Be back later.

Just when you thought it was safe to sleep

Don't you just hate it when adulthood gets in the way of life.
You haven't really missed much, just several thousands cups of coffee, half-smoked cigarettes, and a slightly alarming appetite for joints.
I'm still a lovesick New Yorker who's broke and happy in LA.

I now have a fancy new job. Still in fashion though so the people who surround me on a daily basis are insane, prone to meltdowns, and loud tantrums. Working with these people has the odd effect of making me more mellow- I think it puts the whole thing in perspective.

But then again, maybe its the pot I've been smoking.

People who work in fashion are a comedic lot. High strung individuals who use the word "cute" so often it makes you want to vomit a little in your mouth.
And of course everyone's convinced they belong to the small subset of people who get what fashions about. You certainly don't because you're a trashy proleat and didn't get the memo. No, you're so out of it no one even bothered sending you the memo because you simply don't matter.

I hate those fucking people because I like to hate. That and they're usually dressed in some ridiculous oversized hat and swear their lives on a line they can't afford anyway.

You have no idea how badly the people who work in fashion dress. Maybe they're over it, but grown men were wearing Uggs, carpenter jeans, and extra small t-shirts.

Oh yeah, let me help out my gay brethen and the newly minted metrosexuals- if a shirt is tight, and you're over the age of 16, then get a slightly larger t-shirt because its not sexy, just sort of desperate.
It's a fine line, people, but we need to keep vigilent.

Real Faggots Never Die

We just take vacays with plastic surgeons and fruit shakes.

I've been busy with the trivial. Bills, work, the new season of Project Runway, and going back to New York to see the ex-boyfriend. (Who's now quite honestly more like my husband... its so obvious to all spectators that we're actually still dating- altho I'm still in denial since it means I have to let go of grudges and come down off the cross that I've martyed myself upon. If I don't have my ex to complain about, then what do I talk about? The resurgence of plaid shirts?!)

But irregardless, I'm horribly excited about the upcoming New Year. I feel that 2006 is going to be an amazing year. A year of financial solvency and mental stability, of less body-fat percentages and higher tax brackets, and of healthier living. (i.e. less nose candy, more yoga)

2005 was a fucking horrible year in many respects. Hurricanes, Tsunamis, Earthquakes, Bombings and Hair-Bleaching by Lindsay.
For me, it was a strange trip. I started 2005 a vapid New York bar lackey, and I'm ending it in LA as a vapid fashion cog.

But there was progress... I've started paying off student loans, got my first real serious (read: paying) job, and I've ended the year a more responsible adult. I've even taken a new job offer and as of the new year I will be a fashion rep of eight women's contemporary lines. I'll be making more money in a job that I think I'm better suited for.

So although 2005 was a nasty cunt, I must say that I think I'm going to come out of it okay.

Happy Holidays y'all. Thanks to all of you who've been supportive and sweet.

xoxoxoo
Astro

It's always something...

On Saturday my car battery died after I forgot to turn my headlights off. So I waited around for my new best friend, my English counterpart, to come over to jump my car. All in all not that bad of an experience, but it totally shows you how fucking dependent you are on this random piece of machinery that just burns any money you might have with gasoline and insurance. Without a car in L.A., you might as well start walking through the desert with Moses because you aren't getting anywhere.

You could take the bus, but the public transportation system here is apparantly so abhorrent that third-world countries look at it and laugh at our ineptitude.

But that hassle was nothing compared to what I found on my bed last night.

My roommate is a reserved shy girl in her late 20's. Doesn't date much, has a few friends, and has a pretty dykey haircut.

And she's a cat-lady in training....

Cat-ladies have funny-smelling houses, twenty cats, and a propsenity to constantly baby talk to their pets. In other words, they're fucking obsessed with their cats, and that's just fucking wierd.

Mandy has three cats. Three. Who needs three cats?! NO ONE!

If youre that lonely, I recommend sex websites. or religion. or go to AA meetings and pose as an addict.

Actually do they have a pets-anonymous?! Well, there should be one! Because at what point do you not realize that having more than 2 cats is just ridiculous.

When I first moved in, there was the understanding there'd be only one. One I can handle because I can throw shoes at it and create the understanding that there will be no relationship other than co-habitation.

I totally hate cats because they're like women/gay men. They're moody, bitchy, irritable, capricious, and vascillate between purring and attempting to claw your eyes out.
If I wanted that kind of behavior, I'd work in a gay bar again or join a soriority.

Well anyway, one of her fucking cats took a diaherritic shit on my down comforter. It soaked through the duvet, comforter, and stained my sheets.

So I told her this morning and she's like.

"Oh thats really gross." and the bitch walks out the door to work.

Tonight she's getting a bill and I've declared war on the cats.

Juiced Up Dreamboat

Last night I went to the Wet Underwear Contest at the Gauntlet. I'd been once before to the local leather bar and was pleasantly surprised to see how comfortable and laidback the place was.

And how incredibly fucking hot the bartender was.

His name: Jason.
His body: insane.

This time out I dragged my friend Tony along. Tony's been a personal trainer for about 10 years- an affable Southern man with a hick twang- and a severe distaste for steroids.

The minute I pointed out Jason, Tony's face went sour.

"Boy oh boy. He's done several cycles of steriods. Now thats really sad."

My first honest reaction to that: "Uh who cares, he's hot"

But after thinking about it some more it really hit me how shallow it is to risk your health to get big.
Ironically, Jason was pretty chatty last night but I couldn't get Tony's comment out of my head.

Little Bundles of Inside Voices

My female friends claim that there's something biological that occurs in their late 20's that makes them look at children in a different way. Instead of complete apathetic indifference, an instinctual mothering instinct starts to build.

Well I think that most of you should avoid that instinct because let's face it, most of us are completely incapable of being fit parents.

And it's not just women who have these maternal instincts. It seems that gay dads are becoming increasingly more common . I see gay dads everywhere in Chelsea and West Hollywood pushing the strollers of their ethnic children. Its incredibly adorable but I often feel as if these men are really smug- their eyes taunting my empty shallow life.

I just know they're thinking:

"Oh look at that sad queen, still going out to the gay bars cruising for sex. Hmmph! Thank god for [insert Chinese daugther's name] !"

And then I think to myself"

"I hope your daughter grows up fat and mean. "

But lately, something strange has been stirring inside me. Something more than just indigestion from King Taco. I've been having some pangs of desire to be a father. Me? A dad?

I don't know where it's come from but I think I'd love to impart a child with kind wisdom and independence, and to be able to nurture their lives with love and Prada.

And if I had a daughter, I would only feed her steamed veggies and brown rice, make her take yoga and ballet at a young age, get her accutane, and braces, all to ensure that she would someday become America's Next Top Model.

But even if I wanted to be a dad, as great or horrible as that could be, the role of a gay father is riddled with several obstacles.

One it's nearly impossible to legally adopt unless you've got extreme patience and a Swiss Bank account.
Two it's hard enough finding a man to be a good boyfriend; much less a good father.

But some men have decided they don't need to wait for Prince Charming to arrive. There are several gay men that I've heard of who are doing the unthinkable and having kids on their own.

Now that takes balls. Or a high threshold for pain.

Having children and being a good father would be a incredible experience- and the idea of seeing the man I love with our child, his strong arms tossing little Giselle in the air, is almost too much for me to bear. I want to be a dad.

Now I'm kind of alone on this one among my friends.

My friend Nam, a successful banker who could actually afford a child at this point, has no desire to have a child. Recently over a Korean dinner, Nam stressed the biggest argument against children.

"For one thing, children never go away. Once you have a kid, they're in your life for good. I can't even committ to having a dog.
But more importantly, you raise them, you love them, you bascially give them your entire life. And what do you get in return? Unappreciative torture. They'll hate you once they turn 14 because children are ingrates. They'll hold everything against you all the while draining you of your money and livelihood. Fuck that. Let me work on getting a dog instead. At least a dog won't tell me I'm a bad parent for not buying them a pony. And a dog will die in 14 years."

My friend Chao, an attorney, goes even further than that and hates other people's children.

He wrote me recently with the subject line: Families and Babies Suck!!
and the following email with a NYT link

"i hate fucking self-righteous parents and their horrible little bastards... ew."
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/09/national/09bakery.html?incamp=article_popular_1

If I have a kid, will I have to find new friends? Is that what happens to people with children... do you befriend other parents and act smug together?

Im a FUCKING New Yorker

So I had the fucking best time in New York. It really elucidated for me how much happiness I derive from simply being in Manhattan. It's weird how a change of address affects the way you feel and perceive the world because I felt that the world was once again a beautiful place... NOT to say I hate LA...rather the opposite. I've made peace with the City of Angels.

LA's reliable with its predictable people, traffic, and weather. It's been great for re-focusing my energies on work and myself since the nightlife and people here are a bore. And I include myself in that, I'M SO lame and boring here that I find myself disguted with myself. I fantasize about getting tattoos or riding a motorcyle to keep some sort of edginess in my life- to keep from slipping into complete sterile lameness. (both of which I think are the two lamest ways to accomplish that- it's basically a declaration of yourself as a guppie poseur.)

But honestly for a 26 year old attractive gay man, I am becoming edgy in that I don't do drugs, am not caught up in having anonymous sex, and don't feel compelled to be part of a scene.

For once in my life, I embrace being alone. I don't need a posse of men who pose as mean girls backing me up in order to live my life. And for me that's sadly a HUGE development.

So Los Angeles has given me some necessary tools to mature into the man who I want to become- it's given me the space, the time, and the job I needed to do that- and it lacks the urban noises & shiny things that I use to distract myself.

That said... I'm coming back to New York in June. I need to be able to walk in the city I live in. I need museums, good DJ's, and ambitious people who aren't retarded entertainment droids.

So anyway New York and Provincetown were sickly amazing. Ptown for two days gave me a shock of salty cold air and humble people who made no mentions of career or name dropping-worthy friends.
I drove up to New York in time for Halloween- my favorite holiday- and met up with my best friends. We laughed like old friends do- loud and unrestrained.

My favorite moments were walking the streets of New York, my eyes wandering over large buildings and passing strangers.

Err...scratch that, they were the ones I spent with my best friends and my ex-boyfriend. I really am one of those annoying New Yorkers who can't live anywhere else for too long- but a big part of that is the fact that my community of loved ones are the same. We're all New Yorkers. It's in our blood and in our vision of our futures. Despite all its hassles, its bad weather and high rents, New York is my home.

Never Fade

Guess who's back in the motherfucking house?!

Me.

It looks like I might be back for a short trip to New York on the 31st of October after a weekend in Provincetown.

Knowing that I'll be spending time with my EX on Halloween, and then seeing my New York bitch pack has lifted my spirt so high- higher than all of the anxities, self-doubts, and dark thoughts.

White Lines

In the August issue of Seventeen, Kelly Osbourne talked about her recent stint in rehab, and comments upon the prevalence of drug use among the celebrity set.

"I just want to let people know that if you think any of these blonde bombshells
aren't drug addicts, trust me, they are because I've done drugs with them. I'm
not going to name names because that's not fair, but we all are. I think it's
part of being young, being famous, being insecure with what's happening to you,
and just wanting to be accepted by the people you hang out with."

So lets get beyond the embarrasing notion that I occasionally read teen chick mags that I get free at work.

Reading Ms. Osborne's words, I was thrown back to my drug-addled life in New York. The countless number of nights spent getting high at my bar job, and party-hopping with my posse of boys, and how more often than not, it seemed that every gay Manhattanite was open to snorting some sort of white powder. Nightlife is very heavily centered around drugs, especially cocaine, and I found it increasingly hard to navigate New York's club scene without being offered various powders and pills.

Although there were plenty of times I was glad to accept the offers, the drugs were one of the reasons I decided it was imperative to quit working in bars and needed to leave New York. I didn't want to be strung out anymore. And I didn't want to waste my entire youth in Discotheque listening to Junior. There's gotta be more to life than a bump and making out in the bathroom of Crobar, right?! I mean, thats all some queens have been doing for years, and to them (& and a reminder to myself) I say: fucking expand your horizons ladies. Drop the vial of K and make sure you don't let the drugs prevent you from living life outside of nightlife.

I've been mulling this stuff over in my head lately because it just occured to me how sober my life is now-- and how disconnected I am from any nightlife scene here in LA. I'm surprisingly very content with that- although I will readily admit- I miss the promises of casual drunken/high sex and the VIP status that came with being a party boy.

So it was sorta funny when I read Towleroad's blog and read Boy George's recent arrest for cocaine possession and falsely reporting a burgalry in his Nolita apartment.
I don't know whether or not to feel sorry for the guy.
He presumably called the cops for some reason, forgot to hide his stash of blow, and then got arrested for the whole thing- sounds very messy. Mental note: don't ever call cops when I have a kilo of coke in the apartment.

I'm off to do some holistic organic zen thing- or whatever the fuck a sober-ish person is supposed to do in LA.

Fuck it. I'm going to find my xanax.

The Good Fight to Own A Home

In light of the constant housing bubble talk, this article from the LA Times on poor Mexican families buying their first homes outside of Mexico City really puts things in perspective.

Carlos Hernandez Pineda, a new homebuyer, is featured in the article. He commutes 5 hours a day and works 12 hour shifts, but that commute is worth it for him. Because he finally owns a house- something unheard for the working poor of Mexico His home is only 328 square feet.

"At least we're not throwing away money on rent," said the 38-year-old, who
shares the dwelling with his wife, mother-in-law, twin daughters and pet dog
Guero, whose name is Spanish for Whitey. "This is an
inheritance for our girls."

The article goes on to make the interesting point. Will these communities of pint-sized housing appreciate in value? Or will they become the new barrios of Mexico City?

Why I Love Jake

Jake's hot. Jake's buff, and he's not afraid to be seen hanging out with the gays.

He's inherited Johnny Depp's knack for choosing edgy good roles that provide him with genuine hipster appeal.

Mr. Gyllenhaal garnered a cult following with Donnie Darko, followed it up with the critically acclaimed Good Girl, and is now going to take it up the ass from Heath in Brokeback Mountain. And this after playing a marine in Jarhead...
It's all too much for this horny boy to take!

JAKE's THE SHIT! Take a big whiff.

Pop pop that thing...

I had a bit of a random night tonight, and ended up being dragged to Rage- this ridiculously tacky type of gay bar that plays pop dance remixes. Lots of synthetic fabrics and blonde highlights. Total horror show.

But they played Christinia Milian's Dip It Low video. I had completely forgotten about the Lolita soft porn video- that features a bikini-clad Milian being spun around in grease by a room full of men.

The video's fairly raunchy- scenes of Milian undresing are intercut with animation of a flower opening up its petals- and I find it exhilirating. Why am a gay man, do I love hot slutty girls?

I think I secretly want to be one.

Check out the video here. (You might need to have a Yahoo Account)

It's Been A Long Time...

Who's not cut out to be a blogger?! ME, bitches.

I've been way too busy with work and the general BS that goes along with life to write.

But here's a recap for the few friends that take the time every now and then to read this. In the past few months I've come to the realizations that:


1) As I had originally thought, ME and Fag Hags don't mix. I don't like strange co-dependent relationships where my time is manipulated by some needy fat chick who can't stand being alone. In fact, fag hags bug the fuck out of me, and I found myself being mean to the one I was hanging out with. I'm not proud of that. It's not cool to be mean to someone just becuase you find them annoying. (It's loads of fun, but it makes for very bad karma) So I decided to check out of that friendship.

2) You can have too many friends. Having moved to LA, I've met a lot of people. Most of them retarded lame-asses with no real ambitions other than bar-hopping and gym routines. I'm starting to value my lone time more than hanging out with a bunch of socially-stunted gays with the mentalities of high school girls.


That said... I think the biggest differences between LA and NY so far have been:

1) Driving. Duh. Totally sucks when youre used to downing a dirty ketel martini with a couple xanax. That doesn't really work when you have to get your car from valet, sit behind the wheel, and navigate the streets of LA- where I swear everyones drinking and driving.
2) The people. I'm sure there are great brillant ambitious people in this city. I've met several, but they're diffused in this sea of half-witted wannabes who seem to comprise the majority of the young demographic in this city. There's not the pulse of intelligentsia that reverbs through Manhattan, and a lot of that has to do with the entertainment industry. The museums here suck, the LA Times is a piece of shit, and people tend to know more about the new fall TV line-up than Bush's current foreign policy. So yeah, LA people are tacky dipshits with ugly clothes.

So yes, I'm moving back to New York sooner than later. In the meantime, I am enjoying LA despite my greivances.

I'm off to the gym and beach now. Ta ta.