Monday, June 30, 2008
the lip gloss brigade! that's right--save for the fact that i stayed about a hundred streets away, i managed to avoid the onslaught of queens nyc experienced this weekend as the colloquial 'last sunday in june' came to fruition and the gay pride parade marched its chaps-wearing rainbow river up fifth avenue.
i've said it before, but perhaps i'll relate the condensed version again--there's no pride in pride. sure, the boys sport their belly shirts and lip gloss and body glitter with a certain aplomb, but i don't fully understand how that helps the cause; how gay rights, in essence, is positively affected by the spectacle the gay pride parade creates will serve as a mystery for time to come. i'm gay and proud every single day of the year. when i'm inside, outside, right side up or updside down. no matter what i'm wearing (although the license being gay provides to wear such fabrics as lame and spandex is a virtue to be extolled) or with whom i'm walking. i'm just proud proud proud! i'm even prouder in the face of aversion. i don't need a whole day (which has, in more recent times, sprawled to an entire weekend) to march around in some futile, flamboyant display.
to express gay pride should, in my opinion, be a subtler affair. think of a classic gay man's apartment--fine furnishings, cashmere in every drawer, exceptional amenities--nary a softsoap on any counter-- a startlingly well-rounded collection of entertainment, and a library with substance (and maybe one or two chick lit books), except for my apartment, of course, which looks like the circus came to town and settled in (and which i absolutely love), but i digress. so yeah, think of their apartment, and because the owner of such illustrious digs was intelligent and resourceful enough (a clear fringe benefit of their sexual orientation) to acquire such objets d'arte to furnish their everyday lifestyle, they would treat a public profession of their happiness in the person they've become like planning a classy party: japanese paper lanterns, hot blokes wearing calvin klein pouring cliquot, everyone decked out in their hamptons finest. point is: get smart about it. this is not the barbie parade, boys: put away the body glitter and lip gloss, (and while you're at it, seriously reevaluate those eyebrows) and make some blown-up copies of approved bills and congressional acts and tout those around the streets. get together and write some petitions. campaign for your political advocate. let's celebrate pride, not pussy.
and with that, i'm out.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
ok so this is what i think: one day a month, every news portal out there--cnn, headline news, ananova, bbc, whatev--should only report the good news. whatever bad news meant for that day can just be withheld for the following day. one day doesn't make much of a difference.
think of what this one day a month would do for the world's morale?
and i think i should host it.
Monday, June 23, 2008
i'm having a small existential issue today. i can't help wondering about the validity of everything. this never happens to me, so i'm allowed to experience the rarity. i'm also the most uncynical, optimistic person ever.
so while walking through barnes&noble, seeking out a certain children's book of yore, i noticed they had a series of travel games for sale, based on the full-sized board games. they were called, "20-minute game breaks" and came with a timer to ensure the required length of play, and i couldn't help but wonder if the timer was actually a perfect 20 minutes. probably not--it could be a second or two off, or even half-a-second, but that's close enough, so it really doesn't matter. but for some reason, it really bothered me that i knew that timer didn't actually measure up to the 20 minutes it claimed to span.
which opened a floodgate of cynicism and doubt. what if my gastroenterologist just didn't care, and refused to tell me that there's a colony of kangaroo rats living in my intestines? or the woman on the phone who says they're doing "everything they possibly can" for you is actually filing her nails and forgets your very name. or what if the police that are meant to protect you and the city in which you live are actually this fraternal order of arcane brothers and cause the very crime they're supposed to stop?
i know this is completely mental, and absolutely no way to live, but it's a thought.
i'll follow up with something much less neurotic tomorrow.
and that's all for now.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
is it me, or has conde nast, more specifically vogue, followed the silversteins and migrated with the rest of the old farts to the desert of new mexico? granted, one of the above covers is older than anna, but the desert is getting a tad old!
omg i'm starting to sound like perez.
in better news, i'm getting a new bed today. although i'm not sure if this comes as a good or bad thing, considering the circumstances that forced me to procure the new sleep digs (not bedbugs, or any pest infestation, for that matter) but a rather off-putting situation that caused the aforementioned lull in scathing activity.
anywho. as i listlessly wait for the delivery, silently damning the warm sun/cold air combo that makes getting a flash tan virtually impossible, i've realized how much i've missed daytime television. frasier rocks.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
so how funny? i just made the groundbreaking discovery that joseph l. mankiewicz, director of one of my faaaaavorite films of all time, all about eve, was born in, of all places, wilkes-barre, pa.
looks like he's not the only star to be spawned out of shitsville!
Friday, June 13, 2008
so this news article really pissed me off. so basically, rachael ray (who alone pisses me off, but we'll save that rant for the slow season) decided to dip into a trend past the jersey halter top and don one of those ubiquitous arab-inspired scarves (see above image of the gorgeous me inappropriately wearing one on a corner in philly. long story.) in a commercial for the purveyor of white trash coffee beverages. of course, the same fat, obese americans who have nothing better to do than watch 'judge judy' and pretend like they know the difference between hilary and barak, decide to raise a ruckus over the whole thing, claiming the mere scarf ray adorned herself with was, in fact, a keffiyeh, a scarf traditionally worn by arab men. obviously not part of the 'people's court' vernacular, the word keffiyeh was supplied by cynic ringleader michelle malkin, the razor-tongued, right-wing bitch from fox news. so first i'm going to say, "get a life, honey," then i'm going to rant.
she basically says that the mere presence of a keffiyeh suggests support for the jihad (palestinian terrorist group) and their introduction to the fashion mainstream indicates ignorance and a general disregard. first of all, michelle, it's time to cease relying solely on forever 21 for our wardrobes and venture out. you're on national television, sweetie; take a lesson from diane sawyer, practically your media sister, and up the ante with a smart powersuit. hit up some valentino. indulge in some versace. walk outside and smell the street vendors, because right next to rafiki's hallal stand is a nice little arab man who sells keffiyehs in a variety of colors and patterns, and i highly doubt he goes home to skype his brothers hiding in afghanistani caves and plot to blow up buildings. he sells them because they're hot. they're 'in.' as a matter of fact, i purchase my very keffiyeh from top shop, so i know it's sumfin' else, hmmkay?
and just to make sure you fully understand you're not the only cunty bigmouth out there, i'd like to counteract your plead of ignorance with one of my own. you've taken something completely benign, and turned it into an ugly, hairy melanoma of a situation. you're the filipino hitler, sister, who turned a swastika from a symbol meaning sun and strength into a vile, hated mark of death and destruction.
my advice to you would be to shut your mouth, do something about those horrific split ends of yours, and get a fuckin' life. why don't you concentrate all these efforts to hate and discriminate to liberating prisoners of war, or alleviating the political unrest in the philippines? you've got dirt in your own backyard that needs to be cleaned up first.
and dunkin donuts, honestly--you're going to let this kitten heel-wearing mess of fake hair and polyester affect your ad campaign? what, afraid of a little boycott? please. as long as the mcdonalds fat asses get their court tv on demand, you'll have plenty of late-night customers to keep you in business. and honestly, who listens to this little lip gloss bitch anyway?
and with that, i'm out. watch for me on the tonys, bitches!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
ok so i know i've been going through blog names like underwear, which, actually, is a terrific metaphor because i never really stick to one style of underwear. i could go from briefs to boxer briefs to boxers, to trunks, to unmentionables and back.
but i think i've decided on the perfect name...so i present to ya'll, 'the gilded tongue.'
Friday, June 06, 2008
that the real difference between cats and dogs is how they come to be owned? or should i say partnered with? (i actually shouldn't, seeing as how ending sentences with prepositions gives me hives, but for the sake of edit...i shall contin).
think about it--people find dogs. how many people do you encounter walking their mutty-looking dogs down the street, and when (and if) you get to know them, you discover that they found the dog as a puppy, just wandering around a neighborhood, a loose constituent of some destitute litter. or take my familia's instance--due to my long history of working with the s.p.c.a., they naturally pay homage to their eldest's efforts on behalf of the animals by adopting all their ruff ruffs from the local shelter (which, incidentally, has been looking quite spiffy lately due to renovations underwritten by an ex-weatherman. information courtesy of my mother, who should run the news station).
now take cats. they always show up on a doorstep, or follow you home, with the sly intent on invading your life. they know exactly what they're doing, and if they linger long enough, you'll eventually stop feeding them tuna from a can (and really, what cat actually likes tuna?) and take them permanently. how many people do you know who own a cat from the shelter? people never give cats up. they're the ideal pet (an observation, rather than an opinion. any cat of mine would end up like the one above, and i'd go on typing on the bberry) because they're quiet, (usually) docile, clean, and don't poo on the floor. cats breed and foster obsession. how many 'crazy dog ladies' do you know? i've never visited a candle-burning lesbian with a labrador running around the house.
all the above are generalizations, of course, but the fact is that people find their dogs, and cats find their people.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
so this is me.
today was my second bikram yoga class, and if that's any indication of how i feel about it, tomorrow will be my third. i've even made arrangements to practice when i'm home in pennsylvania this weekend (yes, even scranton has a bikram yoga studio, though they provincially refer to it as 'hot yoga').
it's the most cleansing, balancing, disciplining, motivating activity there is. the default response to me telling people about my newfound love usually goes something like, "oh i tried it once, but it was too hot--i couldn't do it." ok first of all, it's not that hot. it's 110 degrees fahrenheit, and that's only 11.4 degrees higher than the human body's internal temperature (unless, of course, you're one of those unfortunate children on 'extreme makeover: home edition' who lack internal stabilization). second of all, if you don't try it again, you'll never know how much easier it gets (a truth i'll hopefully realize tomorrow when i go for the third session...tonight was a bitch).
so yeah. do the bikram. i feel terrific.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
here i sit, minutes before leaving for my very first bikram yoga class. it's my therapy (or at least it's going to be...i'm entering the realm of spiritual enlightenment in lieu of hardcore antianxiety drugs). basically, something really awful occurred in my life. or should i say to my life. other than a part of me, nobody died, but as with humans and animals alike, when the death hits, ya gotta shake it off and buy some shoes.
that, of course, has never really been said, but as i step onto the proverbial road to recovery (and that road actually begins on 145th and broadway) i think it's completely normal to make random declarations as little calibrations on my spiritual yardstick. they give me a sense of space. of progress. and they remind me a little bitch does, indeed, still dwell inside.
so not long ago, my boy jay ceased his otherwise consistently entertaining blog in favor of a fresh approach. i believe the time draws near for me to do the same. maybe what i've said isn't, in essence, the 'f-ing truth.' maybe it's only my truth. maybe i should have reconsidered the use of a hyphen when alluding to 'f-ing,' (another option is effing, no?). and maybe when i get home from sweating my life and sadness out at bikram yoga, i'll have forgotten all about this little philosophical moment and keep on preaching the f-ing truth.
contingency aside, what i will guarantee is that this boy won't be down for long, and the best is yet to come.
so thanks for being patient during the month of may, as my blog has been rather f-ing mad at me for not paying him ample attention, and he's enough to deal with (although those of you who've emailed me...bless your hearts and fingers!)