Lessons in the locker room

The lock that I use at the gym hadn't been quite the same since I immersed it in water last week in an attempt to wash off some of the liquid soap that had exploded in my bag. It has a tendency to stick, but I hadn't had a problem with it until this morning.

I'd just gotten out of the shower and I thought everything was peaches and cream until I tried to get into my locker. The lock was half open, but stuck because I got it wet last week. That was the perfect time for it to stick like that. I tried desperately to get the lock to open by pulling it, but I couldn't get a firm grip.

At one point, I decided to use my body weight to try to force the lock open. I wrap my hand through the lock and use all of my core strength (thanks, yoga!) to balance and hang on to the lock. Just then, my towel starts to slip off because it's one of those shortie towels that you have in your towel repertoire but are too cheap to throw away. A man walked past me and stared at the weirdness of a naked boy dangling from his lock, reaching for a towel that's falling off of him.

I needed something to grip onto the lock so I could pull it without slipping, so I decided to look around for a piece of wire. I know from experience that people love to throw junk on top of the lockers, so I reached up and found a wire hanger. Channeling my inner MacGyver, I used it to pull my lock open. I was so relieved.

These zany situations only happen to me. I kind of felt like Teri Hatcher in Desperate Housewives for a minute as that age old saying popped into my head:

Why put off tomorrow what you can do today?

I knew that the lock would eventually stick to the point where it would become unusable, but I was too lazy to buy another one. Today's naked locker room romp was a prime example of what happens when you put something off. Fate steps in and makes things totally embarrassing for you at the worst possible time.

Tooth Hurty

I'm taking a little blog vacation until my tooth problem is solved. Imagine a sharp stabbing pain in your mouth so intense that you feel like you're going to faint. Then imagine that, but with a fabulous haircut that is reminiscent of Maddox Jolie-Pitt and you've got a perfect idea of what I'm going through right now. The tylenol 3 is kickin in! Good times!!!

Yeah I've got a dental appointment tomorrow. Gues what time I'm scheduled?!?! 2:30! (tooth hurty) Ha ha ha.

The Gay Agenda

I was reading some articles about Peter LaBarbera, the head of Americans For Truth, and I just can't understand why he thinks that GLBT groups are so dangerous. They're not promoting hate like those Nazi Twins I saw on Primetime Live earlier this year. Americans For Truth is an organization whose goal is to combat the popularity and acceptance of gay culture. On the Americans For Truth website, he says:

"“Homosexual, bisexual, and transsexual groups spend tens of millions of dollars every year to market and normalize their aberrant lifestyles, yet after all these years there is not a single, serious national group dedicated specifically to exposing and countering their agendas."

It reminds me of the question that Margaret Cho posed in her Assassin tour:

"What is the Gay Agenda? Is it assless wedding gowns?"

This guy makes me feel the way I feel when I think of Ann Coulter. I know I shouldn't let it bother me so much, but reading all of these negative comments about the GLBT culture makes me want to do something to stop all the bullshit.

If you've seen the last two seasons of Alias, you'd know that the CIA created a black ops task force called APO to carry out all the dirty work so that the U.S. Government wouldn't be held responsible for anything bad that went down. It's totally off the books and completely hush-hush. I think there should be a black ops organization run by the GLBT groups to further the 'gay agenda.'

It will be called the Gay Underground Liberation Patrol, or G.U.L.P. for short. GULP agents will be sent out around the world to stamp out threats to the gay agenda, as well as to crimes against fashion like wearing Crocs. I'd totally sign up to bring down mister Peter LaBarbera because I'd be the perfect choice. He looks like someone who'd be secretly into Filipino/Portuguese guys with big booties and no gag reflex. He'd be in his office whacking off to Asian boy porn. Look at this guy. Doesn't he look like a dirty little bugger? Think of him in assless chaps, sporting a riding crop, whipping a Cambodian cleaning boy for not kissing his boots correctly.

I'll channel my inner Sydney Bristow, then infiltrate the insidious Americans For Truth organizaiton posing as a young intern with shapely buns and a 'come hither' stare. After months of gaining his trust, I'd get him alone and unconscious by putting rufees in his latte and have someone take photographs of us in various sexual positions. I imagine he'd be partial to a little bit of fisting or some nice sounding sessions at the AFT home office.

Gay black ops task force? Are you intrigued? I hope the gay mafia is reading this blog because I think I'd be a perfect candidate for the GULP team. I can GULP like a champ.

Ice Cream Dream

I was reading a comment on Andy's blog, about a debate on it's/its. It made me think of the fabulous ice cream sandwich treat, the It's-It. For those of you who have never lived in the Pacific time zone, an It's-It is ice cream sandwiched between two yummy oatmeal cookies, dipped in chocolate, frozen, and wrapped individually in neat little cellophane wrappers. This is not to be confused with the Sugarcubes album of the same name!

I found the company website and was happy to see that I could get a case of the delicious treat for only $17. Then I looked further and my jaw dropped at the $67 shipping cost. It makes sense, because they ship overnight with dry ice. But with all the hunger in the world, I can't justify paying $67 dollars to ship $17 worth of an indulgence that I'd most definitely eat in one sitting.

I wasn't going to let a little thing like an outrageous shipping cost stop me from connecting with a happy delicious sugar treat from my childhood. If I couldn't buy my own It's-its, I'd just have to MAKE them.

I remembered the G.I. Joe episodes where Cobra took DNA from different historical figures like Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan in order to make a new supreme leader, Serpentor. I decided to scour the city of Chicago, looking for the best ingredients to recreate the It's-It. Once I get all the stuff together, I'll post an update.

Creature Comforts

I was watching Fight Club recently because I'm such a straight boy who plays xbox and lives in his mama's basement. One of the lines from the movie really made me think:

"The things you own end up owning you."

My friend Scott calls me "Inspector Gadget" because I own a ton of little techno-geeky gadgets. My apartment looks like the batcave because it's wall to wall gadgets. Gadgets, gadgets, gadgets. Television, playstation, computer, video cameras, web cams, laptop, cordless phone, coffee maker, toaster oven, blender, game boy, nintendo ds, etc. The list goes on and on. There are so many wires in my apartment that you can build a small suspension bridge with them all.

Traveling is a pain because I need my gadgets when I fly. The night before my Guam trip, I was charging all of my essentials (phone, portable dvd player, extended battery for portable dvd player, iPod, and camera battery). It looked like I was conducting a science experiment with all the gadgets I had on the counter. Making sure that I had all the parts to all of my things was especially nerve-racking.

I took a step back and wondered how I'd adapt in an environment devoid of electrical power. Imagine me on that show "Texas Ranch House." I don't know if I'd make it without all of the creature comforts I'm so used to having around me. Even if I do find a way to be comfortable in the ranch house with one of the twinkie ranch hand boyz, I'd be wanting a video camera with night vision filter so I could videotape all of our steamy rolls in the hay.

I love to laugh

When I wake up in the morning, I love to start my day with a little bit of laughter. It's a great way to put yourself in a happy place without having to take massive amounts of anti-depressants. I'll watch a little bit of French and Saunders or my favorite Goldie Hawn movie, Overboard.

One of the things I love to watch when I want to laugh is footage of practical jokes. Here's one I found recently while surfing the youtube waves:



If the look of sheer terror on that dude's face made you laugh so hard that you had to pee a little bit, then you are a sadist. Don't worry, a lot of us are sadists. The ones who admit to it are statistically more sexy then the ones who try to deny it. So kick back, relax, and throw your head back as you take pleasure in other peoples' agonizing screams.

Reality Showdown

While at lunch with my boss this afternoon, the subject of television came up in our conversation. I use the term "our" loosely because it's really a one-sided conversation with him doing all the talking and me imagining what sex with Anderson Cooper would be like. When I was able to get a word in, I mentioned how I enjoyed that show "Who Wants to be a Superhero." I blogged about this a while back, so people know how much I was into comic books and superheroes. Read all about it here on the July 10 entry. I really want Fat Mama to win!

I was immediately chided for not being a proper queer for not watching the only gay reality show that matters, Project Runway. My boss is really into Project Runway, but I missed the first two episodes so I don't want to watch any of it until I see them. If I'd seen it from the beginning, then I'd be watching it. But I didn't, so I'm not. So there.

What the fuck was that comment he made about me not being a proper queer? If being a proper queer means trying to fit a size 34 ass into a pair of size 32 jeans and wearing a polo shirt with the collar flipped up while sporting a faux-hawk that doesn't look right on me because I'm a 47 year old queen who tans so much that even Donatella Versace would tell me that I'm going overboard, then I think I'll stick to being the odd gay out and watching my dinky superhero reality show.

What's Up, Doc?

I went to the doctor last week because I hadn't been in for a physical in a few months. I left his office feeling kind of weird because of the extent of the exam. It was like I was fourteen years old and he was someone who I met on myspace. He got my clothes off pretty fast and it was completely seamless. Before I knew it, I was standing there completely naked. Then he left to take a phone call and just opened the door like nothing was amiss. Fortunately, there was no one in the hall to see my doodle.

When he came back, we did a hernia exam that lasted about two minutes. I found it a little odd that he had to hold my ass as he stuck his ungloved fingers into my nether regions. It reminded me of the movie "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle," where John de Lancie plays the gynecologist who examines his patients' giggies after taking his gloves off.

Should I be worried about something like that? I think the reason why I wasn't bothered so much was because I was pretending that Noah Wylie was giving the exam. At that moment, I became extremely worried because who fantasizes about Noah Wylie anymore?

Stay outta my kool aid!

I got a call from my friend, Raj, last week and he told me that he heard about my fun time in Guam. He also said that he laughed when he heard that I almost shot my ear off when I got back. This was a little embarrassing because I only told one person about shooting my ear and it was Raj's boyfriend, Mac.

I tell Mac some pretty intimate things about myself because he's such a close friend. I told him about how I didn't have a chance to masturbate when I was in Guam because I was constantly surrounded by family and there wasn't a moment's peace. I was so horny when I finally got home that I really almost shot my ear off after I was done rubbing one out. Is that subtle enough?

Maybe I should have told Mac that the things I say are meant to be kept between us. But then I really got mad when I met up with another pair of friends who are a couple, Alex and so and so. I think his name is John. I hardly know John, but John knows every detail about me. He even knows about how I said last week that I am not going to eat any of Panera's souffles because they're so bad for me. Alex repeated our conversation to his boyfriend! GRR.

I know I'm not that interesting, so why do all these couples insist on 1000% communication between each other? Surely there are better things to do than talk about an eternally single young man with big feet and a deep voice that betrays his boyish exterior when you've got a boyfriend of your own to ogle. It creeps me out that some boyfriends tell each other every bloody detail of their conversations, which I now know are not sacred anymore.

Shouldn't there be some kind of mystery if you're in a relationship? Isn't trust one of the most important things to establish when you have a boyfriend? If you need full disclosure with your man, then that means there's not a lot of trust. I have no problem with people wanting to know my business. All they have to do is ask.

Dear Richie...

I was out with a friend of mine last weekend and he was feeling discouraged because he was out on a manhunt and wasn't having any luck being cruised. He was also pretty upset because he caught a lot of guys cruising me and he wondered why I was such a man magnet. The sad part is that he believed me when I told him that my skin excreted a special hormone that makes men go wild. Poor naive boy!

He asked for my advice and I saw how upset he was, so I couldn't refuse. It's really hard to explain how to cruise and be cruised, so I began by telling him that there are dozens of techniques and you have to pick and choose which one to use depending on the situation. It's like that video game, Metroid, where you need the ice beam to kill metroids and missiles to kill the Mother Brain. Anyway, I taught him a few techniques that worked for me that day:

1. The smile - Simple, straight-forward, and the ultimate "HI THERE!" sign. You can never go wrong with a smile. Think of the funniest thing you've ever seen and try to keep from laughing. The resulting facial expression looks somewhat like a genuine smile.

2. The soap opera star gaze - also referred to as "The Rock Eyebrow," the soap star gaze finds its origin with the Days of Our Lives character named John Black. John's signature expression is the turned head with raised eyebrow. This technique only works once communication has been established. People will think you're a freak if you go around raising your eyebrows all the time.

3. The laughing shoulder squeeze - when someone says something funny, go in and grab their shoulder and give it a good squeeze. If you're feeling especially adventurous, throw in a tummy pat with the other hand. Men love to be touched - unless you're my ex-boyfriend, Buck.

Yeah, I know that these are really corny. My goal is not to reveal all of my methods, but to add some background info on what I was trying to teach my friend. When he built up enough confidence to try out some of the techniques, he went and used all three of the ones I mentioned AT THE SAME TIME.

Now he thinks I'm a complete whack job because instead of flirty fun, the guy asked him how many beers he drank.

I don't know why people ask me for advice. It's just wrong! I can barely keep it together for myself. How can people expect me to help them? On the plus side, I was able to act as "the concerned friend" in front of the guy that my friend freaked out and I got an e-mail address out of him. Sweet!

Que Sera Sarong

I'm still unpacking and organizing the things I brought back from Guam. I should stop telling people that I went to Guam because they keep asking me ignorant questions:

1. What kind of money do they use there?
Response: you know those little cowry shells and shiny rocks you see on the beach? THEY DON'T USE THAT THERE.

2. What language do they speak?
Response: ::very slowly:: ENGLISH

Among the things I brought back was a bright red sarong with a big hibiscus printed on it. I bought it at the Chamorro Village after a lot of persuading from my friend Patricia and the cutie shop owner who I think was named Marco. Marco told me that the sarongs look good on anyone and he recommended the red one because it went with my skin tone. What straight island boy matches colors with skin tones? There are none.

When I pulled out the sarong last night, I got all excited because I had this vision of what I'd look like when I wore it. Then I stopped and stared at it, trying to drape it around me and I realized that I didn't know the first thing about sarongs. I did what anyone would do in this situation. I visited eHow's "how to tie a sarong." I didn't have any luck with that, so I just tied it like I saw in the picture.

It was horrible. I'd just eaten a roast beef sandwich and my stomach was pooched out so I looked like I was in my third trimester. The way I tied it made me look like I was wearing a very long dress, so I folded it in half and tied it again to accentuate my tree trunk-like calves.

I wanted to look like one of those island boys you see in the gay ads for island tours in the Pacific. Instead, I looked like a bloated tourist trying too hard to fit in. Then I made the mistake of trying to snazz up the ensemble by accessorizing it with a kukui nut lei and that just made it worse.

Now the sarong will just have to collect dust with the other world heritage impulse buys like the yukata from Japan.

Tell me, do you want to see me do the shimmy again?

During my time in Guam last week, I had to endure several excruciating dinners with my whole family. Filipinos sure love to eat. We'd go to some Chinese buffet and I'd have to explain to everyone why I am 27 and unmarried. Filipinos sure love to rub it in your face that your cousin is three years younger than you and he's got a wife and a kid while you're mysteriously single and living alone.

After a really bad dinner one night, my uncle tried to cheer me up by taking me to a strip club. It was more for his benefit, but I went along with it because I was too liquored up to put up a fight. The women at the Chinese restaurant didn't know how to make a whiskey sour, so they brought out a huge glass of whiskey. I didn't complain.

We went to Club USA in the heart of Tumon, Guam's touristy hotel/expensive shopping area. I noticed that a scantily clad woman was spraying off the stripper pole and I thought to myself: "wow, these maintenance people have really sexy uniforms!" Then the woman tossed the rag and the cleaning bottle off to the side and proceeded to dance. She was the entertainment. I felt really bad for the place because I didn't think anyone knew CPR in case the poor girl collapsed from what looked like an impending drug overdose.

Watching the G'ed out girl try to prop herself up on the stripper pole was fantastic, until a woman plopped down next to me and held my wrists in front of me. It was Officer Mona, and I had "the right to remain sexy." Anything I say will be held against her body. Yes... she actually said that to me.

Officer Mona had very bad breath and badly painted-on eyebrows. She also had six piercings on her lips and three on her nose. I did my classic "eyebrow raise" after saying something witty like the Rock does and it had no effect on her. All she said was that she couldn't move her eyebrows because she got hit in the head with a rock when she was six. She continued to regale me with intimate stories of personal injuries in her childhood, like the time when she fell out of a tree and almost died in the hospital because California trees are deadlier than Arizona trees.

I just couldn't stop thinking about how the piercings on her lip would get infected with all the bacteria that was stinking up her mouth.

To lighten the mood, I asked her what brought her to Guam and she replied: "Because my cats are having kittens." Then I said "oh so you'll be handling a lot of pussy very soon!" She didn't get it because she had a puzzled look on her face. Then she told me a story about how cats will eat their own placenta if you don't watch them carefully and that was my cue to leave. She got up to give me a hug and I was horrified to discover that she was extremely tall. I had to raise my arms up over my head just to give her a hug. It was like I was five years old and I was trying to hug a really tall relative - a really tall, skanky, stinky-breathed relative.

Is it too much to ask that my strippers be lucid and my womanly companions be somewhat ladylike? This experience is making me want to open my own brothel somewhere so it can be a fine and respected place where the boys are hot charming. I will elaborate on that in a future post. For now, I have to get the stink of Officer Mona off of my Jil Sander polo.

Fags With Flags

I just got back from my trip to Guam in time for Market Days here in Chicago. I've only been there once before, and I still don't know how it came to be. I just know that the gays love it and there were way too many booths selling tie dye and stained glass.

As I walked through the crowd, I noticed a small Filipino man wearing a large backpack and I immediately recognized him from a picture I saw many months ago. It was a real Beatrix Kiddo/Kill Bill moment, complete with sirens and a red flashback with my eyes all big and angry. The man in the picture was the man who my now ex boyfriend dated after we broke up. I know this because I hacked into my ex boyfriend's e-mail account and downloaded the picture a couple of weeks after we split up. I know it's fucked up, but this was when I was on drugs so I wasn't thinking clearly.

Anyway, the dude was pretty gross. He's always going around with chain flags in his backpack and whipping them out during a gay festival like Pride day or Market Days. He finds a place where there's music playing and he spins the flags like some 37 year old colorguard wannabe who couldn't make the squad when he was younger so he's trying to make up for it by spinning them around the gays. UH! He's just gross. I pointed him out to these straight girls I was dancing with and they were grossed out as well. One of them said that "he looks like a small animal with rainbow flags in his hands." The other girl just stared in horror like her will to live had been sucked out of her by witnessing the pathetic twirling.

I've visited his website (don't ask me how I know that he has a website) and it further reinforced my firm disgust for the creature. He can't spell and he has problems forming complete sentences. He's also a stupid head. When the latter thought popped into my head, it forced me to consider why I was so worked up over something so meaningless.

When you break up with someone, aren't you supposed to go up to the next level? Aren't you supposed to find someone better than the last one? If that's the case, then I rank one step above snail slime and one step below Jackie Stallone. The only thing I can think of is that my ex boyfriend was still on drugs and his brain chemicals were all jumbled so he was seeing my fabulousness as bad and the flag boy's troglodyteness as the best thing to happen to him since he discovered the moving walkways at the airport.