Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The Black Party

Roseland Ballroom, 5AM.

Steve and I have been on the dancefloor for hours, as the swirling maelstrom of thousands of leather-clad bodybuilders spins around us. The men move in and out...of our field of vision, momentarily illuminated by an explosion of strobe lights, then sucked...back into the darkness.

This Steve's first Black Party, my ninth. Finally, he tells me that he's relaxed enough to "go exploring" and I take him upstairs to...(cue sinister music)...the balcony.

At first, we spend a few minutes peering over the rail, watching the dancers roil and throb beneath us as one huge carnal beast. Then Steve takes hold of my belt loop and I lead him to the long, dark, cock....riddled area of the balcony that runs the length of the room.

I want to show Steve all the hot men getting nasty in the dim darkness, and since he's never seen anything like that, I'm carrying myself as the supremely jaded, seen it all before, nothing surprises me queen that I can be.

Inching throught the hot...pulsating...sweaty crowd, we can scarcely see where to put our feet. The music is so loud, we have to shout in each other's ears.

Then we move into a section that is shielded by a wall, the music volume drops by more than half...and we fall silent.

We see a guy...blowing a sexy black go-go boy, the box he's standing on thinly lit by an orange spotlight. We see a guy...leaning against the wall getting fisted while standing up, which even I think is a pretty neat trick. We see groups of men standing in tight circles, their pants at half-mast, engaged in some mutual beefy-jerky. In the corners, various guys are openly snorting lines of various white powders off the backs of various other guys' hands.

And then...I see something so shocking, so unexpected, so offensive that I accidently shouted out loud.

"THAT guy is SMOKING!!!"

Monday, March 28, 2005

He Is Risen

The door buzzer startled me, as it always does, and I scrambled unneccesarily to press the "talk" button, as I always do.


It was Keith. The "JOSEPH?" thing is an old joke between us, from when I was apartment hunting and an old man decided he needed to teach me how apartment buzzers worked in NYC.

"I'll press da button and say "who is it?" and den you say "JOSEPH" and den I'll press da udda button and let youse in."

Keith was slow climbing the four flights to my apartment and by the time he got to the door, I was putting my coat on.

"Sorry to make you come all the way up, I shoulda just met you downstairs," I apologized.

"It's OK, I have to use your bathroom anyway," he said.

A few minutes later we were in his car, headed to meet friends for brunch in Chelsea. While he drove, Keith skillfully managed to answer his cell phone about five times, while cursing cab drivers, while smoking, while complaining about his ex-boyfriend, while changing the CD about 10 times, "Have you heard this? Have you heard this?"

Stopped at a light on 23rd Street, he said, "Sorry I was late getting to your place. My dad called me on the way to wish me 'Happy Easter', and I had to pull off because I just burst into tears."

I'm used to Keith saying things like that so I dryly replied, "Oh? I didn't know Easter was that important to you."

"Well, I told him that when I come home to see him next week-"

"To Atlanta?" I interrupted.

"Right. I told him that I had something very important to talk to him about. And he said my mom called and told him "It's HIV. I know it's HIV. Your son has HIV."

"Your parents are divorced, right?"

"Oh, yeah. For about 20 years," Keith said.

"But you're closer to your dad? That's kinda weird for a gay boy," I mused.

"Oh, my mom has always made it very clear that my brother was her favorite. Maybe I should have committed murder and gone to prison and she would have liked ME, too."

I looked at Keith incredulously. "Is that what your brother did? Killed somebody?"

"Yeah, but in his defense, I've heard it was negligent homicide," Keith said.

"'In his defense'? How long is he in prison for?"

"Life," Keith said and lit another cigarette.

If my thousands of hours watching Law & Order have taught me anything, it's that you don't get a life sentence for negligent homicide, but I didn't mention that to Keith.

"So how are you going to break the news to your dad?"

Keith is 37 years old and tested HIV positive several months ago.

"Well, I probably won't have to. He'll take one look at me and know," he said.

"From the weight loss?"


"Honey, you know you haven't lost all this weight from HIV," I pointed out.

"Well, which is worse? Should I tell him his son is a raging crystal addict? That I've spent the last few years going days and days on end without sleep or food while I fucked half of the city?"

For the last couple of years, Keith, once a mainstay of my New York world, had faded from my social life, appearing only randomly and unexpectedly. And I'd missed his sharp wit, his passion for music, and his generousity.

"And you think it's better just to tell him you have HIV?" I asked.

"HIV is something he's probably been expecting for 20 years. That I'm a tina whore isn't."

"Yeah, it probably isn't," I nodded.

"Anyway, I think the weight should come back pretty quick, now that I've stopped."

"How long has it been?"

"Last time I used was Christmas, so I've been clean for about 3 months," he said.

"But are you still wanting to do it?"

"Oh, all the time. But I've decided to get back out into the world and try to fill my time with the things we used to do, like you taking me to The Eagle last night. I could see some of those guys looking at me thinking, "I thought you were dead.""

"You don't think being in a nightclub around partying people might trigger you?" I asked.

"Sweetheart, crackheads like me aren't going to bars, we're sitting at home in front of the computer trying to hook up."


"Anyway, I told myself that 2005 was going to be a new start for me. This new job, the new apartment, breaking up with Carlos, getting clean. I'm starting over again." he said, and flicked his cig out the window.

"It's a whole new YOU!" I laughed.

"The bitch is back!" he said with a snap of his fingers.

We parked on 8th Avenue and I followed Keith into the restaurant, happy...but worried.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

The Black Party, The Video

Here's the short video of the second short story I read at WYSIWYG, images and editing courtesy of Rich Calarco, of

Friday, March 25, 2005


(Here's the first story I performed at WYSIWYG, which describes a day spent shopping around Manhattan, with my friend Eddie. The video clip of this story is here and linked in the previous post.)


As usual before I visit my family in Florida, my sister has sent me on a quest to find the latest, hottest handbag knock-off. After visiting only two stalls, I find a bag that matches the picture in my sister's email.

The middle-aged Chinese woman trailing me through her stall purrs with delight when I pull the bag off its hook.

"Yes! New bag! Most popular!" she chirps.

"Ok, how much?"

I see her evaluate me in an instant, and I don't miss her well-trained eyes casting down to see my footwear, well-worn New Balance sneakers.

"For YOU, special price. Thirty dolla."

I'm just about to pay for it, when on a whim, I decide to pick up something for my dear friend, the fabulous Terrence Hunter.

"Where are the men's bags?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "No man. That lady bag!" she insists, pointing at the one in my hand.

"Yes, I know. But where are the bags for men? You know attache' cases? Satchels? For men?"

"No man. LADY BAG," she repeats, shaking her head at my denseness.

But I don't give up. "What I want is a bag FOR a man!" I insisted, patting myself on the chest.

No luck. Suddenly...inspiration.

I put one hand on my hip, and hang other one in the air, my wrist limp.

"You know, a bag for a FANCY man!"

Her eyes widen and she smiles broadly, "Ohhhhhh. YEEEEES! FANCY MAN!!"

She leads me around the corner to a small collection of slightly less feminine bags. I select a "Prada" satchel, for which I pay a "special price."

The West Village

Eddie and I are standing on the corner of Christopher and Bleecker, waiting for the light to change. Just as it does and we step into the street, a young scruffy homeless guy leaps up from a milk crate and follows us.

In the middle of the street, he shouts at us, "Hey!"

We ignore him.

"Hey boot man!"

We ignore him.

"Hey, I'm TALKING to you, boot man!"

And since neither of us are wearing boots, we continue to ignore him.

We reach the other side and he continues.

"You think you're pretty hot in those boots, DON'T YOU??"

Under his breath, Eddie asks me, "How do you KNOW him?"

I looked at him incredulously, "I don't KNOW him! Just keep going."

Scruffy Boy is still hot on our tails. He shouts again, "Let me tell you something man, ANYBODY can wear boots! Anybody can wear boots!"

I see the frightened look on Eddie's face and whirl around to confront Scruffy Boy.

"Look, if we give you a dollar will you leave us the fuck alone?"

"No, I won't. That'll take TWO dollars."

He snatches the bills from my hand and turns around.

We're about 30 feet away when he shouts at us one last time, "ASSHOLES!"


I'm waiting outside a thrift shop, having put my foot down with Eddie after he's dragged me into every crummy secondhand shop in Manhattan. Eddie is endlessly fascinated with everything, especially if it's old and crummy, and since I am basically fascinated by NOTHING old and crummy, it's a sore point between us.

I pace up and down the block, while keeping an eye on the thrift store door.

There's a bag lady wheeling a shopping cart up the street, and cars are slowing to avoid her, the drivers turning to her a digusted look as they pass.

I decide to find something fascinating in the store fronts as she passes me, but true to the theme of the day, she calls out to me.

"Hey mister!"

I turn and say "Hey", and turn back to the window.

"Hey mister, I gotta tell you something!"

I turn again and say "That's OK" and put my hand up.

"I have to tell you something VERY important!"

"No thanks", again with my hand up.

She continues on, so I start to walk down the block. After a few seconds I turn to see where she is, and JUMP because she has run right up behind me.

"THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT!" she shouts, and grabs my elbow.

I shrink back, "OK, OK, what?"

"Fire is hot! Ice goes in the freezer! Fire is hot! Ice goes in the freezer!" she says insistently, shaking my arm.

I pull back, "OK, well then...thanks for telling me."

And I give her a dollar.

That night, Eddie and I are at Christmas party in Harlem, having a drink in the kichen, when a guest arrives with a bag of ice and asks "Hey, where should I put this?"

I look at Eddie and say, "Well....I've heard that ice goes in the freezer."

Eddie and I crack up.

The guest throws the bag in the sink and walks out, "Assholes".

Times Square

Heading down 42nd Street towards Times Square, I forget to cross the street at 6th Avenue, which I usually do so I don't have to walk past the shouting Christian woman with her megaphone, her card table and her gory placards of aborted fetuses.

Even worse, the heavy crowds on the sidewalk force Eddie and I into walking very close to her station at the top of the F train stairs.

"...because God knows when you sin! And an adulterer or FORN-i-cator will NOT enter the kingdom of Heaven! Sinners, you need to repent NOW and let the GLOR-REE of Christ JEE-sus fill your heart!" she bellows as we pass.

On impulse, I turn and give her the double-deluxe Brooklyn bird, two middle fingers with an upward swirl.

Without missing a beat, she points at me and shouts, "Because THAT'S what SINNERS do! They make OBSCENE gestures and become HOMO-SEXUALS!!"

So...I give her a dollar.

The Upper East Side

(The 6 train platform, 68th Street, 8AM the next morning.)

I guide Eddie to the far end of the platform, where we have a better chance of getting on the train, should it be as crowded as it usually is. Slowly, we weave our way in and out of the commuters, each of them lost in thoughts of the upcoming day.

Eddie, who has no inside-voice, starts talking to me, his booming voice almost feeling like a sacriligious interruption of the trance-like state of the waiting passengers. The closest ones follow the sound of his voice, their faces locked in the well-practiced New York expression-free mask.

I begin to shush Eddie, but from the middle of the platform comes an even louder voice.

"Nothing you do today will any difference," the female voice drones.

We all look in her direction, but we can't see who it is.

"This is as good as it's EVER going to be," she continues, as loud as any subway loudspeaker.

The passengers shake their heads and try to retreat back into their thoughts.

"You think you are going somewhere but you are NOT!"

"Who IS this crazy bitch?" we all begin to think.

Eddie leans in, "Are you dying to see who's doing that?"


"Let's go down there."

As we weave our way back down the platform, I imagine that we're going to find some deranged bag lady, maybe that one I've seen wearing a hat with a plastic monkey on it.

Instead, we find a young woman, wearing a stylish pantsuit. We pause for a moment and she lets out another pronouncement.

"If you think you are doing something important today, you are wrong."

I ask Eddie, "Is this performance art?"

He shakes his head, "Whatever it is, it's depressing as hell."

"Your job isn't your life. It's what to do to get one," the woman intones.

The passengers crowd onto the arriving train, but now they are suddenly reconsidering the world and their place in it....and that IS art.

We get on the train too, but I'm wondering if I should have given that woman a dollar.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Payments, The Video

Thanks to the lovely and talented Rich Calarco, of, here's a video clip of the first story I read at WYSIWYG, "Payments".

I'll put the text version up tomorrow, so that I don't ruin the storytelling for those that want to watch the video first.

They say the camera adds ten pounds, right?

How many cameras are ON you, Monica?

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Joe Is So Getting Laid Tonight

The emcee of last night's WYSIWYG, the luscious Chris Hampton, introduced each of the performers by reading a Googlism, which is the result delivered when typing someone's name into Google, as in "Joe is....". The best one she got for me was "Joe is...SO getting laid tonight."

And while that didn't come true, I had an amazing time at WYSIWYG! All the performers did a great job and the show ran like clockwork, thanks to Chris, Andy and Sparky. The show was taped by tv editing whiz Rich Calarco, BIG thanks to Rich! The show was sold out and I hope none of my people didn't get in.

My people. Heh.

Big thanks to all the fellow bloggers and friends that came out to support me: Aaron, Chris, Davis, Erik, Steve, Daniel and Ken!

Bear hugs to Eddie for coming all the way from Philly, and being a good sport and letting me call him out from the stage.

A special treat was a visit from none other than Miss Curly McDimple. Curly brought a couple of her own blogging buddies, hello ladies!

As for my bit, I think I fidgeted with my new glasses too much, they kept sliding down my nose. But I did a better job making eye contact with the audience than I did at BlogJam, and I got laughs in all the places I hoped I would (and a few where I didn't expect any!).

I could get used to this.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

WYSIWYG Reminder

Just a reminder that WYSIWYG is taking place this Tuesday. Come see me and NYC bloggers Eurotrash, Maccers, Dan Rhatigan, Guilia Rozzi, and Jeff S.

I'll be reading a new essay called "Payments".

I'm told the show is being held in the smaller, downstairs auditorium.

Better watch out for me and tight spaces, I'm told that I'm all hands.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Hosers, Hockey, And Homos

Next Monday, I'm being interviewed by Anthony Johnson on Canadian public radio station CKUT-FM, broadcasting out of Montreal.

The show will air between 630-7PM, Eastern time.

You can listen to the show live here.

CKUT-FM archives their shows, and I'll post that link later.

Marketing Talk With Mike And Joe

MIKE: Hey did you see the S Train this morning? It's all covered in ads for that HBO show, Deadwood.

: Yeah, I saw that. It looks pretty cool with all the seats and walls covered, I wonder how they did that.

MIKE: It's some kind of wrap, I guess. The Times Square station has all the poles wrapped entirely too.

JOE: Yuck, I thought that hack Christo left town! Oh, did you see that the U.S. Army is putting ads on the race cars in NASCAR races now?

: You're kidding.

: Nope, they're out there glamorizing war, getting all those teenage boys excited watching fast cars and every time one zips past the camera, POP, you get a subliminal message to join the army.

MIKE: I don't know about that. I watch NASCAR and I've never felt the urge to buy Valvoline.

: As far as you know. Maybe you just haven't been in a stores that sells valvos, or whatever Valvoline is for. It sounds like something to grease up your heart.

: Well, I will say that the Levitra car last week, did kinda make me horny.

JOE: Dude, potato chips make you horny.

MIKE: True.

JOE: I think if the Army can put ads on race cars, then they should sell space on THEIR vehicles.

MIKE: Ooh, right, a big ole tank rolling through downtown Baghdad with the Nike swoop on it!

: "Just Killed 'Em!"

MIKE: Maybe they should start branding the body bags.

: And put Halliburton on them.

MIKE: No shit. Or maybe brand the prosthetic limbs these poor kids are coming home with.

: And put oil company logos on them.

: Actually, no. That's not fair. These guys just lost their arm or leg, let them have some bling.

JOE: Like a Prada arm? A Louis Vitton leg? A signature Beyonce' hand?

MIKE: Oh, absolutely. And then, the after-market companies would start coming out with the different wraps and covers, ya know "Wrap your limb with a personal skin!"

JOE: You could get Hello Kitty or Spider-Man!

: And you know those things would be bootlegged in 10 seconds, and you could go down to Chinatown and get a fake one.

JOE: A fake, fake arm?

MIKE: And then the feds would bust them for counterfeiting and we'd see a news story with the Army crushing a bunch of counterfeit blinged-out arms and legs under a steamroller.

: Oh no! They'd donate them to a public hospital and then only the people without insurance would have to wear the cheap-ass fake shit.

MIKE: Ya know....fuck The Man!

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Who Said That?

Faithful readers,

This morning I received my first ever comment spam. A lady named "Mary" simultaneously offered us the chance to enlarge both our penises AND our breasts.

Clearly, Mary is a regular reader of Joe.My.God.

Following Mary was an anonymous commenter who made his familiar hit-n-run jab at my writing style. Which is fine, I welcome all feedback, blah blah blah. But I do insist on knowing who is talking to me in these situations.

For these reasons I've disabled anonymous commenting for the time being. I apologize to those who regularly leave "anonymous" comments, yet identify themselves in the text of their comment.

I've often considered the point of enabling comments at all. I never know if it's just a shamelessly transparent vehicle for continuous validation, an effective means of judging what works and what doesn't, or a simple way to engender a sense of community among my readers. Probably a little of all three, of course. But still I wonder if it's no small coincidence that some of the writers I admire most do not allow comments.

I'll be moving all of y'all over to sometime in the next few weeks. There'll be a few more bells and whistles over there, including a better comment interface, but the look will be familiar overall. If anyone has any suggestions for additions to the new site, I'm receptive.

In the meantime, you non-Blogspotters can register with Blogger in less than 60 seconds and have a handy user name for shout-outs and bitches.

Ah persheyate it, y'all.

Monday, March 14, 2005

The Diarist Awards

Faithful readers: A couple of days ago, I got a nice email from the lovely folks over at Diarist.Net, letting me know that I was a finalist in their quarterly essay awards.

Even more surprising is that I'm actually a finalist in their Most Romantic Entry category for my holiday story "Dance Of The Sugar Plum Lesbians".

Considering that just in the last couple of weeks I've touched on fisting, scat, cannibalism and abortion, "Most Romantic" is an interesting place to find myself, no?

Please take the time to visit the other finalists and say something kind if you are so inclined. Unlike other blog contests, voting is limited to fellow bloggers. Additionally, you may only vote once. I found some great writers that are new to me, I'm sure you will too.

We now return you to Joe.My.God. which is always in progress.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

"Aunt" Susan

UPDATE: Go away, perverts. There is NOTHING about incest in this story.

My mother's sister, Susan, was eight years younger than my mom.

She was everything my mother wasn't.

My mom was married and pregnant and living in a trailer in North Carolina within months of high school graduation.

Susan was a hippie. She was THE hippie.

She wore tie-dyed clothes, and fresh flowers in her waist-length jet-black hair. She called the cops "pigs" and the government "The Man". She taught me how to string beads for necklaces, which my father would immediately throw in the garbage. She taught me the words to Dylan's "Like A Rolling Stone."

Once, she let me hang out while she and her friends sat around and set dry cleaning bags on fire. I was a kid, thinking "Cool...FIRE!", and it was many years before I realized that they were all tripping on acid, watching the plastic curl and smoke.

While my mom seemed smart and prim and restrained, Susan (and we were NEVER allowed to call her "Aunt") was foul-mouthed and wild and entirely fascinating.

Shortly after she finished high school, she married for the first time. Bad Billy was his name, I don't think I ever heard his last name. He had wild eyes, a bushy beard and he never wore shoes. He left Susan to go live in a commune.

In 1969, a bunch of Native Americans occupied Alcatraz Prison in San Francisco Bay, in protest of how the government was treating them. By then, Susan was an art student at NYU, spending all of her time throwing pots and weaving giant macrame "hangings".

That year at Christmas dinner, Susan announced that henceforth she would be known as 'Sioux', in solidarity with her oppressed red brothers.

My grandfather shouted: "Jesus H. Christ!" and stomped out to a bar.

Sioux's present to my mother that year was a huge glazed urn, with her new name scratched into the bottom.

Sioux married a couple more times, hippie-style free love arrangements. Both husbands evaporated to Canada after being drafted for the Vietnam war. I don't think I ever met either of them.

Sioux then began a pattern that would define the rest of her life. Through one of her husbands, she landed an apartment at the top of Stuyvesant Town, on the Lower East Side.

Rent control had already been in effect on the apartment, for decades. She got the place for dirt. Sioux illegally subdivided the sprawling two bedroom into four small bedrooms, and took in tenants...turning a healthy profit. Most of her tenants were art students or musicians.

In the mid-70s, Sioux immersed herself in the burgeoning punk scene. She began to wear only black clothing, something she did for the rest of her life. She hung out at CBGB's with the Talking Heads and Blondie. She fucked half of the New York Dolls and ALL of the Ramones. She got arrested at CBGB's, in the can, for giving a joint to a least, that's how she told it.

She became the quintessential New Yorker, the black clothes, the smoking, the cursing. Anybody who lived above 23rd Street was a 'fucking idiot'. My mother was clearly depriving her children of the real world by raising them outside of New York. It was 'abuse' she told my mother once, that we had to ride a school bus.

Sioux became Susan once again, sometime around 1977, due to some bitch in a band having the same name. Siouxsie Sioux. Of 'and the Banshees'.

My family had moved to Florida by then. Susan was visiting us, during spring break. She was still going to NYU...a professional student.

Susan sat on the floor in my bedroom, flipping through my albums.

Star Wars soundtrack.."Ugh."

Stevie Wonder...."Hmm."

Sister Sledge..."Spew." Yes, she really SAID "spew.".

Then she came to Village People.

Now, the first Village People album didn't look like any of the subsequent albums. Yes, it had the same giant art deco 'Village People' logo at the top, but the photograph of the 'band members' was a steamy, black and white photograph of young men, models assembled purely for the album cover. No Indian, no leatherman, no cop. Just a half-dozen young men wearing punk-ish clothes in an alley.

Susan looked at the cover. "This looks like it has possibilities."

For a moment, I thought she was going to ask me to play it for her. Part of me wanted her to, because I f*cking LOVED that album. But I also knew that she was expecting the music to live up to the artwork.

She flipped the album over and read the song titles out loud.

"Fire Island....Key West...San Francisco," she stopped there.

Susan slowly put the album back on the stack, and looked at me.

I was only 18 years old and had never come out, not to a family member anyway. I steeled myself for what I knew was coming next.

"Are there any good titty bars around here?"

I nearly fell off my bed.


"I wanna find some dive bar and watch chicks dance and maybe score some blow...any place like that in Orlando?"

I turned bright red.

"Well, there's a place called 'The Bottom Drawer'...I've never been there...but from the outside it"

Later, I heard Susan call information and get the address.

Back in New York, Susan continued to careen through the local music scene, dating musicians, writers, bartenders. She finally finished NYU, with an art degree, nearly 15 years after she started.

From then on Susan's daytime life was a long series of temping jobs with various media companies. Viacom. Time-Warner. NBC. Chrismas gifts were always a huge box of assorted swag, stolen from her employers. One year, it was all things Beavis & Butthead.

In 1995, Susan was diagnosed with pervasive esophageal cancer. She'd smoked heavily for nearly 30 years by then, so no one was really suprised.

Even after chemotherapy, radiation, surgery...Susan showed no improvement. My mother and my sister spent every weekend shuttling up from Orlando, to St. Vincent's Hospital to visit her.

At the end, Susan was confined to an oxygen tent. She'd withered away, skeletal is the only word to use. Her hair gone, tubes in both arms, not even the energy to chew food....she STILL found the energy to use that famously foul mouth.

Her final coherent words to my mother: "Fat fucking lot of help YOU'VE been!"

My mother fled the room, never getting the will to return.

The next day, as my sister walked in, Susan pulled her mask off and rasped: "Those shoes with THAT skirt? You MUST be joking!"

After Susan died, we went to her Stuyvesant Town apartment to go through her things. The vulture grapevine had already been alerted to her death, there were two dozen notes on her door, inquiring about the disposition of the apartment.

By then, she'd stopped taking tenants, and the place was a rabbit's nest of paintings, albums, full ashtrays and piles and piles of art books. The spare bedrooms were littered with boxes and boxes of junk. Shoes. Winter coats. Hundreds of copies of the Village Voice.

I found a huge pile of spiral notebooks. I picked one out and sat at the kitchen table and began flipping through it. It was filled with drawings, abstract doodling, non-sensical words, and lists. Lots of lists. Lists of bands. Lists of artists. Lists of people I'd never heard of.

Then I came across a page that was different.

In huge bold strokes, the sentences moved directly from the top of the left page and over onto the top of the right.


My mother walked over.

"Anything interesting?"

Quickly, I flipped the page.

"Um, not so far. Just some drawings."

My mom leaned in to see. I had landed on another page of lists.

In pink magic marker:

1) my lesbianism.
2) my emerald green eyes.
3) that I don't have Dorothy's nose.

I looked up at Dorothy.

"Mom, didn't Susan have dark brown eyes?"

My mom sighed.

"Yes, dear. She did."

Originally posted May 10, 2004

Friday, March 04, 2005

TV Talk With Mike And Joe

MIKE: So what kind of shows do you think this new gay channel is going to have?

JOE: What, you mean LOGO? I think I read about something with Cher. Don't know about the rest.

MIKE: Cher? That figures. Maybe they can show one of her 300,000 farewell performances. How many times can you say goodbye to someone before they finally fucking leave already?

JOE: No shit! Actually, I was thinking maybe they should do a gay version of the $10,000 Pyramid. They could call it The Fabulous Pink Triangle!

MIKE: Oh, I can already see it. You're in the winner's circle and you're on the last clue..."um...a beach chair...a bikini...a bitchy attitude..."


MIKE: Ding ding ding!!!

JOE: OK, you have 30 seconds to describe seven things you might find in a Chelsea gym locker.

MIKE: Ok, it's round and it goes around...

JOE: A cockring!

MIKE: Ok, it's in a bottle and you take off the top and...

JOE: Poppers!

MIKE: This is too easy.

JOE: OK, how about a gay version of Family Feud?

MIKE (laughs): Right! We could have a team of drag queens against leather men!

JOE: "We polled 100 people and asked them 'What is an item would you bring to a party?'"

MIKE (makes buzzing noise): Lube!!

JOE: I assume that was the leather men answering?

MIKE (makes buzzing noise): Wigs! That was the drag queens.

JOE: I'd have said 'silicone'.

MIKE: This is still too easy.

(Both laugh)

JOE: What show would YOU want to see?

MIKE: Well, how about Movies For Guys Who Like Guys Who Like Movies? A take-off on what they do on TBS?

JOE: What, you mean like some tough guys movie, but with big homoerotic undertones?

MIKE: Right, like "Brian's Song". On the surface, it's this rowdy football movie with hot guys but then James Cann gets terminal cancer or something and Billy Dee Williams has to look after him and it gets all weepy and they say that they love each other.

JOE: And THAT'S when you make your move on the straight guy watching the movie with you? While he's all tore up and crying over James Caan?

MIKE: Well, yeah! First you push the Kleenex box over to him. Then you reach for one yourself and move closer. Next thing, you're kissing the tears off his face.

JOE: And licking your cum off it too?

MIKE: I'm just saying.

JOE: I guess that would work with Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid.

MIKE: And Highlander too! Remember that scene in the parking garage where the hot Scotsman was giving that guy head?

JOE: Sweetie, he was TAKING his head. Bit of a difference. That's not very sexy. I don't think that movie would work.

MIKE (miffed): Well, he WAS an antiques dealer. And the soundtrack was ALL Queen!

JOE: How about an all gay reality show set in a bathhouse? That could be hilarious!

MIKE: Can you imagine the fighting to win immunity?

JOE: OK, that wasn't funny.

Thursday, March 03, 2005


I'll be making my NYC stage debut at this month's WYSIWYG, taking place March 22nd.

WYSIWYG is a "monthly showcase of readings and performances by bloggers, brought to you by Performance Space 122 and"

If you can't make it to the show, send us booze.

"I'll be making my NYC stage debut." If you can think of anything more pretentious than that sentence, I wanna hear it.