I am inspired to write a blog post, even though I don't really have anything to say. But I'm in a surprisingly good mood, because despite a miserable week, I had a pretty fantastic weekend.
I went back to Berlin twice this weekend, as is my wont, and I managed to leave without feeling completely lousy. Friday night was Bjork night, which was kind of bizarre, but still rather fun. I managed to not run into anyone I was avoiding - again! - which always feels like a success. I did see this guy I had a brief, two-week thing with that kind of fizzled out for no reason. I only really saw him when we were out, and after the last time we saw each other I never called or texted him back. I was feeling a little bit guilty about that this week, and when I first saw him on Friday night I was nervous. But then when he saw me he said, "I'm so sorry I haven't called you!" It was kind of funny because, honestly, it was fine. And I hung out with him and his friends and it wasn't weird and nothing happened and it was perfect. Maybe that is how I will end up making friends with gay guys: after drunkenly making out and realizing that we really only like each other enough to hang out platonically, and we can do so without it getting weird.
On Saturday night I went to see Todd Barry at the Lakeshore with Mindy, which was my birthday present to her (I got free tickets). Afterward we went to Simon's in Andersonville, which was the first non-gay bar I've been to in forever, and it was nice and relaxing and fun and cheap. They had a jukebox and I was very tempted to play "Oh Comely," because it's a gorgeous song and, also, why the hell is that on a jukebox in a BAR? After I had a few G&Ts, one of which was on the house for some suspicious reason, I left to go back to Berlin. Saturday nights at Berlin are much lamer and, apparently, trashier, as I was hit on (literally, to the beat of some seven-minute house jam) by a guy who tried to have first-date conversation with me in the middle of the dance floor. "What's your favorite TV show? Who is your favorite singer? Are you an artist? I'm not hitting on you, I'm just curious." I don't know; if you have to specify to someone that you're not hitting on them, there's a reason why your behavior could be mistaken for a come-on.
Showing posts with label the gays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the gays. Show all posts
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Thursday, April 03, 2008
I hate everything about this.
Could you imagine what kind of person would read this and say, "Oh, that's about me! I must write them back!" That person is clearly into 34-year-old men who LOL at their own poor attempts at making a move and the pathos of a missed connection posting in general. And Franny and Zooey, probably.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
I hope you [dance].
Christina and I have this joke where we're really fake-angry at each other, one of us will say, "I hope you dance." This started when I kept telling her that I hoped she'd die, and she finally retorted with, "I HOPE YOU DANCE!"
It's all in jest with Christina, of course, but the list of people I legitimately hope will dance is growing.
Somewhat related: Adam and I had a big bro / little bro conversation this morning and I, for once, did not want him to dance. Excerpt:
It's all in jest with Christina, of course, but the list of people I legitimately hope will dance is growing.
Somewhat related: Adam and I had a big bro / little bro conversation this morning and I, for once, did not want him to dance. Excerpt:
Friday, March 21, 2008
I am someone's bestie.
I just bought tickets for Christina and me to see The Kids in the Hall at the Chicago Theatre in May. Excited? You bet we are!
Here, enjoy some hilarious Canadian sketch comedy from the '80s:
Speaking of comedy, Attila has another show tonight at the Cornservatory! Come check it out, and bring beer!
Here, enjoy some hilarious Canadian sketch comedy from the '80s:
Speaking of comedy, Attila has another show tonight at the Cornservatory! Come check it out, and bring beer!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Michael Stipe is gay?
REM-frontman Michael Stipe came out of the closet. I always think it's a little condescending and offensive to say stuff like, "Oh, that was obvious," but it's different when you thought that the person in question had been out for years.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I think I identify as "hilarious" more than anything else.
It's been a little over a month since I came out to my parents through email, and we haven't exactly talked about it since. Which, honestly, is fine with me since I like avoid that kind of interaction with my parents in the first place. (Gossip and cancer-talk can happen over the phone, but I prefer to update them about my love life strictly through electronic forms of communication, if at all.)
Last night, however, I got a call from my mother as soon as I got home. I had sent her the link to my post at This Recording, and she wanted to tell me she liked it, and that I seemed to not completely make fun of her, which she appreciated. Of course, I had an idea that she was calling because, in that article, I had written the following sentences:
"Once a girl I had a crush on pressured me into eating a strawberry, but I haven’t had one since."
"It wasn’t until last year, when my first serious boyfriend listed it as one of the reasons for breaking up with me, did I begin to think that there might be something wrong and it was affecting other people more than it was affecting me."
Of course that invoked the first conversation of many, probs, about my sexual preferences. She asked the same question that most people I've known in the last four to six years have asked: Did you really have crushes on girls in college? Are you bisexual? Et cetera, et cetera.
It's a difficult question to answer because, if you didn't know me well in college, I was very head-over-heels with someone I went to school with, feelings with lasted for about two years. Obviously, those feelings were unrequited, but they existed nonetheless. And I did date Megan for a few months my junior year, although it admittedly wasn't a very serious relationship. Perhaps my attraction to girls really stemmed from emotion and what I thought I was supposed to feel. I've certainly found men attractive, too, but I think I never developed feelings for a guy until after college because, frankly, I never had male friends. (Even my mother said, "I never really thought of you being attracted to men, as you seemed to hate most of the ones you knew." Which is true; I never had many male friends (aside from my childhood best friend, with whom I'm no longer friends), even in college.
But, like I told my mother last night, this is an issue I honestly don't think about much. Sure, people ask the question, and I try to give an answer, but it's not easy to produce when I haven't exactly figured it out for myself and, really, don't feel like I have to. I am who I am: I like dudes, and I'm fine with that. I don't think it's really the most important aspect of my life, or the only (or even the most important) way to identify myself. In fact, I've never actually found that I can come up with an identity for myself, and I think the reason for that is I'm from a family and a cultural background that can't trace back its roots to another foreign culture. When you grow up not thinking about that sort of thing, and then suddenly are hounded with ideas of multi-culturalism and "hyphenation" in college, it's a lot to take in. I suppose you could say I'm "Southern" or, simply, "American," but those are silly labels that, ironically, no one (especially in our dear, liberal city of Chicago) takes very seriously. At the same time, however, I'm not going to put "Gay" in front of anything, either.
Last night, however, I got a call from my mother as soon as I got home. I had sent her the link to my post at This Recording, and she wanted to tell me she liked it, and that I seemed to not completely make fun of her, which she appreciated. Of course, I had an idea that she was calling because, in that article, I had written the following sentences:
"Once a girl I had a crush on pressured me into eating a strawberry, but I haven’t had one since."
"It wasn’t until last year, when my first serious boyfriend listed it as one of the reasons for breaking up with me, did I begin to think that there might be something wrong and it was affecting other people more than it was affecting me."
Of course that invoked the first conversation of many, probs, about my sexual preferences. She asked the same question that most people I've known in the last four to six years have asked: Did you really have crushes on girls in college? Are you bisexual? Et cetera, et cetera.
It's a difficult question to answer because, if you didn't know me well in college, I was very head-over-heels with someone I went to school with, feelings with lasted for about two years. Obviously, those feelings were unrequited, but they existed nonetheless. And I did date Megan for a few months my junior year, although it admittedly wasn't a very serious relationship. Perhaps my attraction to girls really stemmed from emotion and what I thought I was supposed to feel. I've certainly found men attractive, too, but I think I never developed feelings for a guy until after college because, frankly, I never had male friends. (Even my mother said, "I never really thought of you being attracted to men, as you seemed to hate most of the ones you knew." Which is true; I never had many male friends (aside from my childhood best friend, with whom I'm no longer friends), even in college.
But, like I told my mother last night, this is an issue I honestly don't think about much. Sure, people ask the question, and I try to give an answer, but it's not easy to produce when I haven't exactly figured it out for myself and, really, don't feel like I have to. I am who I am: I like dudes, and I'm fine with that. I don't think it's really the most important aspect of my life, or the only (or even the most important) way to identify myself. In fact, I've never actually found that I can come up with an identity for myself, and I think the reason for that is I'm from a family and a cultural background that can't trace back its roots to another foreign culture. When you grow up not thinking about that sort of thing, and then suddenly are hounded with ideas of multi-culturalism and "hyphenation" in college, it's a lot to take in. I suppose you could say I'm "Southern" or, simply, "American," but those are silly labels that, ironically, no one (especially in our dear, liberal city of Chicago) takes very seriously. At the same time, however, I'm not going to put "Gay" in front of anything, either.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Party fouls.
Last night I was at this house party populated mostly by the creative, improv-y types - the kind of party where a freestyle rap battle ensued, and it was actually a lot of fun (despite the pressure to throw out rhymes, which obviously didn't happen: I stood there awkwardly as people beatboxed at me until their beats finally trailed off and everyone felt weird for a good thirty seconds).
My friend Rachel, who was stoned and staring at people playing Street Fighter II for about a half hour, said what was probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me in the past few weeks that wasn't an uncomfortable consoling statement about my father. Some dude, clearly gay (because there were like, three of us there) was standing across the room, and I was doing my best to avoid eye contact because I was not into it. And Rachel caught this, and said, "That guy needs to stop staring at you because he is not cute enough. Like you'd really be interested in someone wearing a Lacoste shirt. Why the hell is he dressed like a European? He needs to cut out the black-on-black and get circumcised."
I left the party early and decided to go to Berlin. It seemed like a great idea at the time, and I even caught the Clark bus which never happens, so I thought it was a good sign. But, of course, Berlin sucked, and I've conceded to the fact that I feel miserable for the entire day after I go there. It kind of represents what I hate about the gays in Chicago: everyone knows each other, and it's like a small town where you can't escape from the people you're trying to avoid. Instead, you'll end up dancing next to all of them. I already got out of one small town, and I'm not going to get trapped in another.
On a side note: I've realized that the best way to get hit-on in bars is to look like you're having a miserable time. Perhaps "best" is the wrong adjective, however, as the people who tend to talk to me when I'm seconds away from throwing beer bottles at everyone around me are the type of guys who think they're going to cheer me up at four in the morning while I wait for thirty minutes in a line to retrieve my coat from coat check. Clearly, your moves are not going to work; by that time, I've already come to my nightly conclusion about the state of humanity.
My friend Rachel, who was stoned and staring at people playing Street Fighter II for about a half hour, said what was probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me in the past few weeks that wasn't an uncomfortable consoling statement about my father. Some dude, clearly gay (because there were like, three of us there) was standing across the room, and I was doing my best to avoid eye contact because I was not into it. And Rachel caught this, and said, "That guy needs to stop staring at you because he is not cute enough. Like you'd really be interested in someone wearing a Lacoste shirt. Why the hell is he dressed like a European? He needs to cut out the black-on-black and get circumcised."
I left the party early and decided to go to Berlin. It seemed like a great idea at the time, and I even caught the Clark bus which never happens, so I thought it was a good sign. But, of course, Berlin sucked, and I've conceded to the fact that I feel miserable for the entire day after I go there. It kind of represents what I hate about the gays in Chicago: everyone knows each other, and it's like a small town where you can't escape from the people you're trying to avoid. Instead, you'll end up dancing next to all of them. I already got out of one small town, and I'm not going to get trapped in another.
On a side note: I've realized that the best way to get hit-on in bars is to look like you're having a miserable time. Perhaps "best" is the wrong adjective, however, as the people who tend to talk to me when I'm seconds away from throwing beer bottles at everyone around me are the type of guys who think they're going to cheer me up at four in the morning while I wait for thirty minutes in a line to retrieve my coat from coat check. Clearly, your moves are not going to work; by that time, I've already come to my nightly conclusion about the state of humanity.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Go to Hell, America.
These are the gay(er), liberal voters we're talking about here, and I'm supposed to trust them when it comes to choosing a president?
Monday, February 04, 2008
Coming Out, or Yes, I am totes gayballs.
Last week, after writing the post about my breakup with John, I got an IM from Kristel. A mutual friend from high school, who reads my blog, asked her if I was gay.
"What should I say?" Kristel asked.
I knew this would eventually happen, so I tried to figure it out. I said, "Well, I guess you can tell her the truth."
Immediately though, I felt weird about it, and Kristel was smart enough to second-guess my response. "Are you sure?! I can play dumb! It won't be hard!" (Touché!) Anyway, Kristel did, but still copied-and-pasted the rest of the conversation, which involved our friend saying, "Oh, I wasn't sure. He never uses "he" or "she" when he talks about breaking up." (Touché!)
I decided that before I came out to anyone other than friends - meaning, speaking openly about on the blog and allowing friends from high school know about it - I had to come out to my parents first. So, because I am best at passive aggression, I emailed them! And when I told people this and they said, "You EMAILED them?" they immediately realized WHO THEY WERE TALKING TO and understood that made perfect sense.
The gist was that I'm just over keeping it a secret, because I don't even think it's a big deal. My parents will of course be kind of weird about it, as my dad is fairly homophobic and my mother said once, "I saw Brokeback Mountain. I liked it alright, but it still made me feel kind of ooky." And that's fine, because I feel kind of ooky talking about my personal life. Sure, I let them know alllll about how my friends hook up with each other and go through terrible breakups and made bad life decisions, but I NEVER share my own personal histories. I didn't tell them I was shaving for a year because I felt uncomfortable letting them know I had facial hair.
I told them that I'm finally at a point, though, where I'm not really scared of telling them the truth. I wrote, "Both Kristin and Megan assured me that I shouldn't be worried about your reaction because eventually you'd know that I'm exactly the same person either way. And I agree. I don't think that you'd be angry or hate me because people who would feel that way toward me are, frankly, idiot assholes. I want you to know that no matter what I may have said or implied before, I do not think either of you are idiot assholes."
I spent the entire day writing the email in my head, and the same deal with this post. And originally, the draft in my head was much funnier and light-hearted because I spent all day coming up with some goddamn hilarious material about how the best part of being openly gay was being able to call people "faggots." But now, as I drink my red wine and read over my mom's brief, but positive response, I can't help but feel emotional about things.
When Kristel reminded me how our friend still talks to a lot of people from high school, who, coincidentally, are a few of the people (read: guys) who teased me and called me a fag, not because I was gay, but because I was different and didn't fit in, I got really nervous about coming out completely. But then I realized that I've come really far since I was seventeen. I don't mean to brag, but I look much better, I dress better, and, goddammit, I'm go to a bar and make out like a bandit (LITERALLY). When I think about where I am and where those guys are, I can't help but think that I'm the one who made it. Sure, having them know that I'm gay might make them get some sort of satisfaction from calling it eight years ago, but I'm the one who's winning here. And I will never forget that.
So, uh, I'm here, I'm queer, etc. But don't leave me any comments about being all proud for me and whatever, because that is some faggoty-assed shit, you guys. LOLZ.
I'll also share with you the post-script to the email, which I prefaced with, "For old time's sake:"
"What should I say?" Kristel asked.
I knew this would eventually happen, so I tried to figure it out. I said, "Well, I guess you can tell her the truth."
Immediately though, I felt weird about it, and Kristel was smart enough to second-guess my response. "Are you sure?! I can play dumb! It won't be hard!" (Touché!) Anyway, Kristel did, but still copied-and-pasted the rest of the conversation, which involved our friend saying, "Oh, I wasn't sure. He never uses "he" or "she" when he talks about breaking up." (Touché!)
I decided that before I came out to anyone other than friends - meaning, speaking openly about on the blog and allowing friends from high school know about it - I had to come out to my parents first. So, because I am best at passive aggression, I emailed them! And when I told people this and they said, "You EMAILED them?" they immediately realized WHO THEY WERE TALKING TO and understood that made perfect sense.
The gist was that I'm just over keeping it a secret, because I don't even think it's a big deal. My parents will of course be kind of weird about it, as my dad is fairly homophobic and my mother said once, "I saw Brokeback Mountain. I liked it alright, but it still made me feel kind of ooky." And that's fine, because I feel kind of ooky talking about my personal life. Sure, I let them know alllll about how my friends hook up with each other and go through terrible breakups and made bad life decisions, but I NEVER share my own personal histories. I didn't tell them I was shaving for a year because I felt uncomfortable letting them know I had facial hair.
I told them that I'm finally at a point, though, where I'm not really scared of telling them the truth. I wrote, "Both Kristin and Megan assured me that I shouldn't be worried about your reaction because eventually you'd know that I'm exactly the same person either way. And I agree. I don't think that you'd be angry or hate me because people who would feel that way toward me are, frankly, idiot assholes. I want you to know that no matter what I may have said or implied before, I do not think either of you are idiot assholes."
I spent the entire day writing the email in my head, and the same deal with this post. And originally, the draft in my head was much funnier and light-hearted because I spent all day coming up with some goddamn hilarious material about how the best part of being openly gay was being able to call people "faggots." But now, as I drink my red wine and read over my mom's brief, but positive response, I can't help but feel emotional about things.
When Kristel reminded me how our friend still talks to a lot of people from high school, who, coincidentally, are a few of the people (read: guys) who teased me and called me a fag, not because I was gay, but because I was different and didn't fit in, I got really nervous about coming out completely. But then I realized that I've come really far since I was seventeen. I don't mean to brag, but I look much better, I dress better, and, goddammit, I'm go to a bar and make out like a bandit (LITERALLY). When I think about where I am and where those guys are, I can't help but think that I'm the one who made it. Sure, having them know that I'm gay might make them get some sort of satisfaction from calling it eight years ago, but I'm the one who's winning here. And I will never forget that.
So, uh, I'm here, I'm queer, etc. But don't leave me any comments about being all proud for me and whatever, because that is some faggoty-assed shit, you guys. LOLZ.
I'll also share with you the post-script to the email, which I prefaced with, "For old time's sake:"
Friday, February 01, 2008
Steps to becoming more mature: Stop reading Perez Hilton.
I took Perez Hilton off my blog reader this morning and I feel really good about it.
I think I can handle less crappy celebrity "news" during my day.
My decision was based on a post where he called Teri Hatcher fat. Now, I don't care about Hatcher, but she is certainly not fat. I don't think it's very funny to call ladies fat, especially if the person doing so is throwing his own obese stones from his glass house's front yard. Honestly, the man is disgusting in pretty much every way. As Julie Klausner wrote once, "There's not a fag I know who wouldn't rather fuck the Holocaust."
I think I can handle less crappy celebrity "news" during my day.
My decision was based on a post where he called Teri Hatcher fat. Now, I don't care about Hatcher, but she is certainly not fat. I don't think it's very funny to call ladies fat, especially if the person doing so is throwing his own obese stones from his glass house's front yard. Honestly, the man is disgusting in pretty much every way. As Julie Klausner wrote once, "There's not a fag I know who wouldn't rather fuck the Holocaust."
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Things that happened this afternoon.
4:25pm: I learn that there is a film adaptation - currently at Sundance - of Michael Chabon's enjoyable, if rather silly and farfetched, coming-of-age novel The Mysteries of Pittsburgh! I'm excited; I just read that a few months ago and it was quite good! (And made me think about moving to Pittsburgh for about two weeks.)
4:26pm: Oh. Sienna Miller is in it. I'm less excited.
4:27pm: Wait. The character of Arthur Lecomte, one of the MAJOR three characters, is not in the film? Does it have something to do with the homosexual affair he has with the protagonist, Art Bechstein? (Oh, spoiler alert, by the way.) I am no longer excited.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
McSweeney's should look into gay porn; I think I've found them a managing editor.
Jackie published on his blog an amazing missed connection he found a few weeks ago. In that spirit, I'm going to publish one that I found over the summer, which was not so much a missed connection as it was a personals ad, but it was one of my favorite things all year. It pretty much serves as an example of everything I hate. It's been passed around amongst friends through email, and I figure it's time to share it with the rest of my Internet family. Enjoy!
Bless his little heart.
I hereby decree that a Gay Hipster Consortium must no longer exist exclusively within the greasy-hair-enveloped minds of Chicago's queer indie crowd. No more shall we secretly admire each other with the steely glances born out of insecurity and envy. Nay, nay: we must unite our musical prowess, our varied film interests, our nerdy bookishness, our love of the obscurely beautiful, our interests that give us the capital-I-indie status.
(But we, of course, must also be able to chortle at ourselves, calling ourselves "hip" and "indie," as though there were anything tangible in these self-definitions.)
If you are already meeting, under the cover of darkness and smoke and sweat, please welcome me into your malnourished arms. If you are dreaming of such a delicious feast of minds and music and men as I am, reveal yourselves: remove your mask of cool indifference and admit that you just want to be surrounded by living mirrors of yourself, each reflecting a slightly different manifestation of your Indieness.
Bless his little heart.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Thanks, J. K. Rowling, for making the fantasy genre a little bit gayer.
I like Harry Potter and have read all of the books, and I've always thought that the series was worth analyzing as literature because J. K. Rowling put, in my opinion, many references to modern-day political issues into her stories. But I found her revelation this weekend that Dumbledore is homosexual was a little, well, retarded, frankly.
On one hand I admit that having a great hero in children's literature be recognized as gay is great for gay rights. But as an English major, I find it rather insulting to have an author tell this to me directly when there is absolutely no basis for this in the characterization of Dumbledore. Rowling never touches on his past or personal life until the final novel, and even then his "friendship" with the evil wizard Grindelwald (omg this post is so gay, btw) doesn't feel like anything other than a friendship. It's a children's book, so there's (understandably) a lack of sexual situations, but still: there are plenty of characters in English and American literature whose sexual orientation is analyzed, and that's because there's some textual basis for it. For Rowling to come out (heh) and say, months after the series has ended, that Dumbledore was gay seems like a manipulative and political move that is completely unnecessary, even as a publicity stunt.
Do you think Michael Gambon is going to play this character differently now that there's a "subtext?" Blah.
Related:
Fan's ponder Dumbledore outing [CNN]
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
THANK YOU, LARRY CRAIG.
Isn't it about time we had another hypocritical Republican? I haven't been this excited since Mark Foley!Man, when these dudes fall, they fall so hard.
Related:
Idaho Senator Larry Craig Arrested In Men's Room [Wonkette]
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Justice with a SNAP!
I kind of like judge shows because my parents raised me on Judge Judy, meaning that she was on every single afternoon during my high school years and, because I was lazy, bored, and addicted to moving images and sassy ladies on the TV, I would watch the show begrudgingly. Then I finally admitted that I had a problem and owned it. I like Judge Judy. Why not? She "takes no prisoners," as my dad says.
[Note: I was going to post a video from YouTube of Judge Judy's greatness, but we've all seen it, and you get it. Also, the best part about looking up Judge Judy videos is that people who have been on the show post their own cases. They are proud of themselves, no doubt.]
Anyway, there have been a lot of other judge shows that haven't been as successful, and each judge has their own little characteristic that sets them apart from the rest. Judge Judy is sassy and Jewish. There's a sassy, black judge. There's a sassy Latina judge. And now, there's a sassy gay judge.
Please, please, please go to his website and watch the promotional videos. Judge David Young will thank you for it. He loves the law, he loves to teach, and he loooooves to entertaaaaain! In song, no less.
My favorite part of this is that they don't say outright that the man is G-A-Y. Sure, he has "personality" and "loves showtunes," but can't a 48-year-old man be straight and still admit he fears his mother? Oh, wait:
Hmm. Guess not.
[Note: I was going to post a video from YouTube of Judge Judy's greatness, but we've all seen it, and you get it. Also, the best part about looking up Judge Judy videos is that people who have been on the show post their own cases. They are proud of themselves, no doubt.]
Anyway, there have been a lot of other judge shows that haven't been as successful, and each judge has their own little characteristic that sets them apart from the rest. Judge Judy is sassy and Jewish. There's a sassy, black judge. There's a sassy Latina judge. And now, there's a sassy gay judge.
Please, please, please go to his website and watch the promotional videos. Judge David Young will thank you for it. He loves the law, he loves to teach, and he loooooves to entertaaaaain! In song, no less.
My favorite part of this is that they don't say outright that the man is G-A-Y. Sure, he has "personality" and "loves showtunes," but can't a 48-year-old man be straight and still admit he fears his mother? Oh, wait:
Judge Young's compassion and concern extends to animals as well. He sits on the board of the Miami-Dade Humane Society and devotes time to many animal rescue initiatives. He is also an avid collector of penguins and has over 1,000 as a tribute to the character in the "Batman" television series. He is also a member of Weight Watchers and attends weekly meetings. Young lives in Miami with his partner of 12 years, Judge Scott Bernstein, and their Cairn poodle mix dog named Maggie.
Hmm. Guess not.
Monday, July 30, 2007
I spent my Saturday night watching a naked tranny lip-sync.
I don't have anything against drag queens, but I don't particularly have anything for them, either. For someone of the generation that came of age while the general attitude toward homosexuality became slightly more accepting, and a dude in a dress is no longer a shocker, I've never really been all crazy about transvestites. I mean, I find them generally entertaining, I suppose, but I've never been to a drag show or really sought out any environment wherein I'd be exposed to men in taffeta. Also, having lived in close proximity to Boystown for two years, I've become pretty accustomed to passing a few trannies in the street on any given weeknight, which is fairly desensitizing.
Having said that, I was fairly stoked to see Amanda Lepore on Saturday night.
[Disclaimer: I understand that Amanda Lepore is not a drag queen. Rather, she's known as the most successful transsexual (a title, I assume, which bases success on fame and notoriety rather than commercial success), but because her act is based on the fact that she used to be a man, I'm lumping her into that whole scene. Just bear with me here, K? Thx.]
I heard from John that Amanda Lepore would be at Hydrate, and I really wanted to go despite hating Hydrate. For those not in the know, Hydrate is a gay bar in Chicago that's fairly disgusting in the sense that you have to pay to get in and you'll leave with the smell of smoke and desperation all up in your clothes. There was apparently an open bar from ten to eleven that night, and they weren't charging cover if you went before ten, but "Hydrate Before Ten" sounded like a level of Hell I had yet to (nor did I wish to) experience, so I drank a lot of vodka beforehand and figured a five dollar cover wasn't too painful.
And, as an aside, I'd like to express why, exactly, I think Hydrate is particularly disgusting. Two bits of information: A. I knew someone who was roofied there, which doesn't surprise me because the place has a very strong sense of somewhat willing date-rape going on, and B. There's a sign in the bathroom that says (and I'm only slightly paraphrasing here), "Don't do meth." Not "Don't do drugs;" it specifically warns that users of crystal meth will be removed from the club. Classy!
So anyway. As John, Leah, and I approached Hydrate, I saw that at the front of the thankfully short line in front of the entrance there was a slender young man wearing big shoes, tiny shorts, and black and white body paint all over his chest and face in a pattern to make him resemble a court-jester, and I started to realize that I'd made a big mistake and was headed straight into Party Monster. Then we had to stand around for an hour and a half, since Amanda Lepore wasn't slated to go on until one in the morning (and the bitch was late, natch), listening to the repetitive beats of house / trance (whatevs) blast in our ears as we watched men in platform shoes wander through the crowd. Finally, around one-thirty, a haggard-looking transvestite to the stage to do an introduction, which was fairly muffled over the crowd's impatient chatter. Then Amanda came out to "perform" her "hits": "My Pussy (Is Famous)," in which Ms. Lepore repeated the p-word over and over; "My Hair Looks Fierce," which contains the lyric, "The party starts as soon as my dress drops," (um, and it did); and "Champagne," which is a clever little number about champagne. And she was completely naked on stage. Thankfully, I was too far back to see any fake vag*, but I did see some big old fake titties (but really, I was expecting that, since you can't Google Amanda Lepore without finding pictures of her chest).
Unfortunately, we skipped the meet and greet.
You may be asking yourself, "Why, Tyler, did you partake in this event if you kind of knew how bad it was going to be?" Well, Internet, it's because I do enjoy a good train wreck** every now and then. It's refreshing to experience all of the low-brow culture our society has to offer, since it makes me feel like a goddamn Proust scholar in comparison. Sometimes watching a tiny, plastic human prance around on stage while lip-syncing to a song about her fake genitalia makes one feel more alive and, honestly, distinguished. People like Amanda Lepore get all coked up and act a mess so us normal people don't have to. Plus, they make stories on Gawker possible, which in turn gives me something to read at work.
*Luckily for me, John found pictures from the evening on that gossip blog. (Link NSFW.) (But seriously, don't click it.) (I'm serious, you guys, don't do it.)
**Speaking of train wrecks, I've considered downloading I Know Who Killed Me. Can you really call that a wasted hour and forty-five minutes if you get to see someone hit LiLo in the face with a shovel? I call that a reward.
Having said that, I was fairly stoked to see Amanda Lepore on Saturday night.
[Disclaimer: I understand that Amanda Lepore is not a drag queen. Rather, she's known as the most successful transsexual (a title, I assume, which bases success on fame and notoriety rather than commercial success), but because her act is based on the fact that she used to be a man, I'm lumping her into that whole scene. Just bear with me here, K? Thx.]
I heard from John that Amanda Lepore would be at Hydrate, and I really wanted to go despite hating Hydrate. For those not in the know, Hydrate is a gay bar in Chicago that's fairly disgusting in the sense that you have to pay to get in and you'll leave with the smell of smoke and desperation all up in your clothes. There was apparently an open bar from ten to eleven that night, and they weren't charging cover if you went before ten, but "Hydrate Before Ten" sounded like a level of Hell I had yet to (nor did I wish to) experience, so I drank a lot of vodka beforehand and figured a five dollar cover wasn't too painful.
And, as an aside, I'd like to express why, exactly, I think Hydrate is particularly disgusting. Two bits of information: A. I knew someone who was roofied there, which doesn't surprise me because the place has a very strong sense of somewhat willing date-rape going on, and B. There's a sign in the bathroom that says (and I'm only slightly paraphrasing here), "Don't do meth." Not "Don't do drugs;" it specifically warns that users of crystal meth will be removed from the club. Classy!
So anyway. As John, Leah, and I approached Hydrate, I saw that at the front of the thankfully short line in front of the entrance there was a slender young man wearing big shoes, tiny shorts, and black and white body paint all over his chest and face in a pattern to make him resemble a court-jester, and I started to realize that I'd made a big mistake and was headed straight into Party Monster. Then we had to stand around for an hour and a half, since Amanda Lepore wasn't slated to go on until one in the morning (and the bitch was late, natch), listening to the repetitive beats of house / trance (whatevs) blast in our ears as we watched men in platform shoes wander through the crowd. Finally, around one-thirty, a haggard-looking transvestite to the stage to do an introduction, which was fairly muffled over the crowd's impatient chatter. Then Amanda came out to "perform" her "hits": "My Pussy (Is Famous)," in which Ms. Lepore repeated the p-word over and over; "My Hair Looks Fierce," which contains the lyric, "The party starts as soon as my dress drops," (um, and it did); and "Champagne," which is a clever little number about champagne. And she was completely naked on stage. Thankfully, I was too far back to see any fake vag*, but I did see some big old fake titties (but really, I was expecting that, since you can't Google Amanda Lepore without finding pictures of her chest).
Unfortunately, we skipped the meet and greet.
You may be asking yourself, "Why, Tyler, did you partake in this event if you kind of knew how bad it was going to be?" Well, Internet, it's because I do enjoy a good train wreck** every now and then. It's refreshing to experience all of the low-brow culture our society has to offer, since it makes me feel like a goddamn Proust scholar in comparison. Sometimes watching a tiny, plastic human prance around on stage while lip-syncing to a song about her fake genitalia makes one feel more alive and, honestly, distinguished. People like Amanda Lepore get all coked up and act a mess so us normal people don't have to. Plus, they make stories on Gawker possible, which in turn gives me something to read at work.
*Luckily for me, John found pictures from the evening on that gossip blog. (Link NSFW.) (But seriously, don't click it.) (I'm serious, you guys, don't do it.)
**Speaking of train wrecks, I've considered downloading I Know Who Killed Me. Can you really call that a wasted hour and forty-five minutes if you get to see someone hit LiLo in the face with a shovel? I call that a reward.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
I can has irony?
I have a problem with two articles I recently read.
The first is a brief piece in Bitch magazine by Sarah Seltzer about Tina Fey's character on 30 Rock, Liz Lemon. Now, if you haven't watched 30 Rock, you need to, because it's simply the best comedy on television right now. But Ms. Seltzer does not think so, apparently; she takes offense at Liz Lemon's stereotypical characteristics and makes a claim that Tina Fey is damaging the idea of a strong female role model. Now, I love feminists as much as the next guy, but not when they don't get irony. I think Tina Fey is smart enough to get the joke here, and it bothers me that Ms. Seltzer is not. Liz Lemon is indeed an important female figure in the show, and she does suffer from those stereotypical attributes that society places on women of such important stature. I believe Tina Fey is playing on those stereotypes; after all, she's a satirical writer. My suggestion to Ms. Seltzer is to watch Spike Lee's Bamboozled and then tell me if she thinks putting African-American characters in black-face is offensive.
The other article was in today's Red Eye, which I swear I only pick up for the sudoku and the crossword. I was tempted to read it today because the cover article was about John Travolta's role in the movie version of the musical version of Hairspray. Already I'm against it because the original was good, the music in this version sounds shitty, and John Travolta is stupid. (By the way: what's up with his southern accent in the movie? Baltimore, Maryland?) I read the article, however, because apparently some gay blogger in Washington took offense that Travolta is in "an iconic gay role," despite being a Scientologist, which "rejects gays and lesbians as members and even operates reparative therapy clinics to 'cure' homosexuality." This is a pretty stupid tiff, especially compared to the negative view of Tina Fey in Bitch, because the argument here seems like someone trying to garner a lot of buzz over something pretty inconsequential. John Fucking Waters is quoted in the article as saying that he didn't intend for the original role of Edna Turnblad to be a "gay role;" it just happened that Divine was a drag queen. I think we can all agree that the reason that Edna is played by a man is because seeing a man in a dress is, well, funny. And John Waters knows this, and he wasn't afraid to make use that kind of humor in an effective way.
On a sort of related note, one of the Chicago Tribune's bloggers took a swipe at Gawker today because it made fun of Jews in a post yesterday.
I think my point is this: lighten the fuck up, people. It's only a joke.
Related:
Sour Lemon [Sarah M. Seltzer]
Playing it straight [Red Eye]
Chicago Blogger Unamused By Our Anti-Semitism [Gawker]
The first is a brief piece in Bitch magazine by Sarah Seltzer about Tina Fey's character on 30 Rock, Liz Lemon. Now, if you haven't watched 30 Rock, you need to, because it's simply the best comedy on television right now. But Ms. Seltzer does not think so, apparently; she takes offense at Liz Lemon's stereotypical characteristics and makes a claim that Tina Fey is damaging the idea of a strong female role model. Now, I love feminists as much as the next guy, but not when they don't get irony. I think Tina Fey is smart enough to get the joke here, and it bothers me that Ms. Seltzer is not. Liz Lemon is indeed an important female figure in the show, and she does suffer from those stereotypical attributes that society places on women of such important stature. I believe Tina Fey is playing on those stereotypes; after all, she's a satirical writer. My suggestion to Ms. Seltzer is to watch Spike Lee's Bamboozled and then tell me if she thinks putting African-American characters in black-face is offensive.
The other article was in today's Red Eye, which I swear I only pick up for the sudoku and the crossword. I was tempted to read it today because the cover article was about John Travolta's role in the movie version of the musical version of Hairspray. Already I'm against it because the original was good, the music in this version sounds shitty, and John Travolta is stupid. (By the way: what's up with his southern accent in the movie? Baltimore, Maryland?) I read the article, however, because apparently some gay blogger in Washington took offense that Travolta is in "an iconic gay role," despite being a Scientologist, which "rejects gays and lesbians as members and even operates reparative therapy clinics to 'cure' homosexuality." This is a pretty stupid tiff, especially compared to the negative view of Tina Fey in Bitch, because the argument here seems like someone trying to garner a lot of buzz over something pretty inconsequential. John Fucking Waters is quoted in the article as saying that he didn't intend for the original role of Edna Turnblad to be a "gay role;" it just happened that Divine was a drag queen. I think we can all agree that the reason that Edna is played by a man is because seeing a man in a dress is, well, funny. And John Waters knows this, and he wasn't afraid to make use that kind of humor in an effective way.
On a sort of related note, one of the Chicago Tribune's bloggers took a swipe at Gawker today because it made fun of Jews in a post yesterday.
I think my point is this: lighten the fuck up, people. It's only a joke.
Related:
Sour Lemon [Sarah M. Seltzer]
Playing it straight [Red Eye]
Chicago Blogger Unamused By Our Anti-Semitism [Gawker]
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
My cheeks are sore from smiling.
On Sunday I went to the Gay Pride Parade, which was generally uneventful save for one leather thong (which, by the way, was on a very old man with the saggiest ass I've ever seen. I didn't know they could look like that. It looked like two empty pillowcases dipped in self-tanner) and a few make-shift pasties worn by the ladies on the NOW float. I was surprised how corporate the parade was; there was a Chipotle float, a Jewel / Osco float. There were even several beer companies who just had someone drive their trucks along the parade route with a couple of rainbows taped to the sides. Alissa complained the entire time that there was a large lack of Ds in relation to previous years. The only one I saw was rubber and shoved in my face after the parade; some man, upon seeing my shirt, spoke into his dildo as if it were a microphone and asked, "'Promises, Promises?' What kind of promises do you make?" I replied, "Um, none to you."
Afterward I met up with Couch and we went to Berlin for the DJ set by Men, former Le Tigre members JD Samson and Johanna Fateman. They started late (at six) and Couch left me by my lonesome, but it was actually still pretty fun because I just danced around by myself and drank a lot of Miller Lites. (So many, in fact, that I lost count. They were two dollars and I'm estimating I spent forty.) To make that long story short, I was at Berlin for nearly eight hours. John and Leah stopped in for a bit and that was fun, especially since we were dancing right next to JD and two of the girls from Office. I had had enough beer to say, "Fuck it," and I talked to the tambourine player, who was really excited that I recognized her. Likewise for the drummer, who shared a cigarette with me and kissed me on the cheek. And then I was like, "I am going to dance with JD Samson. I don't care if I have to push eight lesbians out of the way." And I did dance with her, and she pretended to stab me with a plastic sword. It was pretty awesome. And when she left about an hour later, she waved goodbye to me, and I stopped her and told her that Le Tigre was the first show I had the courage to see alone (as well as my first show in Chicago) and how much I loved the band.
I wasn't really hungover on Monday but I called in sick anyway, since my body was really, really sore from dancing for seven hours. My cousin was also in town, and he'd been calling me all weekend but I kept missing him, so I met him downtown at the Art Institute and then we went to lunch. My cousin is my mom's age, and he's the type of guy who calls people "cats" and places "joints" with absolute sincerity. He's also an artist, so it was fun to go to the museum with him and watch him freak out at seeing really famous pieces.
On Monday night I went to iO to see Christina perform her first improv show. She was really funny and her group did very well together (much better than the other groups, who made me want to die), and it was really exciting to see her performing again. Unfortunately, she was too funny and her body couldn't handle it: she woke me up at five yesterday morning in tears because she had severe abdominal pain. We hopped in a cab and went to the hospital, where we spent the next seven hours. She's better now, which is all I've been allowed to say. She also instructed me to start referring to her as Mary Stuart Masterson in this blog, but she was on morphine at the time, so I'm not sure I actually have to do that.
After a quick and sexy nap, I had Kristin and friends Tony and Gary come over so I could take their headshots. I'm not sure if they are any good because it was dark outside and my camera kind of sucks, but they only need them for auditions at the Second City Conservatory, so they might do okay. It was kind of fun, though, and even if they aren't the best headshots, I think the pictures turned out well. Then we drank some 312 (which was my payment) and Kristin, Tony, and I went to Funky Buddha for a DJ set by Peaches, which was also a lot of fun. I danced very much and lost my shit when she played "Lip Gloss." She ended her set by getting on stage and singing "Lovertits," and I was pretty damn happy when we left at two in the morning.
And now I'm tired. But! I made it work! And EARLY! And the rest of the week isn't so bad, considering we're leaving today at three to go to the Disco Picnic, tomorrow I spend the afternoon in a training session in which I don't need to pay attention, and Friday is the first day I get to take advantage of our summer schedule by leaving at noon. And I got my bonus check, finally.
Things are going pretty swell right now.
Afterward I met up with Couch and we went to Berlin for the DJ set by Men, former Le Tigre members JD Samson and Johanna Fateman. They started late (at six) and Couch left me by my lonesome, but it was actually still pretty fun because I just danced around by myself and drank a lot of Miller Lites. (So many, in fact, that I lost count. They were two dollars and I'm estimating I spent forty.) To make that long story short, I was at Berlin for nearly eight hours. John and Leah stopped in for a bit and that was fun, especially since we were dancing right next to JD and two of the girls from Office. I had had enough beer to say, "Fuck it," and I talked to the tambourine player, who was really excited that I recognized her. Likewise for the drummer, who shared a cigarette with me and kissed me on the cheek. And then I was like, "I am going to dance with JD Samson. I don't care if I have to push eight lesbians out of the way." And I did dance with her, and she pretended to stab me with a plastic sword. It was pretty awesome. And when she left about an hour later, she waved goodbye to me, and I stopped her and told her that Le Tigre was the first show I had the courage to see alone (as well as my first show in Chicago) and how much I loved the band.
I wasn't really hungover on Monday but I called in sick anyway, since my body was really, really sore from dancing for seven hours. My cousin was also in town, and he'd been calling me all weekend but I kept missing him, so I met him downtown at the Art Institute and then we went to lunch. My cousin is my mom's age, and he's the type of guy who calls people "cats" and places "joints" with absolute sincerity. He's also an artist, so it was fun to go to the museum with him and watch him freak out at seeing really famous pieces.
On Monday night I went to iO to see Christina perform her first improv show. She was really funny and her group did very well together (much better than the other groups, who made me want to die), and it was really exciting to see her performing again. Unfortunately, she was too funny and her body couldn't handle it: she woke me up at five yesterday morning in tears because she had severe abdominal pain. We hopped in a cab and went to the hospital, where we spent the next seven hours. She's better now, which is all I've been allowed to say. She also instructed me to start referring to her as Mary Stuart Masterson in this blog, but she was on morphine at the time, so I'm not sure I actually have to do that.
After a quick and sexy nap, I had Kristin and friends Tony and Gary come over so I could take their headshots. I'm not sure if they are any good because it was dark outside and my camera kind of sucks, but they only need them for auditions at the Second City Conservatory, so they might do okay. It was kind of fun, though, and even if they aren't the best headshots, I think the pictures turned out well. Then we drank some 312 (which was my payment) and Kristin, Tony, and I went to Funky Buddha for a DJ set by Peaches, which was also a lot of fun. I danced very much and lost my shit when she played "Lip Gloss." She ended her set by getting on stage and singing "Lovertits," and I was pretty damn happy when we left at two in the morning.
And now I'm tired. But! I made it work! And EARLY! And the rest of the week isn't so bad, considering we're leaving today at three to go to the Disco Picnic, tomorrow I spend the afternoon in a training session in which I don't need to pay attention, and Friday is the first day I get to take advantage of our summer schedule by leaving at noon. And I got my bonus check, finally.
Things are going pretty swell right now.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Sadly, there were no bare bear asses on State Street today.
This weekend the Palmer House Hilton on State Street is hosting International Mr. Leather, which is the annual conference for gay men who love leather and the gay men who love them want to have anonymous hotel sex with them. The best part of this festival(?) is that there are a lot of plain-clothed leather daddies walking around outside my office, which is just a block from the Hilton. Also, Hal Sparks is headlining one of the events, which tempted me to do a Google search for "Hal Sparks gay?," albeit only in my head, because I'm honestly not that concerned.
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