Friday, June 30, 2006
Resting comfortably
We just arrived back at our apartment from the hospital, and I think Mama should be impressed that I waited a whole five minutes before turning on my computer. Surgery was less intense this time around, though I still look extremely battered and beaten down. I wanted to let everyone know I'm doing okay, and the doctors are pleased with how everything went, even if they didn't put in the hair plugs and pec implants I requested. And I just popped a vicodin, so I expect I will be out momentarily. Thanks for the good vibes everyone! More later when I'm more lucid.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Thank god Payless Shoes are cheap!
Joy Behar's comment was actually her second choice of reactions to Star's news, as Barbra Walters warned her, "Waughing hystewicawwy is not a weaction, Joy."
Start spreading your legs! I've leaving todaaaaay!
Actually, I already left and arrived. Mom and I are comfortably ensconced in our 1 bedrooom apartment on W. 63rd in NYC, eating Haagen-Dazs ice cream and debating whether or not Taylor Hicks is a novelty act who deserves to have a hairdryer dropped into his bubble bath. I think I have already established my opinion on that matter. Anyhoo, we're here and I'm stealing someone's wireless signal so I can blog rather than think about checking into the hospital tomorrow morning at 7:15am.
I have been repeatedly encouraging my docs to make me look like Hugh Jackman. Really, I'd also accept Hugh Grant, Hugh Laurie, or even Hugo Weaving so long as they make me look normal. Here's the thing...I keep having a recurring nightmare that I'm going to heal up from this surgery, and Clay Gayken's face will appear in my mirror.
I mean really, aren't I gay enough without ending up like this?!
Anyway, I get the injections in my face tomorrow, and then surgery on Thursday. And so we begin with the beginning of the end of this journey...I hope.
I have been repeatedly encouraging my docs to make me look like Hugh Jackman. Really, I'd also accept Hugh Grant, Hugh Laurie, or even Hugo Weaving so long as they make me look normal. Here's the thing...I keep having a recurring nightmare that I'm going to heal up from this surgery, and Clay Gayken's face will appear in my mirror.
I mean really, aren't I gay enough without ending up like this?!
Anyway, I get the injections in my face tomorrow, and then surgery on Thursday. And so we begin with the beginning of the end of this journey...I hope.
Confessions of a Solid Gold Dancer
I'm sitting here having a cocktail and trying not to think about this week's surgical adventure while my mother is dozing on the futon in the den. She came all this way to go with me to New York, and still made me biscuits and gravy for dinner. So, in her honor, here is a piece I wrote ages ago about my boyhood.
I was not what could be called an All-American boy by any definition. My male cousins, like all boys from our part of Kentucky, played basketball. I played house. My most frequent partner in crime was my cousin Pam, who had the Easy Bake Oven I circled every year in the Sears Christmas catalog and was repeatedly denied (I lost faith in Santa at a startlingly early age).
Pam had something else I coveted in spite of my Baptist upbringing – a pair of tiny baby pink satin ballet slippers. I was unaware at the time that even if I were to be sent off to dance on my tiptoes as I knew some boys did, the slippers would be off-limits to me by virtue of my penis.
The thing is, I liked my penis. I simply failed to realize why it would preclude me from having pink ballet slippers. All evidence would point to the probability that my mother understood it all too well, thus resulting in her firmly stated “no” to my request for such things.
My mother is an intelligent woman, and despite her religion and rural origin, quite forward-thinking in many ways. In any other child, she likely would have seen the inevitable. Perhaps she would even have advised the parent of that child to give in to her delicate son’s pleadings for dance lessons. But I was not someone else’s son; I was her son. Her firstborn son, and like it or not, I was not going to dance on my toes, then or at any other time.
In addition to some seriously deviant tendencies, I also manifested a tenacious belief that I was always right that must have made me seem like a miniature Eva Peron. A brief stint in Little League didn’t stem my habit of attempting to spruce up my own ugly red curls by borrowing Aunt Nanny’s disheveled brown Eva Gabor wiglets ordered from the back of The National Enquirer. My sun-worshipping mother’s insistence that I go outside for a healthy dose of sunshine led me to do little more than transport my ever-growing library to the front porch, already strewn with my step-father’s tools, spare car parts, and ill-tempered pet dogs.
She also never quite managed to curb my desire to dance. Thanks to a teenaged aunt who spent hours practicing her hair-curling skills on my tender head when she babysat for me, I was to learn all the latest disco dances (at least the latest which had made it to Eastern Kentucky). It was with Angie that I discovered an obsession destined to surpass any longing in my heart for ballet. In the late 1970s, Solid Gold premiered. Thanks to the increasing power of broadcasting, an Appalachian living room became my own personal portal into the world’s tackiest disco club where unlike school, everyone was like me.
From the first episode, my desire for pink satin was supplanted by an absolute need for gold lamé. And in my stubbornness, there was no convincing me that I was not going to grow up to be one of the fabulous Solid Gold dancers myself. Not just any Solid Gold dancer, of course, but lead dancer and choreographer Darcell. Darcell had everything I wanted: long legs capable of kicking up to her ears while maintaining a sultry gaze; flashy, barely-there costumes constructed of cheap material, designed to thrill; a ponytail to flick about with all the attitude of a hardened hooker; and two hunky male dancers on either side with bulges the size of cantaloupes.
Mom was understandably concerned. She had so carefully sidestepped the embarrassment of ballet only to have her son whipping about the living room like a cat on an acid trip. She tried to convince me, but she couldn’t fight what I knew was fate. No matter how much she tried to stem the tide with her pleas – “Honey, people don’t really dance like that!” – it was no use. I was caught up in a religious fervor, and Marilyn McCoo was God.
Eventually, it did pass, but probably only because the show was cancelled. Still, the impact those half-rate Rockettes had on my isolated country life cannot be underestimated. And despite all her contrary efforts, my mother still ended up with an eldest son who sleeps with men and who is far more fond of cheap animal print material than anyone other than Peg Bundy should be. She also got an actual daughter with somewhat more subdued tastes and another son who is…well, let’s just say he made my issues seem far less deviant.
I also got over a few of those childhood obsessions. At 24, I moved cross-country to New Mexico where red heads, a dime a dozen in Appalachia, are a rare and special commodity. I don’t need the Easy Bake Oven anymore…I have my own real oven for making the elaborate dinners of my dreams, all served on my own dishes in the palette of a deluxe box of Crayolas. My library has moved from the front porch to many indoor shelves that make me appear far more cultured than I actually am.
My mom has even come around. Granted, it came as a surprise to her when I came out my sophomore year of college – she was the only surprised one, but she was the one who counted. After the initial shock, she adjusted like she has to all the uncomfortable situations life can throw at you. She even came to visit me in Albuquerque, where I took her to see a drag queen beauty pageant and my friends treated her like a visiting dignitary from a foreign land. To many of them, that is exactly what Webbville, Kentucky is.
And now, back in Kentucky and settled into a long-term relationship with a loving person who nevertheless wouldn’t know a laundry hamper from a hole in the ground, I’m discovering how much Mom and I have in common. The difficulties in navigating the ways of love are enough to bring anyone together, but I’ve also learned that if I am a little nutty, it is only because I’m merely a reflection of the somewhat eccentric and vibrant woman who brought me into the world. It seems it took moving out of Appalachia to discover I am my mother’s son.
I said to her once after I came out, “Mom, when I was five, you wouldn’t let me take dance lessons. When I was 10, you wouldn’t let me get my ears pierced after I got a crush on George Michael from Wham. You told me I couldn’t be a Solid Gold dancer, and yet I still ended up a big fag!” She sighed and replied, “Well sweetie, we tried.” I don’t blame her for trying. I’m glad she finally gave up.
I was not what could be called an All-American boy by any definition. My male cousins, like all boys from our part of Kentucky, played basketball. I played house. My most frequent partner in crime was my cousin Pam, who had the Easy Bake Oven I circled every year in the Sears Christmas catalog and was repeatedly denied (I lost faith in Santa at a startlingly early age).
Pam had something else I coveted in spite of my Baptist upbringing – a pair of tiny baby pink satin ballet slippers. I was unaware at the time that even if I were to be sent off to dance on my tiptoes as I knew some boys did, the slippers would be off-limits to me by virtue of my penis.
The thing is, I liked my penis. I simply failed to realize why it would preclude me from having pink ballet slippers. All evidence would point to the probability that my mother understood it all too well, thus resulting in her firmly stated “no” to my request for such things.
My mother is an intelligent woman, and despite her religion and rural origin, quite forward-thinking in many ways. In any other child, she likely would have seen the inevitable. Perhaps she would even have advised the parent of that child to give in to her delicate son’s pleadings for dance lessons. But I was not someone else’s son; I was her son. Her firstborn son, and like it or not, I was not going to dance on my toes, then or at any other time.
In addition to some seriously deviant tendencies, I also manifested a tenacious belief that I was always right that must have made me seem like a miniature Eva Peron. A brief stint in Little League didn’t stem my habit of attempting to spruce up my own ugly red curls by borrowing Aunt Nanny’s disheveled brown Eva Gabor wiglets ordered from the back of The National Enquirer. My sun-worshipping mother’s insistence that I go outside for a healthy dose of sunshine led me to do little more than transport my ever-growing library to the front porch, already strewn with my step-father’s tools, spare car parts, and ill-tempered pet dogs.
She also never quite managed to curb my desire to dance. Thanks to a teenaged aunt who spent hours practicing her hair-curling skills on my tender head when she babysat for me, I was to learn all the latest disco dances (at least the latest which had made it to Eastern Kentucky). It was with Angie that I discovered an obsession destined to surpass any longing in my heart for ballet. In the late 1970s, Solid Gold premiered. Thanks to the increasing power of broadcasting, an Appalachian living room became my own personal portal into the world’s tackiest disco club where unlike school, everyone was like me.
From the first episode, my desire for pink satin was supplanted by an absolute need for gold lamé. And in my stubbornness, there was no convincing me that I was not going to grow up to be one of the fabulous Solid Gold dancers myself. Not just any Solid Gold dancer, of course, but lead dancer and choreographer Darcell. Darcell had everything I wanted: long legs capable of kicking up to her ears while maintaining a sultry gaze; flashy, barely-there costumes constructed of cheap material, designed to thrill; a ponytail to flick about with all the attitude of a hardened hooker; and two hunky male dancers on either side with bulges the size of cantaloupes.
Mom was understandably concerned. She had so carefully sidestepped the embarrassment of ballet only to have her son whipping about the living room like a cat on an acid trip. She tried to convince me, but she couldn’t fight what I knew was fate. No matter how much she tried to stem the tide with her pleas – “Honey, people don’t really dance like that!” – it was no use. I was caught up in a religious fervor, and Marilyn McCoo was God.
Eventually, it did pass, but probably only because the show was cancelled. Still, the impact those half-rate Rockettes had on my isolated country life cannot be underestimated. And despite all her contrary efforts, my mother still ended up with an eldest son who sleeps with men and who is far more fond of cheap animal print material than anyone other than Peg Bundy should be. She also got an actual daughter with somewhat more subdued tastes and another son who is…well, let’s just say he made my issues seem far less deviant.
I also got over a few of those childhood obsessions. At 24, I moved cross-country to New Mexico where red heads, a dime a dozen in Appalachia, are a rare and special commodity. I don’t need the Easy Bake Oven anymore…I have my own real oven for making the elaborate dinners of my dreams, all served on my own dishes in the palette of a deluxe box of Crayolas. My library has moved from the front porch to many indoor shelves that make me appear far more cultured than I actually am.
My mom has even come around. Granted, it came as a surprise to her when I came out my sophomore year of college – she was the only surprised one, but she was the one who counted. After the initial shock, she adjusted like she has to all the uncomfortable situations life can throw at you. She even came to visit me in Albuquerque, where I took her to see a drag queen beauty pageant and my friends treated her like a visiting dignitary from a foreign land. To many of them, that is exactly what Webbville, Kentucky is.
And now, back in Kentucky and settled into a long-term relationship with a loving person who nevertheless wouldn’t know a laundry hamper from a hole in the ground, I’m discovering how much Mom and I have in common. The difficulties in navigating the ways of love are enough to bring anyone together, but I’ve also learned that if I am a little nutty, it is only because I’m merely a reflection of the somewhat eccentric and vibrant woman who brought me into the world. It seems it took moving out of Appalachia to discover I am my mother’s son.
I said to her once after I came out, “Mom, when I was five, you wouldn’t let me take dance lessons. When I was 10, you wouldn’t let me get my ears pierced after I got a crush on George Michael from Wham. You told me I couldn’t be a Solid Gold dancer, and yet I still ended up a big fag!” She sighed and replied, “Well sweetie, we tried.” I don’t blame her for trying. I’m glad she finally gave up.
How gay is your iPod?
These ten songs came up in a random shuffle of my vast iPod library. So how gay is my iPod?
1. "What She Said" by The Smiths - These Brits produced brilliant and sexually ambiguous 80s jangle pop. Still, mostly about a depressed girl, so not very gay.
2. "Love At First Sight" by Kylie Minogue - It's Kylie Minogue...an automatice 10 out of 10 on the homo scale.
3. "Not If You Were the Last Junkie on Earth" by the Dandy Warhols - These boys and one girl wear a lot of eyeliner, and the male singer's name is Courtney. Big 'mo David LaChappelle directed the fierce video for this single. Hot song, sorta gay, but only for style purposes. If this song were a college boy, it would be a GAG (gay until graduation).
4. "The Avengers Theme" by John Barry - Smooth and stylish, but very James Bond, and therefore very strayt.
5. "I Want That Man (2000 Mix)" by Deborah Harry - Virtually any dance mix gets a high gay rating.
6. "Driver 8" by REM - Lead singer Michael Stipe actually is gay, but their music...not so much. One of my favorite REM songs, though.
7. "Kiss & Tell" by Bryan Ferry - Mr. Ferry is always good for some smooth loving, and I think appeals to all orientations. I'd call this our bisexual entry.
8. "Glamorous Glue" by Morrissey - Regardless of the song topic, Morrissey is by default more than a little gay, and his glam rock phase amped up the testosterone a bit.
9. "Killer/Papa Was a Rolling Stone" by George Michael - Did anyone ever think he was not gay? Anyone at all?
10. "Brother & Sister" by Erasure - Gayer than a crunchy used towel on the floor of a bathhouse.
Final analysis: not nearly as gay as one might have thought. Only one female dance diva, no large black lady soul singers, and not a single disco song. I do probably need to try and go for a week listening to music not produced in the 80s, just to see if I can.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
11 random things about Christopher
- My mother is coming to stay with us tomorrow evening before flying out to NYC for surgery, and I'm blogging to avoid cleaning or packing because I'm a wee bit nervous.
- Clowns scare the bejeezus out of me.
- I had to take speech therapy in grade school because I didn’t prounounce my l’s.
- I am convinced they really had me in speech therapy to make me sound less gay. It didn't work.
- Every day I record “Dallas” reruns from SoapNet on my DVR.
- I have a mild and harmless underwear fetish.
- The first boy I ever had a crush on was Dean G. It was in grade school, and despite the fact that he was one of the cool kids, he was still nice to me.
- If I could have any career at all, I would be a pop star with a smooth soul voice and way too much glitter.
- My pet peeve with gay men is the use of the words straight-acting as a positive descriptive term. Do you really hate yourself for your gayness so much that anything identifiable as gay is that distasteful? Get over it guys…a sissy guy facing the world as himself has balls twice the size of the average man. Also, enjoying ESPN does not make you special, it only makes you boring.
- I haven’t had a cigarette in 150+ days, and I would still really really like one.
- I am the oldest of my four siblings from my parents’ multiple marriages. I am also the bossiest. My sister Karrie is the only one of all of us who has any sense, yet oddly enough, is also the only one who reads this blog.
Suicidal tendencies
Everyone was very excited until she reached over and unplugged the radio as well as her life support equipment.
Turn around, bright eyes
A blog I enjoy, A Socialite's Life, is implying that Phil Spector is guilty because an innocent man would not have such a guilty-looking hairdo. I respectfully disagree, and as part of the Trading Faces occasional analysis of celebrity hair, we offer this proof:
Every now and then, she may fall apart, but you know Bonnie Tyler never hurt anyone.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Celebrity Death Watch
Television producer Aaron Spelling died Friday at the age of 83.
No jokes, please. The man created Love Boat, Charlie's Angels, Dynasty, and Melrose Place...for crying out loud, show some respect, people! Seriously!
In other celebrity death news we can joke about, E. Pierce Marshall, the son of Anna Nicole Smith's late old raisin husband passed on this week due to an extreme infection after years of battling Smith in court for his father's fortune. An extreme infection? Did they perhaps kiss and make up after their last court date? I mean, I know I have to take a Silkwood shower every time I simply see her on television!
Oh look, someone must have just told Anna that this doesn't mean she automatically gets the money!
No jokes, please. The man created Love Boat, Charlie's Angels, Dynasty, and Melrose Place...for crying out loud, show some respect, people! Seriously!
In other celebrity death news we can joke about, E. Pierce Marshall, the son of Anna Nicole Smith's late old raisin husband passed on this week due to an extreme infection after years of battling Smith in court for his father's fortune. An extreme infection? Did they perhaps kiss and make up after their last court date? I mean, I know I have to take a Silkwood shower every time I simply see her on television!
Oh look, someone must have just told Anna that this doesn't mean she automatically gets the money!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Cher Cares plus a surgery update from me
After testifying before Congress last week, The World's Greatest Entertainer uses her power over the gays on my boyfriend Anderson Cooper tonight. Her cause? Operation Helmet, which is pushing to spend the $71 each on our Marines to get their helmet standards up to equal those of the Army. Preview the interview video here:
Cher loves the soldiers!
Isn't it a shame that Donald Rumsfeld and the White House Monkey don't love our soldiers as much as Cher does? Isn't it a shame that those of us against this travesty of a war are accused of being against the troops when in fact they are all talk and won't even spend $71 dollars on a helmet that will save a Marine kid's life? And isn't it just freakin' bizarre that Cher knows more about military helmet safety than these damned Republican chicken hawks?
If our beloved soldiers had this helmet, they'd all be protected.
In related news, I leave for New York City on Tuesday for what I really hope will be my final surgery. My agenda:
Monday - Mama arrives in The Ville, has allergic reaction to the cats and drywall dust, hopefully cooks dinner for her good son and son-in-law.
Tuesday - I knock Mama out with a sedative to get her on the first flight of her life. We land in NYC, take the Shuttle Death Ride to our apartment I've reserved on the Upper West Side, and take a walk to Central Park.
Wednesday - I check into the hospital, get put under (the state in which I'm the nicest), and what is left of the venous malformation in my face gets injected with with a solution to harden it. I wake up that afternoon with my head swollen to the size of a beachball.
Thursday - My peepee aches from the catheter they left in, but fortunately they put me under again. They are supposed to remove the now hardened VM from my cheek, reshape my mouth, lift up my eye, and perhaps do a bit of laser work on me. I wake up that afternoon, demand my laptop to check my e-mail, and promptly hit the morphine pump to go back to sleep.
Friday - I hope I check out of the hospital this day. Maybe I will, maybe not. I will spend the next several days popping Vicodin and steroids to control the swelling, and being generally disagreeable.
Monday - Appointment with my doc in the morning, catch the Death Shuttle to LaGuardia, and hit The Ville to be back with the Craiggers that evening.
How is this related news? Well, you know Cher has done quite a lot for kids with facial deformities. There is even a picture of her in my doctor's office with one of his patients. What I want to know is why none of you have contacted her, told her how fabulous I am, and arranged for her to make a visit to me? I have a facial deformity AND I'm a gay...she would LOVE me! I'm all her peeps rolled into one! I think you had all best get to work on that, don't you?
Cher loves the soldiers!
Isn't it a shame that Donald Rumsfeld and the White House Monkey don't love our soldiers as much as Cher does? Isn't it a shame that those of us against this travesty of a war are accused of being against the troops when in fact they are all talk and won't even spend $71 dollars on a helmet that will save a Marine kid's life? And isn't it just freakin' bizarre that Cher knows more about military helmet safety than these damned Republican chicken hawks?
If our beloved soldiers had this helmet, they'd all be protected.
In related news, I leave for New York City on Tuesday for what I really hope will be my final surgery. My agenda:
Monday - Mama arrives in The Ville, has allergic reaction to the cats and drywall dust, hopefully cooks dinner for her good son and son-in-law.
Tuesday - I knock Mama out with a sedative to get her on the first flight of her life. We land in NYC, take the Shuttle Death Ride to our apartment I've reserved on the Upper West Side, and take a walk to Central Park.
Wednesday - I check into the hospital, get put under (the state in which I'm the nicest), and what is left of the venous malformation in my face gets injected with with a solution to harden it. I wake up that afternoon with my head swollen to the size of a beachball.
Thursday - My peepee aches from the catheter they left in, but fortunately they put me under again. They are supposed to remove the now hardened VM from my cheek, reshape my mouth, lift up my eye, and perhaps do a bit of laser work on me. I wake up that afternoon, demand my laptop to check my e-mail, and promptly hit the morphine pump to go back to sleep.
Friday - I hope I check out of the hospital this day. Maybe I will, maybe not. I will spend the next several days popping Vicodin and steroids to control the swelling, and being generally disagreeable.
Monday - Appointment with my doc in the morning, catch the Death Shuttle to LaGuardia, and hit The Ville to be back with the Craiggers that evening.
How is this related news? Well, you know Cher has done quite a lot for kids with facial deformities. There is even a picture of her in my doctor's office with one of his patients. What I want to know is why none of you have contacted her, told her how fabulous I am, and arranged for her to make a visit to me? I have a facial deformity AND I'm a gay...she would LOVE me! I'm all her peeps rolled into one! I think you had all best get to work on that, don't you?
Adopted
Much as I love my mother, I've often been convinced that perhaps, just perhaps, I might actually be adopted. I thought maybe I was switched at birth with Chastity Bono, but now I'm just a wee bit convinced that my real mother is actually Delta Burke. From her acceptance speech of an award from the Human Rights Campaign:
And I too dream of a perfect world. And in my perfect world there will no longer be the need to give Equality Awards, because equality will simply be. Now, don’t think I’m giving this back, because I love awards…and tiaras…and homosexuals. Thank you very, very much. This means so much.
Not that my mother doesn't love homosexuals, or even awards...it's the tiara part that she just doesn't get. Bless her heart.
If you need a laugh (and who doesn't with that monkey in the White House playing Monopoly with our money), check out Miss Delta in her funniest work since Designing Women, and probably the funniest movie of the last ten years, Sordid Lives. Based on a play by Del Shores, Delta plays a jilted trailer-dwelling housewife as part of a cast that includes her cheating amputee husband (Beau Bridges), an asylum-bound Tammy Wynette impersonator (Leslie Jordan of Will & Grace), a gum-snapping honky-tonk singer (Olivia Newton-John), and a host of other brilliant character actors in a movie that bills itself as "A black comedy about white trash." And it's less than $8.00 on Amazon.com.
And I too dream of a perfect world. And in my perfect world there will no longer be the need to give Equality Awards, because equality will simply be. Now, don’t think I’m giving this back, because I love awards…and tiaras…and homosexuals. Thank you very, very much. This means so much.
Not that my mother doesn't love homosexuals, or even awards...it's the tiara part that she just doesn't get. Bless her heart.
If you need a laugh (and who doesn't with that monkey in the White House playing Monopoly with our money), check out Miss Delta in her funniest work since Designing Women, and probably the funniest movie of the last ten years, Sordid Lives. Based on a play by Del Shores, Delta plays a jilted trailer-dwelling housewife as part of a cast that includes her cheating amputee husband (Beau Bridges), an asylum-bound Tammy Wynette impersonator (Leslie Jordan of Will & Grace), a gum-snapping honky-tonk singer (Olivia Newton-John), and a host of other brilliant character actors in a movie that bills itself as "A black comedy about white trash." And it's less than $8.00 on Amazon.com.
Oh dear
I don't know the origin of this video. I mean, supposedly it is one-hit Euro wonder Nicki French trying to hawk a new remix of her song, but I'm not convinced. I think it is entirely possible that this comes from one of those Be a Video Star booths at amusement parks where you lipsync a song in front of a green screen, and some geek with a Commodore 64 puts the world's worse CGI behind you for scenery. Some queens and their fag hag went to the state fair, and after working themselves into a tizzy eating funnel cake, they were all, "Oh no girl, you can be a star! Here, let me just feather your hair for you. Now, sing out Louise!"
It would probably be a good idea for her to dump them as soon as possible.
It would probably be a good idea for her to dump them as soon as possible.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
A brief tirade
Since I have done my part for good health, contributing to lower health insurance rates everywhere by not smoking, I expect everyone else to do the same. How, you might ask? By closing down the most offensive enabler of bad health in the country: the all-you-can-eat buffet.
Call me a snob, but buffets are symbolic of everything that has gone wrong with our beautiful nation: the greed, the desire for value over quality, the idea that a big steaming communal pan of green bean casserole is a good thing. The value part in particular is what drives the proliferation of buffets, wanting to believe you have gotten a lot for very little. I like a bargain as much as the next person, but eating 3,000 calories in one sitting in order to feel like you have put something over on The Man is just not good for you.
In general, I am opposed to all buffets, for reasons of health and aesthetics. Buffets are to people with weight problems what bathhouses were to gay men in the 70s…way too much fun, and the fast track to destruction. And as there is no condom for fried catfish night down at the Hometown Trough, these places have got to go. Here is why you should avoid buffets at all costs:
1) The general public is rude and unhygienic, and you can’t trust them not to do disgusting things to food left out in the open. I can’t deny that I have, on occasion, eaten at a buffet. In my own defense, it is almost always an Indian buffet, and if those spices can kill dysentery, they can kill whatever is on the hands of Joe Q. Public. However, a lukewarm bowl of creamed corn isn’t killing much of anything except your arteries. Mark my words, if the bird flu really does become a pandemic, it is going to be spread by a bunch of chicken farmers out for dinner on the town whose mamas never made them wash their hands before they eat.
2) Buffet food by nature is presented in a manner that reminds one of pigs rooting for dinner. My personal rule is if it needs to be protected by something called a sneeze guard, then I probably do not want to put it in my mouth. No doubt my mother is wishing she had put my first boyfriend under a sneeze guard.
3) Restaurants are a business, and thus need to make a profit. If you eat three meals worth of food in one sitting for $4.95, you must then assume that the meal cost less than $4.95 for the restaurant to produce. How much does it cost you to prepare fried chicken, five different vegetables covered in butter, bacon and Velveeta, roast beast, and the festive dessert of your choice, and to do that at a rate of three times what you might normally eat? My guess is slightly more than $4.95 per person. Do you really want to know what must be going into your food to get it down to that price point? I’d venture a guess that somewhere out there, there is a large number of pigs that donated their scrotums for your meal.
Call me a snob, but buffets are symbolic of everything that has gone wrong with our beautiful nation: the greed, the desire for value over quality, the idea that a big steaming communal pan of green bean casserole is a good thing. The value part in particular is what drives the proliferation of buffets, wanting to believe you have gotten a lot for very little. I like a bargain as much as the next person, but eating 3,000 calories in one sitting in order to feel like you have put something over on The Man is just not good for you.
In general, I am opposed to all buffets, for reasons of health and aesthetics. Buffets are to people with weight problems what bathhouses were to gay men in the 70s…way too much fun, and the fast track to destruction. And as there is no condom for fried catfish night down at the Hometown Trough, these places have got to go. Here is why you should avoid buffets at all costs:
1) The general public is rude and unhygienic, and you can’t trust them not to do disgusting things to food left out in the open. I can’t deny that I have, on occasion, eaten at a buffet. In my own defense, it is almost always an Indian buffet, and if those spices can kill dysentery, they can kill whatever is on the hands of Joe Q. Public. However, a lukewarm bowl of creamed corn isn’t killing much of anything except your arteries. Mark my words, if the bird flu really does become a pandemic, it is going to be spread by a bunch of chicken farmers out for dinner on the town whose mamas never made them wash their hands before they eat.
2) Buffet food by nature is presented in a manner that reminds one of pigs rooting for dinner. My personal rule is if it needs to be protected by something called a sneeze guard, then I probably do not want to put it in my mouth. No doubt my mother is wishing she had put my first boyfriend under a sneeze guard.
3) Restaurants are a business, and thus need to make a profit. If you eat three meals worth of food in one sitting for $4.95, you must then assume that the meal cost less than $4.95 for the restaurant to produce. How much does it cost you to prepare fried chicken, five different vegetables covered in butter, bacon and Velveeta, roast beast, and the festive dessert of your choice, and to do that at a rate of three times what you might normally eat? My guess is slightly more than $4.95 per person. Do you really want to know what must be going into your food to get it down to that price point? I’d venture a guess that somewhere out there, there is a large number of pigs that donated their scrotums for your meal.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Tiaras and Toolbelts
I FINALLY finished the bathroom project from Hell, dammit, and that calls for putting on the Empress crown and declaring myself the Queen of Home Improvement! Admittedly, once we actually start using the new shower, it could go to hell in a handbasket, but I did manage to finish without the help of contractors or plumbers. This is what I did today instead of going to the whole Pride hoo-ha down on the waterfront. And can I just say, this made me a LOT more proud! I'm handy, butch, and fabulous all at once, even if I do still look kinda jacked up in this picture!
Shoe Queen
I love shoes. I love shoes like Nick Nolte loves a cocktail. One type of shoe I don't have is a pair of athletic shoes since I don't workout anymore. Gym shoes are generally ugly, and I firmly believe they should never be worn by anyone over the age of 21 unless they are actually in a gym. You're an adult, so wear some grownup shoes!
As I am prone to do, though, I changed my belief after seeing Converse's fantastic new website. You can design your own Chuck Taylors! You remember Chuck Taylors...everyone in the 80s wore them. I had them in several colors, and usually wore them mismatched (much like I set out my Fiestaware now). Now Converse lets you design your own. How hot are these?!
The pink stitching and skull print tongue I think are nice touches, but this is the best part of my shoes:
Don't hate me because my shoes are so much sassier than yours.
As I am prone to do, though, I changed my belief after seeing Converse's fantastic new website. You can design your own Chuck Taylors! You remember Chuck Taylors...everyone in the 80s wore them. I had them in several colors, and usually wore them mismatched (much like I set out my Fiestaware now). Now Converse lets you design your own. How hot are these?!
The pink stitching and skull print tongue I think are nice touches, but this is the best part of my shoes:
Don't hate me because my shoes are so much sassier than yours.
Time to get militant
In honor of pride day here in The Ville, I propose a new slogan for the movement...
"Happy gay pride! Be nice to us, or we'll fuck up your hair!"
We'll also spit in your food before delivering it to your table, and design all pants to make your hips look big. It's about time we start taking a stand, and I still vote we begin by taking David Sedaris's suggestion by replacing that tacky rainbow flag with a skull and crossbones.
"Happy gay pride! Be nice to us, or we'll fuck up your hair!"
We'll also spit in your food before delivering it to your table, and design all pants to make your hips look big. It's about time we start taking a stand, and I still vote we begin by taking David Sedaris's suggestion by replacing that tacky rainbow flag with a skull and crossbones.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Novelty Act
Even though I'm supposed to be busting sugar to lose the rest of this weight I gained when I quit smoking, I have a weakness for ice cream novelties. It either has something to do with the fact that I have good memories of my papaw putting us in the back of his pickup truck and taking us for ice cream ('cause we're country, just like Britney!), or maybe the fact that I still want a cigarette and I have to put something in my mouth (shut up Craig, just shut up). Whatever the reason, a Creamsicle makes me just as happy as a bullet full of blow might have years ago. Since I usually pay at the pump and try to steer around the novelty aisle at the grocery, I can stay away from the novelties most of the time. However, they have recently started stocking a novelty in the frozen food vending machine at my office that is quite possibly the best novelty ever, plus it affords me the opportunity to use the word "novelty" more often, and that makes me even happier.
This is the Blue Bunny Double Strawberry Ice Cream Sandwich, strawberry swirl ice creamy goodness stuffed generously between two light and fluffy vanilla wafers. In my previous hedonistic existence, this novelty is the equivalent of being in the middle of a porn star gang bang while lounging on a gigantic pile of $100 bills. It's good stuff, y'all. This is why I wore my big pants to work today.
This is the Blue Bunny Double Strawberry Ice Cream Sandwich, strawberry swirl ice creamy goodness stuffed generously between two light and fluffy vanilla wafers. In my previous hedonistic existence, this novelty is the equivalent of being in the middle of a porn star gang bang while lounging on a gigantic pile of $100 bills. It's good stuff, y'all. This is why I wore my big pants to work today.
Laundry day
Sorry I couldn't post yesterday, but Thursday is the day I wash my weave. You know a girl can't go into the weekend with a jacked-up weave.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
They hiss?
Today's guest blogger works in the insurance industry. Please give a warm welcome to my husband, Craiggers.
"I just had a call from a doctor's office, wanting to know what we covered for a 'vaginal hiss.' That was how they abbreviated "hysterectomy," but it wasn't until after my brain imploded that I realized that...I'm still stuck with images of a woman walking around with people asking her, 'What's that hissing noise?'"
Thank you for your insight, Craiggers. However, I think this might be the wrong audience for rowdy poontang.
"I just had a call from a doctor's office, wanting to know what we covered for a 'vaginal hiss.' That was how they abbreviated "hysterectomy," but it wasn't until after my brain imploded that I realized that...I'm still stuck with images of a woman walking around with people asking her, 'What's that hissing noise?'"
Thank you for your insight, Craiggers. However, I think this might be the wrong audience for rowdy poontang.
Whitney Update
As many of you are aware by now, my daughter Whitney Houston has been away in rehab for some time now. I can't tell you how hard it was to get her there. I finally had to crush up half a bottle of Ambien and cut it into rails on the kitchen counter. When the batteries on her vibrator finally ran out and she came down to rummage around for some replacements, she couldn't resist.
Anyhow, I had the good sense to put a stop to her going to one of these spas masquerading as rehab...I learned that lesson after coming home from work and finding Robert Downey Jr. trying to make chicken and stars soup in my bathtub. Those places just don't work. Instead, I chose to send Whitney to spend a few weeks with Liza Minelli's ex-husband, David Gest. I figured if his creepy ass can scare Liza sober after all these years, surely Whitney can sober up too. Sure enough, after just a couple of weeks she phoned me up to say, "If Liza was done messed up enough to think this was straight and that she wanted to hit it, then I'm never smoking another rock again! Hell to the naw!"
Whitney has been doing so well that I took her out shopping to buy a lovely new hat from the nice little Korean ladies down on 4th Street. As you can see, she looked so nice when we went to church last Sunday.
Doesn't she look excited while I'm up giving my testimony?
Of course, Whitney being Whitney, things couldn't help but take a turn for the worse. She started picking at Ms. Vonetta Jenkin's wig, looking for the tag. When Vonetta turned around and asked her to stop it, Whitney accused her of stealing her wig and sleeping with Bobby. Then she tried to snatch up Vonetta's granddaughter, screaming that she and Bobbi Kristina were taking that wig and going home. She chased Ms. Vonetta all the way up into the choir!
I swear I am never going to be able to show my face up in that church again!
Anyhow, I had the good sense to put a stop to her going to one of these spas masquerading as rehab...I learned that lesson after coming home from work and finding Robert Downey Jr. trying to make chicken and stars soup in my bathtub. Those places just don't work. Instead, I chose to send Whitney to spend a few weeks with Liza Minelli's ex-husband, David Gest. I figured if his creepy ass can scare Liza sober after all these years, surely Whitney can sober up too. Sure enough, after just a couple of weeks she phoned me up to say, "If Liza was done messed up enough to think this was straight and that she wanted to hit it, then I'm never smoking another rock again! Hell to the naw!"
Whitney has been doing so well that I took her out shopping to buy a lovely new hat from the nice little Korean ladies down on 4th Street. As you can see, she looked so nice when we went to church last Sunday.
Doesn't she look excited while I'm up giving my testimony?
Of course, Whitney being Whitney, things couldn't help but take a turn for the worse. She started picking at Ms. Vonetta Jenkin's wig, looking for the tag. When Vonetta turned around and asked her to stop it, Whitney accused her of stealing her wig and sleeping with Bobby. Then she tried to snatch up Vonetta's granddaughter, screaming that she and Bobbi Kristina were taking that wig and going home. She chased Ms. Vonetta all the way up into the choir!
I swear I am never going to be able to show my face up in that church again!
Sometimes I feel like a nut
But when I see this chick, sometimes I don't.
Just look at how shocked he is by this brazen hussy! It is trauma like this that drove him to that Julio.
Yeah, so I totally want one of those shirts. Quelle surprise.
Just look at how shocked he is by this brazen hussy! It is trauma like this that drove him to that Julio.
Yeah, so I totally want one of those shirts. Quelle surprise.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Pick Me
Some days, office life and the political scene are so frustrating that I fall back into Empress mode. I remember the days when nutty people called me Your Majesty and gave me free drinks while I bossed them around. The resulting delusions of grandeur often cause me to start declaring that things will be different when I’m in charge. There may be a wee bit less freedom in some aspects of life, but I am sure you will agree that we will all be better off when we come to our senses, institute a national monarchy, and make me the supreme ruler. What’s in it for you? For your approval, I present my Christopher for Empress Platform for a Better America:
In 2008, when the Republicans have scared you and the Democrats have disappointed, why not choose me? I realize the election is for president, not monarch, but everyone has to start somewhere, plus I can supply my own crown. And given the state of things today, becoming president is starting pretty low down the food chain.
This article appeared in an altered form sometime last year in Nougat Magazine.
- Birthdays will be a paid holiday. If said birthday results in an age that ends in zero, take a full week paid along with a complementary bottle of the alcoholic beverage of your choice.
- Celine Dion is to be immediately and permanently deported. While the death penalty is outlawed under my regime, an exception will be made if she attempts any entry into the United States. All border patrols around Mexico will be diverted to Canada.
- There will be mandatory reeducation on the difference between “you’re” and “your” in a sentence. This will be followed by a campaign to eradicate the abuse of “their,” “they’re,” and “there”. Penalties for non-compliance shall be severe.
- A quality public health care program will be far easier to get under a monarchy than it is in a democracy. Not only will everyone have access to medical care, but each citizen will be entitled to at least one cosmetic medical procedure per year. Mobile botox clinics will be plentiful. This will be paid for by taxes on drugs and prostitution, which shall be legal and regulated, as well as taxes on previously tax-exempt churches wishing to do political work.
- Corporations shall still be allowed to escape taxes by having a post office box in foreign countries. However, said countries will be limited to those with an average annual temperature of 10 degrees, and shall require residency by the corporation’s CEO for no less than nine months each year.
- It goes without saying that stretch pants, mullets, belly shirts at inappropriate venues, and insignia referencing dead racecar drivers are hereby illegal.
- A selfish pig tax of $50,000 per vehicle will be placed on all SUVs with mileage under 30 miles per gallon. Said vehicles will have a sticker no less than the size of an oil barrel depicting Arnold Schwarzenegger’s sphincter placed on each side of the vehicle. Additionally, all citizens driving vehicles that don’t hasten the end of the world will be rewarded $20 each time they refuse to let one of these stickered vehicles cut in front of them in bad traffic.
- Gay people will henceforth be allowed civil marriage. However, a battery of psychological and intelligence tests will be required any couple wishing to procreate or participate on a television talk show, regardless of gender.
- Abortion will not only be safe and legal, but also rare because anyone using the term “abstinence-only education” will be immediate sentenced to hand out condoms, the Today sponge, and antibiotics backstage on the next Kid Rock tour.
- While the position of monarch is a lifetime appointment, a legislative body will still be elected. Candidates for this legislative body are required to be able to pronounce common words such as “nuclear” properly, and will be tested to see if they can point countries out on a map before suggesting said country be bombed.
In 2008, when the Republicans have scared you and the Democrats have disappointed, why not choose me? I realize the election is for president, not monarch, but everyone has to start somewhere, plus I can supply my own crown. And given the state of things today, becoming president is starting pretty low down the food chain.
This article appeared in an altered form sometime last year in Nougat Magazine.
Clearly I'm stumped for topics today
| Your Stripper Song Is |
 Closer by Nine Inch Nails "You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you Help me I broke apart my insides, help me I've got no soul to sell" When you dance, it's a little scary - and a lot sexy. |
On my birthday, there was moderate drinking
| You're An Alcoholic |
 Time to go back to step one. |
Really, that's not true. Alcoholics go to meetings.
At least I'm not lazy
| Your Deadly Sins |
| Pride: 100% |
| Wrath: 100% |
| Greed: 80% |
| Lust: 80% |
| Envy: 60% |
| Gluttony: 20% |
| Sloth: 0% |
| Chance You'll Go to Hell: 63% |
| You will become famous - and subsequently killed by a stalker. |
It seems that Jonboysf was right about me after all. Oh well, at least my vengeance will be swift, certain, and more than a little brutal.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Who told Michael J. Fox we share a birthday?
You shouldn’t have done that. He’s practically shaking with excitement.
I’ve spent the first half hour of my birthday having another vanilla vodka and Diet Coke while forcing Craiggers to watch his birthday gift to me, the special features of the 25th anniversary “Hollywood Royalty” edition of the greatest movie ever made (“Mommie Dearest”) as we cuddle. Tomorrow, I’m going to finish the bathroom project, eat the pineapple upside-down cake Chuck is making for me, trade Fiestaware with him, and have dinner at my favorite restaurant with some fabulous friends. All in all, not a bad way to turn 33.
So, 33 is the year I have what should be my final surgery that may result in a normal face for the first time in my life. A month after the surgery, I lose my sense of security when I quit my job to go to law school. I think it goes without saying that 33 scares the bejeezus out of me.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Neener Neener Neener!
Gee Mary, didn't your mom's softcore lesbo porn sell more copies than that? Maybe next time you'll care a little more about the rest of us so we'll actually buy your book since the conservatives won't. After all, it isn't like the Bush family reads very often.
Oh Happy Day!
June 8 is always my favorite day of the year because it is the only day when, numerically speaking, Craiggers is six years older than me instead of five. Yes, today is the birthday of the love of my life, and if this birthday is anything like the last one, right about now he is at home getting smashed because he is freaking out about approaching 40.
He shouldn't worry about it since despite being five years older than me, everyone always thinks I'm the older one. He's made this far worse since he cut off his long hair and shaved the goatee this week. He seriously looks like he's maybe 21, and I'm convinced he did it just to get me back for always pointing out how much older he is than me. We're vindictive like that, in a loving way. We're also completely nauseating with our birthdays only a day apart, and our anniversary being on Valentine's Day. Really, we're just like Brad and Angelina, only without the money, careers, supernatural beauty, and children pulled from a Bennetton ad.
Hubby was raised a devout Jehovah's Witness, which means he never got acknowledgement of his birthday as a child, and still doesn't from his biological family. Little wonder, then, that he enjoys being fawned over on this day each year. Also little wonder that he still has a compulsion to knock on the doors of complete strangers, but that's another story. Anyway, please post some birthday wishes to the world's most patient man, the man without whom I'd be even more bitter, the K-Fed to my Britney for five years and counting, Mr. Craiggers. I love you!
He shouldn't worry about it since despite being five years older than me, everyone always thinks I'm the older one. He's made this far worse since he cut off his long hair and shaved the goatee this week. He seriously looks like he's maybe 21, and I'm convinced he did it just to get me back for always pointing out how much older he is than me. We're vindictive like that, in a loving way. We're also completely nauseating with our birthdays only a day apart, and our anniversary being on Valentine's Day. Really, we're just like Brad and Angelina, only without the money, careers, supernatural beauty, and children pulled from a Bennetton ad.
Hubby was raised a devout Jehovah's Witness, which means he never got acknowledgement of his birthday as a child, and still doesn't from his biological family. Little wonder, then, that he enjoys being fawned over on this day each year. Also little wonder that he still has a compulsion to knock on the doors of complete strangers, but that's another story. Anyway, please post some birthday wishes to the world's most patient man, the man without whom I'd be even more bitter, the K-Fed to my Britney for five years and counting, Mr. Craiggers. I love you!
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Today in "Wigga, please!"
From The Scoop on MSNBC.com: Spears reportedly is redecorating her house, ditching Federline’s beloved black leather furniture in favor of a “1950s boudoir” look she favors. “She’s using pink, cream and apricot silk, lace and feathers,” reports the insider. “[Kevin] claims that he can’t think in the house any more and it’s affecting his music. [He] is complaining that the place is ‘some high-school chick's bedroom.’”
Does this look like a man who thinks often enough that environment makes much of a difference?
Wigga, please!
Please enjoy this video of Ashton Kutcher doing a brilliant portrayal of the future ex Mr. Spears, lounging around before his wife kicks him out and he has to actually work for a living.
Does this look like a man who thinks often enough that environment makes much of a difference?
Wigga, please!
Please enjoy this video of Ashton Kutcher doing a brilliant portrayal of the future ex Mr. Spears, lounging around before his wife kicks him out and he has to actually work for a living.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
It's all my fault
A tragedy took place a couple of weeks ago, and I feel it is my duty to step up and admit my responsibility for it.
Oscar-winner Hilary Swank and her TV movie-of-the-week actor husband Chad Lowe are on their way to divorce court. How is this my fault, you ask? Sayeth Sen. Sam Brownback, R-Kan. during this week'sdistraction from the state of the nation gay marriage debate in the Senate, "It is a moral and societal imperative that we foster and encourage the institution of marriage."
If only we had fostered the institution of marriage earlier by making sure I can't be involved in it, surely Hilary and Chad would still be together. Thankfully, the Senate is taking care of this error, and I have some surprising news for the Bush administration from the fine fags at Trading Faces: you go right ahead and pass that Constitutional amendment.
That's right, I want them to pass it. Pass it and prove my faggoty ass wrong. Show me how excluding me from marriage will help society. But know this....if after five years the divorce rate (which by the way is statistically FAR higher for Southern evangelical Christians than it is for Yankee agnostics) is not cut in half, I want my money back. Right now I'm paying for 1,300+ benefits that straight married couples get by virtue of their sanctified institution, and if that monkey in the White House and his crew of bigots can't prove that the reason they want to exclude me is for reasons of protecting society rather than because they just don't like boys to kiss, then I want back every dime of taxes I paid for those benefits for others. I don't care if they have to cut school lunch programs and hip-replacement funds for the elderly, because I want my damn money. And what's more, I'm going to spend all of it on lube, hair products, and designer shoes. And I'm going to do it in Canada, just to be sure that none of my money gets back into the economy!
Seems like a fair deal to me, plus it might just bring Hilary and Chad back together. Healing families...it is what we're all about here at Trading Faces.
Oscar-winner Hilary Swank and her TV movie-of-the-week actor husband Chad Lowe are on their way to divorce court. How is this my fault, you ask? Sayeth Sen. Sam Brownback, R-Kan. during this week's
If only we had fostered the institution of marriage earlier by making sure I can't be involved in it, surely Hilary and Chad would still be together. Thankfully, the Senate is taking care of this error, and I have some surprising news for the Bush administration from the fine fags at Trading Faces: you go right ahead and pass that Constitutional amendment.
That's right, I want them to pass it. Pass it and prove my faggoty ass wrong. Show me how excluding me from marriage will help society. But know this....if after five years the divorce rate (which by the way is statistically FAR higher for Southern evangelical Christians than it is for Yankee agnostics) is not cut in half, I want my money back. Right now I'm paying for 1,300+ benefits that straight married couples get by virtue of their sanctified institution, and if that monkey in the White House and his crew of bigots can't prove that the reason they want to exclude me is for reasons of protecting society rather than because they just don't like boys to kiss, then I want back every dime of taxes I paid for those benefits for others. I don't care if they have to cut school lunch programs and hip-replacement funds for the elderly, because I want my damn money. And what's more, I'm going to spend all of it on lube, hair products, and designer shoes. And I'm going to do it in Canada, just to be sure that none of my money gets back into the economy!
Seems like a fair deal to me, plus it might just bring Hilary and Chad back together. Healing families...it is what we're all about here at Trading Faces.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Worst. Song. Ever.
Parasite Hilton premiered her new song "Stars Are Blind" on a morning radio show hosted by Ryan Semencrust (wow, they have that in common!). Egads, this is bad! I mean, I own two Spice Girls CDs from back in the day, and even I think this is just garbage. This makes Ashlee Simpson sound like Janis Joplin.
Stars Are Blind (and deaf!) on TMZ.com
Stars Are Blind (and deaf!) on TMZ.com
Thursday, June 01, 2006
And people wonder why I drink
Today a random blog claims the above photo is of Anderson Cooper and his 25-year-old boyfriend Julio. I'm so massively depressed, although I must say Craiggers is looking remarkably smug at this news.
I happened to be watching Anderson on Larry King Live while reading this hot mess of a blog, and he just used the phrase "You could have stabbed me with a stilletto" when discussing how he felt when he learned of his brother's suicide. Yup, he definitely plays for my team. His discussion of his brother is moving me so much that I think I'll forgive him for his indiscretion, provided he demonstrates that he is sufficiently sorry.
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