BLOG

  • "Son of a Witch" OR "The Enchanted Mr. King" part 2 (that's the part after part 1)

    Believe it or not, there was a time in which my family attended church services. Please don’t blow this out of proportion. I was but a wee one and our attendance just an effort to keep up with appearances. When we lived in Duchess County, New York, my mother worked as a secretary in a quaint little Episcopal church. I know that religious affiliation shouldn’t be taken into account during the hiring process but I think that if a person is working for the church, they should at least pretend to be affected by a man supposedly dying for our sins. Just a thought.

    I do have a few vivid memories of that very old, stone church. I remember the red door and pebbled parking lot and massive basement that housed the day care. Other than those details, I remember nothing. Our brains aren’t really attuned to retaining information in the early phases of life. As for most people, I just believe the stories that my parents tell. Like when they say that I once locked myself inside a cat carrier at Kmart. After tearing the store apart and recruiting every employee on the floor to search for their precious Jeremy, I was sitting happily in a crate, pretending to be a cat. I have no recollection of such an event but they insist it happened. It certainly sounds like something I would have done. Another important memory comes not from by brain but from their mouths: More evidence for the argument that I am, in fact, touched by the supernatural.

    The quaint mountain town on Bangall, New York is not exactly a haven for celebrities. Many Manhattanites may unknowingly drive through on their way to go antiquing or apple picking in the surrounding villages, but it’s by no means a destination. But there was a very old, very important woman from Hollywood’s golden age who made it her home.

    Not all faded film stars retreat into giant mansions and turn into caricatures of themselves. Some have such an effect on the world, they need not flaunt their success. Retirement in a simple home built during the Civil War is enough. They can sit back with a cup of tea and watch their influence on nearly every child in the nation, maybe even the world. Margaret Hamilton was just that kind of lady.

    For you morons that don’t know who Mrs. Hamilton is, go shoot yourselves. After you’ve done that, go watch The Wizard of Oz, you fucking philistines. She’s the witch. Yes, the Wicked Witch of the West. You know, the one that basically became the archetype for not just witches but general villainy in the twentieth century. Through her evil cackle, twisted fingers and hunched meandering through Oz, Margaret Hamilton became the stuff of nightmares for generations of children.

    What child wasn’t completely enthralled with The Wizard of Oz? I’m not just talking about the gay ones, either. Yes, we were especially prone to its glory but I know many a straighty that yearned to skip down a yellow lane. This guy wore out four copies of the VHS but my hetero counterpart may have only gone through one. That movie played at least once a day for the first five years of my life. When I wasn’t standing in front of our television, mimicking every one of Judy’s lines, I was reenacting the story on the couch with Mom’s broom and red pumps. Our dog was too large to play Toto so our cat was recruited for the roll. The fun we had…

    Most children end up taking after Dorothy but I was showing signs of the Witch’s treachery long before my father adopted the broom. Every night before bed, my poor mother needed to perfectly recite the events that went down over the rainbow. If she messed up, I’d make her start all over again. The process could take hours. Twenty years later, mom can’t bring herself to watch the movie or see a stage production of that classic tale. She’d simply had too much during my youth.

    Christmas Eve, 1984. My parents attend service at the little church with their little bundle of joy. Born five months prior, I have absolutely no remembrance of the events that were to take place. Like Princess Aurora, I was given magical gifts as a child. That sleeping beauty may have been gifted a great voice, exquisite beauty and the curse of sleeping death but I was given something much greater. Her Witchiness, Margaret Hamilton, held me.

    Maggie didn’t go to church often but it was a holiday and every good Christian goes to services on holidays. She was also quite ill so getting out probably wasn’t a top priority. She’d die in 1985. But before she took her place in the sky next to Dorothy, she saw a happy couple with their new baby boy. She asked to hold me and my parents obliged. She was the fucking Wicked Witch…of course they would let her hold me!

    I can’t help but think of that night as a sign from the mother goddess. She not only set the stage for an entire life of warlockery, she somehow invested me with a freakish obsession over her crowning achievement. She may have only played a witch on TV but she had powers. Some families assign Godparents to their children. Fantastical families like mine have Witchparents. Obviously, the great green lady is one of mine.

    Further down the yellow brick road, I would fancy the works of a certain author, Gregory Maguire. He would write a novel, Wicked, which chronicles the life of the Wicked Witch, Elphaba, before her debacle with Dorothy. That book would be made into a musical, in which a best friend of mine would become employed at. The success of said musical prompted Mr. Maguire to write more adventures in Oz. And what is the title of Maguire’s follow up to Wicked? Son of a Witch. The book chronicles the adventures of the Elphaba’s gay son! To top it off, my friend would get Gregory to be the first professional in the field to read my first (very unpublished, very unrepresented) novel, mentoring me in the beginning phases of the publication process. If Maggie H. is my Witchmother, Greg M. is my Witchfather. Don’t believe me? I’ll enslave you like the Winkie trash you really are.

    A striking resemblance, I know.


  • "Son of a Witch" OR "The Enchanted Mr. King" part 1


    When interviewing people who shop at Wal-mart (as one often does), they will tell say that Jesus is the reason for the season. Now these folks may have smarts in subjects like discount shopping and satellite TV but their education is horribly lacking elsewhere. I'm not going to begin spouting atheist propaganda, for that can be found under "Dawkins, R" at the local library. I'm just here to shed light on the real reason for the season: my father. No, my sister isn't Audrey Tautou and there's no royal bloodline, despite what my last name might suggest. You see, Dad recently came out to me...as a witch.

    Witch is to Wiccan as faggot is to homosexual. Slang. A perversion. Wiccans, contrary to popular belief, do not turn children into mice or attend seven-year academies in the English highlands. The religion is really much simpler than all that. It's all about getting back to basics- worshiping the obvious, like the sun, various moons and trees. And like any religion, there's ritual...but nothing crazier than drinking blood and eating skin, like ninety percent of our country has a tendency to do on Sunday mornings.

    Pagans and/or Wiccans celebrated the moon in late December to early January. Then the whole Jesus thing may or may not have happened and the Christians were like, "Hey, thou shalt not worship that stick. Or that goat."

    Then the pagans were like, "But you worship two sticks crossed together...and a lamb. Fuck you."

    Then the Christians were like, "We're going to burn you at the stake."

    And they did.

    But old habits are hard to shake. I still have a cigarette with my gin and tonic and the Germanic peoples liked to burn sage on the full moon. And Christians, being such a peaceful bunch, figured it’d be easier to just turn every pagan holiday into one about them, setting everyone on the righteous path by default.

    Except Dad. He's always been sort of old fashioned, I suppose. He holds onto three thousand year old beliefs like I hold onto my Commerce Bank debit card, even though the sign has clearly changed to display “TD.” It's a bragging right. I caught on first. I couldn’t help but wonder, though: Was my father’s new obsession genuine or just a fad?

    He has a thing for hobbies. A new one creeps its way into our lives every few years. Some might argue that this is a condition of the American male. Men have all of these standards to meet, forcing them to constantly reengage their minds on new ways to escape the mundane realities of everyday life. For generations, Dads have been known to build model trains, go hunting or gain mistresses and second families.

    Gawd, living is just so hard!

    My Daddy Dearest just has a curious mind. I’ve seen him be curious about everything from Cajun music, to boating, to police regalia, to videography, to sound recording, to playing in a band, to collecting guns. Every time a new instruction manual arrives in the mail, my mother, sister and I must take a moment to consider how our lives will be affected. “What room will he take over next and how much money will it cost us?” my mom mutters. She, more than any of us, has the hardest time with these phases. She has to live with the man. “How long will this last?”

    I have to break it to her. “I think this one might stick,” I say. She inhales deeply and takes a long sip of her Chardonnay.

    It took some conjuring, but I was able to look back many years- back to the days before developing a thick armor of snark and irony, back to my starry-eyed youth. I remember sitting in his library and secretly rummaging through piles of books on the occult, encyclopedias of faeries and volumes of the great Victorian horror writers. Oh, what an enticing find for the budding homosexual! Most dads had books on cars, mine had an entire escapists’ library, complete with pretty ladies in sparkly dresses and knights in shining armor! I attributed this collection not to a genuine interest in pagan studies, but to a side effect of living in America during the seventies and early eighties. Everyone loved high fantasy then, right? RIGHT?

    The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my family was dealing with a genuine passion. If there’s one thing my father has been consistent about, it’s been his insatiable interest in science fiction and fantasy. Frankly, I’m surprised the SyFy logo isn’t permanently burned into the bottom of all of our TV screens. Shrieking ingénues, enchanted swords and legends of monsters in the woods surrounded my childhood. Every time one of the great genre films came on, he would relentlessly try to make me sit down and watch it with him. Was that a possible tactic to bond with his son? No. I’m thinking it was indoctrination. Looking back, I can blame my over-active imagination, skewed sense of reality, tendency to daydream and desperate need for whimsy and romance on that man. Before committing himself to the crushed velvet robe, he was just a boy with his head in the clouds. Am I not myself just a boy with his head in the clouds? Does warlockery run in the family?

    Yes. At a young age, I knew that. The proof is scrawled all over a second grade writing assignment:

    Joyful

    Enchanted

    Ruby is my birthstone

    Energetic sometimes

    Magnificent drawer

    Young at heart

    I had such a strong sense of self as such an early age. I forecasted exactly how I’d end up as an adult man. This is a staggering piece of evidence, especially the first E that stands for “Enchanted.” It’s like when creepy kids in the movies start drawing pictures of aliens fifteen years before an invasion. Maybe my mother had hidden sketchpads full of drawings of my powers bringing forth the End of Days. If my father was finally able to harness his magic abilities, maybe I could, too! The more I investigated my personal history, the more I became convinced that I just might be enchanted…or just a magnet for the bizarre.

    More startling evidence, soon to come.
  • "Meet me at the Time Warner Center" OR "My giant, glass mascot"


    The Time Warner Center in New York City was completed during my freshman year of college. There may be varying opinions about the colossal structure, but to me, it was the symbol of a new New York City and of a new New Jersey native, who came to Manhattan to cut the chords of the past and reinvent himself.
    Growing up, I was as an awkward kid. My cranium was large, my frame slight and my limbs long. The prettiness of my features did nothing to distract from the prettiness of my personality, which was decidedly faggy. Of course, the whole gay thing was beyond me. I hadn’t developed that vocabulary yet. All I knew was that I liked Disney princess movies and Whitney Houston. There was nothing sexual about my homosexuality at that point. My sense of self as a sexual being developed later- years after my friend Marlene got her first period and well beyond Becky’s fake virginity misplacement (up the butt didn’t count, apparently). While everyone around me was experimenting with drugs, sex and ska music, I was three years behind- finally developing an idea as to what turned me on: boys.
    To me, it was obvious that my same-sex crushes were slight flaws in my hormonally-imbalanced pubescent self. Soon, I thought, those butterflies for boys would fly towards girls. Until that day, I would live like a monk and focus all of my attention on something beyond me. The thing was, I didn’t have a particular affinity for god so the next logical step was musical theatre. Perfect, right? Dolly Levi, Heather Headley and the prospects of Charlie Brown flying that damn kite took up every ounce of energy. With all of the lines I had to memorize and cast recordings to listen to, I had no time to think about myself. But even that the star of the school musical needs to go to prom. Slowly it occurred to me that the Rent poster in my locker was gayer than the gay impulses I’d been suppressing. I had to face the (dance/club/Celine Dion) music and come clean.
    The first men in my life had gone through similar steps. My experiences seemed to be a natural progression for all of the guys who liked guys in my area. With our mutual affections for musicals, we bonded. I chalked up our being together as the result of timing and lack of options. Never did I think that I might be a catch. Since the true desires of my penis had just been discovered, it’s needless to say that my sense of self was a bit askew.
    Then there was my freshman year of college. Any success in the dating field was due to the high concentration of homosexuals per square inch, as I attended a school primarily made up of arts majors. Greater strides could have been made with a fake ID and greater income, but I was left with the slim pickins of my equally inept classmates.
    But sophomore year presented itself as a rainbow majestically arched over my pathway. My body finally decided to settle on a less cartoonish shape- my face squared, my posture caught up to my height and my eyes lit up. Everyone looked fantastic after returning from summer vacation, especially my roommates and I because we had moved out of the dorms and into our very own NYC apartment. We really were, too cool. That was also the year that I decided that I LOVE being gay. The closet was open, I was proud. Sometimes I even wore eyeliner to show it.
    A little reality show about a group of fabulous gay men making over the lives of tragic heteros was all the rage, furthering my desires to be a professional homosexual. It taught not only the straighties how to live but also the newbies, like myself. So when they made an appearance at the Tim Warner Center’s Borders to promote their new coffee table book/guide to life, you can bet that I ditched two classes to bask in their glory.
    The weather was especially gorgeous and I was especially excited, seeing no need to bring a companion. I would march into that bookstore alone and confident. I was terrified.
    With a newly-purchased book in hand, I waited on line to meet the queer eyes. Each man was sat next to another at a long table that seemed to stretch the length of the store. The rabble stopped at each station for a signature and a smile. To my surprise, smiles turned into winks and winks morphed into speech. “Beautiful eyes,” said the eye specializing in hair and skin. “Doesn’t he have beautiful eyes?” he asked another. The gaggle conferred and bombarded me with questions about my relationship status and what hair product was used to produce my bologna curls. My face burned with embarrassment as I held up the line. Dirty looks from other eager book-holders and employees trying to leave their shifts put an end to their fun and I left the bookstore with my head and heart in the clouds.
    Now these men are well known for having fun. I was alone, vulnerable and apparently cute so I was an easy target for witty banter and exercises in flirtation that were not meant to lead to anything. I knew that. What was so amazing about that afternoon was how they made me feel. Never had I seen myself as an object of others’ affections. I was Jeremy, that kid who likes musicals, drawing and boys. Could it be possible that other boys- strangers- could like me, too? My nineteen-year-old self was not about to start dating a fashion consultant or a reality TV star or anyone for that matter, but the prospect that someday I could arose. More than just the petri dish of homosexuality that I existed within could want me. It felt great. Welcome, Jeremy, to New York. Welcome, Jeremy, to adulthood.
    Flash forward six years. I’ve asked a very cute guy out. Now, I was well aware that he’d be moving across the country in a few months for work, but I’d been infatuated with him for a while and figured that we could have a simple romance before his departure. No strings, no pressure, no problem. Dating that way was kind of amazing. Gone were the rules that we usually project on new relationships: I didn’t wait three days to call him in between dates, I didn’t label us because the label would prove useless in a few weeks time and I didn’t get jealous when he went out with friends instead of me. We simply saw each other when we liked…and we liked seeing each other a lot.
    We often discussed how fun it was to date like that, like our consciousness of the situation would prevent it from crumbling. We lived life like we were involved in a summer fling in a small vacation town; we had ideal evenings filled with great food and drinks and fantastic sex. We predicted that when he departed, we’d be left with almost perfect memories of each other’s company, unmuddled with emotions. We could look back at those snapshots with affection but move on with our very separate lives on opposite coasts.
    Of course, this theory proved flawed as whatever biological, chemical or spiritual happenings that are supposed to occur during that phase of budding love took place. By surprise, I found myself wanting more than snapshots, possibly reels of his moving body and tracks of his speech. Worse yet, I wanted to continue living in those memories and create new ones- ones with his friends and my friends, bad moods and spats, airport hugs and stolen kisses at parties.
    I believe these feelings were mutual on his last night in town. I attended a fancy party at that glass behemoth, the Time Warner Center, as his date. Again, we’d have a perfect night with good food, bottomless drinks and many of his friends and colleagues. Despite that night being part farewell soirée, he made a point of being with me. We nestled ourselves in a small corner against a giant picture window that looked over Columbus Circle. Caterers brought snacks and people milled in and of our periphery. When we weren’t engaged in conversation with someone, he’d sneak in a plant a kiss on my cheekbone. My eyes would meet his and he’d give me a small smile then return to the business of mingling.
    Since I hardly knew anyone there, I often found myself just watching him. The room was darkened, mostly illuminated by the glass wall that allowed the pale blues and clean white lights of the city to wash over us. Unaware, he bathed in this sublime light. Did he know how perfect he was at that moment? Did he know how perfect he made me feel in between his sentences, when he’d send a wink my way? In those moments of glances and pecks and holding my index finger during conversation, I felt something switch.
    Again, that building had marked me. As it bid that potential boyfriend adieu it welcomed me to a new place in my life. The uncountable dates, liberating nights on the town and random sex that helped me find comfort in my own skin had served their purpose. Now, life would be about finding people that helped me stand firm. It would be about bringing a consciousness of what this body needs to feel satisfied. It would be about finding those splendid moments of bliss and having at least one person to share them with, may they be family, friends or lovers. That glass-encased night was the first night full of such moments, moments that I hope to create and recall over and over again…
  • "R.I.P" OR "Wasn't I a dish?"


    This week marked the 98th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. Anyone who knows me (and my friends, for that matter) knows that that “ship of dreams” holds a special place in my heart, as well as in my development as a young quierdo (queer weirdo).

    I mean who isn’t obsessed with the historical situation? A bunch of assholes claim they’ve built an unsinkable ship and assholishly decide to under-stock the deck with lifeboats. I view it as the universe saying, “Fuck you!” Kind of like when that Grecian queen says her daughter is better looking than Aphrodite. Bitch. Got. Served. Well, a whole bunch of early twentieth century folk got served on April 15, 1912 when that behemoth split in two (yeah, split in two!) and sank into the frigid waters of the north Atlantic.

    Now, this is not without sadness. The majority of people on that boat weren’t pelt-wearing, red-headed, corset-tying cunts (“Do you want me to be a seamstress?”) but simple folk who just wanted a shot a new life on the other side of the globe. I could be a total douche and say that their aspirations were too lofty, but my aspirations are often too lofty and I don’t want anyone raining on my parade, either.

    What’s so intriguing about this story are the equal parts “Ya had it comin’” and “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” This is a universal conundrum. We’ve all been there. For instance, I’ve gotten too comfortable with something (money, relationships…) and convinced myself that my gig is never-ending, invincible. I’ve stopped caring because I could, became unthoughtful and forgot to stock enough lifeboats for when shit went down. Basically, I had it coming. Afterwards, I can take the episode as a lesson in awareness (where my yogis at?). STILL, it sucks. I worked hard for that money, I invested a lot in that love. Lives came crashing down and relationships were forever changed. I will look back at that time with equal parts tragedy and…humor.

    As a movie, Titanic is the most brilliant, manipulative, perfect movie ever. I unabashedly love it. I cry when it wants me to cry, I smile when I should and I laugh every time Jack swallows his own snot. It’s researched, plotted and paced to a T…but not without it’s flaws. Lines are absolutely laughable and a lot of the acting is questionable (I’m looking at everyone in the “present day” storyline). I actually want every one of old Rose’s lines tattooed on my body. They’re that bad/good. I will watch it any time it’s on TV and if you bring it to a sleepover as an option I will fight others to the death for the right to bask in it’s almost three hour runtime.

    As a young homo in 1997, when the film came out, I was on delighted and confused. Who do I like better? Kate or Leo? To ease my conflicted brain (and my concerned parents) I tended to display posters including both Jack and Rose. It’s like getting one cheeseburger from Burger King and one from McDonalds, stacking them together and calling it a double- the best of both worlds. Jimmy C.’s movie also gave me the sweeping romance and scale that all budding homosexuals want their life to include. If only I had a large hat…

    Luckily, I have friends who feel the same. Going to an arts-focused college put me in contact with the best fags and hags, who were able to recognize the greatness in that triple disk special edition. Once it was out in the open, we could obsess together on how the china lifted off the table when the water flowed into the first class dining room and the stellar costume choice for Rose throughout the entire third act of the film. So summer-y but soooo cold.

    Thus began the ritual of watching the movie, annually, on or around the 15th. This year, we took it a step further and assembled a small gathering, in costume, for booze, food and reminiscing. To the outsider, this may seem like a mockery. True. To a point, it was in bad taste. But if you’ve been reading this post, you understand. The ladies were decked out in their finest and I donned icicles in my hair, as if I were bobbing lifelessly, waiting for a lifeboat to scoop me up.

    Again, I look like a terrible person. “That really happened to people!” you might say. Yes, it did. The humor of our charade is a mask for the true horror that I feel when reading personal accounts and watching that poor steerage mother hold her children as the Atlantic invades their dreams.

    The night concluded on 107th Street, at the memorial for the Astor’s, who died that night in 1912. Candles were lit and silence was had. There, we could be appreciative for the lives we have and for the friendship that exists between us. Who’d have thought that an event that absolutely none of us are personally tied to could bring us together? Our common love for Titanic is the fabric of our relationships, our quirks when together and our communal understanding that life needs to be viewed as brief and humorous…because the moment we announce that we’re perfect, we’ll ram right the fuck into an iceberg.
  • "Please, call me Mulan" OR "Who's that skinny kid on the floor?"

    Long prologue short: Fell in love three years ago. Started relationship. Laughed. Cried. Effed. Moved in together. Lived gay dream in Hells Kitchen for approximately 3.5 seconds. Broke up. Moved to Queens.

    By this time, I was in denial that I was:

    1) Flawed enough to be broken up with.

    2) Actually broken up with.

    3) Twenty-five and poor.

    4) Living in Queens.

    My move to an outer-borough was temporary, right? No. Soon the waves of sporadic weeping subsided and the fact that I was paying beans to live in a great apartment (far from civilization but great) set in. I was staying put. I settled into my little room and the little bed that came with it. Said bed was inherited from the previous tenant- but just the frame. Sleeping on a stranger’s mattress is the grossest thing after girls’ underwear. I would get my own, thank you. Unfortunately, funds were low and mattresses are heavy so I figured an inflatable one would do…

    Eventually I got past the cartoonish squeaking sounds that came forth from the rubber beast from even the slightest shift. I slept like a corpse to prevent my unbearably attractive roommate from hearing anything and mistaking my restless leg syndrome for an all night masturbation session with his intimates. (No, I never got that desperate). One night, I decided to read. Sensible. My bed provided me with an excellent headboard to recline against and enjoy the latest in teenage coming out novels, which I’d recently taken a fancy to. These were perfect distractions because despite the protagonist’s mixed emotions and difficult parents, that gay teen still wasn’t living in Queens.

    Sit down.

    Cover up.

    Open book.

    Lean back.

    Fall to the ground.

    Yes, fall to the ground. My hand-me-down bed was brilliantly assembled without screws. Not a one. Just pegs in holes…and not the kind that I could take this opportunity to make a dirty joke about. Forty-five minutes, two borrowed screws from a kitchen chair and a strategically placed 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee paperweight later, I had a bed. The noisy rubber mattress wasn’t the only thing to worry about. Now I had to avoid moving and placing any weight whatsoever on the bed frame to avoid falling violently to the granite floor below.

    Only the victim of a date rape could achieve the kind of terrifyingly still sleeping that I had perfected in the following weeks. My new job was finally bringing in the income I needed to get a new mattress…but sleeping like Juliet (pre-stabbing) wasn’t too bad so I spent that money on important things like drinks and cheese fries. Immediately upon making that decision, my back began to hurt. I wasn’t sleeping soundly. The jig was up. Just when I thought it was (again) the universe taking a stab at my celestial voodoo doll, I realized the reason for my pain was much sore scientific: a hole in my rubber.

    I pumped that bitch up every night just to find myself lying like the beef inside of a taco shell in the morning. Ugh. New tactic. My new sleeping arrangement consisted of a broken (but standing) bed frame, the slats that traditionally hold a traditional mattress, a deflated rubber mattress and various couch pillows lined along my body to simulate an acceptable sleeping situation. Now that I was done crying over my shattered dreams of a West Elm decorated apartment and Asian babies, I could cry over how tragic my solitary life had become. Thank god for that layer of rubber beneath me, for the salty fluid pouring from mine eyes would have surely warped the wood.

    How does one begin to start feeling better about oneself? Well I had no money for drugs or cigarettes but sex was (and still is) free. Queue a hot little blonde number from down the street. Blondie was the perfect rebound guy. He came in, allowed me to bum a smoke off him, refrained from judging the bed situation, rolled around naked with me for an hour and then left. Needless to say, I went to bed not caring that I was basically sleeping on a medieval torture device. Ahhhh. Life wasn’t so bad, after all.

    Crash.

    “It’s fine. It’s fine,” I thought. I’d deal with it in the morning.

    I got another three months out of that bed and eventually got a mattress…a real one! One day I grew tired of constantly refitting pegs in holes and re-screwing screws that didn’t fit in a bed that needed custom screws. My Ikea mattress was comfy enough and my floor was clean. A recent viewing of Spirited Away inspired me to pull a Mulan and revert back to simple ways of my Asian brothers and sisters. I would sleep on the floor. The do that, right?

    And I still do. It’s strangely glamorous, actually. It’s amazing what a few nice pillows and a hanging wicker lantern can do to a poor kid’s room. Now, it’s less tenement and more Arabian palace…but without the beheadings and lamb kabobs.


    I'd ask you to start a talkback about how you sleep...but I really don't care.

  • "Welcome, fools!" OR "Keep reading if you have time to waste!"


    Personal blogs are dumb because most people who keep personal blogs are:

    1) Failing at what they foolishly decided to study in college.

    2) Un or under employed.

    3) Bored.

    4) Think they are funny/insightful/relevant

    Since I’ve reluctantly found myself mastering all 4 of those qualifications, I thought, “Why not?”

    The big question is “What do I blog about?” Actually, the big question is, “How many people will judge me for my improper punctuation and bad editing?” But to those people I’ll say, “Go get laid. Oh wait…you can’t because you’re ugly and spend all day discriminating blogs.” Now I’m off topic…

    Julie had Julia and Perez had the Hiltons (once upon a time). What do I have? I’ll be honest, there’s no shtick. Not yet, at least. Maybe I’ll find one. Please don’t count on it. But here are some ideas that I toyed with:

    1) Review movies or books or theatre? Blah…that’s so olllld. I mean, people get paid to do that, why would I do it for free? Although I’m sure that I’ll interject my (very strong and very correct) opinions about those matters but I don’t want to put myself in a box.

    2) Blog about my writing projects? No. You’ll steal my ideas. You hungry, hungry little demons, you. Ugh. Who am I kidding? I’ll most likely use this space to vent about the twelve million agents I’ve submitted to and the negative sixty million who haven’t even read my queries, yet. That math works, believe me.

    3) Sex? Dating? Oooooo. Those are fun. I’m well-versed in both but being that I spend a good portion of my day obsessing over this area, I can’t bring myself to type all of my biz-natch up for the entire world (all four of you) to read. I will say that after flirting with a three year relationship, dating sites, slutty summers and a new foray into cross continental affections…I’ve got some stories. I promise no names or offensiveness, as I do have some semblance of a heart.

    So, why are you still reading? Because you enjoy General Faggorty.

    Thank you, Milan, Italy for this photo op. That city knew me well.