Well, now that February is over, I can let you all in on a little secret. 
    Unbeknownst to most of my nearest and dearest, I have developed a new addiction.  Don't fret, it still fits my pattern of addiction: it involves booze, partying and doing irreprable harm to my reputation in public settings.  The newest addition is... BOOBIES!
    Since I was invited out to celebrate the Kansasian's Birfday (Kansese? Kansanite?  Kansish?... what does one call someone from Kansas?) at a local Burlesque club on the first Friday of the month and I was so impressed by the range of talent, energy of the crowd and cheapness of the drinks, I decided to go back the next week.  I have been back every Friday since.
    By myself.
    However, last Friday I braved the Old-Winter weather and ventured down to Park Slope to collect Samira, who later accompanied me to my latest obsession.
    Five Pinky-and-the-Brains (my new secret-recipe signature-cocktail!) and 13 PBRs later, Samira and I were introduced to the third-act MC, a seven-foot-tall gawjus gay man in a blue spandex bunny suit.
    Two hours later Samira is holding my coat and asking the doorguy if he's seen me.  "He's getting banged by the Bunny in the bathroom." was his reply (as reported to me an hour later, upon my emergence from said stall).
    When I got back from my sexcapade with the Bunny, the club's floodlights were on, Samira was helping to put chairs up on tables and my tab was waiting at the bar.
    Samira and I walked out into the morning light and I had lost my Scarf, Non-driver's DMV ID card, and my dignity.  
    After work the next night, I dragged my sorry ass down to Shame's Ground Zero in an attempt to find my ID.  As I was standing at the bar trying to get the bartender's attention, I was called to attention by none other than the Kansasser's meaner half. 
    Uninvited and unexpected, I had to share my story to explain my presence.
    My shame was enhanced when the bartender finally looked at me and said "Hey!  Bunnyboy!."  Later he nonchalantly implied that my missing ID was no surprise as my "head was in the clouds" when I left the night before.
    Endless ridicule from one of my best friends (and her sister!) aside, the evening wasn't a complete loss: I found my scarf!  See you all there next Friday.

    I work nights and drink early mornings, so I am no longer the cable-whore I used to be.  Rather ironically, I have become a whore-for-the-cable-Company, but I haven't had my complimentary (FREE) service installed yet, so I have lately been missing a lot of TV.
   
    Rest assured, I filed the paperwork for my free (!) all-inclusive service with DVR, high-speed internet and digital phone the day the WGA strike ended.
   
    Anyway, I came across the gem below on an unrelated (and totally NSFW blog I read every morning after my third beer), and simply had to share it.  While I generally find him absolutely repulsive in that you're-feeding-a-biscuit-to-the-wrong-end-of-my-homophobic-Pug way, Jimmy Kimmel has a real knack for self-deprecation, as brilliantly demonstrated in the follwing (typically homophobic) clip.

Enjoy.



    Mind you, that in the hours before this aired, my call-center actualy experienced a spike in traffic due to what I labeled as the Gay Superbowl, with hundreds of NYC queens calling in to howl about issues with their HDTV sets when dozens of revellers were coming to their Oscar parties.

    QA got a kick out of the fact that most of my troubleshooting Sunday evening began with "Take a deep breath, have a sip of champagne, and grab a wrench... we're going in, hunny."

    Well reader, I have had it.  It.  My first why-the-fuck-am-I-working-here moment at my new job.

Let me backtrack, and give you relevant information.  Part of my job is Sales.  I get a wonderful commission for signing people up for everything from Additional DVRs to ZTV (an Indian Premium channel).  Commissions vary from $ .25 to $12.00, but everything hinges on two things: 1) I must pass all four of my QA calls (this is when a Quality Assurance agent secretly listens in on my calls and scores me on about 25 different guidelines) and 2) my CFT, or Customer Focus Time.  CFT is calculated using a complex algorithm that includes variables like the length of calls, length of breaks and total time my line is "available." 

    Deducting scheduled breaks (90 minutes per work day), and the alotted 1.0% "personal" time (for potty breaks), I must maintain an average of 98% CFT for a month in order to get all of my Commission.  At the end of the day, I have 6.6 minutes a month in which to pee, or I lose all my Sales.

    That said, I have been working on getting my CFT to within the goal set by my manager (100%!!!), only because I am on probation still and will get my commission whether I succeed or fail.

    But the other day I got a call from a customer that rattled my nerves and the only way I could get him to shut up after 55 minutes was to degrade myself and actually inform him of the CFT.

    Here's how it went down:

    Olde Man calls in and the first thing he asks me is "what does one have to do to get an Operator?"  I said "As far as I know, for at least the last 100 years, all one has to do to speak to an Operator is pick up a telephone and dial 0." 

    He agreed, and then proceeded to play a recording of his attempt to reach an Operator (he records all of his phone calls!) and the recorded message he received informing him that Operator service was not available on his line.  As he first re-wound the tape, I pulled up his account and saw that everyone he had talked to before me had very nasty things to say about his calls.

    Notes like "customer says he has 2 master's degrees and says we are all uneducated" did horrible things to my feelings for Olde Man.

    It turned out that earlier this month Olde Man called in to scream about the fact that he saw a charge for 411 on his bill and claimed to have never used the service.  After 40 minutes, Olde Man hung up. 

    On that same day, a change was made to Olde Man's services that blocked access to 411, 555-1212, 0 and any other phone number that would incur additional (and thus disputable) charges.

    This was the reason Olde Man couldn't reach an Operator.  At this point, Olde Man began posing what he called "Logic Puzzles" that tested not only my ability to explain Company policy, but also my Libran patience and need to avoid conflict.

    Asking me why the Company was "punishing him," why the Company would "unilaterally" change his services and then what "ethical considerations" went into the Company's decision, the Olde Man was making my click-finger twitch as my mouse-pointer hovered over the Service DISCONNECT button on his account screen.

    50 minutes into the call, I raised my voice (for the first time EVER) to talk over Olde Man, and broke it down.  "With all due respect sir, you told me you were a professor of logic, and I have already graduated from college so you are not my professor and you are not grading me on this call..." [Olde Man interjects, and I talk over him again]  "However, the Quality Assurance department is scoring me on this call, and while I wouldn't bore a man of your esteem with the concerns of a menial Company drone like myself, I would implore you to consider the fact that this call has put my livelihood in jeopardy."  [Olde Man tries to speak again, and I continue]   "I have explained the situation to you, I have tried in vain to satisfy your need for a moral or ethical impetus for the decisions made by my predecessors and I have restored your account to its previous status with your permission and implicit understanding.  While there is nothing left for me to do for you, I suggest that you file a complaint against the Company with the Federal Communications Commision, Better Business Bureau of New York and maybe your local Congressman."  [Olde Man informs me that he is very familiar with the FCC and BBB but is missing his Congressman's address, to which I reply:]  "Well sir, I can reccommend dialing 411 for the information you require, but beware that the call will incur additional charges on your next Company bill."

    Olde Man informed me that he would call 411, and that I had "fared better" than my predecessors.

    I thanked him, wished him a good afternoon, and then signed out for a seven-minute "personal" to enjoy the incineration of no less than 2 Marlboros.

    I can never remember how to say the traditional New Year's salutation in Mandarin... but I do know how to ask for chopsticks in both Mandarin and Cantonese.

2008 is the Year of the Rat!  And while most of eastern Queens is ablaze with the glow of polyester Dragon costumes ignited by cheap firecrackers, I am warmed by my hopes for this brave new-new year, and chilled by ghosts of the past.

Just a few days ago Satan himself -I hereby resolve not to call him Satan anymore, as it just gives him too much importance in the universe- Stefano emailed me and asked for my help.

He has been having trouble sleeping, as his SUDDEN WEIGHT GAIN and possible, yet LIKELY GUILT OVER HIS ATTEMPTED MURDER-VIA-EMAIL have resulted in a case of sleep aprnea.  Yes, it seems that the Prince of Darkness tends to stop breathing in his sleep.  May the Universe thus deliver him to his eternal slumber.  Amen.

Anyhooo, Mr. Sinister himself asked me if I remember him having difficulty with his respiration and heartrate over the course of the myriad nights we spent together during our 10 years.  His email went on and on with all kinds of Latin terms for blah, blah and BLAH.

My response was as follows:
"I wish I could be of more help, but of the thousands of nights we spent together, nothing remarkable ever happened."

HAPPY NEW YEAR READER!
May your year be filled with the dilligence, diplomacy and unapologetic connivance the Rat is known for.

    CLOVERFIELD Spoiler Warning!

Chicken Fried Steak took me to a preview of CLOVERFIELD last night and we had a F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C blast!!

Unlike other recent movies of the giant-monster-destroys-modern-city genre, this film didn't waste the audience's time with the origins of the beast or it's motivations.  Was it hungry?  Looking for a place to lay eggs?  Pissed at the current state of geopolitics?  WHO CARES?! 

All we need to know is that the shit is big, bad and bulletproof.  I was jumping in my seat, laughing my ass off and stunned to silence by the visuals of the movie.

Toward the end there is one shot, taken from the Sheep's Meadow in Central Park where the buildings along Central Park South are reduced to burning ruins and a squadron of fighter jets zooms through the dawn light toward the beast ravaging midtown.  This 10-second sequence is one of the most beautiful depictions of the destruction of Manhattan ever made.

Of course, this is counterpoint to an earlier scene of a tank batallion rolling down an East Village street with missle launchers and artillery lighting up the night with frenetic volleys of sight and sound.

As for the plot, the blunderings of white yuppies as apocalyptic events unfold were a source of hilarious enjoyment.  For a VP-of-something-or-other, the male protagonist made terrible decisions for all the wrong reasons, losing his companions along the way toward his own destiny.

Forget "I Am Legend," throw the last "Godzilla" out of the window and go see the most action-packed destruction of NYC ever imagined.

    One of the Gay Geeks posted this ad, and I thought it was super smart.  It exhibits a number of popular slang terms, well-known fetishes and other expressions of sexual queerness.  I can name 10 of them (and even enjoy a few!), so how many can you name/decipher?
Example: the first image is of a woman enjoying her Golden Shower.
Enjoy:


Leave a comment with your own interpretations!


PS- Not my usual type of post, but with my new job I have almost no time to blog :o(

For this, my 100th blog post, I had to do something epic. Something of enduring artistry and expression. I thought long and hard, spent weeks deliberating and procrastinating. And then I found it!

When I was a small child, I would spend my saturday mornings lining up my matchbox cars in order of fabulosity (from a yellow VW Bug, through the General Lee, to an American Airlines Bus), pre-accessorizing my Osh Kosh overalls with small plastic clip-on charms I got from the vending machines outside of the Supermarket, and watching the Looney Tunes hour on channel 7.

Every couple of weeks, once Daffy attempted suicide in a Dali-esque Abstractionist landscape, I would be captivated by one of the most important animated shorts of the 20th century, "What Opera, Doc?," featuring Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in a Wagnerian soundscape filled with mythological symbolism, ultra-modern set design and a Bugs in his most memorable Drag performance.

I simply adored the Lightning-struck tree, the obese white horse Bugs-as-Brunhilde rode and the "Return My Love" duet. Not to mention the cubist shadow cast by Bugs as he flees from Elmer after the hill-top "reveal" caused when his helmet (with pigtails attached) rolls down the hundreds of steps at the end of the duet.

Everyone has seen the clip over the course of their lives. But take this time to look at it through the eyes of adulthood. Watch Bugs' toes as he sings. Watch Ms. Thang's false eyelashes, batted so languidly and seductively at her would-be assassin. And take heed as Elmer succeeds in "killing" Bugs for once.

Without further ado, I present another shadowy twist through the darkened cellar that is my psyche:
Enjoy!

It started in 1996, when Jonbenet Ramsey was found dead in her family's basement, and became front-page news in every local paper across the country.  Not to mention a 24-hour lead on all of the news networks.

Again in 2005, when Natalee Holloway disappeared while on a class trip in Aruba.  Once again, all of the media blasted her image across the pages and channels and one missing white girls became the focus of the most powerful nation in the world.

Of course, this happened once before in my lifetime, when "Baby Jessica" fell into a well and we were all forced to watch (and asked to pray for her!) until she was extracted and reunited with her tearful (and negligent) mother.

What really gets my goat about the preoccupation of this country's media with the health and whereabouts of these Little Lost Lillies, Purloined Princesses and Defenseless Debutantes is that for every one of them that goes missing or ends up strangled, there is an untold number of black or Hispanic girls in similar situations.

I can't even quote a statistic comparing the coverage gap between white girls gone missing and girls of color gone missing, because the media is just so obsessed with covering only the whites that I can't remember the last time I heard about a missing colored girl, and wouldn't know where to look for that information.

But I can say this: I have seen 4 videos from the "Girls Gone Wild" series, and I have NEVER seen a black girl on those, nor in the commercials that come on cable late at night.

But I digress.


While watching "I Love New York" with one of my oldest homegirls the other night, we began discussing the current state of media obsession with the doings of Britney, Lindsay, Angelina and their ilk, and Safi shared a conclusion she had reached a few days before.

According to Safi's analysis, it would appear that even after Women's Suffrage and the Feminist movement, our society has returned to the Victorian Ideal in which as a society, the well-being of these White Women is our collective responsibility.

While we may never have their wealth and power, we provide them with both, and thus must watch them every minute of their lives to make sure that they are doing well with everything we give them.

This is a MAJOR revelation, and shines a bright white light on the new status quo, as our country (and many others around the world) are being faced with a terrifying choice about who, exactly, has power over whom.

White Men are Out!  Their time came and went.  We can see it every day with the way our Presidential Administration conducts the business of trying to salvage the last of its Cockasian Empire.

Now, as we can see from the roster of presidential candidates, our nation may end up choosing between continuing the patriarchy and extending the rule of men to include men of color, or joining the emerging trend among the world's democracies by giving executive power to a woman.

Yes, as a culture, we have gone from Susan B. Anthony to Baby Jessica, to Julia Roberts, to Hillary Clinton.  Feminism has come full circle!

But, again, I digress.


The real reason I am posting today is because of the recent arrests made in the soon-to-expire criminal investigation of Natalee Holloway's murder back in 2005.  My theory is simple, and has not changed since the day the story broke.  Picture it: Mountain Rock, Alabama, 1992.

A six-year-old Natalee befriends a mousy brunette in her 1st-grade class.  The two become BFFs and spend their days sharing secrets and dressing up in their mommies' high-heels and pearls (or whatever girls do with each other behind closed doors).

Sometime over the summer of their seventh grade year, young Natalee blossoms into a young lady (B-cups and all), and soon has no time for her mousy little friend.  By the time they get to high school, Natalee has surrounded herself with her own little clique of wannabees, and her ex-bff is just too mousy to fit in.  The secrets they shared over the course of their short-lived friendship now serve as the ammunition Natalee needs to assert her dominion over the weaker girls and earn the respect (and fear) of her followers.

Over the next few years Natalee joins the pep-squad, yearbook committee and becomes the most popular girl in school, much to the delight of her devotees.  Poor little Mousy puts her nose to the grindstone and starts taking AP Everything.

Finally, mid-way through senior year, Natalee and 123 of her classmates take off for a fun-filled weekend on a tropical island.  Somewhere in the back of the plane, mousy is reading Dante's "Inferno" and going over her checklist.

On their last night in Aruba, Natalee tears up the hotel bar, taking jello shots and letting the colorful locals take body shots off of her cheerleader abs.  Once Natalee is drunk and stumbling (she has already gotten fed-up at the constant warnings of her entourage and has dismissed them for the night), Mousy puts down her Shirley Temple and follows her ex-bff out of the bar.

On the beach with her new local friends, Natalee's excessive partying catches up with her, and she pukes her brains out while trying to lose her "half-virginity."  The three guys leave her behind, and Mousy steps out from the shadow of a Divi-divi tree.

For all of the cruelty, for all of the back-stabbing, for all of the unapologetic and unfortunate taunting, Mousy gets her revenge.

Natalee misses her flight home the next morning, and CNN establishes an Aruba Bureau to cover the story a few days later.

Arrests are made, and Nancy Grace condemns the accused to death within weeks.

And all the while, Mousy moves on, the past burried (literally), empowered to pursue the dreams and goals she once shared with her confidant and dearest friend, Natalee. 

In all seriousness,  when I graduated from Elelmentary School the faculty sang a song originally performed by Sweet Honey In The Rock called "We Who Believe in Freedom" that was based on a speech given by Ella Baker, which included the verse "We who believe in freedom cannot rest/We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes/Until the killing of black men, black mothers' sons/Is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers' sons," and I guess that just stuck in my mind.

In a country where a Suburban White mom would kill to get her daughter a spot on the cheerleading team, and white boys take 30-something guns and pipebombs into their school because they're tired of being bullied, the fact that the media becomes obsessed with the Disney Princess gone Drunken Flasher or Prom Queen gone Murder Victim over average work-a-day colored girl gone missing isn't nearly as disturbing as the fact that not one of the 123 returning class-trippers of Mountain Rock High was questioned by the authorities.

As a tax-paying member of the Amerikkkan public, I demand answers.  I demand justice.  I demand a Movie of the Week.

    As a young child growing up in East Harlem, my Mom and I had a weekend routine that began with a casual stroll (for 15 blocks!) to a McDonald's for a Big Breakfast and the Three Stooges.  There was a roll-up screen and projector on the second floor, and the management would show old comedies during weekend breakfast hours.  After an hour of Stooges and Little Rascals, mom and I would board the bus for a trip downtown to Macy's.

Some weekends we would take the train into Flushing (Queens) and then get on the bus for Bayside to visit the two-fare-zone side of our family.  It was on these occassional excursions that I discovered the Queens custom of lining up for the bus.

Coming form Manhattan, where people wait for the bus in disorderly clumps and then shuffle and shove their way on to the bus, I found the quiet dignity of single-filing onto the bus remarkable.

Fast-forward 20 or so years, and I am now living in Queens and have finally taken righteous pride in the quirky customs of my courteous -and highly efficient- borough home.

Queens is the most diverse county in the most diverse city in the most diverse country in the world, and somehow, through the myriad linguistic and cultural differences, the customs we share through the routine of commuting have also given us the (unofficial) distinction of being the most courteous and efficient community I have ever been a part of.  People from Queens ALWAYS walk up and down stairs on the right hand side and wait for the bus in lines that speed the boarding process.  Heck, we even practice perfect escalator ettiquette by letting the weary or infirmed ride on the right while the more able-bodied (or hurried) walk up or down on the left.

But lately, I have seen first-hand the negative response these practices provoke in other-borough-dwellers.

This very morning, halfway through my train-and-bus commute, I was waiting in line for the bus in Flushing, on Main Street (the Times Square of Queens, if Times Square were the intersection of about 20 different countries) and when the bus pulled up, a couple of young women (NOT ladies!) cut from the end of the line right into the front.

I was 4 in line, and when 28 and 29 tried to cut, Mrs. 3 said "Excuse me!" and got shoved by Rude Girl.  Mrs. 3 continued onto the bus, but I was now cut by Rude Girl.  Having seen the Mrs. 3's attempt to gently urge Rude Girl to do the right thing, 29 stepped back onto the end of the line.  While climbing the stairs I said "There's a line, you know..." with my best Customer Service smile, to which Rude Girl responded "So what if there's a line, I was waiting too."

As I was trying to impress upon the be-weaved spectacle in front of me that she obviously had not been waiting as long as some people as she inserted her Metrocard into the farebox, I was cut off by the driver who was hurrying us along, as there were "3 buses waiting."

It was then that I noticed the girl was carrying a totebag from my own company.  Yes, she was indeed a nameless coleague.

It turns out that she is a serial offender with a reputation as bus-line-cutter.  Her oft-repeated defense is that she is from the Bronx, and people from Queens are stupid for waiting in line anyway.

Of course, this makes perfect sense.  Why would someone from a borough where the one with the biggest gun (or longest rap-sheet) always comes first show any concern for, or extend even the simplest courtesy to someone who wasn't her?

Well Reader, if you know anything about me, you know that I have a very balanced temper and posses a character more disposed toward quiet discourse than direct confrontation.  But I'll be damned if that bitch skips me on any fucking line and survives the incident with all of her weave intact.

It doesn't matter where you grew up or where you live, if there are people waiting in a line, you queue up.  This is a lesson all people learn in kindergarten, for Pete's sake.  I bet if there were free food at the end of that line, Rude Girl would be the very personification of patience, cracking jokes and chatting up the person behind her to keep her mouth-juices in check.

When you see a line you do not loiter about, hovering over the 1 spot to innevitably pounce and upset the natural order of things.  And if you think being loud or getting physical is the way to prove yourself worthy of your ill-gotten seat on a bus, you simply do not deserve to ride a bus, earn money, or be considered a part of civilized human society.

YOU ARE AN ANIMAL.  A BRUTISH SAVAGE.  AND YOU WILL NOT GET ON ANY BUS BEFORE ME!

Unless of course I get to the line after you, in which case I will show you exactly how people from Queens do what they do best: wait their turn.

    From the lil bulldagger that sprang fully-formed from my most horrendous nightmare about girl-on-girl scissor action and went on to inspire and participate in the best Lesbian sex I've ever had:

Looks like EVERYONE is reading Victorian literature these days.