Protesting Prop 8 is the new way to pick up guys. That’s what last night’s Prop 8 protest at the Mormon temple told me. Everyone made colorful signs and dressed in winter scarves with matching caps to meet outside in the cold air. As the group of an estimated 10,000 supporters of gay marriage marched down Broadway, passed Lincoln Center, and ended up in Columbus Circle we all huddled together tightly for warmth… and to touch butts on “accident”. We all chanted silly things that rhymed while everyone checked each other out. If you can’t flirt AND stand up for equal rights at the same time, then what kind of gay are you?
The organizers of the event told everyone online what type of signs to make. They warned to stay away from the polygamy argument, the warned to stay away from attacking religion, they warned to keep the message positive in order to unite and “take the higher road”. Originally, I was gonna make a sign that was very Latter Day Saints specific – “L.ITTLE D.UMB S.HITS” So, in an ironic twist on words in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, I made a double sided sign quietly mocking religious opponents of gay marriage.
For those religiously unaware, “Jesus wept” is the shortest verse in The Bible. I think Jesus would weep about the current state that this civil rights cause has reached. Plus, I always like using The Bible against Biblebeaters. Lord knows, I have a ton of knowledge on the subject since I went to Christian and Catholic Schools for most of my life. Clinging to stories from the past and not bothering to think for yourself certainly seems strange to me. Not nearly as strange as The Book of Mormon who was written by the “prophet” Joseph Smith. This guy took some shrooms and tripped out in a forest and wrote down everything that Jesus “told him”. The phrase “And it came to pass…” starts thousands of “verses” from the Book of Mormon (“And it came to pass this““And it came to pass that”), so naturally, I wanted to take a jab at them while trumpeting the message of gay marriage.
After we gathered at the entrance to Central Park, everyone sort of stood around and check out each other’s signs. I wish someone was there to give out prizes for best signs. I think I could have been a serious contender. My favorite was either the black lesbian that said “Should we sit on the back of the bus too?” or one young, hot gay that said “I didn’t ask him to “civil union” me!” We had brought noise makers to shake while we marched in the streets so we stood around and shook them.
My gaggle of gays and I got hungry, so we walked down 9th Avenue, the gayest street in Gayville, and ate at Vinyl, the gayest restaurant in Gayville. I didn’t want my sign anymore, so I discarded it on a pile of cardboard underneath an Ipod Nano ad. GAY! I would’ve felt bad for leaving it there, but the protest was a little underwhelming in energy. It’s great that there were 10,000 people there, and I LOVE IT, but I couldn’t help but think that there is much more passion in California over this right now.
On the way to the train, we stumbled on a liquor store that still had a Hillary for President sign in the window. Wow. How steadfast.
I’m going to go look at the Missed Connections on Craigslist now to see if anyone from the protest wants to hook up with me.
Oh and here’s one last shot that I love from the protest. It’s a keeper!
The good guys won! Finally, a happy example of how sometimes, if you wish hard enough, great things can happen. We started off with martinis and mozzerella sticks at Faces & Names in midtown. Once Ohio was declared for Obama, the bar went nuts. We took a walk over to Election Plaza at 30 Rock. It looked pretty boring. Everyone just stood around. We thought perhaps it was just a bunch of visiting foreigners feigning interest, so we marched over to Times Square. It was crowded and the energy had flatlined. Obama hadn’t been announced as the official victor yet and I wanted something crazy to happen.
We went back to my friend’s hotel room to watch the results come in. When we entered the lobby, the news was announced that Obama had won. Instantly, the lobby of the hotel was flooded with happy black people. They all had matching Obama stickers and were coming from the bar where they were hosting a private event. It was amazing to be one of seven white, gay boys in a sea of blackness. The security guard was high-fiving everyone in sight. My group of homos promptly went upstairs and continued the celebratory drinkfest…. until we heard about Prop 8 passing in California. You can’t win them all!
I love that America can elect a black President, but still won’t let gays get married. I’m gonna consider this a win for the night because otherwise I will go insane. Time to let politics rest for a little while…
My gang and I went to my friend Jonathan’s roof party in Williamsburg for Halloween. I dressed up as a sexy pirate. Jeff was a sexy baseball player. Craig was a sex pig. He walked into the party wearing an overcoat and, like a flash of gay lightning, stripped down to his costume. He proceeded to run around the party full of mostly strangers and, in a creepy character voice, declared “I’m a sex pig! I’m a sex pig!” He snortled and snarled and dry humped the sofa. It was straight out of a David Lynch movie.
The Straights were in a little party funk. They were dressed up as people who hate Halloween. I enjoyed talking with Sophia about ‘The Hills’ and ‘Laguna Beach’. After five minutes of discussing the pros and cons of all of Lauren Conrad’s past boyfriends, Jon had a realization – “You mean, The Hills and Laguna Beach are two different shows?!?!?!” His straight, confused face was priceless.
The rest of the evening was full of too many Sarah Palins and “butt pirate” jokes. I talked to a coked up Frida Kahlo who wanted me to take a million pictures of her on my camera. Or rather, Frida talked to me. A lot. Mostly about puppets. Jonathan, who had dressed as a priest, made a videotaped confessional in a closet. Everyone took turns throughout the night confessing their sins, fears, and scandalous escapades. For NYC, this was a pretty terrific Halloween – even if it meant being followed around by a sex pig.
Hmm. Tonight is the final of three presidential debates between McCain and Obama. Tonight is also the season finale of Project Runway. They are on at the same time. Which one do I watch? DECISION 2008!
Thankfully, I have a DVR, so I will be able to see them both, but which one do I watch first? I don’t know which one I care more or less about. Neither can one of my besties, Jeff. We had the following gchat gconvo about our TV choices tonight:
me: who do you think will win? Jeff: runway? me: whatever Jeff: debate? obama
runway? no idea
something tells me leanne me: but what about the architectural beauty of mccain’s designs? Jeff: mccain seems like something we’ve all seen before
not very fashion forward me: do you think kenley has a chance?
she’s a cunt but joe six-pack loves her Jeff: sarah palin is only there for drama
what do you think of korto? me: i hope she wins, but i think she’ll flop Jeff: but i like obama’s use of color
I’ll let the boring, white Leanne win Project Runway tonight over the soulful, black Korto as long as Obama pulls it out in the debate.
We made it! After 5 years of job hunting, apartment searching, eating Starbucks muffins for dinner, sex, booze, boys, fights, fears, tears, and smiles, we topped it off with a delightful Anniversary Party. Yay us!
Approximately 55 guests showed up at Kabin Bar in the east village after the HUMONGOUS rain storm that kept people away for the first hour of the party. Our unofficial ‘theme’ of the evening was Invite Everyone We Ever Met In NYC. Thankfully, the spacious back room was perfectly decorated, lit, and temperature controlled. It was a combination log cabin motiff and Victorian sitting room, and our interesting mix of friends helped color up the place as well. Seeing everyone mingle together in the bomb-ass room was so much fun.
In preparation for the party, I sent out evites, emails, Myface and Spacebook event notices. I also arranged to have the room reserved and carefully and tediously put together a mix for my ipod. When I spoke with the owner about reserving the room, the only point of contention was if we needed a DJ for the evening. I told him that our ipod would suffice and that we would just need a cocktail server for all the booze we would be drinking. He said, “Well, you can make requests to the DJ if you wanted, they work for you.” Sounds nice, but again, I tried to get out of having to deal with DJ Stranger by telling him the theme of the party and how we wanted to have music that represented the three of us who were celebrating that night. He countered with, “Well a good DJ will make sure you enjoy the music, but that the music doesn’t overpower the evening.”
I gave up. He said we could have an ipod from 8pm – 11pm. Then, the DJ would arrive. I guessed that it was his nephew or something.
The music mix I created was perfectly sublime. It amplified the evening as the crowd got bigger. By the time 11pm rolled around, everyone was feeling pretty groovy. Our amazing cocktail server, Morgan, pointed out the DJ to me from across the room. I said, “Oh, is that him?” Morgan laughed and said, “It’s a her.” I never have trusted girls that look like boys and I never will.
I introduced myself to the DJ, who’s name was Biet (Beeyut), and who I thought was French, but according to her myspace profile she is from “New York City, Alabama”. I asked, “So what sort of tunes do you spin?” She looked me square in the eye and said, “I know what’s going on here.” I took that to mean she saw the giant amount of gayness going on throughout the room and she would pick her tunes accordingly. I told her I trusted her and she proceeded to play two songs that I had already played earlier in the evening (Fatboy Slim’s ‘Praise You’ and Sam Sparro’s ‘21st Century Life’).
I thought that may be a good sign, even though it was repetitive, it was the right style. Well, we soon found out that was a trick to get us to be on her side. She proceeded to play some gansta rap. 50 Cent has no place at our party. One guest went up to her and asked to play something “more gay”. Her answer? A 12 minute long Justice song. If you wanna play something that sounds like Daft Punk, just play Daft Punk! I don’t wanna hear some clunky bullshit parading around as gay dance music. She had turned our party into a meth den with hard, pounding beats which were totally void of any melody. I could appreciate what she was trying to do, but it just wasn’t jiving with this crowd. So many people asked me, “What happened to your ipod?”
I had had enough of this girl. If it was a cute boy mayyybe I would have let him try for another 45 minutes. Time to fire her. In the nicest way possible. I asked Morgan how I could go about putting my ipod back on. She said, “Just give it to me. She gets paid whether she spins or not. I’ll take care of it. I hate her anyway.” Sweet! Five minutes later, Morgan had our party back on track with Princess Superstar blasting from the speakers. I was about to feel bad when I saw Biet packing up her gear, biet then someone told me that the last song she played was her own original song. Lame. You’re a loser. I’m a winner.
Speaking of winners, we let two random people into the private party. They were brother and sister, so they said. I am not sure. He was very upbeat and friendly and brown, she was whiny and needy and white. When she wasn’t busy guzzling chardonnay, she kept demanding that I play Britney Spears. I told her that I had just won back the night from the DJ and I have a playlist already in motion. No girl tells me what to play at our party that I’m letting you attend.
She stomped her feet and acted like a two year old. I’m not kidding. Any chance of playing Britney Spears vanished because I refuse to reward that behavior. I laughed and tried to walk away, biet her brother was nice and bought the three anniversary boys drinks, so I wasn’t openly rude. Somehow, I let her get my phone number and she ended up calling me at 3:52am, 4:04am, 4:12am, and 4:15am. Who knows why. I pretended I was asleep. Maybe she thought she was calling Britney Spears. She was that crazy.
The room closed at 2am. We caused some drunken debauchery in the streets for a little while. Someone made us pose with our ‘Happy Anniversary’ sign, the only decoration at the party. It was pretty fun until Jeff and Eric turned into zombies and tried to eat me.
See? Jeff and Eric became motherfucking zombies! I love those zombies!
The entire evening was a goddamn delight! Thanks friends! Thanks Morgan! Thanks brown guy and your “sister”? Thanks to everyone biet Biet! Here’s to another 5 years! Only this time, I want a nice apartment, a nice boy, and a nice role in a movie or something!
(Eric, Jeff, and Jeffrey are at ACME restaurant, a New Orleans-style corporate food chain. They are three Hurricane’s deep. Another friend, Robert, slowly drinks a whiskey on the rocks.)
ERIC: You know how sometimes people are in your life a lot, then the next thing you know, you never talk to them again?
JEFFREY: Like those bitches from California?
JEFF: I hate those bitches.
ERIC: Do you think we will ever be like that? Do you think there will ever be a time in our lives when we’re like, “I used to be friends with those guys.”
JEFF: Nope.
JEFFREY: Yeah, it would have already happened by now. We’re stuck with each other. Wanna play 1-2-3?
Tonight, 4 of the 5 fags that went to New Orleans this past Thanksgiving relived our drunken tomfoolery at Acme Oyster House in the West Village. We called Jeff to say hello, so it was almost a reunion. Somehow, pictures were allowed to be taken and this happened -
I also just downloaded Jesse McCartney’s new single, “Leavin’”, but I choose to blame the Hurricane’s from Acme for that one…. even though it’s totally gonna be my Summer 2008 Anthem.
“This is gonna be my year!”
- Jeffrey Marx, January 1st, 2007
So, um, last year was basically stupid. I moved three times – from the West Village, to Harlem, to Brooklyn – acquiring a new ex-roommate enemy, I started talking to an old friend again only to realize that I still “liked him liked him” so now we aren’t talking again, my improv team got disbanded at UCB, I ended up hating the show I wrote, the few guys I did date were either emotionally unavailable or wore towels as skirts to bars, my awesome gay therapist broke up with me, and I only lost 29 pounds on my 50 pound challenge.
So, today, I say that 2008 is REALLY going to be my year! It’s time to start using The Secret, goddamnit! I am just going to start acting like I already have everything I want! Then, The Secret will align with the universe and give it to me anyway! Like magic! I can’t wait! (I wonder if The Secret still works if I am, like, 20% sarcastic about it) Here is a list of things I want (lies) that I will be putting into the universe. You may be confused when I say, “I am late for an appointment with my commercial agent because my BMW had to be dropped off at the mechanics” because I don’t have a commercial agent, BMW, or a mechanic. But, using The Secret, those lies (things I want) will come true if I just believe! Better yet, instead of a list of things I want, I will give you a list of things you might hear me say this year that are, upon first glance, untrue. However, I am just practicing the theories of The Secret.
1.) “My hot boyfriend’s dick is so huge, I can barely take it! Sometimes we just like to cuddle and that is enough for us!”
2.) “The reading for my new play went extremely well. I am so glad that Paul Rudd was available at the last minute.”
3.) “As a gay guy, selling my one man show was no problem. HBO and Showtime are having a bidding war over me right now!”
4.) “There’s a new found respect for reality TV these days. Thank goodness I got that job as an executive producer for reality TV.”
5.) “I can’t decide if I want the polo shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch or the V-neck t-shirt from American Apparel, maybe I should buy both since I need a whole new wardrobe to go with my new body!”
6.) “Dry tuna and pita is extremely satisfying for lunch!”
7.) “That model for 2(x)ist underwear is undressing me with his eyes!”
8.) “Jake Gyllenhaal just came out of the closet!”
Anyway, no official resolutions this year. Just the promise to myself to be a better person, make better choices, and to stop downloading music I hear on ‘The Hills’.
After my trip to California, it took 4 days of gluttonous tomfoolery to re-connect with myself. Dates, sex, parties, The Straights, and naked hipsters all helped me re-adjust. Here are the best pictures from New Year’s Eve.
OK, so maybe those aren’t the “best” pictures from New Year’s Eve, but they are the only ones that I can publicly share on the interweb. Happy 2000 Great!
We all had separate flights going other places except for me and Jeff. We checked out of the hotel with the sassy black lady who had been ever present all weekend. She was adorable. I went across the street to the deli to grab some bottled water. Inside, I was accosted by a frightening, Cajun homeless man. He spoke to me in harsh, garbled, nearly unrecognizable English.
MAN: Can you give me some money? ME: I don’t have any money. MAN: How are you going to buy all that crap? He points to the single bottle of water in my hand. ME: That’s all I have. Sorry. MAN: Well give me a job then! ME: I can’t. I’m from out of town. MAN: Oh shit. ME: Sorry. Have a good day though. MAN: Give me some money. Come on, just do it. ME: I don’t have it. No matter how many times you ask me. MAN: Oh is that how it is then?
The man stumbles into the street. I realize he is barefoot.
MAN: Someone just tried to kill me! He tried to shake me down! Help! Police!
With that, I was off, back home to New York City. The past few days have been inexplicably perfect. Not a care, not a worry. Good times with great friends. No bullshit. All groovy awesomeness. I have recharged my batteries, taken a deep breath. I should go on vacations more often. Here are some more fun pictures…
That’s me making a sad face because I want to be there still. Maybe this will have to be a new Thanksgiving tradition. I’m sure there is still more to see in New Orleans – the aquarium, plantations, Philip’s cock. Bye New Orleans! Thank you!
My goal today was to purchase some New Orleans art. It was our last full day in town and I also had realized that I had yet to get a famous Hurricane. I still had not found live Zydeco either, which was rather disappointing. Also, as much fun as the gay clubs were, we hadn’t seen anything too outrageous. This was all about to change.
First stop – we all went shopping in the plentiful art galleries, bookstores, antique shops and souvenir shops. I had accidentally eaten a chocolate chip cookie, more beignets, and we found a groovy street musician. He looked like Jesus with a Dulcimer. After zoning out on his quirky songs, I got sucked into The Neverending Christmas Store. I am not sure how long I spent in the store, called Santa’s Quarters, but I know I was in there long enough that Jeff called me to find out where I was…. I had to be rescued. You can see why…
Next up, a different cemetery – one that was open. The sign out front said “Enter at your own risk. The city of New Orleans and the Parish of St. Louis is not to be held responsible for your safety and security while on these grounds.” I wasn’t so much afraid of the immediate presence of spirits that I felt, but the homeless junkies that probably used the cemetery for a nice, secluded area to shoot up. The four of us banded together and took a creepy stroll. Here are some of the better shots from the St. Louis Cemetery…
Wow. After all that creepiness, we needed a good stiff drink. Where better to get one than at The Corner Pocket, one of the few gay bars we had yet to visit. I opted for a Captain Morgan and coke, my usual this trip. The place was super empty, granted it was a Monday at noon, but the bars never close in New Orleans, so I thought there would be someone. The kind bartender dryly asked us the standard questions – Where are you from? How long are you in town? A weird couple came in and ordered shots. The younger one looked like a druggie pirate and the older one looked like he was recently featured on ‘To Catch A Predator’. The couple, the bartender and us all got audibly excited when ‘Cops’ came on the TV and it was revealed that the episode was entitled ‘Bad Girls’. We were instantly bonded. I noticed a giant, black cat that seemed to live in the bar. I asked the bartender what was the cat’s name… “Oh, him? He ain’t got no name. He came to us as a Katrina survivor. No one ever has named him.” The scary pirate guy said, ‘Oh, he gotsa name, he jus’ ain’t tellin’ no one what it is..’ Adorable, for a gay pirate.
We broke for lunch at Coop’s Place. I had eaten there earlier in the weekend and had some amazing Sausage & Rabbit Jambalaya and homemade cole slaw. Coop’s is definitely a local bar with a modest sized seating area. Cajun gypsies make the food in the backyard next to the restrooms. I went to use the restroom and saw them all sitting on the ground and drinking from flasks. I’m down to party, thats cool. Jeff and I had mojitos and waited for the food to come. In the meantime, we made friends with the regulars. Seriously, that was the biggest regular we’ve ever seen in our gay lives. We didn’t have any problem with scarfing down the grub though, so fucking good. We just pretended not to think about where it was being made.
More goddamn beignets.
Time for a ghost tour! With Mideon Von Thorne! He was very knowledgeable and nice, just not exactly Captain Ted level. I love Captain Ted. I love that the ghost tour incorporated a bar break at the halfway point of the tour. I love it even more that it was at that fucking Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop that the manager had almost kicked us out. Hilarious! We had vowed to never go back there, each time we walked by it cursing it’s name, and now, here we were again. I didn’t order anything though, we were drinking red wine out of a plastic water bottle which I kept in my pocket – which is totally legal there by the way. As long as you are carrying your booze in a plastic container, you can take it anywhere! During the last leg of the ghost tour, we saw Philip the Psychic. He was wearing his instantly recognizable black feather coat. He just stared at us. Creepy/Awesome!
Once the tour was finished, we headed down Bourbon Street for one last hurrah. We came upon a fancy jazz place that sat us in the front row. It was here that I finally got my Hurricane. OH MY GOD, WHY HAD I NOT BEEN DRINKING THESE THE WHOLE TIME???? What an idiot I am! We watched a pretty decent jazz band and left when they went on break. Almost immediately, we found my live Zydeco at the Cajun Cabin. The band, Mitchell Cormier and The Can’t Hardly Playboys, were fucking brilliant. We ordered fried alligator, fried crawfish, more Hurricanes, and a trio of sausages – alligator, andouille, and crawfish. Jeff even got pulled up on stage!
I got to play the washboard too. We ate up good and had a blast. The waitress made me order a drink called Swamp Water, made with Everclear. Everclear is like 100 percent alcohol. It was tasty! She also suggested that we go to The Corner Pocket. Funny, we had already been there, but she told us that there were live dancers every night. We took our Hurricanes and Swamp Waters in plastic to go cups and headed to the Corner Pocket again…
Armed with one dollar bills and a smashing sense of humor, I entered The Corner Pocket. There were 8 dancers and 8 customers. Joshua, the cutest of them all, came up and danced in my face. I tucked a couple dollars in his very fashionable underwear and waited for him to do a little dance or something. He said, “You can stand to have a little more audience participation”. I told him that “I am used to being stabbed in the face if you touch the dancers”. He asked where we were from and we told him New York. He laughed, dropped his act and said, “Now what the hell are you boys doing down here? We all try to move there, and you come down here?” After chatting with the blonde and blue eyed, Joshua, he took our monies and rubbed all up on us. He was very good at his job. Smelled like Boy Heaven and lingered close enough to you that you could feel his hard-on. Classy fun!
More of the dancers came over throughout the night. One guy’s signature move involved wrapping his legs around your head and quickly thrusting his giant balls (shielded by his Calvin Klein’s of course) in your face – like a rabid washing machine rinse cycle. It was not sexy, it was funny. They were all cute, but not as much as the adorable Joshua. He was definitely the Queen Bee of this gay harem. We got a taste of all the dancers except for one. He was wearing red briefs, smoking a cigarette, listening to his ring tone on his cell phone over and over. He didn’t even look in our direction once. I think Joshua had marked his territory. Joshua got the cute boys from New York and Red Briefs was regulated to the old, obese black guy in the corner. I really wanted to know what the drama was between Joshua and the red briefs guy. The tension was visible, but they were more than professional to each other. I’m glad Joshua won us, he was hot. A few more Hurricanes and alot less dollars later, we decided to meander back out into the streets where I met my new friends and their hats…
We walked around and looked for ghosts, vampires, and more beignets. We were gonna head back to The Leaky Cauldron from the night before, but were so drunk and tired we decided to cut ourselves off. We chatted in the streets a little more, and headed back to the hotel. Nighty-night!
The sky opened up. The clouds crashed. Thunder, lightning, thunder, lightning… Our nap last night turned into going to bed. We made an attempt to go out, but it was raining so hard. We did not eat oysters on the half shell. We did not try to find Philip. We did not seek out a jazz club. What did we do? We downloaded zydeco music in our hotel room and bought some black cherry rum and cherry coke. We tried to get ourselves revved up to go out, but Jeff fell asleep on the couch and Jeff went back to his hotel room to go to bed. Jeff was still sick from the night before and went to bed while Jeff and I half-heartedly looked at boys in the NOLA area on manhunt.com. We were all asleep by midnight! Old! Losers!
It was still raining crawfish and oysters this morning, but we felt great. Jeff and I had a perfect crab omlette in a restaurant that was right out of New Orleans Square Disneyland (or New Orleans Square right out of this place, rather). Jeff had opted to stay in the Quarter and catch a play about slavery and racism presented by a community theatre (brilliant) but the rest of us went to the Garden District via the St. Charles Trolley. There were amazing houses lining the street. I took a picture of what I believed to be the Belfort Mansion from my favorite season of The Real World. I got the address from several confirmed sources. We were on the way to a cemetery, so I thought I would come back and get a picture with the mansion.
Unfortunately, the cemetery was closed. So what are four faggots supposed to do in an isolated area of New Orleans in the pouring rain? A photo shoot naturally. Headshots to be specific. The cemetery was enclosed by a great wall of old brick, making a perfect gothic background for our pictures. Here are my favorites from the shoot…
After we were done fagging out in the presence of ghosts, we made our way to Magazine Street. A neverending collection of thrift stores, vintage clothing, and retro furniture. We all spent our fair share of money to help support the local businesses. It was a win/win situation. I got to spend money guilt free on handbags and scarves while I helped New Orleans re-build. I fell in love with a painting and got into a fight with a stupid girl at Starbucks who messed up my drink and tried to give me attitude. I actually had the nerve to say, “I used to work for Starbucks for six years, I know the chemistry behind making this drink.” Ugh, what an asshole.
We went to find a bar that was recommended to us for “The Best Po’ Boy’s on Earth”. The po’ boy was great, but I couldn’t help but think I might get beat up in this joint. I couldn’t tell if we were caged animals that the locals kept looking at or if it was us, roaming free in a foreign zoo, hoping no one would pounce on us while we enjoyed our tasty sandwiches. We didn’t hang out for long. The rain still hadn’t let up, but we marched on towards the Real World mansion to get my picture.
The address I had did not match the address to the mansion I had taken a picture of earlier. The address was nowhere to be found!!!! I looked up and down the block, getting drenched. Finally, I had to give up. I have come to the conclusion that either the mansion has been torn down and made into a new branch of Chase Bank or MTV never even filmed the show there. It was all a hoax. So, what do we do next?
This fat bitch was such a cunt. Now, I love drag queens, but this was one busted pig. She lathered so much attention on the “pretty” boys in the ‘crowd’ (seriously, 25 people at most, five of them was a family from North Carolina). She made herself look pathetic. Now, I understand that I am not ‘hot’ or worthy of being asked to be in a shirtless contest, but I expect that when you come over to my group of friends and start talking about how you used to live in New York (lies) and joking around with them (bad puns) that when I try to talk to you, you should NOT ignore me. Dirty Whore! Her name was Blanche Debris (trash!) and her stupid bifocals (old man) under her terrible sunglasses (bad taste) was a look that was too much to take. What an old, chubby cunt-rag. Fuck you.
We all left in the middle of the game because we wanted to go watch ‘The Amazing Race’ back at the hotel room. Blanche asked me where we were all going and to please stay so my friends could be in the contest… I lied and said we were gonna get something to eat and that we would be back in time for the contest. Suck it.
After our reality TV fix, we went to dinner at Acme Oyster House. Captain Ted had recommended it and we we not disappointed. So great! Charbroiled oysters, raw oysters, fried crawfish, rum, and what I thought was seafood gumbo. I was corrected and told that it was actually crawfish and corn bisque….
After many more rum drinks, we looked through some of the photos from earlier. I was amazed that I found I had captured the likeness of a spirit! I photographed a ghost in the wall at the cemetery! Here is the picture, see if you can find the face of a bearded man in the wall!!!
I was so flipped out that I flipped out!
Jeff had to fly back to Florida the next morning, so we decided to hunt down some live music. First, we stopped for beignets at Cafe Du Monde. What scrumptious, little, delightful, pieces of fried dough! Topped with powdered sugar! Wow! But, live music called our name, so I didn’t get all gluttonous and order more beignets. We stumbled into a few different places that were all great, but our favorite place was a nameless bar that simply had this chalkboard sign sitting out front.
For the Harry Potteraphobic, ‘muggles’ are non-magic folk. So this sign was telling us that only witches, warlocks and magic faeries were allowed inside. OMG. The bartender was this sort of Scooby Doo-esque bluesy rastafarian, a large group of dirty, alternative kids were all making out and laughing, a burly gay couple shot pool, a yuppy looking straight couple drank red wine, and a girl in a red skirt danced by herself. The jukebox ran out and I got to select the soundtrack for the bar. Such a great place. It was the real Leaky Cauldron.
We were spent at that point and trudged back to the hotel. We all had to say our goodbyes to Jeff and he waved farewell as we stumbled down the street.
Wow, the evening had so much to offer last night, I fear that I may not remember everything. It’s all coming back in fast edit clips and slow motion montages, like MTV on quaaludes… a hot tranny waitress gave me the best flautas I have ever eaten, hooked up with a cajun cub named Jeff, we wandered into a butch, leather bar where we were clearly marked as the ‘out of towners’, an annoyingly loud gay dude kept telling Jeff to ‘put your ass on the table and play some pool’ so the butch bartender told the loud guy that they were going to play ‘the quiet game’ and he only wanted to here his voice if he was going to order another drink, we found the dueling gay clubs, Oz and Bourbon Street Pub, across the street from each other and met the local gays, Jeff and I danced on a huge dancefloor with a 400 people capacity – if only there were 398 more people to get the full effect, I had my 47th glass of rum at a cozy, candlelit bar called Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop – the oldest building in The Quarter, a bitchy pianist nearly refused to play our request (Do you know anything by Judy Garland?), we went to a low key gay bar next door also called Lafitte’s, a cute boy named Ricky served us booze then said, ‘I hear you guys are from New York’. Was he psychic?
No, he was not psychic. The manager at the straight Lafitte’s bar is also the manager at the gay Lafitte’s bar. I overheard him tell Ricky “yeah that’s them, I almost just kicked them out next door, they told Marianne they are from New York, find out what the fuck their story is…” and then the a-hole manager left. WTF? How are we more loud and obnoxious than any other loud and obnoxious group of people? Anyway, Ricky was a peach. Jeff was too drunk and tapped out, going back to the hotel by himself. So Jeff, Jeff, Jeff and I went to the gay diner across the street before stumbling back to bed.
THIS VIDEO HAS BEEN REMOVED IN EFFORTS TO KEEP MY JOB.
So yeah, that was last night. Thankfully, Jeff gave that shitty sweater to some crazy, but cute, cub guy who wandered in the diner. Good move to get rid of that sweater, but the crazy cub texted Jeff all night long – “I love orgies! HahA! LOL!”
Today we went on a “Cajun Encounter Swamp Tour“. We were all pretty wrecked, but we wanted to be good little tourists, so we marched forward. We drove about an hour away from New Orleans on a bus with alot of old people from Scotland, England, and China. We drove through an area that was described as “one of the lighter areas hit by Katrina”. Holy shit. It looked worse in person and I was prepared for some fucked up shit. Most of the homes are completely destroyed and empty. The few people who are still living there are living in little white trailers in their driveways. They can’t even live in their house! I can’t believe that we are stuck in Iraq, spending zillions of dollars on Bush’s war, while our own people at home are fucked without homes. Yay America. I felt like Kanye West driving through these towns.
The roads are decaying and bumpy from water damage, the stink of mold is everywhere, and the feeling of spiritual unrest is heavy. I made a mental note to myself that I did not want to play Ouija on the board I had packed. By the time we got to the swamp, we were all so jostled by the bumpy road, we thought we were going to throw up. Thankfully, they had real, live cajun rocking chairs to relax in!
It was cold and the forecast had predicted rain, but the five of us picked the uncovered swamp boat to go in with Captain Ted, the better seeming of the two guides. The other guides boat filled up because it was a canopy boat. Our open air boat was just us and a happy Scottish couple – her cheeks were rosey and he walked with a cane. Captain Ted spun many tales in his little swamp boat, his thick cajun accent covered my hungover brain with a spicy gumbo. Here are some excepts from his tour.
He told us a story of how a mouthy fifth grader wouldn’t stay seated in his boat. The kids spit at Captain Ted and the teacher refused to intervene, saying that it was the child’s self-expression. Captain Ted pointed to some poison ivy within arms reach of the boat and said, “See, that’s a magic bush! Anyone who touches is and smashes it up in their hands will be granted one wish.” The boy did so and the thought of the boy going home and hugging mommy and daddy made him giggle. He blamed the parents for their bratty kid. I thought it was odd that he would never look us in the eye while telling his stories. Whether they are true or not, I love Captain Ted.
We ended up not meeting up with the druggie-stripper. Instead, I passed out in the kitchen on an uncomfortable rollaway bed. I had a dream my ex-friend-crush-person started dating the Mexican dude from ‘The Biggest Loser’. They weren’t really in love and I laughed at them because the Mexican dude was a mean cheater on the show. I woke up and immediately shat my Thanksgiving dinner all over the place.
Jeff and I went to meet Jeff down in our hotel lobby for a free continental breakfast. We decided ‘continental’ translates to ‘gross, free crap’. Stale danish and muddy coffee were our breakfast soulmates. Jeff joined us and Jeff and I called Jeff to see if he and Jeff were coming over. We chatted with some French couple. She was reading the newspaper and wanted to quiz the table on our vocabulary and asked us what we thought ‘locavore’ meant. I told her that it was a person or animal that only ate choo-choo trains. I was wrong.
First item of business was to get a reading from Philip at Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. He was a fantastic reader. Seriously, he saw into me. Dressed in a black feather coat, red vest, and stunning eyes, he was definitely the vision of New Orleans psychic to me. He took my hand, his own hands shaking with energy, and asked what side the diabetes is on in my family. My mom, I told him. He told me I don’t have it and I ain’t ever gonna get it. My blood was his language. Then, he asked me how I lost the weight. I told him about my three month/fifty pound challenge. He said that I would not reach my goal of fifty pounds in that time frame, but that I would be very fulfilled with ‘my quest for loss’ in about six months if I kept with the program, that there was more than fifty pounds to lose and that I would succeed. He told me I was going to become financially successful using my unique sense of humor, but that he couldn’t see specifically what aspect of my comedy or how it was used in the role of the success. He said how he has a very uniques sense of humor as well, then showed me a picture of his huge pee-pee. It was his screensaver on his cell phone. We both laughed and he was like, I thought you would think that was funny. I am positive he was hitting on me.
He went into two very important relationships – my dad and my ex-friend-crush-person. Unprompted or informed in any way, he went on to tell me amazingly specific things about each relationship. He truly blew my mind. All in all, I feel great about my journey with my ex-friend-crush-person, but he told me that if/when I decide to talk to pops, I should be prepared to have that be the last time I talk to him. I started to say how I felt compelled to talk to pops and Philip cut me off with a flip of his middle finger to the air and said, ‘Fuck it, why is he so important, you are the important one’. Then, he told me about a bar in The Quarter I should go to later… I used my own psychic powers to tell me that he is a regular there and that he wants to buy me a drink.
Philip mentioned that my next relationship will be my last, that it will not end in divorce or break up. He said it might be awhile until that happens and that between now and then I ‘just need to get your dick wet’. So classy, Philip! He predicted all sorts things regarding employment, living situations, sexual prowess, friendship, family matters, and future written works of mine that will be published, all without any personal background or information being told from me. Creepy! Awesome!
I tipped him ten bucks and he again told me which bar I should go to later tonight and even told me the drink specials they have there. Hilarious. I am now going take a little nappy-nap and see what the evening has to offer me.
Everyone I am with in New Orleans is named Jeff. We got drunk on the plane and watched a few hours of Discovery Channel. I decided I want a baby hippo. We went to dinner in a fancy, haunted hotel. I didn’t see any ghosts, but the meal was super perfect. So great. It’s a nice mix of “my gays” on the trip (everyone is named Jeff). Besides the amazing food, my favorite part of dinner was our waitress. She told us how she got an iPhone from her ex-boyfriend in the mail and that she is hiding it from her husband until Christmas when she can pretend it was sent to her by her mother. Her Cajun accent was thicker than our yummy shrimp and corn chowder. So, so great.
After dinner, we walked down Bourbon Street. It seemed like a gay-friendly version on Newport Beach, California – all neon lights, loud music, and overpriced booze. I mean, straights definitely rule the streets, but I got the sense that everyone is used to gay stuff around these parts. So used to, in fact, that we all went to see a live sex show (in hopes of seeing what a real, live naked girl looks like) and the straight guy bartender asked us if we liked boys or girls. Duh. I ended up getting a lap dance from him, just because I wanted to feel dirty. He tied his giant dick in a knot and made me touch it. I tipped him five bucks and asked him if he knew where to score some dope. I figured it was safe to ask him since he had meth-rot on his teeth. Too bad, cuz his waist down was pretty hot. However, great legs do not make up for your mouth falling off your face.
I am supposed to go meet my private dancer at some club in an hour. Hmmmm…. I think I might pass out right now though. It took alot of effort to log onto the internet at the hotel. I may have wiped out all my energy.
Coachella Valley Music Festival used to be one of my favorite Southern California activities that I would attend every year. I haven’t been able to go back since moving to NYC and that’s very sad. Not as sad as how afraid I am of those creepy windmills out there in the desert, but sad anyway.
Several years ago I lost my mind at Coachella. All day I was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with “SECURITY” printed in bold yellow lettering. I didn’t think anything about my choice of clothes until later that night in the dance tent. Two of my best gays and I decided to push our limits and ingest an entire eighth of shrooms. I was dancing/flying through the music and people, in the middle of a terrific experience, then, out of the electronic shadows, a guy threw himself at me and pushed me on the ground, yelling “Whatever, security!”. My brain twisted. My soul caught on fire. I knew I had to leave the dance tent immediately.
Outside in the fresh air, I was a little relieved. I felt like everyone had seen and heard the incident. I was embarrassed and felt bad that I possibly gave someone a bad trip for thinking I was “SECURITY”. I thought I should go meet up with my besties back at the spot we designated as a meet up point, but that spot was back inside the tent! I definitely could not go back there! I had been invisibly banned form entering the tent. That was absolutely not an option. I walked away from the tent towards the bright ball of purple and blue thunder.
Along the way, I passed a group of hot chicks that were giggling. As they floated by, a blonde one laughed and said, “Whatever, security!” I walked faster away from them. I couldn’t believe everyone knew about this incident! I got so self-conscious of my shirt, I had to get rid of it. A brilliant idea ignited. I will go to the bathroom and turn it inside-out! Problem solved! I will be able to go back to the tent and see my friends!
The problem with the outhouse situation was that it was an outhouse. Every hippie and coked out frat dude were told to poo in this muddy, stinky, slippery field-like area. There were no lines, just a mob of sweaty humans – way too crowded. I wondered where Cameron Diaz went to the bathroom when she was at Coachella the year before. I wanted access to that bathroom. Just as I was about to walk into a stall, I heard a voice behind me say, “Whatever, security!” I turned around and saw some teenager boy laughing. What an asshole! Why do you have to keep reminding me? I ducked inside the outhouse and turned my shirt inside-out. Done deal! All better! The inside of the dingy bathroom felt like salvation.
Upon exiting I heard someone say, “Oh thats the guy with the security shirt, he just turned it inside-out.” My head exploded and I ran away. Off in the distance I heard the soothing sound of Bjork. I followed her voice.
I got lost and ended up sitting down next to a deserted trash can at the edge of a field. I played the What’s-in-my-pockets game for a few minutes/hours. I studied the intensity of a one dollar bill. A straw wrapper freaked me out. Bjork sang about children. I looked up from a giant blade of grass and an old dude looked down at me. “Whatever, security!” he said and threw his half-eaten burrito in the trash. I clearly was not welcome at Coachella any longer. Even though the tent was a world away, word had spread about my shirt and I was a marked man – the scarlett letter.
I traveled through the other end of the huge polo field and out the front entrance. I thought if only I could get to my car and listen to some of my CDs, I could get myself back to “normal” and re-enter society. Sitting in my mom’s Aerostar mini-van proved to be a whole new problem. I sat down and automatically buckled my seat belt. I reached back to grab my CD case and couldn’t reach so I tried to unbuckle my seat belt. It was stuck. I thought I was just tripping so I tried again. No, it was actually, very soberly, broken. I was trapped. Without music, without love, and without sanity. I came up with a plan.
I figured I would look suspicious just sitting in the front seat of my car, so I pretended to talk on my cell phone. The occasional hippie in the fields looked at me, but I didn’t care because I was busy “talking on the phone”. Then the phone actually rang and I almost pooped my pants. I talked to a few friends over the next several minutes/days and grounded myself a little better. I turned the radio on to a decent station (static?) and closed my eyes. I watched the little movies unfold in my little head for a little while. I zoned out and fell asleep? Anyway, I was startled by a loud knock at the window. It was my bestie gays! I had felt so separated from them and I was so happy to see them! I was instantly back to “normal”. They hopped in the car.
One of them said, “Whatever, security!” I almost died. Without missing a beat he went on to explain how some security guard was being a jerk to them on the way out. It was then I realized that I hadn’t heard all of those people say that (except the first guy who knocked me down). I was tripping! We were all so excited to be together again. They had been looking for me the whole time! I told them I was trapped in the belt and they had to use a switchblade and set me free. We drove to the Motel 6 and I was so excited to be in a new place.
Then my foot started to feel like it was falling off.
