Let's Hear It For...

I'm not sure what that saddest thing about James Brown's death is. Fact 1: His death is making roughly the same headlines as Gerald Ford. Granted Ford wasn't an elected President and despite his nice-guy status, his wasn't a particularly distinguished run in office. But he was Commander-In-Chief nonetheless. But I've long resigned myself to the idea that celebrity trumps pretty much anything these days.

Fact 2: Here was a man whose success and talent were visible proof and catalysts for the success of the civil rights movement. And yet in his final years, he was reduced to punchlines about drug and weapons arrests. His wife was already married when they were married. He was arrested and pled guilty to something akin to spousal battery and they sorta stayed together. Where we should be remembering how he helped to make "colored" a word of the past and "black" a proud and defiant definition of self instead we're thinking of juicy tidbits.

Fact 3: His musical legacy pretty much ended in the sixties with much of his hit making, as he descended into the mire that Fact 2 covered. Sure, we all know "Living In America" and it won a Grammy. But we all know "Kokomo" too. The Beach Boys' legacy can't be reduced to that one-off "comeback" hit any more than The Godfather's legacy can be summed up with a gimmicky single.

In the end, legacy is intact and so are the tabloid aspects. Crank up anything from Live At the Apollo (which is weird to write since his body is lying in state there right now) for a good remembrance.

Or reminisce like me: Patton Oswalt recounted J.B.'s appearance at the ill-fated Woodstock '99 in his standup a few years ago. Patton was the correspondent for the event which took place shortly after J.F.K. Jr's plane went down. In between songs, Mr. Brown stopped the band and asked the crowd to "join in a moment of silence to remember, John F.K. Junior." Bewildered at just who John F.K. was, the crowd fell restlessly silent. After a few moments, James broke and yelled out, "Let's hear for the Kennedy's!" He then launched into, "I Feel Good".

Choose your memory. I know what I'm walking away with.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Dead Presidents Committee.

Post Christmas Clean-Up

Long story short: I can't stand most of my family.

This is why I spent yesterday in my pajamas, intermittently catching pieces of TBS' marathon of A Christmas Story and generally not thinking about the outside world - which is why I did't notice that my cell was going straight to voicemail because it wasnt charged and the home was going straight to voicemail because it's stupid like that. Damn digital phone lines - I'm having the worst luck with technology lately.

I think that the day after Christmas is a lot like the moments following masturbation. In many ways, they're both just something to get through. You have to do it, but it's more out of respect for tradition or to substitute for something else - like your birthday. Sure, the cleanup’s a little easier for one than the other, but you're often still left thinking, “I spent all this time on ________ and all I got was ________?” Both experiences should be more than that. But in the aftermath, all that usually remains is paper to be thrown away - be it toilet or wrapping.

Of course, my cynicism should, as always be taken with a grain of salt. On holidays, I'm an orphan, avoiding extended family like the plague and communicating only with my parents and sister to thank each other for our gifts. For me, Christmas Day always requires a delicate balance of denial, acceptance, and bargaining for me to get through.

And I know what some of you out there are thinking. The answer is: I don’t drink alone or at home if there isn’t a gathering of at least four people.

The moral of the story? Christmas isn't as good as your birthday and a wanking isn't as good as sex. Other than that, I got nothing.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Only 364 Days Left Committee.

I hate goodbyes.

Jeffrey (at left, aged about 3) was my mother's constant companion for a little over 16 years. My dad, my little sister and I picked him out at the pound one day and surprised Mom with him on her anniversary. He started out a backyard dog, moved indoors and became a little brother.

In his 16 years with my family, he survived an earthquake. He survived other dogs moving on his territory. He survived a move to Texas (no small feat considering other family pets didn't last more than a year after the move). But on Tuesday, Mom had to make the decision that no one ever wants to make. Jeffrey was in real pain for the first time in almost 17 years and it was time to say goodbye.

I keep repeating his age because it's one of the things that's supposed to make you feel better. Like, "He had a good life," or "He's in a better place now," it rings a little hollow. They'll sound better in a month, even better in a year. And one day, I'll say those words without choking. For now, I'm reduced to the 13 year old boy who brought his puppy home from the pound.

I'd been expecting the call for what seems like forever now and still it shot me through the heart. How my mother managed alone (Dad's out of town on business), I don't know. She's not famous for her resolve in times like these. She loved him enough to keep it together until it was over. He was never alone, right up until the end. He deserved no less. He never left her side, until he had to.

You were a good boy even when you weren't. Goodnight Jeffrey. Say hi to Jamie and the others for me.

-J.

As a result of recent experiences, I’m establishing some strict policies if I ever open up a venue that hosts comedy and/or music. They are as follows:

1. No children. We won’t ever be doing children’s amateur night, so there’s no reason to drag your kid out past his bedtime.

2. Yes, we have a bar. Yes, you may drink. If you start talking loudly and bothering other patrons, we won’t throw you out. We’ll call the police and have them taser you. Then they can throw you out. No refunds.

3. Heckling or singing along loudly at any time will result in the same fate as generic drunken loudness (see punishment above). If the performer wants audience participation, they’ll ask for it. So until then, hold onto to your “A” material like, “Freebird!” and “How hot was it!?”

J.

I couldn’t figure out why people were giving me such funny looks when I announced excitedly, “I’m going to see Fantasia on Friday!” last week. Finally, one savvy person asked, “The movie or the singer?”

Yikes. What a reputation killer that misunderstanding could be in some circles.

J.

Snakes on a Sunday

Really, there isn’t much I could say about Snakes on a Plane that you couldn’t already guess. Basically, “More fun than you might think” is about all I’ve got to offer. If you think the idea’s hilarious, you’ve already seen it. If not, you probably won’t see I unless your boyfriend has a movie night when it hits DVD (assuming you’re together that long…). There’s snakes, a plane, Samuel L. Jackson and plenty of screaming. This one was all about the audience. All that was missing Thursday night was Chad - Hollywood, as usual beckoned, although he did meet for drinks ahead of time AND managed to sell his ticket (plus another we found) to some fellow moviegoers. The movie and the audience did not disappoint. Both seemed to be acutely in on the joke.

It seems that cable TV’s been preparing for this as well. Pay channels offerings included: Flightplan, Stealth and Red Eye (was Airplane not available?!?!?). Sci-Fi took the cake, however. The marathon included Pythons, Pythons 2, Boa vs. Python,King Cobra, and Snake King; they pulled out the big guns. Curiously absent from the game? Animal Planet. A mini-marathon of Meerkat Manor - a favorite of mine, though hardly related programming – seemed to be the only programming on slate.

All I wasted my time on was Red Eye. Not enough winks and nods, not to mention a total lack of snakes to make it entertaining. And the wanna-be Wait Until Dark ending only served to emphasize how badly they must have wanted to cast Jennifer Garner but had to settle for Rachel McAdams instead.

What was really missing from the weekend was a Sam Jackson marathon. I would have expected Starz to at least have The Negotiator on tap. If that wasn’t available, any movies that prominently feature the word “motherfucker” would have sufficed.

J.

This post was sponsored by the What Do You Expect Out of Sunday Blogging? Committee

Watch this space.

Marquee view from the Loft at the The Troubadour.

Stay tuned for the rundown.

J.

UPDATED (finally!) 08/21/06 :

Drunken people and comedy don’t mix.

Oh, don’t get me wrong – drunks can be very, very funny to watch and be around. But as audience members they suck. Some people seem to think that heckling is a sacred part of the comedic experience. And when full of cheap vodka, these folks very often take it upon themselves to do God’s work. Most seasoned comedians know how to deal with hecklers. And the occasional audience member helps out by either threatening or out-shouting the heckler.

Unfortunately, none of these things were going in my favor on Tuesday night. The show at L.A.’s legendary Troubadour was at capacity and by the time we arrived, the floor was packed. We were given passes to the upstairs lounge, which is usually a really nice place to be. There’s a bar and a window that you can see the show through. The sound is piped in through speakers and there’s TV sets giving a view of the stage, just in case you prefer the comfy seats along the corner to the barstools. Predictably, as the night progressed, the space in front of the window got more and more crowded. (Pressed up against the glass, these people reminded me of kids at Sea World, trying to rouse Shamu into eating their little brother.) And people not standing by the window got more and more drunk. And louder – much, much louder. The show ran late because Brian Posehn and Zach Galifianakis were shooting something or other and were behind schedule. Zach never made it and we had to leave before Brian took the stage.

It got to a point where all we could hear over the din was raucous laughter from downstairs and the clink of cheap plasticware a few feet away. What really tripped me out was that a few of the comics (including Bob Odenkirk) came upstairs and proceeded to talk over their fellow comics’ sets. It’s one thing for a guy who works for the phone company to decide it’s his duty to “challenge” the fella onstage. It’s another thing completely for someone who knows what it’s like to stand on that stage to make it hard for paying customers to hear what they came for. OK, rant is over. I get nosebleeds from the soapbox sometimes…

In any event, the moral of the story is: Shut the hell up when you’re at a concert of any kind. People don’t pay to hear you talk – especially me.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Fists Make The Best Muzzles Committee.

When in doubt, use links.

This one's gonna be short, so I'm use a lot of hyperlinks to dazzle...

Is the term “Banana Republican” better suited to refer to our Log Cabin friends or the nice folks who fold shirts and lie to folks about the size of their asses down at our local mall? These are the things that keep me up at night and occupy me while I should be working. Hence why I am not upwardly mobile.

Also: if anyone has four tickets for the 10pm showing of Snakes On A Plane at Grauman’s in the big theater, please be so kind as to give them over to the any charter member of the Midnight Movie Mafia. It seems that we underestimated the public’s fascination for a surefire cult classic. If it comes down to it, we’ll settle for the little theater at 10:15p but it would feel like cheating on our usual spot.

For today, that is all. I am going to see The Comedians of Comedy tonight and will be unable to type later as my guts will surely be busted.

Before I go, I'll leave with this odd sign I saw while outlet shopping with Armi this weekend:


Now I ask you, who does a product labeled "Hobo" appeal to, especially at regular price of $59.99?

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Hyper-Zeldas Committee.

The Invisible Line

Million dollar question: At what point should one “Let things go,” or "Get over it”? Is there a table that breaks it down neatly? And who says that we shouldn’t “lower” ourselves to level of our enemies (or at least our annoyances) if just for the moment? What’s their basis for such an argument?

What quantifies a “connection” or “friendship” or “relationship” after all, is nothing more besides our own perception and expectation, however realistic or not those may be. It follows then, that what consititutes a "betrayal" isn't so easily quantifiable, either. From this perspective, it’s all about how up-to-date the prescription on your emotional glasses is. Realistic expectations yield realistic disappointment or delight.

Sure, I’d like to think that I’m one of the nice guys – forgiving and easygoing, non-judgmental and ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. But I know better than to delude myself. So why fight such inclinations toward my true nature? Why not rip someone to shreds, no matter how insignificant they really are to me (to say nothing of the rest of the world) when the occasion calls for it?

After all, thanks to a forum such as this, people who have never met me know about my struggle with depression, about funny and touching childhood memories; there’s some stuff here my parents have never heard and probably never will. If I’m willing to share all of that, what rule of good taste keeps me from giving in to my baser instincts?

I’ll tell you what keeps me from giving in. The idea of joining the ranks of those people who fight in public places or in front of their kids; the ones who hold acquaintances hostage while they turn classrooms, workplaces, and bars into impromptu group therapy sessions; those who would bleed all over the internet, holding their cherished victim status to garner sympathy, all the while leaving out details that might point a few fingers in their own direction? Not tempting in the slightest.

No, I’ll be content to share my darker thoughts with close friends over drinks or Thai food. Hating is an art show and nowhere does it say that can’t be an invitation-only event. In the end, my dignity and self-respect are worth more than a few moments of flesh-rending, no matter how good it may feel at the time.

Besides, that’s what LiveJournal is for.

-J.

Super-zeroes...

Blogger and I are off to a rocky start this week. Tonight's the first time I've been able to get it to work since Monday. Still, by request, here's my return to observational blogging...
Last Friday, I made a rare venture into WeHo. Normally, my observations involve twinks making spectacles of themselve. And while they were out in force at Micky's, they were far from the center of my attention. Everybody knows my fascination with superheroes knows no bounds. So when a geek in a Green Lantern t-shirt (the um, green shirt on the right) walks into a gay bar, not only does it make for a great intro to a joke, it catches my eye immediately. Superhero night at Rage isn't until later this month. So what would bring a wayward stag into Micky's on a Saturday night?

He seems to be searching, never staying in one place too long, but never starying into the light. A secret identity is vital, I suppose.

He heads to the bathroom - a costume change, perhaps?

While he's gone, it becomes too clear: In walks The Flash.

OK, so it was a fellow geek in a Flash t-shirt (the, um, not green shirt above), but still, you get the point. He scours the place, obviously in search of his teammate - a blind internet date, I assume. Of course, GL's busy having a secret meeting in the john, the speedster leaned against the wall, with a view of the bar and at least two of the go-go boys. I like to think that he was cruising for sidekicks while waiting for his prince with the ring.

But the Lantern emerged from his private Hall of Justice and zigged when he should have zagged. For what seemed like a few lightyears, they stood on opposite sides of the club, where my company and I could get a view of both of them. Maybe if either of them had approached the bar and ordered a shot of truth serum, they might have seen through the haze. But apparently they were unable to detect one another. A villainous plot or just the ineptitude of gay geeks to socialize? In any event, this double agent decided to not play goody goody and superhuman take its course.

Finally, the Flash dashed off in a huff. I assumed a fire or cat up a tree needed him. Green Lantern followed close behind, after consulting his cell phone. I imagined a "battery low" message - he could charge his ring and his phone all at once.

I finished my screwdriver and moved onto watching the go-go boys with the amusing nicknames David and I had applied to them (i.e. Mel Gibson, Tentpole, Laguna Beach, etc...). Apparently, my greatest superpowers are apathy and observation. If Stan Lee's show makes it to next season, I hope they change the title to "Who Wants To Be A Supervillain?". I Could Care Less Boy would be first in line.

Oh, and they were totally wearing the wrong shirts. GL was a total Flash and the Flash would have made a perfect GL.

J6 Tip O' the Day:
For those who thinking of blind internet dates using identifying outfits, if you're so inclined, may I suggest going with a proven, long term couple?

That or Bert & Ernie masks should do the trick.

- J.

This post was sponsored by the How fucking hard is it to find a superhero t-shirt in a gay club?!?!?! Committee.

Back By Popular Demand...

...or on the heels of the requests of some pushy Midwesterners (not to mention some Midwestern expats...). I thought about making my sabbatical an actual 30 days ( but a funny thing happened - I actually got the itch to write about things! So here I am. Since it's been a bit, I thought we could all use a little recap on what's gone down since last we all checked in to Chez Jay:

Coming Down.
I went off of Prozac. This was under the watchful eye of my doctor. Basically we felt that I’d learned to manage my condition(s) well enough to try and handle it on my own. If it doesn’t work, back on the wagon and we’ll see where we go from there. The first week or so was a little weird. I thought maybe I was having seizures or a stroke - just the side effects as chemicals were exiting my body. But as of now, I’m side-effect free and not falling apart. So onward and upward, as they say.

Boybands? What next - Gays in theatre?!?!?!
Lance Bass came out. Boy, this was one of those moments I wish I’d been blogging for. Back when *NSYNC was popular, FB and The Princess and I had nicknamed Lance “Ellen,” due to his uncanny resemblance to Ms. DeGeneres. Imagine our amusement at what looked like a parody of her Time “Yup, I’m Gay” cover on People. Bottom* line: A People cover is still better than Us, not as cool as The Advocate, and total confirmation of D-List status. This, I suppose, will ensure him a reality show or at least some further appearances at Kathy Griffin’s side.

*I’m assuming here, but come on – you really think that Reichen’s not in charge in bed here?

Geek Pride
I attended a couple of days of the annual San Diego Comic-Con. I met up with an old friend who I almost never see and got stay with my favorite cousin, who lives in SD. The 19th Annual Gays In Comics forum was the highlight of my Saturday and I got to meet Phil Jimenez, who I didn’t even know was gay. That we’re both L.A. born, Hispanic, comic geeks, and gay was a nice moment of solidarity. I’m hoping to score an interview with him for HomoMojo sooner than later. He swears he has a great explanation of why Wonder Woman's not a lesbian.

Always wash behind your Earbuds
I have a habit of washing sensitive equipment only to find it more durable than suspected. I once washed a flash drive from work and discovered it was still functional the next day. So it was only with mild surprise that FB made the rather hilarious discovery in the dryer the other day – the earbuds to my iPod. Better than forgetting to take the actual iPod out of my jeans, I suppose; but still a bummer. I ran out and found a pair of acceptable replacements (and no, I didn’t shell out any more money for an official pair) only to discover last night that apparently earbuds can survive just about anything. I’m thinking of writing Apple and seeing if they’ll put in a commercial after I explain how durable their fine products. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try the good people at Cheer and explain just how mild their fine products are.

A reading rainbow...
It I just needed to reconnect with my love of words and my own vocabulary through reading. I finally gave up on trying to read American Psycho. I've had the book for a year and tried to get past chapter two for months. I threw in the towel and hunkered down with Augusten Burroughs instead. Running With Scissors and Dry, with liberal doses of David Sedaris, kept my brain working. At some point or another, I expect to be ready for Patrick Bateman's bloody adventures but I guess I've just been feeling more madcap than murderous lately.

Well, that feels like a nice, soft re-entry. I honestly don't know what's coming next. I have a few pre-packaged musings ready to go so as not to leave gaps, but for the most part, I should be ready to observe. Also, there's a new layout coming - I can feel it. I just need to find and/or create it. So stay tuned - I think we're just getting started (again!).

J.

This post was sponsored by the Back To Gay-sics Committee.

Cue the sirens.

"Today's the 4th of July/Another June has gone by/And when they light up our town I just think/What a waste of gunpowder and sky..."

I passed a kid on the way to the gym yesterday in an Iron Maiden t-shirt. Do people still listen to that band or do they just sell the shirts at Hot Topic for posers? I mean, I doubt most of the folks in knockoff Betty Boop merchandise have ever seen an actual vintage BB short. And I'm sure that the kids in Sex Pistols clothing wouldn't know the difference between Sid Vicious' corpse and Keith Richards (to be fair, that's a hard distinction to certify without a coroner and a necromancer on hand). Just wondering.

Tonight was the usual pomp and circumstance of lighting the sky. As usual, the hills of Burbank charred a little bit and the fire department had to put out three small blazes. It's always a nice opportunity to bond with my neighbors on the top level of my building - watching the red lights flash and the flames slowly disappear is almost as fun as watching the multi-colored designs of the fireworks. Beforehand, The Princess and I opted for a sushi dinner. Doesn't get much more American than raw Japanese food served by friendly Korean waiters and their Mexican busboys. Personally, I'm not that patriotic and while I like fireworks, I'm far more inclined to be entranced by reflection of the sunset or shimmer of moonlight over the ocean. That or a meteor shower. Don't get me wrong - I'm not exactly some anti-American hippie type but I feel the same way about this day as I do about Mother's Day or Valentine's Day. Like your mother or your lover, your country deserves your love - honest, warm and tough all year round.

So get out and vote and protest and write your representatives and march in any kind of parade you like. And shoot a flare into the sky if it makes you happy. Just don't point it at the flag, anyone's eye or cat. I hear the police don't look to kindly at that.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Roman Candelabra Committee.

I'm not dead!

But, yeah, I kinda fell of the face of the Earth for a while there. It happens - more often lately than I'd like, but there ya go.

Last Tuesday, I had another fab night out with the Midnight Movie Mafia^TM. Of course we saw Superman Returns. Seeing as how it made a buttload and a half in the last week, I'll spare y'all the review. But I will give a highlight reel...

• Kate Bosworth & Brandon Routh seemed a litle young. They were definitely going for the Spider-Man audience. (Awesome trailer for SM3, BTW - put him in the black costume and all geeks are happy.) Despite some wooden moments, neither ruined the movie.
• Kevin Spacey was all over the place as Lex. I like my Luthor totally evil, with flecks of humor, not the other way around. And David's right - as good as Parker Posey was, Jennifer Tilly would've rocked it. As of now, I am going to start a campaign to get her the role of Harley Quinn in the next Batman movie (No matter who they cast as the Joker, she'll be perfect) .
• Brandon Routh owes the world a legit shirtless moment. Though I'm kinda glad we didn't get it with him as Superman. The whole idea of finding Superman hot is, as I told Jason and Chad over drinks beforehand, kinda like finding Jesus hot. Didn't stop me from inspecting the package, but still...
• The John Williams theme got way too much play. It's iconic, I love it, we get it, he's Superman. A real shame, because I liked the music that was composed.
• In my opinion, the most successful aspect of the storytelling, was the love story. This, if you ask me (and hello, you are reading MY blog) is also the most difficult to pull off. The unspoken feelings and starcrossed nature to Lois & Clark's love is about as real as it gets.

So much for sparing the review. I'm home all day tomorrow, so there will be blogging then as well.

Until then, I'm J.

This post was sponsored by the Back to Blogging Committee.

Thursday, take two

Stupid Blogger ate two nice posts - one last night and another in the middle of today. (That's what I get for trying to avoid working, I guess.)

I have been having the worst time waking up this week. Odd, because it's been years at this point since I've been able to sleep in past 8am on a good day and here I am, sleeping a good hour past my alarm clock. The bright side is twofold: A)I have a new boss who either doesn't notice or doesn't care when I stroll in 15-30 minutes late, and B)I'll soon be transferring to my old department, where my hours will begin at 10am. (Yes, that means I'll be there until 7pm, but when you live 10 minutes walking distance from work, the word "commute" tends to disappear from your vocabulary completely.)

The moral of the story is: I'm going to bed early tonight. Hopefully I'll manage to squeak out of bed on time and be ready to meet the Wienerschnitzel truck! Pictures forthcoming...

-J.

This post was sponsored by the The Hissing of Summer Yawns Committee.

Wednesday: Post 1oops!!

I've been so thrown off this week. It's a rough life, with all the days off I've taken in the last month. This week is my first full workweek since mid-May. I woke up on Monday and almost stayed in bed - not out of laziness, but out of habit. I also managed to fast forward a week in my head. I thought Superman Returns was releasing today and that my plans for a midnight-ish screening were for last night. Thankfully, I figured that one out before trekking down to Hollywood. I'd hate to be like those Star Wars fans who turn movie lines in a geeky Woodstock. (They pass around six-sided dice and licorice instead of drugs...)

Also, it's the first day of summer and I haven't even started a tan yet. The parts of me that hide from the sun are ghost white. If you think you've seen scary, you've never glimpsed me below the ankles. Seriously, I've got to get some sun. Of course, I have to be in decent enough shape to go out shirtless in the sun before I can tan. So I'm a gym slave for the time being. Which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't constantly being cruised by the two groups of men I don't have anything in common with: really old men or teenage boys (aka the Baby Gays). So, either I look younger than I am (which, sadly, I don't think I do anymore) or I look like a pedophile. I'll continue to delude myself that I just look that good when I'm sweaty and blasting Cyndi Lauper on my iPod.

I'm sure I'll have more after cruising the elderly and pre-pubescent tonight.

UPDATE: I can't believe I forgot to mention this - Wienerschnitzel is bringing lunch to my work on Friday!!! I hope they have a Wienermobile like the Oscar Meyer truck....I'll SO take a dirty picture with it.

Squeeze the handle, blow out the candle...

So I'm out of racist food pics for the time being. Instead I've got a slate of sexually suggestive food pics on tap. The current crop came from a candy store up in Sausalito - besides the obvious taffy jokes, there were plenty of unintentionally gay-themed candies. I'll be using them to spice up posts for the foreseeable future. The one to the right, duh! LEFT reminds of what I really want for my birthday..

So I've got a belated birthday party on the schedule for Saturday. Times were that I used to throw themed parties but this year all I've managed to do is send out the Evites and buy hamburgers and hot dogs from Costco. Still, seeing as it'll be the first party FB and I have thrown as roommates, so the pressure is on. We could have our gay cards suspended or our toaster oven taken away! For his part, the roomie is insisting on a floor show. Personally, I'm leaning toward a school cafeteria theme. I've got all of the cheesy food serving stuff from the Target dollar aisle.

One of my favorite parties past was the Under the Sea - I think it was for my 25th. We draped blue streamers from the ceiling and bought cheesy fish decorations and served seafood. My heart of course was most into the superhero bowling party I threw a couple of years before that. I was Clark Kent with the Superman shirt peeking out (years before Brandon Routh stole the idea). For the cafeteria theme, I just need a hairnet, an ugly mole and a bad attitude to properly play the part of Disgruntled Lunchlady. But uncharacteristically, I'm not in the mood for costumes.

My point? The bar* has been set and I've got standards to live up to. Thank God almost none of the people I used to hang around with are still around. At least I can repeat a few ideas without anyone knowing. And all suggestions are welcome. Anyone?

-J.

*which reminds me - I need to get the place stocked for the drinking games and such...

This post was sponsored by the No Pressure, No Pressure... Committee.

It's the tights, isn't it?

In case you haven't been keeping track, here's the Hot & Fresh! Gay Geekly round-up:

Superman isn't gay, although he may be Jesus. (Maybe Mel Gibson should direct the sequel.)

Batwoman definitely is a lesbian. (Doesn't change the fact that outside of hardcore Batfreaks, most folks think that's a typo for Catwoman or a post-feminist Batgirl .)

Spider-Man comes out. (He "swings" through New York all day long. Are we really surprised?)

Anyone paying attention to the X-Men franchise can see that the geeks and the gays operate on sides on the same thin line. Hell, some of us even occupy the grey area that connects us. If Superman's crotch or a lipstick lesbian heroine help anyone out, I'm all for it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a new Wonder Woman in town and an issue of Astonishing X-Men waits for me. And I've got to pre-order those tickets for the midnight premiere of Superman Returns.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Nice "S" Committee.

Homecoming...

(<= Brought to you in La$ Vega$ Drunk-O-Vision)

Alas, all dreams must come to an end. And so it is that I must experience my last four-day workweek for some time. I've had a full month of three-or-more-day weekends and next weeke resumes my life as a full-timer. But I'm tanned, rested and $130 richer, beyotches! I was down to my last nickel on a penny machine when I hit a bonus game and got PAID!!! That so makes up for the fact that the pool was under renovation.

Lemme just say that downtown Sin City is the place to stay. The Strip is a nice place to visit and gamble and gawk, but nothing compares to old Vegas. Officially it's called the Fremont Street Experience, but I call it A Window Into Despair. The living are outnumbered by the undead here - lifeless husks clamoring for their free vodka tonics and 99 cent shrimp cocktails. In short, it's a people watcher's dream.

Honestly, I spent most of the trip reading and relaxing. I'm not much of a gambler and I can't get drunk in front of my family. Still, it was a great way to spend the birthday. I got well wishes from every spectrum of life - dinner and gambling money from the fam, calls from FB and Armi, a funny card from Chip, a text message from David, an email from Jason - thanks to each and every one. And not a single lesbian hit on me.

OK, OK, onto to racist foods! (For future posts, I've got sexist foods and candies for the gay grocery aisle.)


What's up with the cocoa hippos? And is it not OK for people of a lighter skin tone to consume this Coke? Makes you wonder who that Crystal Pepsi was meant for...*cough* tweakers.

Also: the HomoMojo gig begins again soon. The site's been rebooted and relaunched and I'll be posting as JaySix there from here on out. More details as we get them...

See ya tomorrow kids! Good to be back.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Slotty Mouth Committee.

Before I head to Vegas...

...to gamble my birthday away, I leave you with this.

I promise to get back to posting next week. Those racist food pics aren't going to post themselves!

-J.

Sponsored by the Turning 29 Tomorrow Committee.

Sorry for the delay, kids – I forgot that the tornado known as my family was coming into town as of last Thursday. It’s an interesting thing – having a roommate in the process of moving in and having your family come and take over your living room, kitchen, bathrooms (my mom redecorated the downstairs john – she even bought candles!). On the one hand, it’s great to have Mom do grocery shopping. On the other hand, I like to curse a lot more freely – and not worry about running the washer because somebody’s in the shower. A family visit wrap-up could be coming soon – although who knows, we’re heading to Vegas to celebrate this prodigal son’s birthday. In the meantime, let’s finish up that long overdue San Francisco post:

After the fun that was Martuni’s (actually, to be there on showtunes night was downright odd) we headed. At one point, the piano man burst out into “Hello Dolly!” – naturally it turned into a sing-along. While getting hit on by that lovely and confused girl, I apparently missed his impression of Bette Davis singing “Over The Rainbow.” Doesn’t get much gayer than that, folks. We called it a night after a couple of drinks and wandered ourselves down to a local all-night diner. The drill from here is pretty much the same as always: sit, talk, philosophize, joke around, get tired, head home.

As I was washing my face, I couldn’t help but bring up the attempted girl-on-girl action of the evening one last time: “I still can’t believe I was hit on by a lesbian.” Dear, sweet, tipsydrunk FB’s response was surprisingly nice: “Princess is probably right – it was low lighting and the girl was probably drunk.” Before I could utter a “thank you” he continued, “Also, all of that damn metal in your ear couldn’t have hurt.” Have I mentioned how much I love having a brutally honest best friend?

The rest of the weekend was a blur of coffee, chocolate, and clam chowder. We saw one of our favorite baristas - it turns out he moved up to SF and works at the Coffee Bean in Ghiradelli square. In a show of moderation - I spent only $80 at H&M (as is my style, I got some cute undies). And we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and took a trip to Sausalito. (I even walked the bridge! Proof the meds are working...)

Oddly, I wasn't sad to leave when the time came to go - I was just happy to have had the time off. We spent the last day talking about our lives and directions of some delicious & cheap pizza and salad. Life doesn't get much better than that.

Now if only FB would stop calling me a lipstick lesbian...

Later tonight: The Return of Racist Foods (and Friends)!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Committee.

Pt. 2 Night In The City

Apologies for the lateness of this one - stupid internet threw me into a panic and went out for a few hours last night. It was like being in the dark ages!

You know you're in San Francisco when, of all places, Tower Records has an entirely unsubtle "Gay Porn" section that shames the generic “Adult” section it sits by. Naturally, I walked out with a Madonna single, the new Dixie Chicks CD and Campfire Twinks*.

The car ride up is a blur of sunlight fading and reappearing. While sleeping (I do that on long car rides), I overhear my old friend/new roommate say he doesn’t really care for my cartilage piercing; something about it being “too young” for me. (When I mention that I heard this later, we agree that it will look better once the starter stud is out and I can put in a ring or something. The Princess makes sure I overheard the part where she had my back. Duly noted.)

Cue the requisite stop at Pea Soup Andersen’s and a couple of potty breaks later, we finally arrive in beautiful Oakland, California. Commence the locking of windows and the obligatory, “Welcome to Oakland, bitches!” routine. Commence also the lookout for Hammer’s former place. Pay the $3 toll on the Bay Bridge (editor’s note: I’m willing to pay to leave Oakland, but to get back in?!?!). Finally, we’ve arrived: the highly recommended Nob Hill Motor Inn will be our home away from home. The kindly girl behind the counter makes us feel welcome and points to our room. Lo and behold, it’s 103 - the same one we stayed in last year! Kismet, I tells ya. Kis. Met.

It was previously decided that there would be no repeat of last year’s fiasco, where the Princess and FB both fell asleep and I ended up hitting Martuni’s (a local piano bar/dive) alone. The plan this time was simple: hit the room, change and shower, if necessary and hail the cab. All goes according to plan. There’s standing room only at the back, where they keep the piano. Then things get interesting. As I'm buying a round of drinks, a nice girl approaches and strikes up conversation while waiting for the bartender to come back around and take her order. She explains that she's been at the bar since 8pm and is celebrating her graduation. I congratulate her and we talk a little about how some her friends sang at the open mic. Gathering my drinks, I tell her it was nice meeting her. Apparently, it was good for her, too because her response was to pat my ass as I walked off.

Normally, being hit on my a girl wouldn't faze me. In a cruel twist of fate, I think more women are attracted to me than men. But being hit on my a woman in San Francisco is a more surreal. And in the dark of a bar, being hit on by a girl with short hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a polo shirt causes even further concern. As I set the drinks on the table, I turned to my nearest and dearest and spit it out:

"I think I was just hit on by a lesbian. And I'm pretty sure she thought I was a girl."

The Princess,, without missing a beat, tried to be supportive:

"It's the light in here. And it's loud. Or maybe she wasn't a lesbian and just thought you were cute."

FB response, on the other hand, was, well, you decide:

"It's your hair. Very lesbionic."

Have mentioned lately that I love these guys SO much?

Part 3 later tonight...

-J.

*I kid, I kid. It was Campfire Twinks 2.

The Long Weekend, Part 1.

Friday, May 30th
Sunlight.

It never fails: even when I set the alarm clock to wake me an hour later than usual, my body wakes up at 7am. Sure, I had grand plans to rise before the dawn and get to the gym early, but we all knew that wasn't gonna happen. Still, sleeping in for an hour doesn't seem like so much to ask of the universe. I try my best for a half an hour to at least keep my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. I excel at losing this battle. Grumpy and hungry and still plenty tired from the night before, I crawl to the edge of my bed, where I sit silently for what seems like forever. The clock blinks at me: 7:45am. The dilemma becomes thus: to shower or not to shower. The cable guy is scheduled to arrive at sometime between 8am and 12pm. I decided to greet him stinky. I’ve got some things to do and I’m just going to get dusty and dirty up myself anyways. This is what I argue back when the voice inside my head calls me a “lazy ass” over the sound of my toothbrush. Which reminds me – it’s time to take my Prozac. (And clean my ear - I got my lobe piercings reopened and a cartilage done all on the left.)

I realize at just abou 8am that I've forgotten to drag the computer desk downstairs into the spot where I want the connection hooked up. More precisely, I was too damn tired to drag it all downstairs at 3am when I got home the night before, but the point remains the same: the desk needs to be in place and this guy could be here any minute now. It takes me less than half an hour to nearly kill myself while dragging the desk downstairs. Setting up the computer takes me less time than that - and induces no life threatning injuries. It's at this point that I realize it's nearly 9am and I've done everything I can. Cleaning would require moving too many things around and showering would require going upstairs. Thankfully, the TV is in place and so is the GameCube.

16 rounds of X-Men: Legends II (Gimme a break I'd just seen a midnight showing of the latest movie with three hot guys!) later, Mr. Cable/Internet/Phone man still wasn't there. Seeing as FB and the Princess would be ready for San Francisco shortly after 1pm, the time to shower had come. I leave the cell phone where I can hear it ring and make a quick bathroom run. Inevitably, I miss FB's call that he parked in the garage downstairs and forgot he didn't have keys to get in the security doors. As I make my way out front and see my dearest friend turning the corner, the cable guy shows. The time is now 12:30p.

"Hey, I realize you don't have a security key yet, but why didn't you punch in the code? You do have a key to the actual apartment." I can't resist.

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, knowing I'm right but not believing I just said it, "I panicked."

I change the subject. "The cable guy's here at least."

"Fucker's late. And you have a lot of earrings in your ear," says he with a disapproving tone. He can't resist, either. This roommate thing is either gonna be a blast, a bloodbath, or a blast of a bloodbath.

Two hours later, my clothes are out of the dryer and packed and the fella is almost done installing the phone. Great - my first day with cable and internet again and I don't even get time to enjoy it. I can't help but feel this is my fault for scheduling the appointment on a day I needed to get somewhere - somewhere far. So shoot me - I already had the day of and I'm taking two more for the family trip to Vegas on my birthday. But back on point...as soon as the slowpoke (a very nice slowpoke, but a slowpoke nonetheless) is done, we call the Princess and make our way to her little castle. A quick trip to the gorcery store rounds up our L.A. need and we're off. So long cable. So long internet. So long DVR - I think I'll miss you most of all.

Part Deux to come in the mid-morning...

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Broadband Committee.

Currently hanging in my kitchen...

I got it for less than ten bucks and it relates to my little corner of the blogosphere...

The place is still a mess - but the fridge and TV are in place. Internet, cable, and new phone service will be connected Friday morning. In the meantime, I can play video games and play DVDs to pass the time. (Thank God - all the reading last week was making my brain hurt!)

I'm sneaking time at work to prep a few posts for next week, when full time blogging will resume. On the slate for then:

• Rockin' a five-year old's birthday party 'til dawn!
• San Francisco!
• More racist food products!
• A Pop-locking monkey dance troupe.

Yes, nonsensical (but hilarious) blogging waters are ahead. You've been warned...

I might be able to check before the week is out. If not, just imagine the breakdancing primates and know that it will be as good as it promises to be.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Holding Pattern Committee.

The Underwear Stage.

Still no modern conveniences on at home. I've got calls in to the cable/internet/phone people, so hopefully by this weekend or early next week. So I'm posting a shorty (pun intended - keep readin', you'll see) just to keep my cred and my sanity intact.

One of the habits of my old roommate was to walk around the place (downstairs and upstairs) in her bra and undies. This never bothered me in the slightest. On the contrary - that she felt OK strolling down in the middle of Buffy wearing nothing but a bathrobe was actually a sign to me that we were doing all right. Still, the feeling was never reciprocal. I hate wearing sweatpants or flip-flops in outside of my own bedroom. I'll go barefoot or in socks, but I'm a freak about being in clothing while other people are around.

Flash forward to this weekend. The old roomie and her boy moved all of her stuff into their new place, leaving me an open bedroom to move into and a downstairs that looks like something out of Warsaw circa 1943. FB was over and we marvelled at how little we do without television or the internet. A few hours into Sunday evening and my best friend/new roommate sauntered down the stairs in nothing but his skivvies and a tank top. I thought nothing of it - I mean we have seen each other naked in the past. It wasn't until later in the evening (while I was reading comic books and Fb was perusing W magazine) I was in nothing but my skivvies and a tank. In the living room!

And so it's offcial I've crossed the threshold: we've reached the underwear stage.

(No pictures are forthcoming, just to be clear.)

J.

Sponsored by the A Day Late, A Boxer Short Committee.

I ain't Happy, that's for sure.

First off: anyone need a Madonna ticket or two? I've got two singles for opening night at the Forum that are barely above face value (seriously, factor in Ticketmaster's charges and I might make $10 bucks on my ticket...) And just for the curious, the reason I'm not going is because the Princess and I got tickets to a different night that actually have us sitting together. Alright, alright - my job as a salesman is officially over. Seriously, though, tell a friend - I don't want to haveta venture down to Inglewood and be arrested for scalping. Solictation on Santa Monica Blvd. is a much less embarassing offense, after all.

OK, onto business...literally. I'm going to do the oh-so-rare Bitch-About-Work-Blog tonight. Naive fucker that I can be sometimes, I really thought that the end of my former manager's reign would bring about some sort of Utopia in my department. But in the absence of our despotic Alpha dog, the rest of the pack seems to be scrambling. Oh, nevermind that we've already got a new manager who's got some great ideas about how to improve the way we do things. What some folks seem to be really concerned about is how much they can get away with during the transition, i.e. making long personal calls every time management isn't around or passing off work because you're "too busy" and then taking an hour and a half lunch to rub it in. Thing is, I know better than to get on management's bad side this early in the game. After all, previous management got on my bad side even earlier than this just last year, and she's been canned - need I say more? This worker bee is buzzing away loudly in his corner of the hive until told otherwise.

I've long contended that in the workplace, assets become weaknesses in the blink of an eye. In fact, before the recent coup, I told my manager straight out the following: "Competency has become a liability around here. To be dependable, intelligent, and willing these days is to be abused and exploited while other folks get away with flying under the radar, doing nothing but make more work for people like me." (How Norma Rae of me. And I wonder why she hated me so...) Still, there's no way around it -the bulk of departmental CYA work tends to fall on me - the only man-boy in my area, the mouthy kid with "distracting" blond hair (funny story - I'll blog it another time), the punk who has been with the company less than three years and out of of high school less than most of my co-workers have been with the company. Maybe I give off an air of confidence and intelligence (at least I hope that's it - I have been eating a lot of broccoli lately...) Maybe it's my "can-do"attitude. (Doubtful, as I'm more apt of make a sarcastic, though hilarious barb than to encourage a co-worker under stress...). Or maybe I have "SUCKER" written on my forehead because of that damn Catholic guilt my currently agnostic ass still can't seem to shake completely. (Bingo!)

Bottom line: I know I'm capable of doing my job and doing it well. By no means, do I think I'm smarter than everyone else. I just think I work harder than a lot of folks. Why? The cynic in me says it's because I haven't had the wind knocked out of my optimism. The optimist in me says. "What the hell are you talking about? You've never been optimistic. Shut up and be cynical about it already." The little boy who pushes all the button and feeds the hamster on the wheel in my head says, "Voices in J.'s head are fun."

On the plus side, my new manager is looking at having my labor grade updated because I act like a senior employee so I should be titled and paid like one. Nothing like a little cha-ching carrot dangling to make the day end on a sweeter note.

Still, I was stressed out enough by the end of today that I actually ditched out on plans to hit an *open* (that's right, free) bar because I knew I needed to sweat the stress out more than I needed to drink it away. I'll gladly pay for drinks another night. Tonight, I was tearing muscle and imagining the sands of Bora Bora. Also, I was watching San Antonio get trounced by Miami in the playoffs. I'll always vote for the guy with Superman tattoos over a wife beater.

See ya Thursday!
-J.

This post was sponsored by the Which Dwarf Am I? Committee

Conversation

Last night:

Roommate's Boyfriend: "My dreams are coming true - Mission Impossible III came in below expectations at the box office."

Me: "I know - it's awesome."

RB: "But it still made like $70 million worldwide! Jeez."

Me: "Yes, except in Germany, where his movies never do well. And you can't ever compeltely discount international appeal. It's like Michael Jackson."

RB: "So you're saying Tom Cruise could molest a bunch of young boys and get away with it?"

Me: "Probably."

I am gonna miss having nightly banter with that guy. Lucky for me, he'll be just a few doors down so I can harass him at least a couple of times a week.

Corporate racism in the food industry isn't anything new. Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima (confusingly, not ever pitched to the public as a couple) are among the most notable examples. As a child, I thought Mrs. Butterworth was a dark-skinned English woman - though it appears she's just brown on the inside. Famous Amos was a real guy, but the Keebler Elves have since bought him out and to quote my favorite new girl at work, "He's probably drunk, living it up on the sands of Barbados now." I imagine he and Billy Ocean are doing the limbo with that guy who played Bernie.

While refilling my Sprite at the local Corner Bakery, something caught my eye (see photographic evidence on the left). I know - if you look at it now, it clearly says "China Mist." But if you're filling your drink, checking out a fellow patron and glancing at the tea dispenser, the "A" in the word becomes a "K" and the context of the wacky and stereotypical "Asian" font changes completely.

Then this weekend, I faced down a package of Nips in, of all places, my dear friend Armi's place. (Lily, by the way, is adorable and full of Sunday evening energy well past her bedtime.) I snapped a spycam pic for evidence and moved on.

Later in the evening, while grocery shopping, I found more evidence:

First off, what makes a particular cheddar bold? Is it extra-strength, mold resistant cheddar? Does it lean in to kiss you on the first date? Does it dare to wear white socks with dark dress pants?
Also, I don't know that the two Nips products are related and if so, which is the chicken or the egg, but the plot definitely thickened in Aisle 3, where I found that our Asian brethren weren't the only victims:

The people at Nabisco even went so far as to assume the type of meals white people like. Seriously, if you're trying to peddle you're food-like product, placing it next to the economy-sized baking soda isn't exactly the most appetizing way to sell it.

Anyway, the list goes on and on - Rosarita, Florence Henderson, George Foreman, Wendy, Colonel Sanders, even Ling Ling the Panda Express panda - pawns, all of them. I don't think it's any one race the food industry's trying to incite hate against. I think it's a full-blown race war they're looking' for. Why, you ask? Because when riots break out and curfews are instituted, people will need to start hoarding food. And we won't be able to eat healthy, with our perishables. We'll need our stereotypical staples to keep us thriving.

It all makes me wonder if "Sprite" isn't a crack at little people. Maybe I should call those elves and see what they think...

In other news, I'm being really strict with my eating lately (restricting sugars and cutting almost all dairy) in an effort to detox. I'm chowing mostly on carrots, broccoli, oranges, and apples. Frankly, I think the lack of junk food is making me loopy. Sad, as it's only been a day.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Starvation Nation Committee.

To tide y'all over while I'm at the gym, slacking from tonight's main blogging plans...


These photos are to serve as proof that, despite my protestations, we had a good time at the failed charity outing on Saturday. To the right: J. & A. make funny for the phonecam. At left: FB strikes a sexy pose, as usual.

Next time, I'll write a check.

Sometimes charity shouldn't just begin at home. Very often it should stay there - right in that soft, warm bed that nobody should be forced to leave on a Saturday except to pee and eat (separately, of course).

As hard as I true to suppress my altruism, it takes over at weirdest times. And as hard as I try to suppress my inner cynic at said times, it never works. Take this weekend, for example. My company sponsored a volunteer event, in association with United We Paint. A good sized number of my co-workers and I showed up with assorted friends and family (yes, FB came along) at roughly 8 in the morning. The problems began immediately:

In the email we'd received from our public relations specialist, a continental breakfast was offered. I've stayed at Best Westerns before, so I wasn't expecting an omelette, but basics (a coffee pot? fresh baked goods? a table to put the foodstuffs on?) didn't seem too much to ask. Apparently my standards were too high. All we had were some boxed donuts (and I like Entemann's as much as the next guy, but...) and bottled water and sodas. The latter were not cold because our illustrious PR Chica neglected to get ice. She ended up asking the elderly couple whose house we painted for ice. And then proceeded to use their fridge to cool down some of the drinks faster.


I woofed a chocolate donut or two and grabbed a lukewarm Coke, naively thinking the worst was over. Poor A. - who was nice enough to carpool us there - seemed too depressed to sample the pathetic spread.


The day only got better from there. Apparently, PRC didn't realize you actually need supplies to paint a house. So off went our Vice President of marketing (aka PRCs boss) to Home Depot to pick up odds and ends like, oh paint, brushes, rollers, etc. During the course of the day we managed to kill several bushes, scrape a little too much plaster, and plug up one of the bathrooms. Where were our fixed-income hosts? The far-too trusting couple had left us with their home while they attended a wedding.

A funny thing happens when events like this go haywire: people stop working. Then they slowly and quietly disappear completely. I wasn't too surprised that folks bailed a little early, but when I realized our fearless leader, the inept PR chick was among the first to go, my antennae perked. Apparently she left before the pizza arrived for lunch, not thinking that she would have to use her corporate to pay for said food. Apparently, she had a birthday party to throw for her daughter. And in PR, it's always a good idea to doublebook - especially when the CEO brought his family, as did most of sernior management.

During the course of the day, the lone professional (yes, there was only one on hand) came out to A. within earshot of FB and myself. That was about as exciting as it gets. The house looked better after we "finished" (we never even put on a second coat), but I can't say I felt like it was much of a charity effort. Yes, the man served in WWII and has had an account with us since before Moses was floating down the river. Yes, they were too frail to paint the house themselves. But upon finding out that they have 8 kids, 29 grandkids, and a dozen or so more great-grandkids, I couldn't help but wonder if the family couldn't have a pitched in.

Oh! Silly me. They had a wedding to go to and there were birthdays to be celebrated.

See? My cynical side never fails me.

Night kids.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Water Based Skepticism Committee.

A Monday Without This Mexican.

First off: No, I did not take yesterday off as a political statement. Lack of blogging was the result of just plain ol' laziness. [Insert your own Mexican siesta joke here.] Stupidly, FB and I tried to get Mexican food for lunch. After striking out with authentic food, we discovered even El Pollo Loco had been hit - "Drive Thru Only" said the sign on the door. We settled for Jack-In-The-Box, where it appeared either nobody was down with the cause or had been threatened by management. In any event, my story ends with me woofing down a double cheeseburger in the shade of the park by my work and apartment. I don't think they would have wanted this mug on camera in protest, anyway:

Either I would have been reported as a sympathetic outsider or attacked as a whitewashed bandwagon-jumper. Been there, done that. Not that either accusation is completely off base, mind you. And for the record, I think there's valid arguments on both sides to be heard and I don't think many people are discussing them in an open forum. If this brings that about, great. If not, it's just a day's worth of revenue down the drain. There - my political rant for the year is done. Check!

...and since we're on the subject of Jay V.2006 (aka Blonde on Blonder - I touched up and lightened some more on Sunday night), I have a question to pose: does this face look like one you would ask for directions? I've always contended that the lighter my hair gets, the more trustworthy I'm perceived as being. If I were driving (I know, I know - stay with me for the hypothetical here...), some guy walking/waiting for public transport wouldn't be the first person I would ask for directions. All three lost souls who asked for help tonight were in luck, since I do know my way around Burbank. But I almost never get these kind of requests. And the first time I went blonde, I noticed a similar spike in my apparent approachability. Since I was small, I've known that being able to "pass" was a commodity. I've always been a little jealous of those who couldn't - with their Aztec features and/or dark skin. But I'm also jealous of anyone 5'10" or above and of people with quicker metabolisms than I. Truthfully, I lack some grand social statement to make about this, but it's one more thing to make us go "Hmm..." in a time when we're grappling with issues that are slightly related.

Has anyone here read the last 'Mojo review? It's a little short, I know, but it had been a while since I screened the film, so I had to keep it concise. I'll be more thorough with future pieces - I may even get an invite to some premiere-type thingy in June. Look out, Roger Ebert!

Well, that's my brain for the evening. Get some sleep already! Tomorrow I'll regale with the story of how I spent my Saturday painting some old dude's house.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Yo Quiero Lowlights Committee.

Thor's Day

First things first: The 'Mojo review is up here. As always, show some love and I'll owe you a drink. (Which would be way easy on me should you happen to be in L.A. on May 10th, when my favorite piano bar hosts an open bar/BBQ from 8p to 10p in celbration of their 3000th MySpace friend. I'm just sayin' - it counts if I bring your free drink to you, right?)

I fell in love this morning. I don't even know what this guy looks like but he had a REPUBLICANS FOR VOLDEMORT bumper sticker right next to his Human Rights Campaign Equal Sign. I think he works in the new Yahoo! building that I pass every day to work. If I see him again, I've resolved to flag him down and snap a picture of it so I can show y'all the proof. Until then just take my word for it - it was hilarious once I put two and two 2gether*.

Third, about that work news yesterday: Do you remember when we were kids and ordered useless junk from the back of a magazine or catalog? Remember how waiting for it and checking the mailbox multiple times a day consumed your existence? That's kind of how I've felt about the work situation for months. And much like when those X-Ray specs arrived and you'd forgotten why exactly they seemed so cool in the first place, I can't put my finger on the oddly mixed feelings I have about my boss leaving. On the one hand, our working relationship sucked. On the other, who knows what's coming next. This could very well involve a major promotion for me. It could also involve someone else taking over and screwing things up even worse than they are now. One way or the other, I won't be in my current position very long. Either things get better (promotion or no) and I stay or they don't and I bail. I've already got some contacts around the ol' place who I think will make it worth my while to transfer. But that's a ways off. And, yes, I do have a certain amount of sympathy for my boss - I guess I am a real boy after all. Stupid Prozac.

Best news ever: FB is officially giving the green light to starting the application process to become my roommate. More than likely, the move-in date isn't until June 1st (or thereabouts), but what better news could there be than having your best friend come to live with you?!?! Granted, I know we're guaranteed to see each other way less, but having my old roommate in the same building with her boyfriend and my best friend just across the hall will go a long way toward making this feel like home.

And there you have it - my brain has officially run out of stuff. But I managed to hold it together for a little post and a movie review. How proud would my mom be of me if she knew about this blog?

See ya on the Fridayside.
-J.

*Sorry, sometimes I just like 2 spell like Prince.

This post was sponsored by the I'm Too Tired To Think Up A Clever Name Committee.

Thankfully, I posted a little this morning, too.

Otherwise, today'd be a total loss and blow to my pledge to blog more.

I've got no pithy quotes to offer up. My boss got canned today and I am in a state somewhere between confusion and utter bliss. I also have an annoying amount of sympathy. Stupid heart - I thought I had you replaced with a toaster or a plasma TV or something useful like that...

As such, the HomoMojo piece has been delayed. I couldn't find the time at work today to refine the piece. So tomorrow night it shall be - promise. I have to have it prepped by then, after all - here! is premiering it Friday!

Night kids!

J.

This post was sponsored by the Still Not Ready To Make Nice Committee.

Aw, Snap!

So sue me - I'm a little photo crazy lately. What's the use in having a camaraphone if you don't capture all of the little moments in life you can't fully put into words? Take, for example, the picture to the left: Recently, while tagging along to watch everybody's favorite fashionista fabric shop, I went to use the facilities. I don't know exactly why I expected something above prison-level quality from a fabric store, but I did. Instead I came face-to-face with a Defcon 7 shade of pistachio green paint. It didn't even have the courtesy to be chipping. And this seriously was the dirtiest john outside of those horrific ones they have at the beach (I give those leeway since they're practically outdoors). On the plus side, that Malcolm in the Middle look I'm giving translated semi-cute. And what it is it with me posting pictures from random bathrooms? I think this is at least the third.

Oh! Before I forget, I've got another couple HomoMojo reviews coming up shortly. Tomorrow night, I'll be reviewing here! TV's latest. It'll probably be my last post as "The Groom" - I think it'll just make more sense to make JaySix the universal code name for cool.

In other news: it's in times like this that I am perfectly content to be among the non-driving set. On my salary, if I had a monthly car payment, insurance, and gas to worry about (not to mention the inevitable repairs), breaking even would be a joke when rent and bills come due. How would I ever afford the occasional comic book or feed my toy addiction? And on a night like tonight, when I found a weekly pass (retail value: $14) just lying on the sidewalk outside of my gym, I can't help but think that the transportation gods are sending me a sign to stay put, so to speak.

Speaking of the gym (man I suck at transitions tonight!), the way too young total cutie who works at a local eatery is totally ignoring me after a few weeks of flirty attention. I'd bumped into him a couple of times at the gym and we were always friendly. Like I said: Way. Too. Young. (No, seriously, he looks to be my sister's age or younger...), so I wasn't considering anything beyond the occasional smile, but still it sucks to be snubbed now. He loves co-worker - we'll still call her Amanda, A. for short - and tells her it's good to see her again when she comes in. She even gets the occasional 10% discount! I can barely get him to muster a "Hello" that involves eye contact anymore. I have no idea what I did to offend short stack, but I did it. What a guy I am sometimes. As I told A. at lunch today, "It's a good thing I'm on the Prozac. I can't even keep my imaginary boyfriend happy."

And that's all I can muster. I'll pull double-duty tomorrow with the review and a post here. Tune in to see if I can keep it together!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Porcelain Goddess Committee.

Still Lit.

The case before the jury. Does J. not have enough regular weekday fun or was this a night of debauchery best left to rarity?

Exhibit A: Last Tuesday I stumbled into my apartment after midnight, wearing this sticker on the crotch level on my jeans. Some work friends and I shared a couple of Adios MoFo buckets at the local piano bar's open mic night. It was given to me by one of those kindly beer girls - in the olden days they were called "wenches" - who showed up somewhere between my first and second go at entertaining the bar with my girlish falsetto and my ability to channel dead soul legends. It lead some middle aged drunk lady to comment on the strategic placement of my sticker. This offended my slightly tipsy friend - we'll call her Amanda. "How dare she?!?! What if I was your girlfriend?!"

To which I responded...

Exhibit B: ... "Calm down, baby. She obviously missed me rockin' the FauxHawk, my cutest jeans and a Blondie t-shirt while making eyes at the karaoke host. And isn't that your husband sitting on the other side of your Adios bucket?"

"Yes and yes, but if anyone's going to make inappropriate comments about your crotch tonight, it's me. You Will - I Grace. Got it?"

I've gotta admit that she had a point. In the absence of the Princess, Amanda's got the rights to be the, um, Peanut Gallery (no snickering, kids!). Except the part about the crotch exclusivity - she'd best not have blocked if the host had made a comment about my crotch.

Anyhow, after I'd polished off my table's bucket almost by myself, I gulped Amanda's Bud Light. I don't like beer ("Please - I'm far too gay for beer right now. I'm in a Blondie t-shirt, fer cryin' out loud," are the words I recall saying). My memory restarts at the point at which I heard myself clink her mug on the table. What? Nobody else was drinking it.

Exhibit C: I didn't get the pun inherent to the sticker until I started this post today. The red light still works, by the way. I also got a little keychain/bottle opener.

The people rest their case. The defense would plead The Fifth, but that might just lead to a shot or two. Deliberations may begin.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the No More Italics Committee.

Everybody comes to Hollywood...

OK, so here's the disclaimer: Unlike, it seems, most of the residents I meet, I was actually born in Los Angeles county. As such, I'm less fazed than some by the nature of this place. You know how you can be almost immune to your family's dysfunction while horrified by the quirks of somebody else's? It's a lot like that.

All that said, don't move to this city if you hate actors or the ugly side of the entertainment business. Just like a city built around a steel production or gambling or computer chips, we have an industry that thrives and supports this town. Yes, it happens to be on the lookout for good-looking, moderately talented people with a willingness to conform to standards most people find unrealistic. And, yes, much of what decides a person's "Q" rating is genetically decided and not of their own choosing. But when you get down to it, if you're not smart enough to work in computers, you'll be an outsider in Silicon Valley. And if you can't speak French or stand Celine Dion, avoid moving to Quebec.

After all, it isn't like these situation just spring up overnight. Nobody moves to L.A. and then is shocked to find the city filled with wanna-be actors, actressess, screenwriters, and general low-level sychophants. And if they are, they didn't read the fine print or listen to countless late-night comics bash us from The Tonight Show stage. In any event, L.A. is what it is. For better or for worse. If you're going to be an actor, you've got three options: A) move to New York and toil the auditions, hoping to end up in the chorus of something that runs for more than three weeks, all the while trying to scrape together $1000 a month for your half of a shared one bedroom walk-through flat; B) move to Hollywood and live from pilot season to pilot season, all the while waiting tables at Jerry's Famous Deli, hoping to score that soap opera gig to jump start your inevitable movie career; or C) stay where you are, work at the local Dairy Queen, watching Masterpiece Theatre and doing the annual community theatre production of Our Town, all the while hoping that David Mamet or Steven Soderbergh will have coincidental car troubles on the night you really nail it.

Bottom line: this isn't the town for you if you have issues with superficiality. If actors are somewhere on your "To Kill" list, consider the City of Angels a nice place to visit, but no place to live for you. After all, whether you're ordering a deli sandwich, tipping for the extra foam on your non-fat, non-dairy, sugar free mocha latte, or blowing some guy in the bathroom at Rage, chances are good you're interacting with one of "them."

And, no - I am not speaking from personal experience on that last one.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the End Scene Committee.

Can you tell me how to get...?

I've made a mid-year - alright, almost mid-year - resolution. Eh - maybe it's more like a belated New Year's resolution since I didn't make any of those. Of course I never make those, so it's more like an early re-evaluation of my life leading up to my 29th birthday less than two months from now. No, that's just depressing. Let's just call it a quarterly review, OK? Jeez, you folks can be really picky.

Getting back on point, I made a decision: I'm going to start blogging regularly again. If I can manage to keep myself in the gym three to four days a week and I can wake upf or work every morning, there's no reason I can't write my random little thought bubbles here at least four times a week. These days it seems my poor little head is crowded as crowded gets. It could only do us all a little good to have be expel some of the more nagging ones. Well, it could do me good at least.

It is amazing the random things that occupy your think box when you're trying your darndest to distract yourself at work by actually doing your job. Take, for example "Mr. Brightside" - I don't even know the song all the way through, but there I was bopping my head to the music of a Killers song I don't really like. I also couldn't stop humming The Fray's "Over My Head." Finally I had to pull out the little radio I keep at my desk for emergencies. Thankfully, one of the pop stations played both songs and helped me exorcise the demons.
I suppose it's all better than ABBA's "Gimme! Gimme Gimme!" - playing in my head as I woke up this morning. I thought the Prozac was supposed to quiet the voices...

A girl I graduated high school with died a couple of weeks ago. Mind you, I'm not one of those of jumps on the grief wagon. We didn't know each other well and had not seen or spoken to each other in the decade past. But it's impossible not to think at a moment like that, even if you try to deny it. I immediately thought of what I'd done in the decade-plus that's passed. Cut to my evaluation of my current job situation and my desire to something better with myself cause you never know, y'know? Cut to finding an old friend on MySpace (sometimes it's evil, sometimes it ain't) and making plans to get together when I'm in San Diego next. Cut to the email from an friend telling me I'm too smart to do what I'm doing and to get my ass back into school and start writing for real. Cut to Friday's hilarious dinner of Thai food with The Princess and FB. Cut to today's heart-to-heart with my favorite co-worker/big sister at lunch today. Cut to me realizing how lucky I am and how much more I need to do with myself.

Also - cut to why I've been trying to distract myself: Saturday I found out that I'll soon be roommate-less. In and of itself, that isn't a problem - I've known she and the boyfriend would move in together or get married (or some conglomaration of the two) eventually. That she decided to tell FB while I was working overtime on Saturday and not tell me directly is a problem. The way I understand it, they're probably going to move into another part of the same building - so we'll be neighbors. But I don't know any of this officially, since I've only heard it through FB's account of what he was told. I don't know why it bothers me so much, but it really does. The kicker is that I'm really happy for the crazy kids. And FB isn already looking into possibly becoming my new roommate. (I'll say it again - roommate. As in Oscar & Felix or Laverne & Shirley or Bert & Ernie. OK - scratch that last one.) Cut to the raised eyebrows of all of our mutual friends...

No, the living situation will work itself out. I have no idea how soon the change will be upon us, but I've been itching for change. And let's face it - there are worse things in the world than having your best friend move in with (especially when he's a fashion student with mad sewing skills). Maybe I'm jealous that nobody's asking me to move in with them. Maybe it's residual issues with my parents' inability to communicate directly. Maybe it's just the mood I'm in. But I'm definitely running full-force Gemini today. Both sides of me are at full speed and they're going in opposite directions. To say that I'm torn seems like a cliche, but it's apropos so there ya go.

Also, random thought: tonight was the first time I heard somebody fart in Pilates class. I didn't giggle, nor was I bothered - I was too busy sweating like a mofo* cause the room was a boiler tonight. I'm just surprised it doesn't happen more often. We get into some majorly obscene positions - and the point is to expel air at some point, after all...

OK, after reading the post, I get why I had those songs stuck in my head. Bright side? A kick ass housewarming is coming soon! Over my head? Um, yeah - but how exciting can that be? Look ma - I'm making lemonade!

"Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" still makes no sense, though.

-J.

*just how exactly does a Mofo sweat, anyhow?

This post was sponsored by the J. & FBeezy Committee.

Dick The Halls

It's amazing the things you can get done at work on days you're sure you weren't going to do anything. Not only did I clear my desktop of all pending work (briefly), I managed to snap some hilarious pictures. So without further adieu, I give you tonight's lazy ass photo post:

To the left of the tram... J. pretending to work while snapping a picture of himself on his camara phone. It's in black and white because the bad angle and harsh lighting made my skin look worse than it actually is. It's no great shakes lately, but it ain't as apocalyptic as the original image made it seem.

Right...An ad I glimpsed in the bathroom at a local Mexican eatery while lunching with some co-workers today. I'd been told about it but I had to see it with my own eyes. Granted, a Durex ad above a urinal isn't totally out of place, nor was I even close to offended, but this seems more of a club/bar kind of ad than a family dining one. Still, points for whoever came (so to speak) up with the ad campaign here.

One more to the Left.... And extra points to whoever came up with this website. Click the picture to see an assortment of of hilarious get ups fit for a manhood. I don't know if one size fits all exactly, but it fit my twisted sense of humor just right.

That's all I've got tonight, kids. See you Thursday!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the MienerWobile Committee.

G:LAB - the RE:CAP

As always, the "getting somewhere" part of being an L.A. native without wheels is not without it's speedbumps (so to speak). The school bell rang at 5pm on Friday and I rushed home to get ready. The drill was the usual going out prep work: a quick meal (microwaved Gardenburger and a glass of water), shower, shave, zit check (frightfully out of control, I'm sad to report), hair fussing (I opted for a blow dryer), and final check. I was ready to go. As I said my goodbyes, however, my roommate (let's just call her Eunice for the hell of it) refused to allow me to take the bus to the subway station. She's always going Mom on me like that - for some reason, she thinks I'm going to be assualted on the bus. Like I don't take it back and forth to the gym a few times a week. Luckily, I was able to talk her out of making her boyfriend drive me all the way to WeHo (she doesn't love the idea of me riding the subway, either). This wasn't, after, my junior prom. So what's my point? I don't have the first set of pictures I was hoping to start a little photo essay with. I should have just snapped some on the ride to the station. C'est la vie.

Anyhow, my journey began in earnest at the Universal City station. Here's J. (why can't I ever take a non-blurry photo of myself?) waiting for his train to arrive:


(Did I forget to mention or show evidence that I went blond almost a month ago? I've already done one touch up to put in some lowlights. And if you must know, I'm giving a bored look to the teenage who decided to turn the waiting room into their own personal Tunnel Of Love...)

The train meant just for J. arrives in a blur of metal. The arrival of a subway is always a somewhat surreal experience. Your first clue is the wind rushing through the tunnel (based on its direction, you know which train is coming). Then you see a light at the turn and finally the sound. Then before you know it - whoosh! - your carriage awaits. This Friday, the train was damn near empty. I managed to get a blurry shot of the map they post along the top:



My start is that blurry point at the far left and my stop is all of two points away. The inside of the train always makes me think of Space Mountain.

In no time flat, I arrive. I wave goodbye from above to my coach and we're off.


Sadly, this is where the photo essay attempt ends. I hopped the bus that took me right to the corner of Crystal & Whole Foods (aka Fairfax & Melrose) and got right into the bar. I just about forgot I even had a camara on me from that point on. (I tell ya - FB's way better at this stuff than me.)

The night is a blissful blur - I mingled with some nice new people (something I haven't done since, oh, forever), reconnected with some people I knew already (Love the shirt, Jason!), and people watched (thanks for sharing in the snark, David!). Also: I managed to get not one, but two drinks bought for me out of the whopping three it took to get me tipsy (thanks, Prozac!). Granted, Jason and David did the buying, but still, free drinks are free drinks and smart boys don't turn down cute boys when they offer to buy you a vodka tonic or a screwdriver. Most surprising blogger of the night: this guy. Back when we were mere children, as in not old enough to drink, we used go dancing to a long-gone club called Axis (it's now called Factory, but I don't know what it's like - I've never been much of a clubber cause I can't dance.)

So, next time I go to such an event, I promise to do one of two things: bring along FB or be more diligent with the camara work. And if anyone ever makes it to L.A., at least one drink is on this cute boy.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Who Knew Blogging Could Be Social? Committee.

Glib, Glab, whatever....

If you've ever been vaguely curious about what I look like up close (and don't say I didn't warn you...), this Friday at iCandy is the place to find out. You can marvel at how short I am, how teenage my skin looks (in both good and bad ways) and at how much you never thought my speaking voice would sound like it does based on my writings. Oh, and a bunch of other bloggers and their friends will be there, too. Mostly to meet me.

But seriously - there are worse ways to spend a Friday night than a little socializing with the gays. As someone who has perfected all of those "worse ways," I highly recommend coming out (so to speak) for a good time.

I 'll snap more than a couple pics for your perusal next Monday - and be sure to check other L.A. blogs for possible blackmail fodder to be used against me at a later date...

-J.

This post sponsored by the City of Anything But Angels Committee.