"I’d tap it."
–Holla Scholar in passing as a trio of hot teenage boys skateboarded by
If news copters were able to capture the plight of victims of Hurricane Katrina, do you think they could’ve, I dunno, lent a helping hand to the people and lifted them to safety?
Why do the backs of your arms get cold first?
Do kitties experience REM sleep?
I want to go to Disneyland.
A rabid lunatic raced through the streets of SF yest afternoon right around the time I take my lunchtime constitutional, right along the street I take it. Several people were hurt, one was killed, which is an awful tragedy. Still, I almost wish I could’ve been included in the melee so as to fulfill my fantasy of going out on paid disability. Oh, to dream…
I love a good nose. Not a big honkin’ schnozzer, per se, but a cute puckish little nose or a good strong dick nose. You know what I mean.
It’s disparagingly counterproductive to use sunless tanning lotion on your neck seeing as how you have to shave everyday.
Roseanne rules, even after all these years.
I used to not give a fig how I looked while chillin’ at home. I’d dress in a pair of old pants and any bright, garish shirt from my yesteryear that I wouldn’t be caught dead in outside nowadays. But that has changed since Nia moved in. You see, she has friends. Friends she ocassionally brings over to Casa Fiesta. Gay ones. And a brotha can’t be lookin’ all toe up when dey’s homos in the house, youknowwhatI’msayin’? A cute pair of PJ bottoms and a sporty shirt is my new outfit du noir.
I wonder if a Chuck E. Cheese’s token from the ’80s would still work today?
I confess: When it came out, I loved "The Macarena".
John Mayer is beautiful.
I used to hate feeding the cats when I was younger. I was the one they would wake up bright and early in the morning to feed them, and I was the one who got their goopy, stanky-ass Whiskas food on my hands that, no matter how much you washed it, never seemed to come off. But now having a cat again so many years later after having been deprived of pet company for so long, I don’t mind it one bit. Chloe is such an adorable little kitty. She loves to stretch out and let you pet her. Yesterday, I gave her some moist special treats, and it was like she’d done her first line of coke. She was racin’ all through the place. Now I find her waiting at my door in the mornings when I wake up. Cute. As a button.
That whole "Akeeklah and the Bee" movie with its "up with people" BS message for blacks is really "hackneyed" at its best. Who in the living fuck cares how well you can spell when we’ve got spellcheck nowadays. It’s all about how you use the words that matters.
Plates make no sense. It’s all about bowls.
I would give anything to have a go round in one of those ball cages.
I don’t know how people ever got along without Post-its.
Has anyone else noticed how TV has just become one continuous advertisement for itself? It all started when they discretely began putting the network logo at the bottom right of the screen. Then the logo got a little bigger. Now it’s hyper-animated, and periodically flashes little promos for upcoming shows, completely distracting you from the one you’re watching. Then you suddenly see a little band of words roll across the bottom of the screen and you think to yourself, "Oh, Christ, there’s some sort of emergency", but it’s yet another advertisement for another show.
All of this sure helps foster the pro-ADD mentality fast overtaking the American public, and it’s a mite disturbing. I mean, are we watching a piece of entertainment here or the bloody stock exchange?
"Abs are the new boobs. Boobs were the new ass."
–J. Co
I spent a fabulicious Friday with J. Co over drinks in Union Square, then shootin’ the shiz-nat back at my crib. It was good times, noodle salad had by all, and bitch, you left your sunglasses at my house, by the way. 
On her second night in Casa Fiesta, my new roomie Nia came home drunk as a (cute) skunk, and accidentally stumbled into my room circa 2:00 am before realizing it was the wrong one. I thought to myself, we’re the perfect match.
When people describe a song or movie as, "It sounds like [blank] on crack", are we to assume they’ve done crack?
You must clip your toenails regularly lest they push against the front of your shoes causing your feet to become squished inside. This in turn throws off the appropriate weight distribution on the cushions of your feet, leading to a world of pain and problems for your muscles, joints, and bones. At least, I think so.
I’m dying for an omelet.
But the bottom line is that I just don’t care for white people who act black for a living. Especially when they’re whiter than white. Case in point: Eminem. Ya fuckin’ blond-haired, blue-eyed Swedish-ass motherfucker.
I received a mass email from an old friend named Wilma today with pictures of her and her kid. In it, she mentioned cursorily that she’d left her husband. We unfortunately had a falling out some years back, but back when I met her in college she was an extra awesome chick (and I’m sure still is). She is also the prime example of having what I call Mormon Escapism Syndrome (MES).
Ya see, Mormons are all expected to act like good little Christians squared, but kids will be kids. So they dress in outre accouterments but don’t swear, and participate in oral sex only since "regular" sex is verboten. They also seem to travel in packs, making them easily identifiable, so I can make all the generalizations I want ’cause I’m right.
That does not mean they’re all assholes, though. Wilma was certainly cool, and I’ve met other Mormons who are likewise cool, well knowing that I’m gay. But the confines of their cultish religion really put the pressure on them, so they tend to explode into reality once they break out of Utah-ville, and really make the most of the life they’ve been denied as a child.
Wilma, for instance, changed the color and style of her hair several times over the course of the two years I knew her in college. But she certainly had her shit together, and as lovably flaky as she was, got her master’s and became an elementary school teacher. After teaching in the Bay Area for about a year, she then went off to teach in Uzbekistan for two or three years, and while there, met a man, married him, and had a kid. And now it looks like they’ve separated. Sad.
But it’s a lot to have happen, especially since she’s only about 31 or 32. At least I think it’s a lot. Maybe she doesn’t have MES, and I just suffer from OFS (Old Fogy Syndrome). It’s been known to happen.
Nia moved in last night along with kittie Chloe and all was fabu. We shot the shat over a few vodkatinis along with her amigo Marco, and I do get the impression that thing’s’ll be top notch now that she’s around. It’s so long to living with the stranger in my house, Ming Na, and bienvenidos a la Casa Fiesta to La Nia. Oy.
I’m so glad I took Friday off this week because my teeth hurt from all this Crest White Strip toothpaste. And I know that means it must be working, but it hurts all the same. And I’d just like to go somewhere. Even if it’s just drinking on the beach. Better yet, an E stroll along the beach. Nothing beats being out and about on a weekday and not having to work. Maybe I’ll have a picnic in the Botanical Gardens and visit the place I first stayed when I first moved to SF. This October, I will have been here for a full lucky seven years…
Holla Scholar once made a good case against getting electrolysis: (with definitive gusto) "You never know when hair might come back." In style, that is. Roger that.
I do believe Frances Bean Cobain will grow up to be a lesbo. Quigga’s intuition.
Today is Lady Miss Kier’s birthday!
Once in a rare while, I’ll be walking downtown and look down a street that’s devoid of moving cars, and I’ll be able to see all the way down to the bay or at least the slice of sunlit sky right above it. It for some reason makes me suddenly sad that one day I won’t be alive to see something that serendipitously beautiful. I mean, I’m sure heaven’s got settings that can beat that by far, but that kind of paused perfection is so rare on Earth, a sudden bubble of bittersweet admiration blooms inside you when it happens.
It was about ten years ago during my own personal summer of love in 1995. I’d just come out that March, graduated from high school in June, and experienced something of a rebirth. I’d started taking creative writing classes for gay youth at the Gay and Lesbian center. We would hang out afterwards at one of the local cafes, and in the process, I met a brand new group of colorful people who took me to my first club.
Well, we didn’t quite make it inside the club, most of us being about 17, but I’ll never forget the car ride there. Speeding along the San Diego freeway on an alive summer night, front window down with cold wind blowing while my endorphins kept me warm. And then it suddenly came on the radio: the gentle cooing, lilting intro, then pounding in with the Tom Tom Club sample and multi-layered background vocals. It was Mariah Carey’s "Fantasy", and I think of that amazing night everytime I hear that beautiful song.
I’d tried to hate Mariah when she first came out, I really did. She looked like this girl on my block whom I disliked, and her caustic crowing at canine-only audible levels on songs like "Emotions" made her easy to loathe. I would only admit to a very close friend that I liked "Dreamlover" when it came out, though once while listening to it when she hit the high note on, "Baby, come and take me awaay…" I got goose bumps.
But "Fantasy" really broke the lock that pushed open the great steel door that led to my secret lurve of Mariakah.
My freshman year of college, the same year it came out, I stowed away downtown one day, crept into a record store, and bought her first three albums used. That night, listening to "Love Takes Time" in my room alone, I was straight up bawlin’, y’all.
Getting me to cry is hardly a badge of quality, however, but I am only moved to tears by those things artfully achieved. Take a listen to Mariah’s first single, "Vision of Love", and forget that it’s her singing for a moment. That timeless Motown melody, those soaring vocals, that wicked climax and sudden drop at the end. It’s a fine piece of music. And while the former Mrs. Mottola may not get props for being all that new and creative with each record she releases, her faith in the formula works because a catchy tune and a spectacular singing voice never get old.
So, like most jiggas, I was pretty disappointed when "Glitter" came out. I didn’t think it was anything worse than all the other trite mainstream American films on the market, but the album was pretty piteous. Then we had the ennui-inducing effort that was "Charmbracelet", with "After the Rain" being merely a glimmer of her former greatness. And now the big huzzah over "The Emancipation of Mimi".
Perhaps it’s the more hip hop-oriented sound purveyed by producer Jermaine Dupree. I think it could have at least stood a few collaborative efforts with her former songwriter Walter Afansief, who coined many of her previous songs. Simply put, none of the new stuff pops as much as MC’s new inflated tits do now and her old hits did then. I miss the old Mariah, and wish she’d get back to the "Music Box" to make some better "Honey" for our ears.
