Featured Post

Seething Cakes of Hatred

Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I...

Saturday, February 28, 2004

My Offspring

I started blogging in December 2003. At first my friends were worried. They thought I was going too reveal too much of my life (and theirs). One friend even asked me if I was worried I might be stalked.

God, I hope so.

After seeing how much fun I'm having, lots of my friends are jumping on the bandwagon. First Proud Mary decided to start a blog, although she wants to keep it under wraps for now.

My devoted and beautiful friend from college, Ponyboy Girlietoolshed started her blog after that. She has an incredible way with words and expresses herself in profound and poetic ways. A few weeks ago another pal of mine started Cramped Hand. Erin's blog is goofy and unpredictable and lots of fun.

Just yesterday Metro started his own blog. I'm particularly proud of him because he has so much to say and is only starting to discover the power of his words. The monologue he wrote and read to us last night at rehearsal brought me to tears. He's smart and funny and takes really good care of me.

These are my people. I love them, and you will too.

Friday, February 27, 2004

Brad, Poor Brad

One actor stereotype that I hate is that we are egocentric. I'm not saying that isn't true, just that I hate it.

I met a hunky guy, Brad, and I would like to get to know him better. But he will never know I like him based on my behavior. He may read this blog someday, but I doubt that even then he'd believe I actually like him.

I haven't seen the new Drew Barrymore movie 50 First Dates, but so far that perfectly describes my interactions with Brad. I never remember him from one meeting to the next.

Meeting Number 1 with Brad:
Todd: Hi, I'm Todd.
Brad: Hi, I'm Brad. Nice to meet you.
Todd notices Brad has a nice body and cute smile. Todd also notices Brad is dating one of his Yum Yum brothers and is off limits.
Todd: Okay, see you later Brad.

A few months later:
An attractive man approaches Todd at a bar and smiles at him.

Todd: Hi!

Brad: Hi, do you remember me?

Todd: No, I'm sorry. Are you an actor? (This is an acceptable question. "Did I sleep with you," is not.)

Brad: No, I was dating your friend Brian.

Todd: Oh, that's right! (Introducing him) Hey, Boy Hunk, this is Brian.

Brad: No, I'm Brad.

Todd: I mean Brad. This is Brad.

Boy Hunk: Hi Brian, nice to meet you.

Brad: No, my name is Brad.

Boy Hunk: Oh, sorry. I thought Todd said Brian.

Todd: I did. But he was dating Brian. His name is Brad. I'm sorry.

Brad: It's okay.

Todd: I remember you now. I thought you were really cute, but I never told you because you were dating my friend Brian. (Somebody shoot me. I'm talking and I can't shut up.) Anyway, I'll see you later Brian! I mean Brad!

One Week Ago:
Todd notices a handsome guy leaning against the pinball machine at the bar. The guy is smiling at Todd. Todd approaches the smiling hunk and extends his hand.

Todd: Hi, I'm Todd.

Brad: Yes, I know. It's me Brad.

Todd: Brad? Did we do a show together?

Brad: Brad.

Todd: Oh, BRAD!! Oh my God, I'm so sorry (blah blah blah - fumbling - apologies - it's a mess and I can't bear to transcribe it here.)

Boy Hunk approaches.

Todd: Hey, Boy Hunk! Do you remember Brad?

Boy Hunk: (whispering to Todd) Dude, his name is Brian.

Todd: (whispering to Boy Hunk) No, it's not. He was dating Brian.

Boy Hunk: His name is Brian.

Todd: Shut up! It's Brad. Go away.

Boy Hunk leaves.

Brad: It's okay, I wasn't wearing a hat last time.

Todd: Yes, I didn't recognize you. But I will next time, I promise.

Last Night:

Okay, do I even need to go into it? You know what's coming. There he was leaning against the wall with some friends and I stood right next to him. He smiled at me and I introduced myself and we went through the whole thing all over again. I begged his forgiveness, bought him a drink and gave him my e-mail address (because I am a huge dork and I somehow consider giving my phone number out to be too much pressure for the guy.)

I can't explain why it is so hard for me to remember Brad given that I am attracted to him. Every single time he smiles at me, I introduce myself. I don't always approach a guy who smiles at me. Brad really is something special, but apparently he turns me into an amnesiac.

There is a whole list of details I do remember about Brad, but that doesn't make me less of a terrible person. I remember where he's from, where he works, how strong and powerful his chest is...sorry, I got carried away for a second.

I tried to make it up to him by showing him I remembered those details. I even commented on his chest because I have no social boundaries. But I can't imagine what he must be thinking about me. I hate that I am coming across as so shallow and self-absorbed. I really do care about people and I do pay attention to what they tell me. I don't want to be this way, and I don't know why this particular person seems to be so difficult for me to remember. If I ever witness Brad committing a crime he'll get off scot-free.

"Officer, I can't remember what he looked like. He had a nice chest. Does that help?"

As God as my witness, I will never forget Brad again. The next time I go to the bar, I will actively search him out so that I can date him or identify him in a police line-up. I will scan the crowd for a hunky dark-eyed boy with two piercings and a hat or no hat. And I think he had a goatee one time, but not last night.


Thursday, February 26, 2004

Mardi Gras

As an actor and writer, I am very clear about my mission to entertain. I try hard not to be self-indulgent or use this blog as therapy. Frankly, today I just need to summarize some thoughts. If you want to hang out with somebody funny instead, you can go visit him.

The first thing I learned about Mardi Gras is that I am too generous with beads. I was reprimanded by my friends all night long because I gave out beads to people without making them do anything to earn them. I was informed that my response, "But I don't need to see anything. I just like giving out beads," is not the proper Mardi Gras attitude.

It was great to be surrounded by my favorite people. Unfortunately, my darling roommate Juju couldn't make it because she was throwing up due to food poisoning. But Apollo, The Handsome Prince, the Boy Hunk and all the Yum Yums were there. When I wasn't wantonly distributing beads, I was trying to take care of a drunk co-worker I ran into at the bar. I barely know Drunko, but I remember one night at Silverado he convinced me to sit and drink some water and sober up, so I wanted to return the favor. I wore myself out trying to keep him safe, and The Handsome Prince told me it wasn't my responsibility to take care of Drunko.

Finally, I abandoned Drunko, stopped handing out beads and went to bask in the glow of my sexy friends. I was having a great night dancing and laughing. Suddenly, I noticed a familiar face looking at me and smiling. For the first time since we broke up a year and a half ago, I ran into my ex at the bar. M. doesn't go out much, but his new friends like to take him out to the same places I hang out.

Nevertheless, it was great to see him, and we had a nice chat. He met my friends, and I met his. Back when we were a couple neither of us had many gay friends, so it was great to see how we had both expanded our social circles. I was so proud of myself for being charming and fun-loving and happy. When he was ready to leave, I walked him to the door and hugged him goodbye. As I walked back to my friends I felt discomfort welling up inside of me. It was something like Juju's food poisoning, I imagine, which came out of nowhere and resulted in sort of a violent mess of purging. I felt waves of sadness and seven years of memories washing over me. And then I purged.

I remembered when M. and I first kissed at The Village Station in Dallas. (He put down his drink and said, "Todd, I'm going to kiss you now." I said, "Okay!" We made out for half an hour on the bar patio.)

In my mind's eye, I saw us arranging our cross-country move, packing up our dogs and beginning the three day trip from Texas to Oregon.

I remembered our night under the stars in New Mexico where we promised to devote ourselves to one another and exchanged rings one snowy night.

But I held it together and walked back to my friends. Then I saw The Handsome Prince looking at me with sympathetic eyes. I can't hide anything from him.

You know how sometimes you feel like you are controlling your emotions well until the moment you are extended a bit of sympathy? When THP hugged me I felt my eyes filling with tears. After a few minutes of self-indulgent pity, I pulled myself together. Then Apollo came over and asked how I was doing. Damn. Here we go again.

Balloon Boy, who is one of my beautiful Yum Yum brothers, was the third person to check on me. I rewarded him with another display of emotion. This was getting ridiculous, but I didn't know how to stop the feelings from coming to the surface.

The perfect solution was a late night feast with Balloon Boy and THP at the greasy spoon next door. We joked and laughed. I expressed what I was feeling, and I felt so proud to have the most awesome friends I could ever want.

I am resigned to the fact that the first cut is, indeed, the deepest. Although I don't want to be with M. anymore, we shared so much and I haven't found a way to compartmentalize those memories so that they don't show themselves at inopportune moments such as a celebration with friends at the bar.

Hey, wait a minute! I showed more than anybody at the bar that night and didn't get one damn string of beads for it! Okay, so I showed raw emotion instead of my dick, but still.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Dear Donald Trump

Dear Mr. Trump:

I am writing to tell you that I think you are incredibly handsome and sexy. I would like to be your boyfriend and we don't have to tell your Hawaiian or Spanish or Italian girlfriend Malana (whatever). I am not just saying this because you could buy me a small country and also, possibly, pay off my student loans.

Okay, I am. Sorry. The real reason I am writing you is to tell you that I think you are an excellent reality television host. "The Apprentice" is some quality television and is the most original thing I have ever seen. A lot of people compare your show with "Survivor", but I think it is totally different. "Survivor" takes place outside, and your show is mostly inside. TOTALLY different from "Survivor". Also, the funny wig you wear on your tv show makes me laugh.

Before I saw the show I did not care for you because I lost so much money at your casino in Atlantic City. But I think the show has been good for your image. You seem like a very nice man and are very grandfatherly. My grandfather used to threaten to beat me with a willow switch if I laid down on his couch, but he never did beat me. You seem like that kind of grandfather. One who makes threats but would never harm his grandchildren except for psychologically.

Last week on "The Apprentice" when you spoke with Heidi about her mother dying of cancer, you really demonstrated great compassion. If your piles of money could cure Heidi's mother, I almost believe you would have given Heidi as much cash as it took. Almost.

I would really like a chance to work for you, and I feel I could be an asset to you in some way. If you knock me out with some heavy drugs I will even sleep with you. But if you decide you only want a business relationship with me, let me tell you about my professional qualities:

1. I am sneaky, Mr. Trump. I work as a technical writer for a large company, but what I really do all day is write my blog and read other people's blogs and correspond with my friends via e-mail. Nobody knows. I am getting away with murder at this company, and I have never been caught. Don't you want a sneaky person working for you? I thought so.

2. But wait, there's more. I am also very flexible. When a friend in college asked me why I was majoring in Psychology, I told him, "Because it's easy, and I'm good at it." He thought that was a stupid reason to major in something, so I changed to Broadcasting because my cute friend Dan was a Broadcast Major, and I wanted to have classes with him. See how flexible I am? Now I have a Broadcasting degree that has afforded me the opportunity to do a job I love! (See #1)

3. I am creative. My cubicle at work is like a fiesta. I have toys everywhere and have decorated it elaborately. It looks like fucking Mardi Gras every day in my cube. And I won't put pictures of my boyfriends up in the cubicle if you feel that is unprofessional. I don't have pictures of any men in my cubicle right now because I am single and nobody wants me. And I still have a picture of the love of my life who broke my heart, but I keep it in my desk drawer so that won't be a problem. M. was an asshole to me, and I carry around a lot of emotional baggage because of it and sometimes I act like the world owes me because I have been hurt so badly, but it won't interfere with my job, I promise. (See #1) Anyway, the point is, I am creative.

I know you are busy, so I will let you go. I know you probably have to take the apprentices to one of your properties and brag about how it is the most beautiful palace in North America or something. I think you're sexy when you boast.

Please let me know if you can hire me. I can start immediately, and I won't have to give notice at my job or anything. I just won't show up or call in. Oh, I do it all the time. It's fine.

Hot (soon to be rich) Toddy

Monday, February 23, 2004

Party of Five

Apollo celebrated his birthday this weekend with a party attended by the same five people I always encounter at parties. There were at least forty people in attendance, but trust me. It was the same five people.

Let's meet our guests.

Tim is here drinking a low-carb beer, and he's looking very hot and metrosexual. Tim, the straight guy I have a crush on, loves coming to these parties. He enjoys the attention of the gay guys and will be happy to flex his biceps for you. He thinks you're the funniest guy he knows, and you're so much cooler than the other guys at the party. If he ever decided to experiment with the gay thing, you would be his first choice for a night of hot man sex, but he's not going home with you tonight. Or ever. He's only flirting with you because "the gays" are trendy right now. Thanks, Queer Eye!

Tom is sexy and sweet and gay. He's giving you the eye, making lots of physical contact, and he has that look on his face that says, "you're coming home with me." Tom is also in a twelve-year relationship and is desperate for some attention from someone other than his partner. Tom is just glad to get out of the house because if he has to spend one more night sitting at home with his "lover" not having sex, he'll go crazy. Tom, I'm not going home with you. I realize that I am the Special News Bulletin in the television show of your life. It won't be long until you are back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Ted is your friend. He's holding a cosmopolitan and smiling at you. Wow, he smells so good. Ted is tantalizing. He's a tease. And he's trouble. You and Ted are just friends. Your friend Ted knows he wants to be with someone exactly like you. But not you. Ted is your friend, and although he will slide up to you and kiss you provocatively, he is your friend. Why mess that up? Did I mention he is your friend?

Oh my god, TY IS HERE!!! TY! He's a gorgeous twenty-something male model. He's sexy and cute and funny and every other adjective you find on Friendster profiles. Ty's real name is Terrance, but he thinks if he goes by Ty he will get laid more. He does. Any gay man, given a choice between sex with a Terrance or sex with a Ty will choose Ty every time. We like porn star names. Ty is flirting with you because you are the jangling shiny car keys dangling in front of his baby face at the moment. Once he realizes you think he's hot, Ty will start asking you the status of all the other cute guys in the party, because he wants to sleep with all of them. Hey, Ty, my drink needs some more ice. I'll be right back. Just give me three or four hours.

Let's go say hi to Tina. She's so much fun, and she'll be the most interesting conversationalist you encounter all night. Actually, there are 12 Tinas. They are gorgeous and spectacular. The Tinas all want to know why I am still single, and they would totally set me up with one of their gay friends, but none of them are "good enough for me". Tina wishes I were straight. She wants to kiss me, because nothing is hotter than kissing a gay guy. She wants me to help her boyfriend with advice on hair product. She loves my shirt and wants to know if she can see just a little bit of my cock if she gives me some beads. Thanks, Queer Eye!

You go mingle for a bit while go out on the porch for a smoke. I stare up at the stars and my mind travels back to what seems like ages ago. I was on a tour with a brass band, and, I spent some time in Estonia. At that time, the country was being held against its will as part of the Soviet Union. Perhaps you have found yourself in a relationship where you wanted to break up, but other factors prevented you from doing so. Your partner just lost his job, or you have a dog together and couldn't possibly break up his happy home. That's Estonia and the U.S.S.R in the early nineties.

One day I went into a small Estonian gift shop. The exchange rate was definitely to my advantage. I had money to burn, but the problem was there was nothing to buy in this shop. I remember vividly the empty jewelry cases and the ancient leather shoes faded by the sun from sitting in the store window so long. The only other merchandise for sale sat behind the counter on a shelf. There sat about thirty smiling porcelain figurines. Identical dolls wearing pink dresses and holding parasols lined the shelf. In spite of all my money, I could leave the store with either a pair of old leather shoes or one of the shiny doll clones. I chose to leave the store empty-handed.

I went home alone Saturday night, but it was great to see Tim, Tom, Ted and Tina. I never did run into Ty again that night.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

I Am Alive, Juju

If my roommate is reading this, I am alive. I am sorry I didn't come home last night until very late.

What I was doing is a secret.

Also, I am engaged. I don't know if I am supposed to move to his town or if he is coming here. We haven't planned that far ahead.

Also, please let me know if I have plans this weekend. I can't remember.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

Captain Jack is Long

I knew that would get your attention. Sorry, but I am (again?!) talking about karaoke.

Sunday night I went out with THP and the beautiful muscular Apollo to karaoke at The Embers. My first song was a Billy Joel classic, Captain Jack. It went very well. The song has all the perfect elements of a party song. Suicide, heroin addiction, dropping out, loneliness, masturbation, nose-picking. During my performance, several people in the audience looked like they wanted to slit their wrists or swallow a handful of pills with their vodka tonics.

To my shock, the KJ, Rocky Rhodes, told me that I would not be allowed to sing my second selection. He said Captain Jack was too long. Since the song only lasts seven and a half minutes, I gently explained to Rocky that I had only used up half of my fifteen minutes of fame. I could fly through "Sweet Caroline" and still have a couple minutes of fame to spare. But he would not be swayed.

Right after I sang, THP got up on the stage and rocked the house. Everybody wanted to date him or sleep with him. Part of the reason for this was most likely gratitude that he followed up my funeral dirge with some popular party music.

Immediately after THP sang, my friend Apollo with the huge biceps swaggered up to the microphone and sang something. I don't remember what it was, but I remember his black muscle shirt. Another crowd pleaser.

I have always had a problem with karaoke selections. I tend to choose whatever I feel like singing, rather than keeping my audience in mind. It's horrible of me to inflict my taste in music on others. And I have done my share of inflicting, believe me. That's why my friends keep me in line if I dare to make fun of a karaoke singer (unless it is Monster).

The last time I heckled someone, my friends simply burst into a chorus of "Heat of the Moment" by Asia to humble me and remind me of my most humiliating karaoke moment. (How was I supposed to remember that the final two minutes of that song are a repetition of the phrase "heat of the moment" in a pitch way too high for my baritone voice?)

I am the man to come to if you need a song to kill a party. Sometimes I receive requests for song dedications. For example, only last week someone asked me to sing a song for their dead friend. I sang Josh Groban's "To Where You Are".

Great funeral song... not so good to dance to.

One week I tried "Earth Angel" thinking that there was no possible way that could be a downer. As I left the stage I noticed a woman crying. Tears were streaking down her face as she told me that her son sang that song at her wedding to her second husband.

I give up. I'm sorry for making everybody cry when I sing. But if you need a song for your dead friend, give me a shout.
My Valentine

Aw, you made my night last night when you told me I was cute. I have never met you before, Poison, but you are a legend in this town.

I need to start telling people when I think they're cute. It's nice to hear.

You are really cute, but I am sorry your movie was so bad.

Why do hangovers induce a need for watching bad made-for-tv movies?

Friday, February 13, 2004

Sex Show

I may not be having sex right now, but I am gearing up to write about it.

This summer I'll be performing in a show all about sex. Nine local actors are collaborating on this production, and we're all writing monologues and scenes and working on some movement pieces. The thing is, we need to come up with a name, and we're stuck.

In an attempt to inspire some creativity, I suggested to the group that maybe we should think of some things our lovers have said to us in the past. Maybe bedroom talk will spur us on to some great show titles.

Harder! Do it Harder! Suck It. Give it to me. Shoot that load. Put your finger in. Poke me with your car keys.

Okay, I made that last one up because I was getting bored. The whole list is so boring. It's not profound or shocking or exciting. A show title needs to be catchy and intriguing.

So, I started thinking about my ex-boyfriend to see if perhaps we had an experience in bed from which I could draw inspiration. Well, one thing is for sure, I definitely have some material to draw on.

One thing I gained from my long term relationship was a very nice warm feeling of being completely insignificant. But I can't complain, because M. also provided me with some possible show titles. I think his bedroom utterances might make for some very entertaining material.

See if you agree.

Things My Ex Said During Sex or Good Titles for a Sex Show

1. Please don't cum on the new sheets.

2. What is that sound? Did you hear a sound outside? Do you think someone is breaking in?

3. I'm getting dizzy. Let's take a break.

4. You are like a child in bed.

5. I think I might have crabs.

Wow. Making that list really made me horny. Now, why did we break up again?

Any suggestions? If you give me a great idea for our show, I will steal it and claim it as my own.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

I'll Cover You

So far today I have written about 100 e-mails and a trend is developing. My communications today are erratic. I feel like a reckless mad sea captain cackling as he guides his wooden ship straight into the rocks. I warn you. The best thing you can do is try to stay out of my way so you don't get hurt! This old ship is headed for disaster. My mind is jumping around and can't stay on one thought. My attention deficit gift (it's not a disorder) is playing with me.

There has never been a song like the love song Angel and Collins sing in RENT. (How was that for a nice transition? You can sue me for literary whiplash if you like.) I swear to God that song makes me cry almost every single time I hear it. Not just the haunting reprise after Angel dies. No, the duet makes me cry too.

I love the line: "I've longed to discover something as true as this is." I am longing to discover something true. I don't want a boyfriend. I want something true.

Last night I went out for drinks with my straight friend Boy Hunk. Boy Hunk is bound to star in one of my blog entries very soon, because he is the hottest and sweetest boy ever, and I wish he would just be my boyfriend already. I mean my something true. Not my boyfriend.

God, does anyone else hear that singing? I'm going to steer the ship over there and investigate! Oh, keep quiet, you. I know what I'm doing. Those aren't rocks, they're shadows! Listen to that beautiful song...

Anyway, Boy Hunk is 22 and is in a totally different place than I am when it comes to romance. We were at the bar last night talking about our long term relationships. Each of us have only had one very serious relationship and both were pretty long. His was three years but started when he was 17. Mine was seven years and started when I was 29.

Now that Boy Hunk is single, he really wants to stay detached with the girls he is seeing. I am having the opposite feeling. If I don't feel some sort of attachment to a guy, I don't even want to go out with him.

Suddenly it's all about discovering something true. I know where and how to get sex, but I don't want to pursue it. There are some guys I could call if I just wanted to sleep with someone. And I definitely want to sleep with someone, but I'm not interested in casual sex right now. I want to connect. It doesn't have to turn into a relationship, but I want to climb into bed with someone because I want to show them I care about them instead of doing it so they can make me feel good.

After I split with M. I went through a crazy period of trying to sleep with as many guys as I could. For the record, I did an admirable job of surpassing my own expectations. I was always safe, but I was not very discriminating. I snapped out of it after a particularly embarrassing night of sex during which the guy's mother started banging on the bedroom door telling us to be quiet. Um, he was over 40 and lived with his mother because he didn't want to work.

Now I worry that I am being too picky. Not because I am holding out for sex with someone I care about, but because I am not approaching anybody. I feel like I am trying to find something wrong with every guy I see. I've only been single for a year and a few months, so maybe this is just a normal phase.

The point is. I like that song from Rent. A lot.

The old ship crashes into the angry rocks. The sound of shattering wood breaks through the dark night. Waves engulf the mad sea captain as the sirens' song seeks out more hapless victims.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

What Sort of Diary?

I went a bit link crazy today. No, a LOT link crazy.

I finally got around to seeing The Hours. I was probably one of the first to read the book. But, in spite of my love for all things Streep, I didn't see the movie until last night.

The DVD had some great special features, and I was particularly pleased with the Virginia Woolf biography.

I know these words have been posted on countless blogs before, but Virginia Woolf's thoughts on keeping a diary are so applicable to so many of us who blog. If you've seen this before, just consider it a reminder.

What sort of diary should I like mine to be?

Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly,
so elastic that it will embrace anything solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind.

I should like it to resemble some deep, old desk,
a capacious hold-all in which one flings a mass of
odds and ends without looking them through.

I should like to come back after a year or two
and find that the collection had sorted itself and
refined itself and coalesced -- as such deposits so mysteriously do -- into a mold,
transparent enough to reflect the light of our life
and yet steady, tranquil compounds
with the aloofness of a work of art.
- - Virginia Woolf

The pressure is off. I don't have to be as politically savvy as Adam or top (no pun intended) Ryan's steamy exploits.

I can't begin to arrange my words as artfully as he can.

My life is nowhere near as exciting as his or his.

I am not as funny as Skot or Greg . But, damn, I want to be.

My blog is ugly and bland when compared to...well, most people's, but especially Philo's.

But Toaster Oven is mine, all mine. I am so pleased to be part of such a creative and stimulating dialogue. I had no idea that blogging would enhance my life so much. I think differently and am conversing with interesting people and learning new things every day.

It is a bit scary to have Virginia Woolf as a role model, I admit. There are rivers galore in Portland, and the temptation to drown myself pulls at me every time George W. opens his mouth. But, thankfully, I have a source of comfort Virginia Woolf never had.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Accidentally Horrible
Last week at karaoke, I was a really bad man.

My best friends often tell me to use my "inside voice" when I'm drunk. I tend to say whatever is on my mind and think that nobody will hear me. If anybody does hear me, I have to backpedal and try to cover for the horrible things I've said. (Sort of like Howard Dean, I guess.) A lot of times I am very effective at backpedaling due to extensive dramatic training. Sometimes I go too far to backpedal.

Monster is a regular at The Galaxy, and he specializes in stomach-churning screaming industrial rock. He ends every song with his own special vomit sound, the likes of which I've never heard. I have been listening to Monster for months and months and am proud to say I have never pushed him through the plate glass windows. I am not alone in my assessment. In fact, I have never heard anybody say they enjoyed a performance by Monster. It really is that bad. Irritating screaming grating shrieks into the microphone that make your head hurt. Am I being clear?

So, last week, after lots of Maker's Mark and Bud Lite, I couldn't hold it in any longer. Monster ended his song, and I started imitating the patented Monster vomit sound. Loudly. And drunkenly. I jammed my finger down my throat and started making disgusting retching sounds.

I think at that point someone told me that I should use my "inside vomit sound" or something. But I don't remember. Lots of people at my table were laughing, which is the worst thing you can ever do if you want me to shut up. Laugh at me, and I become a whore. I will sweat and bleed until I get you off, comedically speaking of course.

After my vomit imitation conluded, I turned into Cordelia Chase of Sunnydale High. I launched into a monologue about how irritating Monster is. How crazy he drives everybody at the bar. How he is like the CHESS CLUB and me and my friends are like the FOOTBALL PLAYERS and PROM QUEENS. Yeah, I actually said that. I said that, although I had been teased in high school, I was now one of the popular ones. And I said Monster would never be popular. And that he would never sit at our table with the cool kids. People were laughing at my monologue, and I can't say how long it went on before my roommate hissed at me, "He is sitting right behind us."

I had no idea. Honest. And I didn't know what to do.

I would never be intentionally cruel to someone. Not that I am a saint, because a saint wouldn't have said such mean things in the first place. True, I am a gay man and when our claws come out somebody is probably going to bleed, but usually I show so much more restraint.

So Monster heard everything. I can't even look him in the eye anymore. Some of my friends are being nicer to him on my behalf, but I'm still avoiding the situation. Poor guy.

Last night he screamed into the microphone just like always. Maybe I didn't crush his spirit or anything. Maybe my opinion doesn't mean anything to Monster.

Imagine that?
Breaking Up (with my therapist)

The day I told my therapist I wanted to stop seeing her was a traumatic one. She saw me through some rough times. She counseled me about how to make peace with the spiritual abuse in my past. She taught me how to be kind to myself, to be my own defender. She walked me through the first scary days when I realized my relationship with M. may be coming to an end. She was there for me during my first temporary break up with M., which lasted a month.

My therapist worked with me a lot on my inclination to do things I really don't want to do. Whether it is going on a date with someone I don't really like or attending a party for somebody who bores me, I frequently find myself going along with plans just to avoid hurting anyone's feelings. She taught me how to say no, although I have to admit I cried after I hung up the phone with a guy I had turned down for a second date. I felt like a bitch. Still, I did feel stronger.

In fact, because of this newfound strength, I decided to discontinue therapy. At least for the time being. When I decided to let my therapist know about my decision, I also told her I had a lot of anxiety about calling it quits with her.

She asked me what I feared about discontinuing our sessions.

"What is the worst thing about stopping therapy," she asked. "No matter how silly it may seem to you, I want you to tell me what you are afraid of."

I stammered for a moment and tried to give form to my thoughts. "I guess I'm afraid, that - well, I'm afraid your feelings will be hurt," I told her earnestly.

She smiled and said, "Yeah, I thought that might be it."

She laughed, and then I laughed.

"Looks like I'm still having the same problem worrying about everybody's feelings," I admitted.

"No," she said. "It doesn't seem to be a 'problem' anymore. You were afraid my feelings would be hurt if you stopped seeing me. But you told me anyway."

It seems I had made some progress after all, and as I walked out the door, I left her with some final words.

"I think you'll be okay," I said, "but if you ever need to talk about any hurt feelings you may have, just give me a call and I can schedule an appointment for you."

It was great to walk out of her office with her laughter echoing in my ears. Then again, she made a couple thousand dollars off me, so why wouldn't she laugh?

Monday, February 09, 2004

The Anti-Me

Have you ever met the antithesis of yourself? I am not referring to your polar opposite or someone whose personality strongly contrasts with your own. I am talking about the person you know you could never date. Actually, even the occupying the same room as this person for more than thirty seconds would require you to be heavily medicated. Everything about them makes you crazy. For me, this person is Josh.

Josh lives in a sterile apartment with four pieces of immaculate furniture and absolutely no clutter. The first (and only) time I visited him, he stopped me at the door and asked me to remove my shoes. Obligingly, I removed my shoes and asked him if mattered that I had been walking barefoot in the mud before I arrived at his apartment. The look of horror on his face as he bent over to examine my feet was highly entertaining. To me. Not him.

I then asked Josh where I could throw away a gum wrapper I had in my hand. He replied, "I don't keep trash in the apartment."

Incredulously, I asked, "You don't keep trash in the - - wait. So, you don't have a trash can under the sink or something?"

"No. I take trash outside and put it in the dumpster," Josh explained. "Sometimes I will gather three or four pieces of garbage and make one trip. You may set your gum wrapper on the kitchen counter until you leave. Then, if you don't mind, I may have a couple items for you to take down to the dumpster when you go," he told me.

So, I set a goal for myself to give Josh a heart attack before I left his home. I tried to force myself to get a nosebleed. I wished desperately for some saltine crackers I could munch as he showed me around. I couldn't wait to get into his bathroom and close my eyes as I urinated.

As the hospital - er - apartment tour continued, I kept thinking of that John Travolta movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.. I know that I would never survive in such a spotless environment. The closest I ever came to living in a plastic bubble was the seven years I spent with M.

My poor ex-boyfriend. I am sure his patience was pushed to the limit sometimes. He had to put up with quite a bit of nonsense from me. I liked to scare him. I told him I gave away some of his deceased mother's crystal to one of my friends who was admiring it. (I didn't). I told him his car was missing from the driveway one morning. (It wasn't).

One Sunday morning we were having a conversation in our dining room. I was holding a cup of coffee and chatting with him when he suddenly stopped me.

"What is that," he asked, pointing to the dining room wall. "Is that coffee?"

I noticed several drops of brown liquid dripping down the dining room wall. Sort of near...well, exactly next to where I was standing.

"It wasn't me," I said, knowing I was far too clever for him. M. had no response other than to shake his head and mutter, "how do you get coffee on a wall?"

But M. accepted my mischief as part of the joy of having me in his life. Josh would never be able to tolerate me. I left Josh's apartment as quickly as possible, making sure to take with me three or four pieces of garbage for the dumpster. I vowed that if I ever had the chance to visit Josh again, I would make sure to bring a Venti Starbucks coffee (and a serious hand tremor).

The last time I had any contact with Josh was when I rented his beach house for a weekend. He claimed the beach house was furnished with a "fully-equipped" kitchen. Apparently, "fully-equipped" does not include silverware. Don't most people bring their own silver service when they rent a beach house for the weekend? Thankfully, there was a coffee maker and coffee filters, but, I had to stir my coffee with my toothbrush.

True to his claims, Josh had furnished the beach house with lots of beautiful antique furniture. The precious furniture was left to Josh by his dear deceased grandmother. So precious was this furniture, that Josh couldn't bear the thought of anyone but his dear deceased grandmother using it. So he posted signs in the house that read, "Do Not Sit In This Rocker" and "Do Not Use This Vanity Table". This was worse than the plastic bubble.

Josh and I will probably never see each other again. We are simply NOT made for each other. I probably won't be invited back to the beach house either. No, I didn't spill any coffee on the wall, but I couldn't resist the temptation to post a sign on the front door as I left.

"Welcome to my beach house. Grab a toothbrush and stop looking in my dead grandma's mirror. "

Friday, February 06, 2004

The Handsome Prince

The time has come to write about my partner.

Not my boyfriend or lover or husband. I'm referring to my partner in fun. My playmate. My bar buddy. My cohort. After making fun of me for blogging for a few weeks, he's finally reading what I have to say and asked why I haven't written about him yet. Like all actors, he's very self-focused. Which is probably why we get along so well.

I first met The Handsome Prince (THP) in a show we were doing together. The show sucked, and I don't want to waste one more precious minute of my life dwelling on that horrible experience. However, that show definitely changed my life for the better. That's where I found my friend, and I'm convinced he'll be by my side no matter what.

When I first saw THP in rehearsal, I couldn't decide if I wanted to grab his biceps or just lick his body. He was the object of all my lust, and I would stand across from him as we did warm-ups so I could watch him doing deep breathing exercises and yoga positions. I was in a relationship at the time, and I am one of those freaks who feels incredibly unfaithful to a partner even when I dwell on innocent fantasies. But that didn't stop me from chasing after THP's affections. I tried to impress THP by increasing my level of fitness, showing off my intelligence, working my ass off to make him laugh, but he still wouldn't fall in love with me. Damn.

Over time, the lust changed into something deeper and infinitely more rewarding. I became devoted to him. Something about his heart, his warmth, his humor, his intelligence made me want to protect him and declare my loyalty to him. And we became partners in the unconventional sense of the word. When we gather with friends to play games, THP and I aren't allowed to be on the same team because we know each other too well. When I do something I'm ashamed of, I call THP. When I do something I'm proud of, he's one of the first people I inform. He tells me secrets he can't tell anyone else. He shows me the ugliest parts of himself that he's too afraid to show anyone else. And we both know in our friendship there is no judgment.

Last night when he tried to teach me to play cribbage, he laughed at my horrible math skills. When I won, he and I both knew it was only because he continually showed me overlooked points in my hand. When he gets out of line or flirts with my dates, I tell him I'm pissed. That might not sound like a big deal, but I normally keep things like that inside. THP won't let me. He can sense the moment my attitude changes, and he's extremely sensitive to the subtleties of my mood.

THP makes boys and girls swoon. When he acts in a show or sings karaoke, he steals the spotlight. When we go out together, guys come up to me and ask if THP is single. He has more dates in a month than I have in a year. By all rights, I should hate him.

If THP is Mary Tyler Moore, then I am Rhoda Morgenstern. Rhoda and Mary had an understanding, though. They both knew Mary was the pretty one, and Rhoda was the funny one. Mary had problems like figuring out how to let a guy down easy when she wasn't interested. Rhoda had problems finding a date.

On one episode of MTM, Rhoda is irritated because a male party guest only has eyes for Mary. He won't look at Rhoda. He completely snubs her. She handles the situation by extending her hand to the guy and saying, "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm another person in the room." Rhoda, I'm right there with ya. I remember thinking a guy was interested in me one night at the bar, and it turned out he was talking to me so he could find out THP's status.

Maybe I never mentioned THP in my blog entries, because I don't want to share the spotlight with him. On the other hand, I'm proud I have a friend like him who deserves the spotlight. Aren't your friends a reflection of you? And if I want to make myself feel better, don't attractive people usually hang out with other attractive people? Like, wasn't Rhoda kind of cute?

Now I think I understand how my ex felt when we were together. He said to me one night after a party, "I can't compete with you. I feel invisible when we go to parties. You make everyone laugh. You fill up a room. You hold court." That made me hurt inside. Because I thought my ex was beautiful and warm and sweet, and I was truly shocked he felt overshadowed by me.

Everyone needs someone to look up to, but we can never forget our own innate strengths. Comparing yourself to another person is a sure way to feel personally cheated. So I try to balance my thoughts and remember that for every positive thing about THP, there is a positive thing about me. For every advantage he has, I can counter with an advantage of my own.

Thought for the Day: THP may be a the pretty one, but I will kick his ass at cribbage (if he helps me).

Thursday, February 05, 2004


Why do I want to join? Is it just because they won't let me join unless I get invited?

Getting an invitation to join Friendster was about as hard as trying to find something on the Internet about Janet Jackson. This is harder. Okay, Orkut, you have my attention. I'm a sucker for "by invitation only" crap.

Why else would I join the International Thespian Society in high school? So I could be even more popular? Yes, belting show tunes and hanging out with drama geeks increased my popularity immensely, as you can imagine. So did my Duran Duran parachute pants.

I want to be on Survivor. Or MTV's Real World.

No, not really. I just want to be picked to be on those shows. Selected from thousands and thousands of applicants. I recently heard that more people apply to be on The Real World than apply to attend Harvard.

Ivy League, no thank you. But HELL YES, I want to be picked to live in a house and have my life taped to find out what happens when people stop being polite and start being real.

I want to be chosen to win a million dollars by the people I betrayed and voted off the island.

I want you to link me on your blog. I want you to ask me out. I want you to cast me in your sketch comedy group. I want you to ask me to the prom. I want you to write about me in the "Missed Connections" on craigslist.

Here's the problem. If you choose me, I may get bored. I may realize that I just wanted to be chosen. And I'll drop out of the comedy group and flirt with somebody else at the prom and hide from the camera crew.

I haven't been to Friendster for a long time. But it was nice to be asked. Somebody get me into the Orkut club and FAST, before I lose interest.
Dishonest Dubya. Thanks to Kai for this great product. My favorite feature is the remote control "Say Something Stupid" option.

Tuesday, February 03, 2004

Yum Yum Brotherhood Road Trip

If anybody has been to Vancouver, BC and has suggestions for lodging for nine gay boys, let me know.

The Yum Yum Brotherhood is heading to Vancouver, BC this spring. The Yum Yums are hoping for a journey reminiscent of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. I'm just hoping someone else will volunteer to stand on top of the motor home with flowing garments. I'll stay inside the vehicle and make out with Guy Pearce.

Each Yum Yum is responsible for planning or researching one aspect of our trip. I can't remember what my job was supposed to be, so I have decided to simply provide commentary on everyone else's work.

One of the places we are evaluating for accommodations is The Park Ridge. I must admit that I am intrigued by the "causal ambiance" described on their web site, but am very curious as to what, exactly, the ambiance will cause.

The Park Ridge features a restaurant within walking distance that boasts such famous dinner guests as Boris Yeltzen and Bill Clinton. It is really important that I stay somewhere NEAR a restaurant where Boris Yeltzen (isn't it Yeltsin?) and Bill Clinton ate dinner. That is a big plus.

Final Grade: A+ There is a floating drink tray in the hot tub. This place rocks.

I ruled out several other hotels and inns due to some unfortunate spelling errors, such as the one that claimed to have rooms "availible".

The English Bay Inn seems promising. The only spelling error on their site was a comma omission (queensized beds). I guess I can live with it.

However, there may be a problem with Hobbits. The owner's name is Boban. He has to be a Hobbit, don't you think? Nothing creeps me out more than little power hungry Hobbits running around trying to serve me tea. The site also references a Chippendale style dining room, which sounds hot. I don't know if we're required to tip the dancers, but if we're not then I would totally be into it.

All the rooms have ensuite bathrooms. Sounds classy. The inn even brags about the "crisp Ralph Lauren linens". Now that's just gross. I don't mind if my linens are crispy when I get out of bed, but I can't deal with having Ralph's crisp all over my sheets before I even climb into them.

Final Grade: A- The English Bay Inn seems like somewhere Boris Yeltzen/Yeltsin may eat near.

I would love to have some suggestions for spelling error-free lodging, so let me know if you have a recommendation!

Monday, February 02, 2004

Justin and Janet

I can't wait until tomorrow when we forget about the Super Bowl incident and move on to more interesting topics. I'm so sick of hearing about it.

And, yes, I saw it.

And, no, it was so not a big deal.

I like how I sound like I am so above it all. In reality, I spent the whole game hoping for penalties so I could stare at his biceps.