rodr0108

Gentle Bitches,

I hope you are all preparing your finest ermines, scepters and crowns so that you can sport them at my all-but-inevitable coronation. (Don't bring no shitty ermines, either. Only your finest- especially you, Wendell.) You may be confused- "Is it because he won Powerball tonight?" Well, maybe, but I haven't figured that out yet. However, I've got something even more dependable than Powerball (imagine that) waiting on me come morning. His name is Prince Haakan.

Haakan is the crown prince of Norwegia, and he's coming to Holy Lena, the lovely little college where I presently teach, at the current moment, right now. You should've seen all the Holy Lena slaves working their asses off today to prepare for the prince's arrival. They were shining up all the brass handrails, dusting windowsills, and other petty bullshit like that.

Hakaan ain't terribly cute. He certainly isn't the Viking fantasy that I pray for each and every night. Crown Prince Albert of Monacao is definitely dreamier, and hails from friendlier climes. (Maybe if I were a hooker on Lake Minnetonka I could've been having a real Viking fantasy, but that's neither to nor fro.) Furthermore, the Norwegian royal line ain't really real. Norway has been a country for what, about a century now? And when they became a country, they asked some Danes to come be their Kaaaang?

Not that I'm hating. You know their paper, if new, is also long. (To all the squares, that means they're rich as hell.) This is how I'ma play it: Holy Lena's campus is littered with huge, golden-leaved trees at this very moment. (Fall is gorgeois up in heah.) I'll be wearing a flowing white robe, with a tasteful tiara of gold vines and leaves. My long, black hair will be blowing gently behind me, in the tender breeze, and the light reflected from the golden trees will give me a beautiful glow. I'll walk slowly toward Haakan, and before I even say anything he'll invite me to the Holy Lena cafeteria for a sumptuous feast fit for a queen such as myself.

Wait- I'm not joking about the cafeteria at this school. Have you ever been excited to eat institutional food before? This place could make you change your mind. In the three times I've been there, I've had:

1. Ragout of white beans, Butternut squash, rosemary served with polenta and real parmeggiano; an asian chicken salad (actually spicy, although too sweet- still the ingredients were fresh, and the effort was good); baked custard (creme brulee sans le brulee).

2. Oyster mushroom po'boy, decent pepperoni pizza (impossible to find in the Midwest) and the best brownie to have ever touched my lips.

3. Honey-mustard Roasted Chicken (properly roasted, with nice caramelization, and shit); real mashed potatoes (not from a box!) with delicious lumps and skins still left on; slammin white gravy; roasted zucchini and yellow squash; a fresh spinach salad (the leaves were perfect) and fresh fruit.

The choices available in this cafeteria are ridiculous: every day you can choose from fancy vegetarian, down-home, tex-mex, Italian, pizza, Asian, grilled delights (perfectly crisp bacon for your burger, anyone?), salad bar with real greens and pretty peas, kick-ass desserts and last, but not least, citrus peach nectar, in which I hope to bathe someday.

After our first date, it would be clear to Haakan that I should at least be supported with his long paper, and occasionally by his long penis, as well. I'm down with living in Norway for the summer. In winters, we'd divide our time between the villa in Provence, and visiting all y'all, wichobrokeasses.

So, wish me luck, bitches, and don't forget to bring presents to my coronation.

You better work! (Covergirl!)
Work it girl! (Give a twirl!)
Work yo thang on the runway!

Alright, enough of that. Supermodel was a fucking great song (in a trashy, gay, dancing-with-your-hands-over-your-head kind of way) and it's stuck in my head right now. I have only one thing to say: sashay, chanté. (Those were two things, RuPaul. You non-counting, tall bitch.)

It's been too long since I wrote for your's pleasure. Don't you like my new word. It is both doubly posessive, and doubly plural, and all kinds of wrong. Fun! It's Friday night, and I'm at home doing nothing. This is exactly what I wanted, because I've been busier than I have ever been before in my life. This is a good busy, because it all revolves around music, and I cannot ever complain about that. Actually, I could complain about it, but I've learned my lesson. No more bitching about getting to make my living from music. It's what I wanted.

Teaching has been mostly wonderful. I have a few very good students, many so-so students, a couple of assholes, and a tender handful of really hot fuckers! Ladies and gentlemens, a rundown of the significant kids:

1. The Sycophant: this little fucker says "Thank you, thank you," every single time I stop him in the middle of singing to drop some wisdom on him. I mean e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e f-u-c-k-i-n-g t-i-m-e! It drives me crazy. While he's saying "Thank you," he has this huge smile on his face like he's trying to eat both ears simultaneously, and his eyes get a crazy gleam in them. In an instant the whole expression drops and he goes back to normal, which after the smiling, seems kind of creepier-than-normal.

The sad thing is that this kid has a nice voice. He just sucks as a person, because he can't chill out. He's always trying to compliment me. One time, I was practicing in the studio before his lesson, and when he came in, he said "Was that you? Wow! I'm studying with God!" I nearly choked his punk ass right then. I think we're going to have a coming-to-Jesus talk, where I explain in a very diplomatic fashion that he's creeping me out. Any suggestions?

2. The Tone Deaf Jedi Knight: This big muthafucka has a lot of trouble replication pitch. We've made a lot of progress in our three lessons, but I feel like I've already put in a semester's worth of energy into this dude. I better get extra sex-slaves in muslim heaven for this shit! You know it's bad when you think to yourself, "Obviously, this kid was planted in my studio by the administration to see how much shit I could put up with. It is clear he was instructed to rarely match pitch, and each correctly matched pitch must be surrounded by minutes of painful, pitchelss moaning." On the real. I those exact thoughts ran across my mind a couple of times in both his lessons.

Oh, I wasn't just making up the whole Jedi Knight thing, either. This fool brought a life-sized replica of a light saber to his last lesson. He told me he couldn't leave it in his room for fear of getting jacked by the other geeks on his floor. I played with it for a hot minute, all the while thinking of its owner with half jealousy and all disgust. (I actually like this kid. He's just going to make me earn my money, and I mean that in the bad way.)

3. Abercrombie Boy #2: I have all the luck scoring the Abercrombie model voice students. This is the second guy I've had who could be ripped from the pages of the not-homoerotic-enough-for-my-tastes A & F catalogue. Mmmmmmmm. What makes these boys doubly attractive is there sincere desire to be involved in the arts. Artsy jocks? Fuckin yeah! This guy isn't as incredibly talented as my first A & F guy. Still, his body is banging, and he has a disarming smile. Plus, he always looks like he just stepped out of a shower. Word up to soapy balls, mommy. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!


4. Blondie: Blondie is a combination of sorts of several of my friends: Bat, Dang, and maybe someone else that I'm forgetting. He's very cute, talented, interesting, and fun to have in lesson. Oh, he has that whole Nordic/Viking thing going on, and most all of you should know that I have a thang thang for them skanky bitches. Hot viking sex is the new pink on brown.

In other news, earlier this year, I was asked to join a group of singers with the goal of getting gigs in town. I reluctantly agreed, mainly because I love the woman who asked me to join, even though I had my concerns about the other singers involved. Those concerns are still present, but something very cool has happened that have made the experience worthwhile. Ladies and gentlemens, I am making my debut with the local symphony orchestra in a couple of weeks in a work that I've wanted to sing for a while now. Actually, it's two local orchestras, both with national reputations. So it's an exciting time to be me right now.

Oh- there's one other thing. I'm reading a book about harnessing the power of synchronicity. This Monday I was bunked up at the college I teach at (I stay overnight) and wandered into the Barnes & Noble for something to do. I was in a self-help mood, and so I picked this book up, because noticing and following up on synchronicities is something I've been meaning to do more of. So, here are the things that have happened:

1. I almost ran over a girl I went to high school with today. This wouldn't be so weird if I still lived in the B-LO, but we're about 1,000 miles away. I knew she was in the city, and we had emailed each other months ago with threats of getting together. I was too lazy to take her up on it. Anywhoo, I'm driving in a part of town that I try to avoid with all my might on Friday afternoons, and as I'm turning a corner I see this girl, and after 3 seconds of staring, I shout her name. It was her, but I had to keep going because of traffic. She recognized me, so I think I need to call her up.

2. I had the first chorus rehearsal last night for an opera I'm in. We have little cubbyholes at the Opera center, and I had a completely new cubbyhole ripped for me in a different location. When I retrieved my cubby goodies, I found, nestled among the name tag and various bullshitery, the business card of a guy from last year's chorus. I totally had a crush on this guy, in addition to an easy rapport. Too bad he's married. Even so, I think I need to at least acknowledge this with an email.

I'll let you all know what comes from these connections, if by that time I'm still writing in this blog.

Alright, I'm pooped. I'm going to watch TV naked now, and bask in the glory of doing nothing for a few hours.

I know most of you are wondering why I've lost my blogging continuity in the last few weeks. Well, to be honest, it's because I'm really fucking lazy lately, and I don't know why. All I know is that beginning this week, I'll have a slightly more organized daily schedule, and that does mostly good things for me.

The only reason I'm writing today is to update you all on my romantic mis-adventures. I had an impromptu date today. This was the fruit of my work on Friendster, which has been my dating-service of choice lately. Actually, dating through friendster is a double-edged sword. The reason why I like it is because I think you get a more well-nuanced portrait of the potential honeys you're trying to recruit. People tend to take themselves less seriously on Friendster.

The problem is the following: Friendster is not specifically a dating service, and you miss out on a lot of details that are part of the shtick at places like Yahoo and Match. For instance, there are no stats for physical measurements. This played a factor in today's date, albeit an unimportant one.

So, this guy Jigga had a great Friendster profile, and so I threw an innoccuous email his way. A few weeks later, here we are meeting for the first time at a coffee shop. It was hard to tell from his picture, but I assumed Jigga was going to be thicker than he was. He wasn't thicker than he was. Good thing I've developed a taste for thinner boys as well.

One important detail missing from his Friendster picture was the state of his grill, something I never even gave a second thought to, as we live in the good ol' US of A- the home of great dental care. Well, Jigga's grill was busted, as my friend Lerla would say. Am I shallow enough to allow a busted grill to keep me disinterested in an otherwise cute guy? Possibly. We'll find out.

Oh- the big problem with Jigga is that he's a smoker, and I really don't think I can be down, based on that alone.

Now that I've painted a shitty picture of Jigga, let me balance it out with other important details.

1. He was very easy to talk to.
2. According to his Friendster profile, he has impeccable taste in music, which is very important to me.
3. Aside from his busted grill, he has a cute face.
4. There is not a big height difference between the two of us.

All in all, it was a pleasant, innoccuous meeting. I think Jigga could be a new gay friend for me to enjoy,which is something I've sorely lacked since Kevelyn moved away. In the meantime, I'll just keep plugging away at the dating game until the Mr. Right falls from the sky into my lap. Holding 1 billion dollars.

Later, haters (of hate).

I've run out of blogging steam lately. Today, I will give you all a tour of my crazy ass family.

1. Mami: She was born in PR, and made her way to the States at 9 years old.
Mami is a slightly obsessive-compulsive cleaner (old age is slowing her down, thank God!) a great cook, a wedding cake maker, and a frequently mean lady. For fun, she hates on animals and bastard children.

2. Papi: That man. He is a schemer, good at bullshitting, and gave me my first joint to smoke at 15 years old.

3. Emery: Emery is the oldest. She is a supreme pothead- in fact, I was surprised that when I visited her at work this summer, she was completely sober (I think). Emery was always my favorite sister to visit for a few reasons: she was the nicest, she's a good cook, and she had a room full of arts-and-crafts bullshit like popsicle sticks and googly eyes. YAY!!!

4. Bone-Thug: she is the second oldest, and she taught me how to read when I was 4 years old. She is the spinster aunt, and is very good at taking care of other's babies. Although Bone-Thug is devoutly Christian, she encourages all the youngsters to say "Panties" in a Spanish accent when posing for pictures.

5. Rana: "Rana" means frog in Spanish, and she was named this by my Gramma because Rana was the smallest of her grandchirruns. Rana is the evil one: she loved to run and get the belt so that one of the other kids could get spanked. She is not completely evil: she vacillates between vast generosity and kindness (especially toward bastard children) and schadenfreude.

6. Mickey: Named after Mickey Mouse by the old man from the projects who sat on his stoop and smoked a pipe. That old guy was cool- I'd go chill with him while he smoked, and he would give me a quarter. I liked watching his dog shit, because that dog always wiped its feet after the deed was done. Anyway, Mickey is the oldest brother, and enjoys playing basketball and beauty talk. In fact, I think he always wanted a gay brother just so we could talk about hair products with each other.

7. Davey: He is the biggest brother. As a teenager, he would stand in front of the fridge with a two-liter of grape pop and guzzle that shit down with a loud "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" afterwards. For some reason, that always made me crack up. Davey was always determined to make money and have shit, and as a result, he has made money and has shit.

8. Batman: Emery said it best when she described Batman thusly: "He's still fucking fifteen!" Batman likes fast, shitty cars. He crashed his motorcycle when he was doing a wheelie at 50 mph down Fargo Avenue, and slipped on a dead squirrel. I fucking busted out laughing in his face when he told me that. Batman is loud, opinionated, ill-informed, irresponsible and childish. In short, an asshole. Still, he's my brother.

Wait! My father was a womanizer, and had at least three other chirruns:

1. James: I don't know shit about James. He falls in between Bone-Thug and Rana, I think. I've never met him- all we know is that his mom lived in NYC when she was preggers with him.

2. Timmy: Timmy is younger than Batman but older than me. For that reason, and others, he was my closest brother for quite a while. Timmy is as funny as a crackhead, and that's because he is/was a crackhead. He's also pretty intelligent, and was responsible for entertaining me and my friends throughout High School.

3. Ali: Ali is Timmy's sister, my half-sister, and is a year older than me. I fuckin love me some Ali- she and Timmy were the most fun to hang out with. She has a fafillion chirruns today, which sucks, but she's still pretty and funny.

That's that. Oh wait- I would like to point out that my family is fly for many reasons. However, the main reason we're fly is that how many of you have families that will light a small bonfire in a grill in the middle of the city, and then dance around it in a circle, like some African Booty Snatchers? That's what I thought, suckas.

Why does everyone who passes me on the path 'round Lake o' the Isles smell fucking fantastic? They could be sweaty as all hell and still run past smelling like they just rolled around in a pile of rose petals.

The answer, folks, is Workout Makeup. Yesterday, K-Annie was trying to convince me to take a walk on her schedule, which was running about an hour faster than I was able to hang with. My problem is this: my hair hath been configured by Satan (my new God) so that I am not able to reveal myself to nary a soul (except Wendell) until I have showered and assigned each tender curl to its proper station. That takes a minimum of 40 minutes. K-Annie didn't understand.

"You're gonna take a shower so we can go for a walk?!?"

"Well, yeah?!?!"

Oh, to be one of the folks who can wake up in the morning and be on their way out the door with only a casual wiping of sleep out of their eyes. I could be that type of person, but I'm way cuter with curls. A regular Shirley Temple and shit.

A couple of days ago, my roomie Wendell mentioned that she might need to apply some Workout Makeup before she went on a run 'round the river. Hypocrite that I am, I laughed at her. Actually, we laughed together. Still, until yesterday, I didn't realize:

1. My pre-exercise hairstyling routine is a form of Workout Makeup; and

2. I need to start wearing a tender scent to walk around the lakes my damn self. (Nothing annoying. Just enough to make the Tender Ronnies running shirtlessly 'round the lake turn around and hump me.)

Today, I applied my usual Workout Makeup (hair) and then tenderly misted the air with Vera Wang for Men, and walked through the perfumed cloud. Next, I'm going to be on the lookout for a cute walking outfit. I will not descend to the level of those dumb bitches who wear matching sneakers, mini-athletic skirts, halter tops, visors and acrylic nails. Still, I'd like to look somewhat cute on my walks.

By the way, I have no fucking clue how I'm going to get any exercise this winter without joining a gym. The reason why this summer has been so successful from an exercise standpoint is that I've enjoyed being out in Nature's Bounty so much. Winters around here get really fucking bleak. Anyone have ideas? Anyone in Florida need a roommate?

Today I figured out that I am a Satanist. Or at least a Buddhist which, to Pentecostals, is the same thing. (see footnote) And it's not because I have ethcra nipples, either. (see footnote #2)

For those of you not prone to researching weird religious cults on about.com, the main idea of the Satanic Church is this: you are allowed to do whatever the fuck you want- just be prepared for someone to do the exact same shit to you. In the end, all religion boils down to karma, no? The Satanic twist is that there are no rules for conduct, which is something most other religions can't claim. That said, I can't really get down with a religion that is basically a derivative of the Judeo-Christian tradition. They're buying into the whole Yahweh shit just as much as Creflo Dollar and Oral Roberts and Madonna are, and since I'm not an Israelite, I just can't get down with a nationalist god. Also, in Satanic guidebooks, the word "lair" is used extensively, like: "If someone enters your lair and disrespects your shit, you have every right to fuck them up." Of course, I'm paraphrasing, but any serious use of the word "lair" conjures up visions of Renaissance Festivals, and immediately there is no credibility to be had.

Anyway- this is why the whole Satanic thing is important to me today. I kind of glossed over it in a previous entry, but coming out to my brother and sister-in-law was an eye-opening experience for me that has taken a while to digest. I was prepared for some sort of struggle in explaining the whole shit to them- a struggle that never occured. The reason I was prepared for said struggle was because for my whole life, I was brainwashed into believing lots of lies. In this case, the lie was that my family is unable to adapt to new shit. The people I've come out to already (with great success) were also part of this brainwashing, because they never stood up for the fags that my family talked shit about. Frequently, these family members were the ones talking shit.

The nonchalance that my brother and sister-in-law approached the whole situation with really opened my eyes the the difference between the image that my family (and mother, in particular) likes to keep up, and the people that they really are. I even bought into the image. During my walk around the lakes today (6 miles) I had an after-school special moment/epiphany that basically went something like, "Fuck what anyone expects of me- I'm going to be me, dammit!" It was great- this feeling of not worrying about expectations- either external or self-generated.

Why would it take me 28 years to finally learn this lesson? Well- I hate stepping on anyone's toes, and I hate conflict, and I always wanted to please everyone around me, and the list goes on and on... I guess that's just the way I was brought up- good kids are seen and not heard. Humping kids are neither seen nor heard, or else you'll get your ass beat. But I digress...

I could go into a lot of detail about all the little areas in which I've been living up to other people's expectations, but I won't because fuck your expectations. All I know is that the whole galaxy is looking different to me now.

---------------

Footnote #1: I'm not kidding about the Satanist/Buddhist connection in the Pentecostal mindset. Any of my previously born-again/presently dead again comrades would recognize the name Carman as a Christian entertainer/singer/dude who did tours and videos and other bullshit. In one video, a sccene unfolds during which a demon is reporting to Satan on how their various campaigns to lure people away from Christ is going. The demon goes down this list of things going well: sodomy, alcohol, drugs, Buddhism, prostitution, birth control, etc. These Christians really know what they're talking about.

Footnote #2: I promised this yesterday, and I'm nothing if not a man of my word. I have a strong suspicion that I have been blessed with more than two (2) nipples. I'm not 100% sure, though. The way it goes is this: on both areolae, I have bumps surrounding my main nipple, and they are nipplish in character. I'm not sure if it's possible to have more than one nipple per areola, but if it is, I prolly got 'em.

That is not the end of my ethcra nipple-osity, however. I examining my chest, I noticed a tiny brown mark directly in line with my left nipple. It is too tiny to tell- I squeezed it to see if milk came out, but I think it's far too rudimentary to produce. Still- I'm pretty fucking sure it's a nipple. Most people might be grossed out, or concerned about these developments, but fuck their expectations (I'm doing good- see?). I actually think ethcra nipples could be kind of hot.

And finally...


Dear Hiawatha Bicycle Trail and 29th Street Greenway,

Why the fuck is there always a headwind on your shits, irregardless of which direction I'm biking. It's really fucking annoying, and I wish for once ya'll could coordinate with the wind to give me a nice tailwind.

That said- I love the beautiful scenery you provide to me, Mrs. Greenway. The garden at the Lyndale intersection is particularly stunning, and I can't wait to ride past again so that I can walk amongst the wildflowers. Would you please convince the City of Minneapolis to extend your ass all the way to the river? Is that asking too much?

Hiawatha Bike Trail? Fuck you. You're convenient, to an extent, but you're ugly. So suck a dick with that fierce headwind you got.

Best,

rodr0108

There's not much need for me to update, folks, but I feel like I should be consistent while I have the compulsion.

Kids, I'm losing the steam that I had built up so well over the last few weeks. I've run out of ideas of what to do when.

Today involved a bike trip from home to the Uptown Art Fair, where I saw a bunch of bullshit, and a few really cool things. In particular, two potters had stands up that struck my fancy. Now if I only had several thousands of millions of dollars, I could afford their luscious creations. One of the potters was disarmingly cute. So disarming, in fact, that I couldn't string more than 3 words together in his presence. At least his creations kicked ass. There's nothing like pretending to like someone's bullshit (insert creative endeavor here) for the sake of booty.

After the Art Fair, I went to Lake Calhoun to sit in the shade and observe the sunny, rippling waters. Nice shit, until random scary dude decides to sit practically right next to me when there's an entire 3-mile shoreline for him to choose from. WTF? If he were hot, it would've been a different story. Actually, he was kind of cute, but he was wearing a caftan and reading a book. I was sure that at any second he was fixing to convert me to Ba'hai, or whatever shit he was into. Not that Ba'hai is a bad thing, to all my Ba'haters out there.

What I'd really like to do right now is go for a nice walk around the river, or one of the lakes, but I don't feel like being harassed by police and/or scary booty seekers. Anyone have suggestions on respectable late-night ambulatory destinations?

I was going to go out dancing by myself tonight at the Saloon. I even took a disco nap, and turned on the shower so I could freshen up. The second I was finsta get in the shower, it dawned on me that I really didn't know what I wanted to get out of going to the Saloon.

A list:

1. Dancing. Dancing is always welcome in my world. Still, dancing by myself always feels slightly awkward. I'll still do it, but it's better either utterly alone, or with a bunch of friends there.

2. Drinks. I'm broke, so I was definitely not going to be drinking. I have more fun sober anyway.

3. Mingling. That doesn't really happen for me when I go to the Saloon alone (which has happened a grand total of 2 times). Who wants to get to know someone in a loud club- especially when my hearing is borderline as it is?

4. Booty. Not in the fucking mood to deal with someone I don't know in my bed.

5. Movement. This is a weird one, so I'll take any input you's guys have for me. (I'm channeling my evil sister, who uses "you's" like it's going out of style, which it has. Also, please be aware that I'm misspelling this non-existent word on purpose, because I'm 100% sure that if my sister had to write it down, she would use the apostrophe. Oh, the humanity!)

Alright, back to "Movement". One reason I've been trying to keep busy lately is because I think I need to keep the vibrations and energy in and around me moving, so as to keep new experiences moving my way as well. Kind of like high and low air pressure systems. I'm trying to be a low pressure system and suck all the warm air toward myself and cause shitty weather. Wait- bad analogy. Anyway, I can't help but think that the movement I'm creating right now (by sitting at my desk typing away) will reap rewards for me in the future.

So, this last point is the only valid reason I had to go to the Saloon tonight. I guess it wasn't enough. That's alright- I'll make sure to create some movement in my life tomorrow when Kevin and I take our asses to Showtunes Night at Boom.

Alright folks. Enough useless babble. Make sure to tune in tomorrow or the next day when our topic will be escra nipples. I'm too tired to type it tonight, but if I bring it, you will reckanize.

Or I can get with nothing.

I'm so ambivalent about the prospect of dating right now, and it's pissing me off that I can't make up my mind. Part of this may be that I had an excruciating date last night with a wanker named Antonio. "Why," you may be asking,"would homeboy subject himself to the presence of a wanker?" Well, because I like to suck on them.

But really, folks. This guy was charming in our chat sessions. He was even courteous enough to set up a webcam that showed a true to life image. Apparently, the charm didn't translate from keyboard to real life. Antonio is from Ecuador, so when he wasn't playfully (fuck him) referring to me as a gringo or critiquing the way Puerto Ricans roll their 'r's, he was explaining the cultural differences between the elite class (him) and lower class Ecuadorians.

He fucking liked Bon Jovi. Strike that- he still likes Bon Jovi. We're talking Bed of Roses Bon Jovi, not Living on a Prayer Bon Jovi.

Being the gentle soul I am, I let him pick the restaurant we went to, because I'm an idiot. The place served me a BLT with absolutely no redeeming qualities. I'm lying- the B was crispy as I demanded, but it had no flavor. The lettuce was shredded up- a ploy to hide less-than-fresh iceberg, methinks. How hard is it to get a BLT right?

Anyway, I'm feeling kind of disheartened, because, short as it was, the whole Mr. Man experience was quite magical, and I'm wondering how much bullshit I'll have to wade through to get to another guy that good.

So- do I wade, or wait?
Can I get with this?
Or should I get with that?

In continuation of my 80's mix theme, here are the opening lines to the fabulous song "Lovergirl" by Teena Marie. This song truly is a gem, albeit one with nearly undecipherable lyrics. Even K-Annie's idiot-savant ass couldn't figure out the first lines. That means something is terribly wrong:

Coffee, tea or me, baby, touché ole
My opening line might be a bit passé
But don't think that I don't know what I'm feeling for you
'Cause I got a vibe on you the first time that I saw you, saw you

I need your love and I won't bring no pain
A little birdie told me that you feel the same
I'm for the real and for you I'm true blue
Let's make a deal, sugar, all I want to do is be your one and only lover

I just want to be your lovergirl
I just want to rock your world
Hey...hey...hey...


This song is remarkable. Here are the remarks:

1. Now that I know the lyrics to this song, you can bet that tomorrow morning, as I walk around whatever river or lake strikes my fancy with my iPod blasting Teena Marie, I will sing these fucking lyrics like I own them, and have owned them for at least fifteen years. I will also giggle to myself because I'll be fooling whatever random person happens to overhear my TeenaMarie outburst. This reminds me of a crazy ass woman K-Annie and I saw at Lake of the Isles on our epic march a few weeks ago. This woman was riding a bike with huge headphones on, singing some Madonna song at the top of her lungs. Shamelessly. Isn't that the way we should behave in public? If you like the fucking song, then you like it, and everyone should know which song it is, in case they need to enjoy it as well. I'm jussayin.

2. Seeing song lyrics written down can be hilarious, especially when the lyrics include liberal "hey"s and "yeah"s.

3. Can I also mention that this entry is yet another example of my occasional ability to tie things together without even meaning to? Whenever this happens, I usually exclaim, "I'm brilliant," but it's not a conscious thing, by any means, because I'm too stupid to do these things on purpose. For instance, this entry was about me and my horrible dating life, and without thinking, I picked Lovergirl as the 80's song of the evening.

A far more entertaining (to me) isntance of this pertains to a greeting that I use with all of my friends: "What's up playa?" First of all, this shit is funny on GP, because I do not know a single playa. Second- this greeting was changed last summer when Lerla and I spent some time hanging out translating silly shit into Spanish for our amusement. "What's up playa?" turns into "¿Que pasa, playa?" In a further trope, we began pronouncing "playa" as a Puerto Rican would pronounce that collection of letters: plah-jah. That word means "beach" in Spanish. Thanks to Hooked on Phonics, whenever I see the word "beach" in print, I innocently sound it out as "bee-atch" before I realize what my stupid ass is doing. Anyway, in short, whenever I say "¿Que pasa, playa," in some weird twisted world (my brain) I'm really saying, "Waddup, beeatch," and that makes me fucking laugh.

In unrelated news, I'm obviously biased, but the foodie in me would like to declare to everyone that Puerto Rican food is by far much tastier that Cuban food. Their shit has so little flavor compared to ours, it ain't funny, and the things that the Cubans do well, Puerto Ricans do just as well. They can't fuck with our beans- on the strenth. And if you are perpetrating as a West Indian nation and cain't cook no fucking beans, what more can I say to you? You're wack. That said- the dearth of good Puerto Rican restaurants in places I've lived is disheartening. Also, Victor's 1959 Café/hovel has enough delicious things on the menu to at least approximate the tender morsels Mami makes. Also, their cafe con leche is the shit. I guess it will have to hold me until I decide to open my PR restaurant. Any suggestions for names?

That's all, earflings.

In mansions and Benzes
Giving ends to my friends
And it feels stupendous!

Okay- today's entry will be short. It's a quote from "I Love it When You Call Me Big Poppa" by Notorious B.I.G. (moment of silence). This is a verse that always fucking cracks me up, and if you start that verse, on the strenth, everyone from my Buffalo crew will join in with you (at least on the lines they know).

Straight up honey, yo I be axin,
Most of these fellas think they be mackin,
But they be acktin
Who they attractin with that line:
"What's yo name, what's yo sign?"
Soon as they buy that wine
I just creep up from behind,
And ax you what yo interests are
WHO YOU BEEEEE WIT?
Things to make you smile?
What number to dial?
You gon be here for a while?
I'm gon call my crew
You gon call yo crew
We gon rendez-vous
At the bar around 2.


Just a couple of things:

1. "WHO YOU BEEEEEE WIT?" is printed that way because it has an extra, sing-songy, baritonal resonance to it, and must be recited in the proper way. Please refer to the recording so that you don't embarass yourself if I decide to pop quiz you fools.

2. I love that in the laundry list of questions Big Poppa axes his potential Lil'Mama, one of them is:

Things to make you smile?

Does that even qualify as a question? Should it be: "Things to make you smile: whiskers on kittens, warm woolen mittens, 12-inch dildos..." Ya'll know how I love lists, but I don't want to misread Biggie's lyrics. How sad that he is no longer here to clarify this burning question!

3. That's it. Except that The Rendez-Vous is the name of a cool bar in Buffalo that is situated right in the middle of the horrible ghetto I was priviledged to spend 2 years of my life growing up in. The Vous's patio is possibly the best patio I've ever witnessed in my life: lovely and plentiful seating, trellises with grape vines growing above, two trees in the middle of the patio holding up tons of Christmas lights, bathing everyone in a warm glow. Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh. Also, they have a reggaeton/dancehall night at the Vous. For those of you that don't know, reggaeton is the Karmic answer to salsa. What I mean by that is, Puerto Rico has given such joy to the entire world through its salsa music, and as a result, had to put out some bullshit to balance out the Universe. Actually, reggaeton could be bearable in small doses if every song didn't have the same exact rhythmic pattern droning through it, but that's not the case, so it's pretty unbearable. Dancehall is much more fun to be around, and I can't help but dance to it when I hear it. So....put de dub pon de radio- me hear nuff a dis bumbaclot reggaeton!

This is going to be a long, garbled entry, since all of these things happened over the course of a week and a half. Good luck.

1. WNY is cheap as hell. Three delicious crispy pastries molded by Italian hands washed down with a great coffee all for the low, low price of $6. An 8 inch sub hand-crafted by the sandwich Nazi with the tenderest of Cappicole and Soppressate you have seen? $5.35. The shit was chunky enough to last me for two meals. The pizza isn't so extremely cheap that I feel inspired to write about it for those reasons, but there are others that compel me.

A. The shit is really good. Salty and fatty with real pepperoni, not this salami bullshit we endure in the Midwest.

B. At my fave pizza shack (Mr. Pizza- "7 days without pizza makes one weak") they have a price schedule for slices taped near the register.

1 slice = $2.00
2 slice = $4.00
3 slice = $6.00
4 slice = $8.00
5 slice = $10.00

Usually when schedules like these are printed, it's to show how buying things in bulk will save you money. In this case, it's clearly for the mathematically-challenged gentry of the Upper West Side. Fucking stupid.

2. Two of my friends work at a great bar called The Hardware in historic Allentown. Allentown is a neighborhood of nice old houses, narrow streets, good restaurants and bars, and funky people. One night sitting outside of the Hardware drinking free beer, we met two important people. The first was a busted looking black man with a small guitar. He came to our table and serenaded us (unasked) with "Everyday People" "Kiss" and one more bomb-ass song that I forget. He was actually good to listen to, but we all pretended to ignore him, because we weren't paying for that shit. Actually, I like to pay good street musicians, but I was broke on the strenth! No tips for crackheads that night.

2a. The second person we met that night was Eric Dietz, independant candidate for the Mayor of Buffalo. Mind you, this scene unfolded at about 2am. Homeboy came up to us with a clipboard asking us to sign his petition, thereby allowing him to be on the ballot for the Mayor's race. We grilled him- in particular Lerla, who was lit by that time:

L: "So where are you from?"
E: "Clarence." (That's where the rich folk come from. Eric looked decidedly un-rich, but fuck it, he was still from Clarence.)
L: "What do your parents do?"
E: "My dad is a construction worker, and my mom is a lunchlady."
L" "And what do you do?"
E: "I'm a musician. I also deliver pizzas, and used to be a lunchlady." (Impossible to not laugh at this point.)
L: "See Eric, my problem with you is this. You come over here trying to flaunt your blue-collar credentials in my grill, all like 'I'm a lunchlady and my momma's a lunchlady,' and people in Buffalo won't appreciate someone from Clarence doing that. That's my problem with you." (That was totally a summation of a 5-minute tirade from Lerla that frequently didn't make sense, but was consistently hilarious.)

To his credit, Eric held his ground, in true politician manner. I was able to ask him about his platform. His schtick about beautifying Buffalo so that people stop moving away from it was convincing enough. That is, until he got into the specifics.

E: "What I'd really like to do is to build a hostile [sic] for all the homeless people in town. It would be a huge pirate ship in the middle of the Niagara River...you know, a place where they could have a room to sleep, maybe a closet. Wake up in the morning and have a bowl of Total."
Lerla: "With raisins?!?!?!"
E: "We'd have both kinds."

Normally, I'm pro-pirate (even militant- you can ask my friends) but in this case, I thought Buffalo had bigger problems to deal with. That said, if Eric Dietz did win, he would have some strong pirate guidance on the building of his ship. A man somehow involved in his campaign is a pirate, we learned. This guy has one leg, and one hand. The hand has been replaced by a hook, although he didn't mention what, if anything, replaced the leg. Methinks a peg-leg with a kickstand would be nice. Oh, this pirate friend drives a Bloodmobile in town. Fucking perfect.

3. Coming out of the closet makes me feel really fucking alive. The most recent victims were my brother and his crazy-fun wife Reba. It took me quite a long time to get the words out to them, which was unnecessary, as the were mostly unflapped through the talk. Actually, while I was doing my whole warm-up routine, Reba looked like I was going to tell her I had cancer, or chiggers. Her jaw was slack and eyes bugged out. She later recommended to me that I just come out with the shit faster to save them all the torture. She had experience in this type of situation, as she had gotten pregnant when she was still in High School. Apparently, she had a new-ish friend who she suckered into coming over for dinner. Reba knew having the friend there would at least temper her mother's reaction if only for a short while, but the friend had no idea what was about to go down. After eating, the friend and mother sat at the table bullshitting while Reba washed dishes. Suddenly, Reba turns around and says, "Well, I don't know what we're going to do, 'cause I'm pregnant." That's that. I think I'll try that move when I come out to my mom. Anyone want to come home with me?

4. Eli is a member of Tha Handlaz. I would call them a slightly Jewish hip-hop duo, although I've never seen them, heard of them and don't know anything about them. Oh- I think they are a pretend hip-hop duo, but that really doesn't matter. Shit, I don't even know if Eli is Jewish, but his name is, and so are his hairy shoulders.

Eli sez..."If you bring it, they will reckanize." On tha strenth.

That's why Eli is so fly.

5. Mom is an overbearing person. She will flat out negate anything you have to say, fact or opinion, with a forceful, "No!" That's all it takes, in her mind, to convince everyone else that she is right. My brothers and sisters have taken to mimicking this behaviour, which we all find hilarious. Mom doesn't like being told "no."

6. I officially own one country album. (It has two discs.) It's Alison Krauss and Union Station Live, and it's not too bad. I wonder if I burned it from my brother in order to live up to my bleeding-heart-liberal-artistic-"I'm open to everything" bullshit. I do really enjoy at least 3 songs on the album, so I guess I'll wait to label myself a 'poseur' for the time being.

7. The entire week in B-Lo, Lerla, Shawna, Duke and I were obsessed with faux Jamaican patois. In particular, we enjoy the prominence of the word "'pon" in the dancehall songs we heard at the clubs, and also the word "bumbaclot" which I don't comprehend, but enjoy nonetheless. We so enjoyed these words that for an hour at the Hardware, we spoke to each other in nothing but bullshit patois, commanding each other to "Put de bumbaclot drink 'pon de table!" and so on. Pure fun.

8. This did not happen on my trip, but was funny nonetheless. Bill and I were at Boom! last night having a drink when a slutty guy taps me on the arm, trying to talk to me:

Him: "Are you having fun?"
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Oh, because I came alone tonight."
Me: "Really?"
Him: "Yeah- why'd you ask?"
Me: (confused) "Uhhh, no reason."

At which point I turn around so as to avoid awkward conversation, and so that he stops thinking it's alright to talk to me. Sunday night is Showtune night at Boom! and they had just finished playing "Do Re Mi" from The Sound of Music. The place was fucking rocking- there was not a single pair of lips in there not singing along with Ms. Andrews. Apparently there was a nun theme-let going on, because the next video was "I Will Follow Him," the big finale from Sister Act. I love nuns, and I love singing, which caused me to turn to Bill and exclaim "Nuns + singing = fun!" A pretty straightforward equation, if you ask me. Actually, there's nothing straight about that equation, but fuck you. Bill and I both laughed hysterically at my improbable but true math, after which I felt another tap on my arm:

Him: "What did you guys just say about me?"
Me: (confused again) "Huh?"
Him: "You turned around, said something to him and then laughed."
Me: "Oh, I said 'nuns + singing = fun'."

He gave me a quizzical look and walked away, thank Bejeezus. He obviously flunked out of nun math. Too bad for him!