I found the coolest handmade hardware at the local artist co-op. Spent this morning installing my new doorknob:



Love its smooth lines, its insouciance, its spunk. Still not sure about the knocker, though.

Repeat Friday: Go With the Flow

Last week I went to a cocktail party that positively sparkled with witty repartee and fascinating conversation. Too bad all I wanted was to get laid. I made my excuses, hightailed it to the Eagle, and the first reasonably attractive guy I saw I tailed home. We stripped off our clothes and he leaned in close, grinning like a 12-year-old about to swap his sister's Hershey bar with Ex-Lax.

"You know what would be really cool?" he said, eyes twinkling. "You could tie me to the bed and force me to suck your feet!"

Now, this bothered me in a couple different ways. First, I wasn't falling for his alleged spontaneity. It reminded me of those hetero guys who find themselves on dates with hot, tipsy chicks: "I heard about these things called 'body shots,' " they say, feigning innocence. "You wanna give it a try?" And second, I was supposed to force him to do me? I'm attractive; he should be happy I'm naked and there. I made my excuses and scurried off, adding entry No. 472 to my "Why I Shouldn't Sleep With Strangers" list.

A few days later, though, it happened again. Another guy with a weird request, and another naked scene. "You know what would be great?" this one said like a kid at Christmas. "My neighbor's a submissive pig into hypnotism and electricity. How about we see if he's busy?"

I put my finger to my chin, pretending to think, but mostly I tried to remember where my pants were. I made some vague excuse -- when you flee a pervert's apartment you don't quibble about the details -- and went out and found a replacement. My heart leapt up to my throat when we got naked and he too started to speak: "There's something I've always wanted to try," he said. "How do you feel about Nixon masks and cheese?"

"OK," I thought. "I give up. Everybody's doing that midlife-crisis thing. But can't you all just buy Porsches?"

Now, I've got nothing against crazy stuff: I mean, some people think what I do in bed is crazy, and that's before they hear about the chickens. It's the surprise part I don't like. You wouldn't ask people over for dinner and then surprise them with horse testicles in cat pee, and you shouldn't surprise sex partners with frilly pink corsets or Ovaltine enemas.

For the third time in a row, I put my clothes back on and made my excuses, but halfway down the hall I noticed my wallet was gone. It falls out of my pants a lot so it didn't particularly surprise me -- I just didn't like having to re-greet somebody whose apartment I'd just fled. I walked back to his door and heard him talking on the phone.

"He looked really hot," he was saying. "Nice face, stylish clothes. But then he takes his clothes off, and oh my God! He's so pink and furry I'm afraid the cat's going to run after him. He's got a roll of flab six inches wide around his waist, and it looks like he hasn't been to the gym since gravity was invented. I was like, 'Skipper, better put your shirt back on or Little Buddy's going to be sick!'" I poked my head in and he pasted on the smile I use when opening presents from Grandma. "I'll call you right back," he interjected. "Something's come up."

He hung up and I edged my way in. "I guess you were talking about somebody else," I said, trailed by an awkward chuckle.

"Oh, no," he said, with an insouciant air. "We were talking about you."

"So that stuff about the Nixon mask and the cheese -- that was just to get rid of me?"

He nodded. "It seemed easiest. You weren't quite what I expected."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not a model or a professional bodybuilder. But I work out three times a week, and I've never gotten any complaints."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he cried like Joan Rivers spotting Cher. "Aside from your massive pinkness there's a zit on your shoulder the size of Vesuvius, and if you stood with your feet together I could still toss a ham between your legs."

I stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to argue. "I forgot my wallet," I said frostily, and I pushed past him to the bedroom where it was lying on the floor. Maybe he'd stripped me of my dignity, I thought, but I'd still have a Discover card with nearly $80 available. With my head held high, I strolled back outside, where the freezing air and his insults hit me like a smack in the face.

The sun was setting as I slowly trudged home and the city darkened around me. Although I hate Los Angeles, I found myself missing it: I mean, having sex there was mindless fun, while here it was like entering a dog show. You take your clothes off and they're inspecting every muscle, every hair, asking you to trot around the bed. "That right delt is slightly saggy," they say, looking up from their clipboard, "and there's a slight curvature to the spine. The chest hair is off-center, and the ears are out of proportion. I'm afraid you'll have to go." But I guess I should have expected it. New Yorkers are cutthroat about everything -- business, sports, even food. Why did I think sex would be different? For the first time in my life I had to confront one of life's biggest questions: Would I ever have sex in this town again?

I got my answer soon enough. On the subway home, a nice-looking guy struck up a conversation with me, then asked me to his place "for coffee," and I went. I stripped naked, he leered at me lustfully, and everything was cool. Then he took off his clothes, and damn. Freak-show time. From chest hair shaped like a bagel to thighs as flat and gray as Flipper to skinny ankles where the hair had been worn away by tight socks.

This would not do.

You know what I'd really like to try?" I said, feigning excitement. "I'd love for you to piss on me while singing 'Send in the Clowns.' "

When he led me into the bathroom and began humming the intro, I nearly freaked. If I'd still been wearing either pants or shoes, in fact, I'd be in Cincinnati right now. But then I thought, Heck, I'm not getting any younger, and to tell you the truth, I'm not in the best shape in the world. How often do opportunities like this come up?

I learned my lesson. By the time he finished, let me tell you, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Now that Madonna and Guy are breaking up, all their tawdry laundry is being aired. According to some news reports, for instance, the duo had so many conflicts they not only saw a marriage counselor, they had him write up a contract specifying what behavior was acceptable and what wasn't. Leave it to World Class Stupid to bring you the entire list.

• Both parties agree to rear children based on the timeless writings of whatever cult is fashionable at the time.
  
  
• In the event of an fractious dispute between the two parties, Rosie O'Donnell gets the tiebreaking vote.
  
  
• Both parties will make an effort to feign enthusiasm for the other's interests, whether that be conical bras and Jean-Paul Gaultier or Watney's Pale Ale and heterosexual sex.
  
  
• Both parties agree not to laugh when anyone suggests a film festival of the other's work.
  
  
• Infants must be changed a minimum of six times daily, ten times if they're onstage.
  
  
• Both parties agree to awaken each other with hugs and hearty greetings rather than cries of "Oh, God!" or "Sweetheart, remind who you are again."
  
  
• In public, both parties will speak as if they're British. At home, they're lusty gay Irishmen.
  
  
• When lost in a tsunami of existential despair, both parties will stop and ask themselves: What would Brad and Angelina do?
  
  
• Neither party will lift the other off the ground and say, "You're a cute li'l thing, aincha? 'Ow'd you like to feel me rough workman's hands against yer pretty white skin?" because that always gets Guy mad.
  

(Via Queerty)

Busy morning here, so I'll just give over the blog to a public service message somebody sent me. Catch you tomorrow!

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


It is a sad fact that, with the myriad of options available to women today, so many choose to complete their pregnancies. All too often, they live to regret their choice, and by then it's too late. Listen to these testimonials from parents who'd assumed children were wonderful blessings that would brighten their lives, and make up your own mind.


I used to eat Filet Mignon, Chicken Cordon Bleu, caviar. Now ninety-percent of my diet is whatever the kids spit out. -- Wanda P.


When I finally got time to reconnect with my old college roommate, I suddenly realized I had nothing to talk about except how cute I think the Wombles are. -- Finola R.


Everybody told me birth was a beautiful thing. If I'd known it'd be like Ed Asner bursting out of my vagina, I'd have given up sex twenty years ago. -- Margo K.


When I was younger, I worked security at CBGBs. With two kids in diapers, I'm cleaning up more puke now. -- Steve P.


My husband used to say my breasts were the most wonderful thing in the world. After two kids, they've fallen to thirtieth place, right behind velcro shoes. -- Elaine S.


I didn't realize motherhood meant being a scullery maid to somebody who can't differentiate between her father and a utility pole. -- Katherine M.


I was so excited to hear my wife was pregnant, picturing a tiny composite of the two of us. Two years later the kid looks so much like a raisin I'm afraid to let her near oatmeal. -- Mark A.


I'm not saying parenthood has negatively affected my wife, but every year on our son's birthday she puts on a paper hat, guzzles gin, and screams the words to 'You Don't Bring Me Flowers' until she passes out. -- Walter B.


I love having kids. I love having kids. I love having kids. I'm not repeating myself: that's the echo from my vagina. -- Patsy L.


Don't bend to peer pressure: children are an unshakable affliction that will forever alter your life. Have a job? Have a purpose? Have a hobby? Don't give it all up to turn nanny for somebody who'll call you a brain-dead cunt before he's in long pants.

If you got rear-ended by a Taurus, would it mean God wanted you to drive around in a dented car? Childlessness is fabulous. C'mon: get that shit fixed.®

The Internet is not only changing the way people live and work but also altering our brains, according to a UCLA neuroscientist. Gary Small, a researcher who specializes in brain function, has found that Internet searching has made brains more adept at filtering information and making snap decisions.

As an example, Dr. Small says that back when our dads were young, they'd have to look at a picture of a naked chick for nearly a second before they'd know if she was hot.



Sir David Attenborough is being credited with a key role in getting a group of frogs in the mood for love. After being at London Zoo for three years without mating, eight Mission Golden-eyed Tree frogs finally did the deed during a visit by the esteemed British naturalist, producing between 40 and 50 tadpoles.

Biologists say this could be due either to Attenborough's natural affinity for animals or his gigantic green ass.

Now that our savings are gone and we've lost our jobs, a lot of us find ourselves unable to afford the products we used to buy. Afraid of losing all their customers, some major manufacturers have introduced knockoff brands that are close to the originals but more affordable. Next time you 're at the supermarket and you need to save a buck, keep an eye out for these new products:

Straw Chex

Molden Grahams

Slime Jims

Weedabix

Marshmallow Seeps

I Can't Believe It's Dirt

Snot Pockets

Glop Tarts

V-1

Hostess Ding Dungs

Honey Bunches of Uh-Os

A wild rumble erupted in Times Square early Saturday morning outside a theater debuting the latest installation of a movie franchise that critics have variously called sadistic, morally depraved, and a Biblical sign of the end times.

Swarms of teens started fighting as they tried to exit and enter sold-out theaters, and eventually the violence spread out onto the streets.

Police finally got the kids under control by getting them all to agree that Zac was absolutely, positively the hottest guy ever to be shown onscreen.





Sarah Palin is continuing to work damage control over the story that Republican operatives spent one-seventh of a million dollars on clothes for her to wear for the last two weeks of the Presidential campaign. During a rally in Kissimmee, Florida she insisted that she's frugal, down-to-earth, and just like every other upper-middle-class woman in America.

So, she's just going to wear the clothes once and then return them.





Ed Asner has been writing his autobiography. He says he'll discuss his rise from son of a scrap metal dealer to president of the Screen Actors Guild, and his work as an activist for social justice who frequently battled with the late arch-conservative Charlton Heston.

The book is controversial, to say the least. Aside from vicious attacks on Heston and no-holds-barred discussions of the women he's slept with, Asner claims he's always, always been able to turn the world on with his smile.

Well, the other shoe has dropped. Ashley Todd, now out of the closet as a McCain campaign aide, has confessed that she made the whole attack up.

Question: why are big black men always invented for the fake attacks? Are Mexicans too small? Couldn't they gang up or something? Couldn't one of them be carrying a stepstool? Are we cutting them some slack because we already blame them for stealing our jobs? Norwegians are big. French are scary, primarily if you mispronounce words. Samoans are big and scary; couldn't they catch one of our innocent virgins unaware? And why is it never a gay man? (Though obviously that wouldn't have worked in this case, just judging from the poor penmanship.)

Readers, I hate to say this, but today is a very sad day to be an Obama Supporter. Obviously we're all a little mentally unstable, since we're not backing the real American in the race, but it's become painfully obvious that some of us have just plain lost our minds.

Yesterday Ashley Todd, a sweet, decent McCain-supporting college student, was viciously attacked by an Obama supporter. The poor girl got lost while driving around and ended up in a bad neighborhood. She drove by a bank and figured she'd use the ATM, where she was accosted by a large black man. He robbed her, and then spotting her McCain bumper sticker scratched a B (for "Barack") into her cheek.

Naturally, the Republicans are up in arms, and for once I have to agree. I join Drudge and Fox News in condemning all Obama supporters for the act of this deranged man, because with this incident it's obvious we've gone from being irrational America-haters to just plain nuts. Thankfully John McCain and Sarah Palin have already called the poor girl to offer their condolences.

My heart goes out to poor Ashley. In the hours since the attack, it's become evident that she's also suffering some sort of amnesia. She can't explain why she decided to use that dangerous ATM, plus she suddenly remembered that the man might have sexually assaulted her too. But she still can't recall why she thought Pittsburgh's picturesque Little Italy was a bad neighborhood.

Luckily the police have a few clues. They're looking for a dark-skinned black man, 6'4", 200 pounds. He skulks around quaint tourist spots, and examines the bumpers of his victim's cars before he mugs them. He has magic fists, because he can blacken somebody's eye without causing any swelling. He's immune to cold, wearing jeans and a t-shirt in forty-degree weather. And he's probably dyslexic, since the "B" is backwards. You know, like if you'd scratched it into your own cheek while looking in the bathroom mirror.

(Via Gawker and Joe.My.God)





Scientists are trying to feed the world's hungry by developing genetically modified superfoods. Their goal is to create a crop that will be tasty but will also grow with very little water in almost any environment.

They think they have a hit with their latest invention, Fungusnickers.

According to the ABC affiliate in Houston, Texas, one trip to Luling City Market, a meat-eater's mecca, would "scare a vegetarian to death." The Oklahoma Gazette declares that Cattlemen's Steakhouse is the "Best Place To Scare A Vegetarian." And local throwaway AM New York announced yesterday that Eight Mile Creek, an Australian restaurant that serves emu carpaccio and seared kangaroo filet, is the "Best Place to Scare a Vegetarian."

Folks, sit down for a second: I've got news for you. Meat doesn't scare vegetarians. A quarter pounder with cheese isn't like a cross to a vampire. Should you happen to feel threatened by a vegetarian -- you know, like you run into Moby in a dark alley some night -- you can't hold up a knockwurst and make him run screaming away. We've seen meat. We know what it looks like. We're not going to dive under the nearest table, caterwauling like the Bride of Frankenstein. But, you know, we probably won't snatch it out of your hands and stuff it into our mouths.

In the interest of killing an offensive old cliche, then, let's make this perfectly clear. Chew up that juicy slab of raw kangaroo if you want, and we could not care less. We're not going to be frightened: au contraire, we're going to (a) think you have no respect for yourself, (b) suspect that you're an idiot, and (c) wonder why you need to go to such ridiculous lengths to prop up your manhood.

We'll think (a) because too much meat is bad for you, and most meateaters don't have a clue about limits. They eat hamburgers every day, and while that would sate a coyote, they're just coasting through until Saturday's two-pound sirloin. Seeing as it's kind of a human goal to live a long, healthy life, any sign to the contrary is going to make us wonder exactly how suicidal you are. Driving eighty in a twenty MPH zone? Not great. Skydiving blindfolded? Questionable. Living for those visits to Outback Steakhouse? Dude, you're Amy Winehouse without the tattoos.

We'll believe (b) because try as we might, we can't make eating animals seem logical. I mean, you've got your list of saintly animals nobody would think of devouring: dogs, cats, Bambi. Then you're got your animals that are too repulsive to eat: rats, lizards, vampire bats. But somehow, right in the middle, you've picked out a whole section of juicy little critters God gave you as a four-legged buffet. Dogs may be man's best friend but cows are dinner, so it's cool to slice off a chunk, hoist it over a fire, then stuff it in your face while its blood drips down your chin.

Eating bull penis is a Fear Factor stunt -- unless you mince it up fine and slather on the mustard and relish, in which case it's a ballpark tradition. Smart? Hardly. Sensible? Not at all. If we run out of food, we can run out to the garden. You've got to find a matador.

No, the main reason you're such a flesh aficionado is because (c), it's the sign of a true man. Carnivore. Primal. Butch. Ah know what Ah like! you declare proudly, pounding the table with your hairy fists. If your five-year-old craved long, tasty carrots you'd send him to military school, but when he screams for Steak-Ums he's a chip off the old block. Ah know what Ah like! Yes, you're determined, stubborn, manly. It's just a coincidence you remind us of grandma justifying eight hours of "Wheel of Fortune" and a sherry every day.

Still, I'm hopeful. Maybe one day you'll realize you're a clueless advertising tool, though you'll probably scurry down the street screaming "ONLY SNICKERS SATISFIES ME!" first. Maybe, like me, you'll find masculinity in vegetables. You want courage? You want fortitude? You want inner strength? Try to make sexy, hot, romantic love with another dude after you've polished off a broccoli burger and a side of brussel sprouts.

This week maverick plain-spoken hockey mom Sarah Palin spent enough on clothes to give slick insider elitist John Edwards a $400 haircut every month for thirty-one years.

Repeat Wednesday: What A Dump

I don't understand my dog Snowflake. Three times a day I take him out for a walk, and he always scurries over to the same old tree. To the naked eye it looks like all the other trees, but from the way Snowflake acts you'd think it was Bob Fosse. He sniffs at the bark, paws the fallen leaves, circles endlessly. It makes me wonder if he's stupid. This thing's the botanical equivalent of "The View," except even Barbara Walters rarely reeks of piss.

I yank on his leash and drag him farther down the block, past a new apartment house they're building. I've got a love/hate relationship with it. It's an oversized concrete box surrounded by classic old brownstones, but since it brings ten hunky Polish construction workers to the neighborhood it could be the Gates of Hell for all I care. Whenever I pass one of these guys on the street I'm tempted to strike up a conversation. I usually go for flattery as a pick-up line, but I'm not sure "You can sure stack concrete blocks!" will prompt eyelashes to bat.

Snowflake and I are almost to the corner when we find an enormous brown pile in the middle of the sidewalk. It's about enough to make me lose my lunch, but to Snowflake it's like finding vintage Gucci. He tiptoes up to it, circles a few times, sniffs. He can't take his eyes off it. If he had opposable thumbs he'd be snapping pictures.

I'm tugging on his leash when a construction worker appears. He's picked up a Snapple at the deli, I guess, and now he's headed back to work. He's one of my favorites, reminding me of a guy I used to date. We went all hot and heavy until his birthday came up. I still get defensive about it: I mean, if mango shower gel is a crime, color me guilty.

"Hey," he says, in a thick Polish accent, "you gotta clean up after your dog."

I show him my hand, stuck inside a plastic bag, and think about making it talk. I decide not too: I mean, if there's a profession that less sexy than accountants, it's puppeteers. "I do," I say. "He hasn't gone yet."

"Then what's that?" he asks, pointing to the sidewalk. Like an idiot I look. It hasn't changed. "Your dog took a dump."

"It's not his," I say. "It was here when we got here."

"Of course it's his. He's standing right next to it."

"You're standing right next to it and nobody's claiming it's yours."

He starts his next sentence with "Listen, wise guy," which doesn't bode well for our future together. I don't date anybody who reminds me of Dad. "I just went to the store, and it wasn't here when I left. Look around -- you see any other dogs? Who else could have done it?"

I don't see any other dogs, but this doesn't prove anything. "My dog's poo is nothing like this," I maintain. "For one thing, this is bigger than his head. Snowflake ate a whole pizza once and barely crapped a cannoli."

"I'm not even listening," he says. "I'm not buying your excuses, and you're not leaving until you clean that up." He's just dripping with macho swagger. It's only hot when you're sure the guy's not going to kill you.

I come to the conclusion that I can't win this argument by myself. I need backup; I need a character witness. Surely some of the neighborhood folks have seen Snowflake poo before, and can testify that this monstrosity isn't his.

Like the answer to a prayer, the guy who lives upstairs from me is fast approaching on the other side of the street. I've kind of got a crush on him too: he reminds me of a guy I used to date in college, who dropped me when I gave him a ring. It wasn't commitment he was afraid of -- some folks just don't get Cat's Eye. "Hey!" I yell. "Excuse me! Have you ever seen my dog take a crap?"

"No!" he hollers, and he darts across the road like the Clash are playing on our side. He takes one look at the sidewalk and scowls. "Damn," he snaps. "Did I miss it?"

This is such an allegory for my life, I think. Two men I'm interested in, and the topic of discussion is whether or not my dog took a dump. Under other circumstances I'd probably have caved, but the dog that left this muffin was clearly not in good health. Let's just say it'd be easier to pick up apple sauce.

From four different directions bystanders approach. In a quiet Italian neighborhood like this, a giant crap is like Cirque du Soleil. I get the newcomers up to speed, hoping somebody'll back me up, but everybody takes Construction Worker's side. "If I wasn't going to clean up after my dog," I ask, "why did I bring the bag?"

"You were gonna pretend to clean it up," a chubby kid replies. Right, I thought -- now I'm the Sociopathic Urban Mime. He's just mad because I gave out Swiffer refills last Halloween.

"You know," somebody says, "I'll bet he's the one who's been carving graffiti into the trees."

"And setting off the car alarms at four in the morning."

The crowd murmurs like a posse on "Bonanza," accusing me of everything from destroying the ozone layer to reusing postage stamps, and the circle around me starts to close in. By now I'm thinking, hey, maybe Frankenstein didn't have it so bad. Sure, he was chased around by villagers with torches, but it wasn't in a hip neighborhood, and he didn't have to worry about ruining flattering clothes.

Just as I'm deciding on the best direction to run, an old lady in a faded housedress breaks through the circle, wielding a cane like a tire iron. Somebody explains the situation to her in Italian, and I'm guessing they offer her first whack. Instead she takes a look at the dog, the poo, the plastic bag over my hand, and puts it all together like a Sicilian Miss Marple. "So your dog hasn't gone yet?" she asks. I nod. "Then make him go."

A gasp of surprise erupts from the crowd. It's like we're all gathered in the library and she's just picked out the killer. Even I'm impressed -- I mean, I wouldn't have expected anything more than interesting than curse words and tasty gnocchi from her. "Easier said than done," I complain. "I have to massage his lips to get him to eat."

"Convince him."

All eyes turn to the dog, who's shivering like a chilly chicken. "Poor little puppy," somebody says. "He's too nervous to go."

Now this was just flat-out wrong. Snowflake's never cared who was around when he went. In fact, he seemed to be spurred on by attention from attractive guys. It was the bane of my existence: I'd meet somebody, we'd flirt, he'd try to make friends with the dog, and before we could swap numbers we'd be scurrying for gas masks.

A lightbulb goes on over my head. "Hey," I say to Construction Worker, "pet the dog. Pretend you like him."

He stares at me like I'm crazy but follows my instructions. Not two seconds later Snowflake is proudly standing over his own, markedly-smaller creation.

The crowd grumbles and I beam like a new dad. "See?" I say, gesturing like it's a game show prize. "There's a huge difference."

They nod reluctantly. It's a rollerskate next to a Humvee. "Sorry," Construction Worker says. "I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"No prob," I reply, and then comes our first awkward silence. Pause. "You can sure stack concrete blocks."

He smiles and his brown eyes twinkle. "Thanks. Well, I gotta get back to work. Maybe I'll see you later."

"Yeah, that'd be nice." We all watch as he walks away.

Snowflake and I head back towards home, and he runs to the safety of his tree again, circling like a Spirograph. I still can't claim to understand the little pooch, but he's a chip off the old block in a couple ways:

Great taste in men. Really not so great with gifts.

Tuesday News Round-Up

A Swedish clergyman has quit after picking up a virus from a hardcore porn website - and crippling the entire church computer network.

Father Gunnar Svensson, from Strangnas, was exposed when technicians trying to fix the breakdown discovered he had choked his hard drive with thousands of visits to extreme pornography sites.

When church authorities suggested the clergyman should be immediately defrocked he moaned, "Oh, yes, YES!!!"



A man tried to steal several bags of frozen shrimp from a supermarket by stuffing them into his pants. An off-duty detective was shopping at a Sweetbay supermarket Sunday when he noticed the man hiding the frozen seafood and intervened.

The detective approached the 32-year-old man and pointed at the peculiar bulge.

DETECTIVE: Shrimp?

SUSPECT: Oh, like you're John Holmes.



A goldfish named Princess was sent a voter registration form in Illinois last week.

Beth Nudelman, who owns the fish, says she's never registered Princess to vote, but that Princess might have gotten on a mailing list because the family once filled in the pet's name when they got a second phone line for their computer.

Ms. Nudelman speculate that Princess would have voted for McCain because she's old, it's wrinkly, and she lives in a giant fishbowl that somebody else bought.

In yesterday's New York Times there's an article about people going to rather extreme lengths to lessen their impact on the planet. Two thumbs up to them!

David Chameides is collecting all the waste he generates in a year. My grandmother did the exact same thing. She'd be tickled to death to know people were copying her today, if she hadn't already been crushed by a pile of old Reader's Digests.

They mention Colin Beavan, "No Impact Man." He's the guy who won't drive, won't use electricity or gas, and won't generate any trash at all. Doesn't detract from his cause at all that he hired a maid to clean his apartment, that he took taxis wherever he needed to go, and that he ate at restaurants because his dedication to the planet made it too difficult to cook.

At Sharon Astyk's house, her four sons sleep huddled together to conserve body heat. Because really, which is the worse fate -- contributing to global warming or having your kid beaten up when he goes to his first slumber party?

Jay Matsueda gives his friends Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth as birthday gifts. Because why ask people to rent a DVD when they can have their own petrochemical copy? After he gets a haircut, he puts the clippings out on his lawn for birds. In between collecting grass and twigs for nesting, evidently they like to do hair weaves.

And Jay also occasionally relieves himself on other people's lawns so he won't have to flush a toilet.

A big hearty cheer to Jay. And if he ever whips out his bits near my lawn, I'll show him how to take a free, low-impact shower.

(Via Alex Balk)



So, that movie about the yappy little lapdog trying to get in touch with its roots and develop a personality made fifteen million dollars over the weekend. Personally, I'm surprised, since I thought people were sick of Bush.

The song "Staying Alive" has the perfect rhythm to help jump-start a stopped heart. According to researchers, 103 beats per minute matches the ideal number of chest compressions for CPR, and one doctor says he has actually revived patients by singing the song while he worked.

Sadly, his patients wake up thinking they're making out with Barry Gibb, and then they have a heart attack all over again.





Singer Stevie Wonder denied reports saying his home burned down. The New York Post reported on Thursday that Wonder's home went up in flames and all his musical memorabilia had been destroyed.

"I'm grateful to say that my house was not burned down in the fire," Wonder declared.

He added that now that they mention it, it's been awfully windy inside, and somebody must have made barbecue.



Quoting an anonymous tipster, the New York Post reports that while staying at the Waldorf Astoria, Michelle Obama called room service and ordered lobster appetizers, steamed lobsters, Iranian caviar and champagne for two.

Ooh, she's really an elitist, isn't she? I mean, she should have ordered the Sarah Palin special: a gun and a map of Central Park.





A man who owned an illegal monkey tried to convince a judge that he'd sent it back to Mexico by showing the judge a picture of the monkey holding a Mexican newspaper.

Yeah, anybody holding something Hispanic must be south of the border. Which means Madonna is in Acapulco right now.





Representatives for actor and Scientology advocate Tom Cruise categorically deny reports of his demise. According to internet postings, the actor fell off the side of a steep hill while hiking in New Zealand.

See, this is how rumors get started. What I heard is that he blew off a Cliff.

W? Zzz.

Regardless of your political persuasion, you’re going to be shaken to the very core by Josh Brolin’s portrayal of our president in Oliver Stone’s film W.

The lights will go down, the president will appear, your jaw will drop. Wait. Are they implying . . . ? Is George W. supposed to be . . . smart?

This George W. is unrecognizable, seemingly capable of anything. He can answer five reporters’ questions in rapid-fire while walking to his car. You’ll shake your head: Bush can talk while he’s walking? He quotes St. Augustine while talking with Tony Blair. He can name books written by Barry Goldwater. He’s self-aware: “I know people say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but they don’t know the burden it carries.”

Uh, whaaa? This from a man who can’t eat pretzels by himself.

From the first minute it’ll hit you: there’s something seriously wrong with this Bush. He’s suave, he’s assured, he’s . . . charming. He makes understandable jokes. When discussing a political rival he snipes, “Ann Richard’s hair is in the clouds.” When asked about his swagger, he replies, “In Texas we call that walkin’.” He frequently wears a thoughtful expression the real guy couldn’t approximate. God knows Our Esteemed Leader doesn’t have enough brains to be preoccupied: I mean, how can he think of something else when he can’t even think in the first place?

We all have mental pictures of the man cobbled together from news reports. To put it bluntly, he’s an idiot. If you watch David Letterman, you’ll know the man says something stupid at least once a day, if not every time he opens his mouth. But the film version -- sure, he makes a few mistakes. Misunderestimate, fool me once, etc. But five mistakes over twenty years does not an idiot make.

You’ll be confused, and then angry. Who the hell is this? Next he’ll discover Cold Fusion while diverting an asteroid from Gotham City.

In fact, Bush's advisers spout as many non sequitors as him. Talking about troop deployment in Iraq, Colin Powell offers this puzzler: “Let’s not forget the ninety Mongolian troops there; they’re damn fine wrestlers too.” Karl Rove is a perfectly nice man interested in politics. Is he trying to grab some of the president’s power? Of course not, he assures the president: “I’m just a little fairy flitting down a little magic fairy dust for you.”

Oh. Okay.

No, Oliver Stone is pulling his punches here, and an Oliver Stone film with pulled punches isn’t a film at all. It’s a reenactment, an infomercial. There are no ulterior motives, no conspiracies. There are no press corps loaded with hustler-journalists lobbing softball questions. There are no evildoers in this White House. David Kay makes a mistake about WMDs, and out of the blue declares resigning is the honorable thing to do. Huh? Like he didn’t lose a quick round of the Blame Game to Karl Rove. This country was really run off the rails by innocent, intelligent people supporting a liberty-loving, God-fearing president? Surely there's more to it than that.

What satire we get is lightweight to nonexistent. “The Yellow Rose of Texas” plays during the bombing of Iraq, “Glory Hallelujah” during the “Mission Accomplished” speech. “Robin Hood” shows up twice. Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor.

Yeah, that fits right in.

In the end, W is a complete waste of time, a cobbling-together of the old and obvious, a great opportunity totally wasted. The surface hasn't even been scratched here, and we walk out realizing if we want to see the real, bumbling, first-class idiot in action, we’ll just have to watch the news.

Radiohead has finally announced the sales totals for the oddly-marketed In Rainbows. Oddly, though, the announcement is seriously long on words while seriously missing real numbers.

“Radiohead made more money before In Rainbows was physically released than they made in total on the previous album Hail To the Thief."

Oh. Um, okay.

"[T]here were a total of three million album purchases including the box sets, CDs and all downloads including iTunes and pay-what-you-like downloads via their official site."

Oops. Guys, you're including freebies in with your "purchases."

"The digital income from the experiment made a material difference to WCM’s UK digital revenue this year."

Oh. Wait -- isn't this just a fancy way of saying some of the money went to the record company? What, like if only two people bought the record, the cash would go straight to Sally Struthers?

So, er, thanks for nothing, dudes. And just for future reference, here are a few more word puzzles you can try to pass off as sales figures:

-- If Guy Richie spent all of his alimony buying In Rainbows online, he'd be downloading until 2928.

-- More people paid $10 for In Rainbows than got hit by lightning while bathing in Beirut.

-- If all the fans who bought In Rainbows had bought tulips instead, there'd be clog-dancing in Amsterdam tonight.

And, sadly, here's the reason I think the real numbers are missing:

-- If all the people who paid under a dollar for In Rainbows were in a Volkswagon Jetta, they'd be 2,999,996 seat belts short.

(Via Gawker)

Wednesday Wondering

Jesus, have people still not spent their stimulus checks? C'mon, folks -- buy yourselves a freakin' iPod already.





SALMA HAYAK: Traditional German garb? Why the hell would I want to wear traditional German garb?

PRODUCER: Eet makes zee boobies look like Casava melons.

SALMA HAYAK: Who vants zee pretzel?




Whoa. And I thought I wrote threatening letters to Santa.





According to the New York Press, on the day the stock market fell a record 700 points, the gay hook-up site ManHunt saw a record number of new members.

Well, at least it'd take your mind off watching your 401K go down.

(Via Queerty)





I took this picture of my sister last night.

I didn't realize my zipper was down.

Tuesday News Wrap-Up

Yesterday the Dow Jones Industrial Average jumped over nine hundred points. Which means today President Bush gets to use his "Mission Accomplished" banner again.





The good news is, everybody gets a free toaster!





Oh. Um, okay. That's probably a smart move.





Big Beatle news: Ringo Starr has told his fans that as of October 20, he's not going to answer any of their fan mail. ''It's going to be tossed,'' he says in a video on his website. ''I'm warning you with peace and love, I have too much to do. So no more fan mail. Thank you, thank you. And no objects to be signed. Nothing. Anyway, peace and love, peace and love.''

Is that unbelievable? Ringo Starr gets fan mail.





A German fisherman got more than he bargained for when he hooked a severed arm floating in the Rhine river.

Police said the arm had been in the water for about a week.

The city's in an uproar, the fisherman is in shock, and his poor wife still has to clean the freakin' thing.





Parents in Bosnia and Herzegovina are furious that their kids were taught a traditional Spanish song about smoking marijuana. La Cucaracha - popular in the Mexican civil war - is about a cockroach that can't walk because of all the marijuana it has smoked.

Sigh. Another reason to be depressed. Cockroaches are having more fun than me. No wonder they're always scurrying around my kitchen at three o'clock in the morning.

I hear the school is trying to defend itself. They say they wanted to teach the kids the Alphabet Song but nobody could remember the words.

A TV weatherman stunned his news anchor girlfriend when he appeared on her morning broadcast to propose on the air.

Lubbock, Texas anchorwoman Emily Leonard introduced a news bulletin only to see her boyfriend, Matt Laubhan, a meteorologist for a rival station, sitting behind the desk. Mr. Laubhan said Miss Leonard was "not only the sweet, quirky, crazy girl that you watch every morning on this channel" but also "the love of my life."

As a shocked Miss Leonard covered her mouth with her hands, Mr. Laubhan dropped to one knee and proposed. Miss Leonard cried "Yes!" before her new fiance slipped the ring on her finger and everyone wiped away tears.

Sadly, all the townspeople were killed that night by a surprise hurricane.

As a man matures and gradually becomes enured to the resolute pace of his impending fate, there comes a time when he realizes he absolutely has to do something about his hair.

When you're twenty-something, nobody gives a damn about your hair. Wander around with lettuce on your head and it still won't overshadow that fresh-faced complexion, that firm body, that energetic spirit. Once you turn forty, though, everything's sliding downhill. That bad hair isn't an anomaly: it's icing on a wrinkly cake. Just sit there and passively watch the process and the next thing you know kids are calling you "Sir" on the street.

Every time I noticed another sign of age I took a drastic measure to balance it out. My crow's feet made me buy stylish sunglasses. Love handles prompted me to buy expensive shirts. Gray hair? Adios SuperCuts, hello hairdresser.

I soon learned, though, that like the tech bubble and the real estate bubble, we have a hairstyling bubble in New York. What other explanation can there be for haircuts that cost three hundred bucks? Did people really pay this? I wondered. I mean, it isn't rent. It doesn't keep you alive, or a roof over your head. This is somebody moving SCISSORS around your head for half an hour. This is somebody who took like ONE FREAKIN' COURSE, and all of a sudden they turned into OPRAH.

Calling the salons for estimates I finally understood how my dad felt in restaurants. Before he ate anything, he'd scream about the price disparity. "TEN BUCKS FOR THIS LASAGNA?" he yelled. "It's five cents worth of noodles and a quarter's worth of cheese!" Three hundred bucks, half an hour, snip snip snip. Unless I was going home with a hot tub or without my gallbladder, I was being ripped off.

So, I hit the internet, where desperate folks dodge reality. Much to my surprise I found literally dozens of salons offering free haircuts to "models." I emailed all of them, initially reluctant to call myself a model but soon warming to the word. I whittled through the replies -- did I think HappyKittyParty@gmail.com would be a competent stylist? did I want HotBiGuy@hotmail.com getting anywhere near me? -- before deciding on the Wella salon at Rockefeller Center.

The instructor explained the process to a roomful of models bright and early Friday. They taught haircoloring courses to professional stylists who flew in from all over the country. Each model was assigned two stylists, and together they'd decide on the new look. Haircut, hair color, the whole package. A total makeover for free.

When the stylists descended on the models, it was like being picked for teams in gym class. I wasn't the best of the bunch, obviously, as the attractive stylists ran for the attractive women. Eventually two young women wandered over and introduced themselves as Lisa and Julie. They wouldn't have been my first pick, the only ones in the crowd with perms and Juicy sweats. Still, they were excited, which reassured me. "You're cute!" one announced. "This is gonna be fun!" the other chirped.

"You're professionals?" I asked. "You do this for a living?"

They giggled. "Only for years," Lisa bubbled. "We only work at Jean Philippe!" Julie added. I smiled confidently, but every detail I noticed added to my wariness. The pancake makeup. The Indian dreamcatcher earrings. If they were competent stylists, wouldn't there be evidence in their clothes? Lisa noticed my facade cracking. "You'll look twenty years younger when we're done!" she announced, making me wonder if puppies and lollipops were part of the plan.

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur. I think we discussed hair color. I probably agreed to golden highlights, maybe some darker strands for contrast. I'm positive I told them I wanted it to look natural. But gradually, over the course of two hours, I began to lose hope. They were twenty. The Jean Philippe salon was owned by a guy named Carl. It was in Milwaukee. Still, it came as a surprise when they spun me around after blowdrying and I saw a full hair of sassy black and gold hair.

Black. Pitch black. Satin black. Middle-of-the-night black, penguin fur black. Interspersed at regular intervals with shiny metallic streaks, like gold pinstripes on a black Camaro.

I didn't want to be a downer, so I tried to think of compliments. I looked like a goth girl after a surfing holiday, the Bronx's version of Morticia Adams, a gay Scottish terrier. So I just smiled and said "Wow!"

"You look so young!" Julie exclaimed. I checked my reflection again. On the contrary: the blackness made my skin look paler and wrinklier, like an eighty-year-old Italian man thinking shoe polish on his hair made the years slide away. I looked like Dirk Bogarde at the end of Death in Venice, like the second seawater hit me it'd bleed black dye down my face.

At the end of the class, the students led the models one by one onto a small stage. "What did you do for her?" the instructor asked, prompting the students to explain their techniques. When I got onstage, the room went quiet. "What did you do to him?" the instructor asked, like a policeman spotting O. J. hovering over a body.

Julie and Lisa bubbled their methods while the crowd sat stunned. Yup, that confirmed it. Who knew the power of hair? I wondered. I went in as just another regular Joe; emerged as Schneider from One Day at a Time.

I didn't want to disappoint Julie and Lisa, since they'd obviously done their best. I pretended I was excited. I pretended I loved it. They believed me. Maybe I'd be a better actor than model, I decided, because as I walked out they were high-fiving each other. "And that's why we work at the best salon in the mall!" one declared.

Larry King Jr.

It's a circus in New York this morning -- literally. The Diesel store in Union Square is celebrating its birthday with a veritable sideshow including seven foot tall, mohawked drag queen, a bearded lady, and a dwarf in top hat and tails. Festivities conclude tomorrow night with a concert featuring Chaka Khan and M. I. A. I'll be there, unless I can figure out a way to trade tickets for Taco Bell.

Saw Michael Imperioli last night on Sixth Avenue. You know that wacky facial he sports in Life on Mars? Real! In the seventies, evidently, dudes were just a leather vest and a Stetson away from being Jesse James.



If you're within fifty miles of New York City, get your ass to Banksy's fake pet store. Sheer brilliance. Animated chicken McNuggets pecking for sauce, leopard skin coat lounging lazily in a tree, makeup-caked white rabbit preening in front of a mirror. See it all here. They're not selling anything, so at least in that way they're like every other store in New York.

And Now, a Word from Our Sponsor

The cover story of the latest Advocate -- The Cost of Being Gay by John Cloud -- is a triumph. It deftly delves into the heady murk of sexual politics and consumerism and comes up with a solid thesis about gay identity. In case you don't have time to read the entire article, I've condensed each paragraph into one sentence, and -- if I must say so myself -- crystallized this brilliant work into a journalistic gem.

I don't want to sound pretentious, but I've been thinking about this a lot: are you still gay if you don't buy the right stuff? I mean, what you buy is what you are, which means with the tanking economy it's gotten really hard for me to keep being gay.

I actually had to buy $145 jeans instead of my favorite $300+ ones! Sure, I could have spent less, but compared to the $300+ jeans, $145 is a bargain -- and besides, nobody's gonna make this queen wear Gap.

Gay men make money than hetero men. I think that's because we work harder, knowing that if we bought cheap shit we wouldn't be gay any more.

Lesbians are just as poor as heteros because they're more woman than gay.

When times are tough, people get fired, and sometimes gay people are the first to go. We're still spending, though, and taking exotic vacations. We don't like saving. Even in these hard times, we can't stop buying stuff.

Some researchers say it's actually physically difficult for us gays to put those designer wallets away. That's because we've only got so much self-control. We work so hard to get people to like us, we have to console ourselves with expensive chairs. I mean, black people get stressed out with all that race crap, so it makes sense we get stressed out being gay.

But mostly, I think it comes down to this: you can't be gay in shit like Hanes.

Wednesday's News Wrap-Up

Nick Nolte, star of the upcoming thriller "Nine Miles Down," had to break a window and climb through it to escape a fire that caused three million dollars' damage to his Malibu home.

Is that unbelievable? Somebody hired Nick Nolte to be in a film!



A Japanese restaurant has trained monkeys to wait on their customers. The Kayabukiya tavern, just north of Tokyo, employs the two macaques to assist when the regular waiters get too busy. The macaques, called Yat-chan and Fuku-chan, are tipped by the customers with boiled soybeans.

In a related story, Taco Bell trained cats to work in some of their restaurants but they kept burying all the food.



Republican vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin is distantly related to the late Princess Diana, genealogy experts said on Wednesday. The governor of Alaska and the princess are tenth cousins, said Ancestry.com, online genealogists based in Provo, Utah.

Actually, they do have a lot in common. They both came out of nowhere, they both wore tiaras, and they're both on the shit lists of angry queens.



Guests at the Mayfair Hotel and Spa in Coconut Grove, Florida, were awakened early Sunday morning by Lost star Michelle Rodriguez apparently having a fight with her girlfriend. Supposedly Rodriguez stood outside her room screaming, 'Open up, let me in, b------!'" but finally got in after threatening, "If you don't open up, you're not getting your [pleasure toy] back!"

Coincidentally, that's the exact same line Ashley Olsen uses to get Mary Kate to eat.

There's nothing more boring than watching politicians talk, so when I got invited to a viewing party for the Vice Presidential debate last Thursday I jumped at the chance. I even got there early, but the club was already jammed. Along the left side were big-screen TVs, and along the right were VIP booths where sheer drapery protected the stars from the hoi polloi. Tonight, though, the advertised stars -- Laurie Anderson, Alan Cumming, et al. -- must have been hiding elsewhere, because only the last booth was occupied. Every square foot of floor space was claimed by WASPish, 20-something gay men who chattered about their iPhones and their clothes. I set up camp right outside, the only place in the building offering unoccupied wall space to lean against.

About ten minutes into the debate, one of these guys rushed out to the real world to greet two late arrivals. "Ohmigod!" John squealed, pogoing excitedly. (I'm using his real name, because he deserves far worse than this.) "I can't believe you're here!"

The three old pals reminisced about their college years, then segued into heavy personal talk. "I'm single as of two months ago," John announced. "We were together two years. I still can't believe I dated a guy like that."

Now, John had one of those voices that carries far further than normal sound, like chalk on a blackboard or a coyote's howl. Every time he opened his mouth, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Sarah or Joe would get a word or two out, then John would steamroller them flat. Still, I wasn't going to interrupt. I'm hypersensitive, and it's a slippery slope. Everybody annoys me, whether they're chattering in the supermarket or whispering in an art museum, and if I criticized all of them I wouldn't live to see grey chest hair.

From a quick autopsy on his relationship, John segued into what he liked in men. What he needed in men. What men had to offer that women didn't. What women had to offer that men didn't. What he could offer, what New York could offer, what internet porn, Manhunt and vodka could offer. At a volume that rivalled jet airplanes.

Eventually one of his friends in the VIP booth spoke up. "SHUT UP, JOHN!" he yelled, and John collapsed like a cold souffle. "Ohmigod," John gushed to the two new arrivals, "was I really that loud? I can't believe I was talking that loud. Could everybody hear me? Was I really that annoying? Ohmigod. I can't believe it."

I listened in disbelief as John followed this tangent for a good ten minutes, and then went back to talking about men. Finally somebody grabbed his shoulder and shook it. "Would you PLEASE . . . SHUT . . . THE . . . FUCK . . . UP?" the man implored.

John stared at him in shock. "Ohmigod," he stuttered. "Am I still talking too loud? That is unbelievable. Am I incapable of turning myself down? I absolutely can't believe this."

In the face of this force of nature, everybody caved. We listened to eight words from Joe and Sarah, eighty thousand from a self-possessed, oblivious gay. Finally somebody threw a baby at Sarah and we all hit the road. At the door, the organizers tried to convince people to sign up for bus rides to various swing states. We'd go from house to house, talking to people about the election and persuading them to our side.

Oh, great, I thought. Yeah, that'll sway them -- the opinions of young, overprivileged gays. We know what's best, so of course they'd listen to us. I mean, I'd listen if Cletus and his dog Shep turned up on my doorstep. The earnestness would show on his face as he announced, "Ah brang you good news about Sarah Palin, America's Princess!" and I'd thoughtfully weigh every word. I'd think, Isn't it considerate of those Southerners to think I'm not smart enough to make an informed decision? and then I'd invite him and the dog in for Pepperidge Farm crackers and Earl Grey.

Still, I hope John volunteers. If nothing else, he'll have the determination our side needs. I'm picturing him trying to convert some poor, uninformed Southern soul. "I can't believe I'm still standing on your porch after you said you were going to call the police," he'll say. "But I'm still here! Is that crazy? I'm still here."

Also on Saturday I went to the Brooklyn Museum of Art's new Gilbert & George show, where I happily stumbled upon the pair of artists being interviewed before a small group. Here's my personal highlight, best as I can recall.

"How do you feel about all the changes taking place in London these days?" the interviewer asked.

"It's wonderful," the taller, non-Italian artist said. "We love progress. We love watching the neighborhoods change. Just down the street from us, in fact, a men's lavatory turned into a restaurant."

"Eat in or takeaway," the other added. "Just like when it was a loo."

Even poor folks in New York benefit from the boom economy. There are so many rich people here, thousands of companies have sprung up to satisfy their every need, and now they've got to fight to survive. Every day P. R. firms throw ten or twelve parties designed to show off the new clubs, the latest alcoholic beverages, the up-and-coming bands. They don't care if you're rich or poor -- they just cross their fingers and hope you'll help build their buzz. Thank you for coming, have another free drink, and hey, here's a gift bag to take home.

Pissed Jeans and Children -- that's two different bands -- played Glasslands on Saturday night. Glasslands is a grungy new gallery/performance space, and Pissed Jeans is a grungy new band. Throw in an open bar and it's a recipe I can't resist.

I grabbed a seat on a vinyl couch and watched movie clips projected on a giant screen. The stage was set up, but after four vodka tonics neither band had appeared and the movie clips were repeating. "Didn't we just see this one?" the guy next to me said.

Michael was terrific looking, with dark good looks that turned out to be Italian. He wrote about music for European magazines. He almost laughed at me when I proudly described my vacation a few years ago, and asked if he'd ever driven through Tuscany. "Only tourists do that shit," he said, and that's when I decided he was going to be mine.

We made small talk about the various movies as the clips came up again, and before either band hit the stage we hit the road. The open bar's effects couldn't hide our desire: though we could barely put one foot in front of the other, we had them moving at a staggering speed. We literally raced to his place, though barely able to stand upright, and the second the door closed behind us we clutched each other and sucked face so hard light couldn't escape. We made out until our excitement was clearly visible, then knew we had a choice to make.

"You know what I'd really like to do?" Michael slurred, rubbing his groin against mine.

I gazed deep into his black eyes, shining like moonlight off a dark lake. I tried to think but it was like trying to start up an old Fiero. He leaned over and scratched his chin across my chest, the stubble scouring the skin red. Between the vodka and his muscular, sweat-scented form I was in a world of pure desire, with every intelligent thought erased and replaced by primal drive.

Yeah, buddy, I know what you want. And, God help me, I fuckin' want it too.

He reared back and laughed the laugh of the devil as my face reddened with the last vestige of conscience. Sometimes you control yourself for too long, I belatedly realized, so when you finally let go it's like a dam bursting. You yank back on that desire like a dog on a leash, but the second it tastes freedom it's gone. History. Everything you've learned flies out the window as you fling yourself into that deadly, comforting decadence you haven't felt in years. To hell with all the doctors, all the lectures, all the medical research that tells us what we can do and what we can't. Hell, I thought in my drunken stupor, this world is crumbling like a day-old donut anyway, and we should congratulate ourselves on having survived this long.

Michael grabbed my nipples through my shirt and squeezed tight, the heady mix of pain and pleasure sealing the deal. For tonight, that dark place in the back of my head said to the voice of reason, keep all those little lectures to yourself.

He got sausage and mushroom, I got pepperoni. Then we went back to his place and jerked off.

It was good, I'll give you that. But I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror ever since.

A chef has written what he claims is the world's first testicle cookbook.

The Testicle Cookbook - Cooking With Balls includes author Ljubomir Erovic's favourite dishes, like testicle pizza and battered testicles, but also Cordon Bleu fare like testicles in wine and testicles with bourgignon sauce.

Each recipe serves four people, or just one if you let it get cold.

It's not easy being gay in a heterosexual world. Something as simple as turning on the television can be a dangerous thing.

I'm watching TV the other night when a commercial for Everybody Hates Chris comes on. I love that adorable little kid, but evidently he's growing up. "He's headed to high school," the announcer says, "where everything is bigger, everything is better, and in some cases bigger and better." The camera pans across the chest of a particularly busty co-ed, and precocious little Chris' eyes bug out. He barks, "Thank you, Lord!"

We try to play along. What a cute adolescent! And one day soon this cute adolescent will get to touch or lick or suck on one of those milk-swollen boobies -- or whatever the hell the heterosexuals do with them -- and perhaps try to slide a hand between her legs and --

And while all the heterosexuals are sitting there chuckling, we're losing our dinner into the porcelain throne.

Really, I'm startled by how tawdry this commercial is. Pretend you're living in a homosexual world. You turn on the TV to see a gay teen during his first day at high school. He's wandering the field in P. E. class and sees a big-basketed athlete.

"Whoa!" he says to himself. "I think I'm gonna try out for pole vault!"

Three million gays will be chuckling while you're puking your Hot Pocket up.

Tuning into the Olympics was even grosser. Maybe you didn't notice this, but while all the men were clad head to toe in stirrup pants, t-shirts and windbreakers, the women were running around in yarn. Take this young gymnastics champ:



Here's what the folks are saying in a heterosexual household: "What a cutie!" "Ooh, she's adorable." "She sure doesn't look sixteen." "Those Chinese musta fudged the passports."

Here's what they're saying in a gay household. "AIEEEE! MY EYES!" "WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING BETWEEN HER LEGS?" "IS IT GONE YET? PLEASE, TELL ME -- IS IT GONE?"

Honestly, we worry about you. You put a preteen on TV with grosgrain ribbon covering her reproductive equipment and think everything's cool. Sorry, folks -- it's disgusting. Just because chicks are innies instead of outies doesn't mean their stuff doesn't have to be properly covered up. We've seen the drawings in Science class, with all those weird gray parts shoved in side-by-side like an Englishman's breakfast. We know what's seconds away. She moves either leg half an inch and we're not just going to see vagina -- we're going to see CLITORIS, and LABIA. We're going to see FALLOPIAN TUBE.

That's when we flip the channel hoping According to Jim is on.

Don't think we've been taking this lightly. We can only lose our lunch so many times before we leap up and take charge. Mark my word, heteros: one day soon, we're going to run things around here. We're going to take over Wall Street and Main Street, and we'll control what's on TV.

Me, I can't wait to design the Olympics. Wait'll you see this guy on the pommel horse.



(Thanks Yet Another Steve!)

An adult movie studio is filming a full-length feature roughly based on Sarah Palin's life. I got a chance to see a rough cut of the movie, and was surprised at the changes they've made for the silver screen.

-- Character name? Shara Naillin.

-- Sarah doesn't just scream "Holy Jesus!" in church.

-- Her running mate? Jawin MaVein.

-- In the movie, there's not a lot of fanfare surrounding the Governor's Balls.

-- She follows her husband to an alternative party where Chillary Flinton pulls her keys out of a bowl.

-- The fictional Sarah sure does get the Bush Doctrine.

-- When a TV newsman catches her misspeaking, she's not just bound by term limits.

-- When Putin pokes his head into her airspace, he really pokes his head into her airspace.

-- In the porno version, a guy named Moose shoots at her.

-- In real life she's behind in major polls. In the film it's the other way around.

(Thanks George!)

The Disney company is relatively gay-friendly. They have to be, considering they're in the entertainment field. If Disney only hired straight people, their parade floats would be made of stucco and astroturf. Fantasia would look like an animated Riverdance.

When they bought ABC, though, Disney ran into a problem. They now owned Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, a show that sends folks on vacation and builds them mansions while they're gone. Every week the show gives away half a million dollars in cash and prizes to select families.

That just happen to be heterosexual.

I watched the show off and on for a couple years, patiently waiting for a male or female couple to appear. Finally I wrote in and asked where all the gay families were. A spokesperson at ABC replied with a ridiculous email claiming they'd be happy to have a gay family on the program: they just hadn't found a good one yet. They said if I knew a deserving one I should encourage them to apply.

I immediately recognized this as bullshit. The program was startlingly efficient at finding needles in the Pitiful Haystack. They found a biker preacher with a disabled grandson, a single mother/Christian minister whose house burned down, an African-American ballet dancer with multiple sclerosis. They found Benjamin Burns, whose bone disease affects one out of every 10,000 people. They found Will Johnson, whose spinal muscular atrophy affects one out of every 20,000 people. They found Jhryve Sears, whose Krabbe disease afflicts one out of every 100,000.

They found a pair of home-schooling horse whisperers and a one-armed lobster fisherman. They found ten-year-old Kayla Woodhouse, one of the twenty-five people in the WORLD who suffer from Hereditary Sensory Autonomic Neuropathy.

But they couldn't find a deserving gay family.

A few months later, the other shoe dropped. The Smoking Gun obtained an e.mail message sent by EM:HE "family casting director" Charisse Simonian that details her unspoken requirements. In fact, Charisse had a wish list that made it crystal clear exactly who she was looking for:

-- Extraordinary Mom / Dad Recently diagnosed with ALS --
-- Family who has child w/ PROGERIA (aka "little man disease")
-- Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis," referred to as CIPA by the few people who know about it. (There are 17 known cases in the US -- let me know if one is in your town!) This is where kids cannot feel any physical pain.
-- Muscular Dystrophy Child -- Amazing kid who is changing people's views about MD

Clearly Charisse wasn't just sitting around waiting for pitiful people to write in. No, she was actively searching for them. She was canvassing neighborhoods, contacting churches and Chambers of Commerce for them. In her list, though, the word "gay" doesn't appear.

And after seven years and 118 episodes, there still hasn't been a gay family on the show.

I emailed ABC again a couple months ago. Now all they'll say is they get too much email to respond to everyone. As of two weeks ago, Disney/ABC is airing another "family" program. Opportunity Knocks awards families a quarter of a million bucks if they correctly answer trivia questions about each other.

In the first episode, a heterosexual family played. In the second episode, a heterosexual family played.

It doesn't take Einstein to see the pattern here.

The time has come for Disney to step up to the plate and give a gay family a shot. A gay couple should have a chance for their spectacular new house to be foreclosed. A gay mom should get to win a McMansion and then throw all her kids out. A gay dad should get to allegedly strip his fabulous new house bare and sell everything to buy drugs.

Until ABC and Disney decide we get equal rights, we are tuning out.

Click here to ask ABC and Disney when we'll see a gay family on either of these shows.