Just a Quick Question...

What's with all these "practicing" homosexuals? Honey, I'm a professional. I don't need to practice.

REMINDER

JUST A REMINDER TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK! Scroll down or check the archives. Readers, you have an assignment! You better spend the weekend getting it done! And that means you, Tom! And everyone else!

These Straights...

So my assistant just got engaged and is planning her wedding. They go through so much effort these straight people. Why would we want this??? They are discussing invitations and halls and cake and registries and flowers and ceremony and parents and location and timing and, oh don't get me started, The Dress. I said to her, "Seriously, I don't know what all this fuss is about getting married. Flowers, The Dress, ceremonies, receptions. Let's face it. All you need is a bride, a groom, and fresh bed linens."

Homework!

When I lived in San Francisco, I took a writing class at the Harvey Milk Institute, and it was the one and only time I ever actually produced anything. The class was on the short-short story. Having a deadline really helped me to get to it and write something, because I knew I had to have a story to deliver to each class.

Well now, I'm the beyotch in charge on this webpage, folks, and if you found your way here, then you will do what I say. You're reading my words here for free all the time, well, now you've got homework. Don't worry. I will do it, too. Actually this is an attempt to get myself to write something, too.

I'm giving myself and all of you an assignment. I love the concept of the short-short story. 250 words or less, a few more if you really need to get something told, but for the most part, get a full complete story told in as few words as possible. The other thing I enjoy in writing exercises is to add in completely random rules that make you think creatively and force you to choose every single word thoughtfully.

I'm getting there, I'm getting there.

All right, I want my trusty readers who need inspiration and a deadline to write a short-short story. [The rights manager in me has to stipulate:] You will maintain full copyright and ownership of the work you submit to me, but by sending it to me, you give me permission to post it to this blog (including standard site-archiving) only. My plan, depending on how many of you make submissions, is to post the best one. If I only get two or three, most likely I may post a few. And of course, I will post my own.

Now let's get down to it. I want you to write a short-short story. About anything. Ah, not so fast. I want your work to be exactly, no more no less, 100 words long. To the word. Ah, that's too easy. Get close, throw in a contraction here, edit there, and you did it. I think we need to add in something more. OK, I want you to write a 100-word-long short-short story, and... you can't use the same word twice. If you give your piece a title, the title does not count toward word-count, but it does count against the only using each word once rule. Yeah, your writing may get a little bit esoteric or poetic, but heck, that's where the fun lies, coming up with different ways of saying something. Only one 'I,' only one 'the,' only one 'of,' only one 'one.'

Your deadline is... OK, I'll give you a week. And.. that gives you the entire Memorial Day Weekend (in the U.S., at least). Tuesday morning, May 31, 9am. Send your 100-word short-short story to me at FagBlogger@aol.com. If I post your story, [and you want to give me a physical address], I will send you a free book on writing.

This is homework, people. Get to it!

It's Time to End the Roman Catholic Church

It's time it goes away for good. Close it up. Shut all the doors. It has outlived its usefulness and has no relevance in the modern world. Unethical, discriminatory, judgmental. It would be the most Christ-like thing to do: tear down the old church, full of its hypocrites and parasites, and build it anew.

from cnn.com:

MONTGOMERY, Alabama (AP) -- A pregnant student who was banned from graduation at her Roman Catholic high school announced her own name and walked across the stage anyway at the close of the program.
Alysha Cosby's decision prompted cheers and applause Tuesday from many of her fellow seniors at St. Jude Educational Institute.
But her mother and aunt were escorted out of the church by police after Cosby headed back to her seat.
"I can't believe something like this is happening in 2005," said her mother, Sheila Cosby. "My daughter has been through a lot and I am proud of her. She deserved to walk, and she did."
The school's guidance counselor delivered Cosby's degree to her house earlier Tuesday, but she still wanted to participate.
"I worked hard throughout high school and I wanted to walk with my class," she said.
Cosby was told in March that she could no longer attend school because of safety concerns, and her name was not listed in the graduation program.
The father of Cosby's child, also a senior at the school, was allowed to participate in graduation.

Driving Instruction

I was driving with a friend in my passenger seat the other day. There was an old lady about to step off the curb when I rolled by, and my friend said, 'Oh careful, watch out for the old lady!' I said, 'Oh come on, I wasn't even close! She was still on the curb.' He said, 'Well, you could have hit her!' And I said, 'Oh please, do you think I would waste a perfectly good opportunity for a hit-and-run on a total stranger?'

Retirement

Years ago, my dad took 'early retirement,' but he got bored and went back to work. Eventually, he was full-time again behind a desk, promoted, and was back to the same old grind. He ended up with the same situation: 'early retirement.' He again was bored. He never lost touch with all his old coworkers, and he was signed back on to do his same old job as a temp. Finally, they told him they had to let him go again, and finally, he decided enough was enough and stopped working. He's probably bored again. But I think he's finally done with having a full-time job.

He's 74 and has only been fully retired for about a year or two now. Sorry, Dad, but I just don't understand this whole being bored thing after retirement. I'm ready to retire right now. And I will be so busy. I don't know how I manage now! Here's how the typical day will look:

8am, rise and shine. Put the coffee on. If it's nice out, take a stroll in the backyard.
8-9:30, Squawk Box, catch up on e-mail, the news online, send some message to friends who still work and make fun of them (yes, every single day), do a little stock researching online.
9:30-10, minor details in the house, like put dishes away, clean the coffee pot, counters, etc.
10, shower
10:30-11:30, the morning constitutional. Walk downtown or ride the bike. Make the trip to the bank, post office, stores, buy a lottery ticket, buy gas or get the car washed, restock the Mike's Hard Lemonade. There's always one or two things that need getting done.
11:30/12noon, oh look it's time for lunch. I'm sure one of those working stiffs that I emailed this morning is available to have lunch. If not, make a quick sandwich or bowl of soup at home. Check into my E*Trade accounts and see how I'm doing today.
Afternoon, after lunch. This is the main event of the day. It's always going to be something. And it will also depend on who is around today. There's so much to do: driving range, tennis, bowling, movies (can you say bargain matinee!), shopping, stay home and garden or mow, head to The Wine Library to restock. Or I have that appointment at the day spa.
After that. If the main event wasn't something too taxing, I'm off to the gym. I hope to be there by 3/4. Since I plan on being a dirty old man, this all depends on when the college boys tend to be there. Schedule for optimum gawking time.
Early evening, friends will be getting out of work. And it's time to start cooking dinner. I'll have plenty of time to cook, so there will be people coming over regularly.
7pm. Dinner at my house or go out to eat.
8pm, watch whatever DVD I have from netflix.
After the movie, check in on emails, see if anyone responded to any of my online personals for 'vgl older gentleman with very good hands.'
11pm-midnight, send the male escort home and go to bed.

This is all on top of the many day trips and vacations I will have planned. And of course, I'll have people interrupting this schedule regularly -- 'hey i'm off on Tuesday -- let's go to The Borgata.'

I don't know -- I think I'm ready for retirement, RIGHT NOW.

fagblog's first... EVENT!

OK, there's probably none of you actually out there who are constant readers enough to care, but if by chance any of you exist... and are in the New York City area... fagblog is officially lending support to... my ex! Yes, I too can not believe I broke my own golden rule: 'never let your ex-lovers continue living.' Well, for some reason I let this one survive, and now... it's come back to bite me... he's made a movie! He promised me at one point while he was writing it that if for any chance he talks about his past loves (i.e., ME) that he would be kind, but I have to see for myself.

So here's the scoop. Go see Pedro's... yes, I'm letting you in on a big secret: his real name is Pedro, not James... go see Pedro's movie! He's a sweetie. OK, so maybe he's not a 19 year old college student any more, but hey, neither are you.

"29th and Gay" will be featured at NewFest, the New York City Gay & Lesbian Film Fest. Monday night, June 6, 8:15pm, at the Loew's 34th Street cinema. If you exist, you should be there! If you do go, here's what I want you to do. So I can know that you exist and that fagblog readers will do anything I tell them to do (hhhmm... *evil grin*), when the lights are dimmed, just before the movie starts, I want you to shout out, "Pedro!" With any luck there will be several of us, and Boetie (yeah, a very unfortunate nickname his father gave him as a child... imagine a fag with a nickname pronounced 'booty.') will be so thrilled... and embarrassed! Do it for me. Do it for the fag. Do it for Pedro. See you there. If you do come, and you see a bald, old, Moby-Agassi-lookin' fag in the audience, say hi... it's me... or... it's I... oh to hell with grammar... it's me. See you there.

For more information, go to www.29thandgay-themovie.com.

Today's Rant Brought to You by the AARP

A few years back, I read a book called 'When Did I Become My Parent's Parent?' Man, it gets truer and truer every year. No Dad, you can't sell your house and travel around the country visiting relatives, staying until you wear out your welcome, and going on to the next one. No Dad, you can't give away all your furniture because you don't use it and then live in a house with entire rooms completely empty. No Dad, I don't think you can come to the YMCA with me and play competitive volleyball. No Dad, you can't get the other end of that desk and carry it down the stairs with me. No Dad, you shouldn't listen to everything a telemarketer has to offer and then accept it! And no, you shouldn't give them your credit card number! No Dad, I don't think you should drive straight through to Indianapolis from New Jersey. No Dad, it's not okay that none of the rooms in your house have been painted since 1978 -- we need to repaint. No Dad, you don't have to leave your phone number on my voicemail everytime you call -- I know the number -- you've had it since 1959 -- and it was my phone number, too, for the first 21 years of my life.

In one of the most extraordinary novels ever written, Alan Lightman's 'Einstein's Dreams,' one of the chapters imagines a world where time runs in reverse. We start out life relaxing and sitting around all day, enjoying life, with lots of money that we took back from our heirs when we died. We take trips, take life easy. We have lots of aches and pains, but every day they go away a little bit more. Finally when most of our aches and pains are gone, and we're more spry and agile than we've ever been, we go to work. They have a party for us, and we start out in a high-powered job, the big boss or a high-level manager, making lots of money, making lots of decisions, living in a nice big house. Every few years, the company takes away some responsibility and gives us a lower level job for less pay but one that's less stressful and not as demanding. We buy smaller and smaller homes. Finally they put us in an entry-level job, where all we are required to do is answer phones, make photocopies, process data. Our bodies have become leaner, and we rarely ever have any pains or aches. We can stay up late almost every night, go out with friends after work for drinks, even stay up until all-hours on the weekend, go dancing, drink a lot, have a great time, not remembering the time when we had crazy stressful jobs and mortgages and family responsibilities. We unmeet our spouse and say goodbye for the first time. We have lots of sex, and since we unbought our houses, we rent small apartments in trendy neighborhoods and all in all have a really great time. Then comes the time when we can't really do our job anymore, but the fun nights and drinking and sex and partying continues. We enter college to unlearn all the things we're not going to need to know anymore, since we've given up working for a living. We spend four years in college, having the time of our lives, then we tune it down a notch and go to high school. We experiment with sex and alcohol, maybe even drugs or marijuana. We undo a lot of homework. We move back in with our parents who are just in the middle of life and working all the time. They support us. We play sports, join clubs, hang out with our friends. Our bodies start changing and soon we aren't capable of having sex anymore, but very quickly, we forget about it entirely and lose interest. We become virgins. We go to grammar school and only deal with the basics of information that we'll need for our last few remaining years. Food is always provided. Finally for our last 5 years of life we stay at home and just play. And play. Until we lose all knowledge and exist solely for the benefit of our body functions: eating, sleeping, pooing and peeing, cuddling, laughing, being hugged and loved and called cute. Finally as our body becomes smaller and smaller and smaller, until one day everyone makes a huge fuss over us, and we are done. Everyone forgets us immediately, because we've never existed. Sorry, Alan, sue me if you want, but if everyone who reads this buys 'Einstein's Dreams' and loves it to death, maybe the spike in sales will make you think twice.

Anyway, I think some of our parents DO live life in this direction. Cuz they sure do seem to act like children sometimes, don't they? [Man it took me a long time to get to that statement!]

Happy Mother's.. um... Happy... er...

Did you hit the Hallmark store like I did last week? Did you ever notice how a card has to say just the right thing? Despite the fact that you know no one ever actually reads the text of the card, just what you wrote in it? But there we all stand going through the racks of the inane, idiotic, insipid, hokey, overly-sentimental, flowery, kitschy, and unfunny garbage that they truck out for every holiday. And they never get it exactly right. Every card is too this or not enough that. You can never find the perfect card that says exactly what you want to say. On Wednesday I was in there, and I went through every rack, and despite spending almost my entire lunch hour, I could not find a single card that said, "Happy Mother's Day to the Lesbian Carrying My Baby." Seriously. Not a single one. I even would have settled for one that said, "To the Mother-to-Be. Happy Mother's Day from Your Gay Babydaddy."

I thought that was enough, but on Friday I found myself in there again. Seriously, this company slings the smelliest rose-water-scented beast feces at us on those racks of drivel. And there I was again, and not a single card of the hundreds and hundreds said what I wanted it to say. Have you noticed how people need to remind the person getting the card what their relationship is to the card receiver? Are there that many people out there with Alzheimer's that Hallmark sells these cards that say, 'from your son' or 'from your daughter?' As if all these women out there won't know that a card signed, 'Love, Pete,' is from her son Pete. 'Remember me, Mom? Pete. Your son. We used to live together.' OK, my favorites are 'from the cat' and 'from the dog.' I'm not kidding. They have cards you can send to a woman to make her think her tabby can write and has enough pocket change to go shopping, yet I couldn't find a card that says, "You're not my mother, but you're dating my dad, and he made me buy this card for you. Happy Mother's Day."

Weirdness

I just want to say, right upfront, so there is no arguing the fact: I'm weird. I've been aware of this for quite a while. I'm 38 years old, but I still find myself bouncing up the stairs and humming a jaunty little tune -- yes, in the office at work. I don't just stand there when I'm waiting -- I balance on one foot, then another. I kick my heel with the other foot, lean over, bounce up and down. I sing completely out of key, talk to myself, juggle pens, toss my empty ceramic mug up in the air on my way to the kitchen to get water -- haven't dropped it yet --, stick my tongue out at some people instead of saying hello, cross my eyes and try to look at the tip of my nose. I still toss pencils up at the drop ceiling to see if they'll stick. And I'm still fascinated trying to balance small objects on my fingertip. I giggle when people say words like shaft, balls, stick, wood, hole -- I tell ya, there's not a sport I can watch.

But I really have to watch myself. Do you ever notice that freak on the subway? There's one on every car. It's usually the homeless guy having an argument with himself. Every now and then, though, I have to stop and realize -- you know what? Sometimes... it's me. Doing a runner's stretch while holding the hanging strap. Or attempting to stand without holding on pretending I'm on my snowboard. Or singing loud enough to be overheard. Or laughing at one of those ads above your heads. It's even worse at work. With a smaller population, I'm convinced there's no denying that I am without a doubt The Weird One. What 38 year old man walks up the stairs by taking two steps up, then one back, then two steps up..? Just this morning I realized I might have to make a very serious concerted effort to stop being this weird... when I was standing at the urinal balancing a book on my head.

Jack-of-One-Thing

My dear friend Lisa -- oh all right, while I've never met her in person, I already love her, and besides you should see all her ratworks (artworks, ratworks, same thing) in my foyer, any way -- as I was saying, my good friend Lisa has a wonderful website (lisasnellings.com). Love her as I have loved her. One of the stories she relates on there is that Harlan Ellison once called her a 'monomaniac.' Well, of course I had to look it up. I had an idea what it meant, and I was basically correct, but I found it an intriguing word. Monomania is an 'obsessive interest in a single thing.' You know, I don't think that's a necessarily bad thing. Monomaniacs are the world's greatest thinkers, inventors, innovators, and yes, bloggers.

And that is exactly why this blog sucks, and you probably don't find anything particularly interesting in it. It's been my problem my entire life. I'm not obsessed with any one specific thing. I know a very little bit about a lot of different things. I get interested in something, I do it for a little while, then I lose interest and go on to something else. In high school it was bowling. In college the student theater. In my 20s it was volleyball. Still is to a point, but the mania has slacked a bit. I go in and out of obsessing over going to the gym -- some months I will go 4 times a week -- then weeks will go by that I don't go at all. Now the real test is: when can I focus a monomania on writing??? That's when I'll accomplish something.

Ah well, monomaniac or jack-of-all-trades. Just make sure you're one or the other. It's the person with no interests or obsessions that's really got a problem. That's it! I think I will call myself a serial monomaniac.

Sidewalk Issues

How come it always seems, when I'm walking on the sidewalk or driving on the highway, the people behind me are always in such a rush, but the people in front of me have so much patience? If they were just in opposite positions, we'd all be a lot happier. I wonder about these people that are, as my mother used to say, 'slow as molasses.' Did you ever notice they are always in front of you on the highway? If they're so friggin' slow, how did they get ahead of you in the first place? And the leadfooted speed-demons that Mom used to call 'wackos' -- if they're so fast, then why are they always so far behind? If everyone would just travel at MY speed, we'd all get where we were going efficiently. Seriously, people.

Old Things

I was thinking back to my days as a kid in grammar school. Remembering not so fondly the typewriter. And I'm not talking about one of those high-powered electric fangled correcting IBM Selectric typewriters. I'm talking back to the 1970s and manual typewriters. I remember typing reports and taking the entire evening to type one page. I went to Catholic school -- not only were we not allowed to have any typographical errors or misspellings, we were also not allowed to have observable corrections on the page. No eraser marks, no white-out, and absolutely no -- Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ-forbid -- scratch-outs or line-outs. Gasp! I remember spending an hour typing a page only to make a typo on the last line. You know what the nuns expected. Take out that sheet with the memorable screeching-whirring sound, crumple it up, and start that page over again. I remember being on the verge of tears through all of primetime, missing Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, Dallas, Falcon Crest, all so that Sister Francis Raymond wouldn't have to be mortified and defiled by having to view a pencil eraser stain on the last line of my essay on Thomas Jefferson. Funny though, I have to say, throughout the entire 1970s, I never once lost a phone call in mid-conversation nor had my telephone run out of juice. And... I could recite all of my friends' phone numbers by heart.

Stupid Women

Do you see these women in your town? You see them all over the streets of Manhattan. You have to walk behind them to see what I'm talking about. And look lower than you usually do, straight boys. I'm talking about these women who wear high heels that are so precariously high, as each foot steps down onto the concrete, you can see the ankle physically wobble as they catch balance for each and every step on the needle tip of their high-heeled shoe. The ankle very obviously shakes and wobbles for a split-second on each and every step. Seriously, that can not be good. Watch for it.

I saw a woman the other day that was wearing shoes like that AND a poncho. I put her in my file of 'People Who Need to Be Slapped.'

Bring Your....

Today was Bring Your Child to Work Day.

Well, I don't have a child. So what was i supposed to do?

So I made it Bring Your Favorite Henry Miller Novel to Work Day.

I've been carrying it around all day.

Just Wondering...

If every time you drink, you kill more brain cells, why aren't I dead yet?

You know, I took one of my customers out for lunch the other day, and I ordered first and asked for a glass of red wine. My customer, a truly adorable straight man -- can I clone him and make the clone gay -- smiles and says, 'You know, there's just not enough of that any more! I'll have a glass of wine, too! When did people stop drinking with a business lunch!' We are firm in our conviction that we will bring back drinking with lunch! Join us! It's a revolution! Okay, well, maybe it's a re-revolution.

The Two Magic Words

I don't know why straight men don't absolutely love gay men. Every straight man should have that one close gay friend. Cuz guys seriously, we know all of women's secrets. And when a woman finds out that you have a close friend who is gay, she's going to think you're so cool, so nice, so non-judgmental. And she's also going to tell me all her secrets, which I could then relay to you. Besides, do you straight boys know what we keep telling women? Cuz you know we all have a gaggle of women around us, and what do we say over and over and over to them? 'You really need to get laid.' Come on, guys, we are your biggest supporters!

OK, here's some proof. Guys, we know The Two Magic Words that can get any woman to like you. I can't guarantee you'll be surfing the poontang highway within minutes, but The Two Magic Words can open up the doors to further conversation and make her think you're 'not like all the other guys.' You know the secret, guys... flattery. And you know you can't comment on her looks or her body. No, the secret is this: "Nice shoes."

Now, of course, that alone is not enough. Because her first thought is going to be, "Great, another gay guy noticing my shoes." But hey, the backdoor approach (hehehe) is always the best. Cuz when she realizes that you are NOT gay, she'll be all over you. I suggest several back-ups to The Two Magic Words. Always make her feel like she's better than other women:

"Nice shoes. You know, my ex had a pair like that, but they never looked right on her."
"Nice shoes. I bet my sister would love those."
"Nice shoes. I don't usually notice women's shoes, but I don't know, there's something about those shoes on you..." OK, maybe that one's a bit much...

I would definitely steer you away from:

"Nice shoes. My mom has a pair just like those."
"Nice shoes. Do you think they come in my size?"
"Nice shoes. They really make your tits look bigger."
"Nice shoes. So, ya wanna f*ck?"

A New Plane

A new plane took its maiden voyage today. With 555 seats and room for double beds, lounges, even a mini-casino and a jacuzzi, but there's still not enough overhead luggage room.

My Global Moment

This morning, on the street in New York City, from a Mexican grocer, I bought an Asian Pear that was grown in Chile.

Not only do we live in a global world, it really makes it difficult not to mix modifiers.