Looking to score some pot... luck!

It's the last Tuesday of the month, which means office Pot Luck time! YAY! This blog started with an expose on the office potluck. Things have only gotten better. December's pot-luck wasn't a paht luque. We ordered in. This month... we did it again!

I really think the pot-luck is on the way out. I couldn't be any happier to see this tradition die -- the only thing I hate more is old people. It never really was much of a pot-luck, but the crackheads fought tooth-and-nail to keep it. This month a boycotted but got scammed.

I was gonna make a big political statement by packing my own very delicious tuna lunch. I had it all planned out. While everyone else feasted on 3 week-old pickings from the fridge, I'd say, "No thanks. I'd rather just eat my own lunch. It's much healthier for me." They would quickly see through my "health" facade and the digust in their faces would be unavoidable. "Why can't Brian just play along?" "Why does Brian hate us so much?" "You know, Brian's got a point. He is looking god damn sexy these days. Do you think he'd do me?"

But I was foiled. Boss lady decided that the office would treat. Which you know is trouble because she's way cheap. No deliciously exotic chinese from Chinatown for us. No, we got some jumble of stuff that was picked up at the grocery store last night.

Maybe I'll save the tuna I packed and "contribute" it to next month's PL!

PS: Remember the flat soda I mentioned in November. The soda tasted bad this month, so I check the expiration date. The soda served expired over 8 months ago! Anything to save a buck, I guess.

NOTE: Anyone know how to actually spell "pot luck"?

Ooh, ANOTHER NOTE: Why can't I just appreciate the nice gesture? Because I'm an ass sometimes.

Happy Lundi Gras!

While everyone else in America ran out to see Medea’s Family Reunion this weekend, I was partaking in that unique form of debauchery that goes unforgiven until this coming Wednesday: Mardi Gras!

I teased you about it. I showed you fat people in beads, as you’ve come to expect from me. But now I can tell you flat out how fabulous this holiday is.

I traveled to Mandeville, Louisiana for the parade. Mandeville may not be the travel destination of the average Young Urban Homosexual. (It sits in St. Tammany Parish which happens to be the *only* parish – or county for you Yankees – in this very conservative state that actually has more registered Republicans than Democrats. It’s also the homebase of former St. Tammany GOP Chairman and state legislator David Duke.) It is, however, one of the friendliest places on the planet. My brothers both lived there for several years and I can honestly say that I’ve never been to a friendlier place. Everyone on this trip bent over backwards to be welcoming, friendly and nice – while ignoring that I’m a liberal Democrat. Then again, they may have been too drunk to notice.

Mardi Gras is unlike anything you can imagine. Some history for you so I don’t have to explain exactly where I was and what I was doing.

First of all, like all great things, it was brought to you by the Catholics. And by great things, I mean shameful things that are easily forgiven with a trip to confession. Mardi Gras (or as it is more accurately referred to, Carnival) is a pre-Lenten trip down the Federline-paved road to Sodom and Gomorrah. (I would prefer the more popular Sodom to Gomorrah any day!) Carnival is typically a two-week festival culminating on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, Fat Tuesday or for the linguists in the crowd, Mardi Gras. (This year, Mardi Gras in New Orleans will only be a week long, out of respect for the dead and all.) The festival is celebrated with grand parades, outlandish costumes with sequins and feathers, cheap jewelry, loud music, nudity, alcohol in excess – your typical night at a gay bar.

Each parade is organized by a krewe. Each krewe is made up of members who pay annual dues as well as buy all the beads and other throws that they’ll use during the parade. It’s kind of like a social club. It’s probably a remnant of days past that aren’t really smiled upon – you know, all white men, etc. But it’s quaint and fun.

I joined the Original Krewe of Orpheus, which rides in Mandeville. It’s called that because that pansy from New Orleans, Harry Connick, Jr., stole the name for the krewe that he started in the late-nineties.

We rode through the streets of Mandeville on Friday night. It was nuts. I was really, really drunk, so I probably can’t tell you much about it. I can share these photos, but I’m not really good for much else. I am however amazed at how many of these photos I’m in, which means my drunk ass gave my very expensive camera to a number of strangers who were as drunk or more drunk than I was.
I saw a lot of boobies. Not claiming to be an expert here, but I really think most of them were sub-par. The media has us thinking that “women of size” are living their lives in shame, unable to live up to the physical expectations created by Hollywood. If Friday night is any proof, fat girls are living in shame because they’ll flash their titties to anyone one dangling something shiny and maybe edible in front of their face. The boobies that I saw did not live up to my expectations. It may have been because the ‘hos who show are doing it on the sly. It really is a more family oriented parade than what you’d find in the city.

We also met the gay guy from Extreme Makeover Home Edition. The show was working in New Orleans this weekend and the gang rode in our parade. Ty didn’t show. Punk. With beer flowing and Jell-O shots jiggling, you can bet the gay would show though! By the way, he’s freakishly tall!

I stumbled home sometime around 1:00 AM. Thank god for the limo that took me home. My day ended about 17 hours after my first drink at 8:30 over breakfast. I figured I consumed about 327 gallons of booze come the end of the day.

I’ll be in a confession for a while, you might as well take a seat in the pew.

Brian's Big Chance

If Mo'nique -- god love her -- doesn't suceed with this show, then I will lose all my faith in humanity. A good friend of mine says nothing goes better with a gay man than a peanut-butter and jelly sandwhich, but then again, "he's not gay enough for West Hollywood." A much better friend says nothing goes better with a gay man than a plus-sized black woman.

I'd have to agree.

Of all the women who claim "hagdom", none is more deserving than the big sister. They are the perfect Yin to my yang. Cheech to my chong. Isaac to my Gopher. Well, no big sister is more deserving than Mo'nique. Besides being rumored as one of the nicest women in Hollywood and having suffered through years of that sniffling brat Countess Vaughn, she's also gonna be a big star. And this show is gonna get her there!

I watch too much "women's television," which really is 100% programmed for gay men. Who needs Bravo and Logo and Showtime and NBC -- oh, no self-respecting human being watches NBC these days -- when we have Lifetime and Oxygen. On last week's sick day, during my Roseanne - Grace Under Fire - Living Single - Ellen Marathon, I saw my first promo for Mo'nique's Fat Chance!

This show will be the next MASH. Just you wait. Who's hosting the premiere party?

Beautiful People Have It Hard

I'll suspend reality for once and write this post as an independent observer. It will be hard to ignore the many, many first-hand experiences similar to this one that I've had, but I will try my best. Just the objective observer serving the public good.

I was in line for the always thorough and competent airport security screening on Wednesday night. My dad and I were traveling on a red-eye to New Orleans which is always a good idea when you have a 102 degree fever. Fly... to a place with miserable weather... where you will consume near fatal amounts of alcohol... and fatty foods... with no sleep.

There was a beautiful woman in line just before. Probably dumb as bricks, you know how they are, but beautiful none the less. Oh, she's probably a whore, too. I don't know her well enough to know if she's an actual money-making whore, but let's hope so because as your grandma always' said, "Why pay for the milk when it doesn't mix well with anything but Kahlua!" You know your grandma was a drunk, right? Probably a whore, too! But I digress.

Pretty lady in line. She is then subjected to every breathing heterosexual man throwing himself on her. It was really sad. I was afraid that this is what our species has been reduced too, but then I remembered that if sperm isn't injected into fabulous women, then all the gays will be born to house-fraus.

Intelligent Design Goes Bi!

I don't know if people consider the gulf coast "bi-eligible", but if it counts, then call me bi -- bi-coastal!

Reporting live from Mardi Gras. I haven't seen any titties yet, but I have really only spent the day on the sofa of my brother's friends, Gary and Shelly. Shelly's only had a few glasses of wine, so she's not really "bead hungry" if you know what I mean?

Tomorrow's the big day. Hopefully mmy infection will be gone. If not, the near-lethal dose of alcohol I'll be administering begining around 9:00 AM should kill it all.

Does the West Coast miss me...

Mardi Gras Here I Come

I'm leaving on a jet plane at midnight tonight. I'll wake up in Dallas, Texas... heaven forbid. A few hours later I will be back in a blue state -- kind of. At least they have Democrats in Louisiana.

This weekend is my Big Easy debut! A city built for me apparently. Actually, I won't be in New Orleans, probably, at all. I'll be across Lake Pontchatrain in Mandeville, Louisiana, home of one of the largest Mardi Gras parades outside of New Orleans... and David Duke.

I'm riding with my dad and brothers in the Original Krewe of Orpheus. (Was there some sort of float decorator revenge, mandating a homosexual in every parade or else they'd strike?) I ordered my beads and costume and will be making Jell-O shots all day on Thursday. Friday, well, I'll be drunk out of my mind. Many of you will probably get a call or two from me, knowing how I am prone to drunk dialing.

I will likely see more boobies than I ever wanted to and probably not nearly enough of that c-word... not the nasty one, the other one. So, Happy Mardi Gras everyone!

Dear Too-Lonely-To-Conceive

I give really good advice. No, freakishly good advice. More people should take it. I don't know why I'm so good at it. I like to really unveil all sides to a story. Oh, and I love to butt in. And I need to know everything that's going on in other people's lives. That's definately required of a good advice-giver.

So, people should send me email to davis.brianj(at)gmail(dot)com. All queries will remain anonymous I promise. Then I'll post my responses on the blog.

Or, if no one asks for help, I'll just make stuff up. Which should be even more of a reason to write, because if you are as crazy and f-cked up as we know you are, no one will think your question is real. They'll just think I'm whacked. It's really perfect. Really.

Brian's Big Fake Reality

I have helped breed two -- count 'em, two -- American Idol contestants. (Two of the 12 past roommates of my life made it to "Hollywood" on the show. One was elimanted in the final sixty, the other eliminated in the final thirty, and he got to tour with the show. Both were in different seasons.) I was even in the audience at the Kodak Theatre on the night Miss Kelly Clarkson was crowned. My oldest brother once won the showcase on the Price Is Right, even spinning $1.00 on the Showcase Showdown. Oh, and there was the 2+ years I worked on bad television shows. My life has a long reality-based legacy.

Last night I took the plunge and went in front of the cameras themselves. I won't divulge the show or the show's premise as I'll probably get sued. Except everyone on the show seemed to think I was a lawyer, so maybe they'd be afraid to sue me!

My William Hung moment was staged as a blind double-date. Two of the show's "cast members" were gonna set each other up. One's a gay guy, the other a straight girl. Except apparently the straight girl has few friends despite being GORGEOUS, because they had to bring in a totally inexperienced nobody to pretend to be her friend. Enter Brian.

So, despite numerous admonitions from friends-in-the-know, I had a couple glasses of wine. Oh, and a shot of gin. (Who does shots of gin? People who are in a stranger's house rummaging through the liquor cabinet and finding nothing.)

The guys -- my gay and her straight -- cooked us dinner. It was amazing. Very good. I tossed the salad. Sorry, mom, prepare yourself for a lot of salad-tossing jokes. Oh, and the Golden Girls. Brian had to bring in the Golden Girls. It happens.

Fun game: put yourself in a room with 3 other people that you don't know. Make sure that 2 of them are SUPER close with each other. Witness hilarity ensue. And by hilarity, I mean miserable awkwardness where you can't get a joke in once. Except for a salad-tossing joke. That's what I'll forever be famous for: tossing salad on national TV.

In politics...

Contrary to popular belief, I do still follow politics closely. I suppose I should blog about it more. But I'm so sick of the games, I just can't bring myself to care as much as I do.

I'm a partisan Democrat. All things being equal, I will choose the Democratic candidate. I believe our only hope for progressive politics lies in the Democratic Party. And then they do stupid things!

In California, term limits has every politician jockeying for their next post. Why they can't just retire after 6 or 8 years and become an overpaid lobbyist, I don't understand. Had I actually won my assembly seat, I would have been willing to quit after 2 years to become an overpaid lobbyist. Hell, I'd quit after swearing in ceremony for the right offer.

So, Martin Ludlow was the spawn of the labor movement. He gets elected to the Los Angeles City Council, only to quit 2 years into his first term to take a job at the helm of the LA County Federation of Labor. Feeling no sense of obligation to his constituents, he jumped at the "more powerful" position. And I figure, he'd probably be back in elected politics in a few years any way, just this time with a greater sense of obligation on the part of big labor.

Of course, when he resigned from the council, someone had to run. And that someone is former Assembly speaker Herb Wesson. Wesson will likely give up his seat in a couple of years to run for the LA County Board of Supervisors. If you were one of the little old ladies that works at the polls this is great for you. Lots of special elections. If you are, I don't know, say democracy, this is bad for you. The people in this district continually get shit upon. Fortunately, they are mostly poor and non-white, so who really cares, right?

So pardon my smirk when I read on my sick day that Ludlow has resigned from the County Federation of Labor. Apparently, he likely to come under a criminal indictment for violating campaign finance laws. Ironically enough, it's all about union money. I know my schadenfreude isn't attractive, but this is simply too good to ignore!

Weekend Recap!

Whoa! What a crazy, all be it lazy weekend. "But it's Wednesday," you say? Very true. Congratulations for mastering the calendar section of Outlook. Next we move onto Notes.

This, the hallowed weekend of dead Presidents added a day. A 103 degree fever added a second. Thus my four-day weekend. Which preceeds another four-day weekend coming up. This week, I work one day. (I inherited my mom's work ethic. Lazy teachers! PS: I'm kidding. Not about my mom's work ethic but about teachers being lazy as a whole.)

The weekend started with Wangs and beer at Allen's 19th 30th Birthday... or something of the sorts. It was crazy fun. Any night with Allen is likely to a) include a trip to the 'lode, (Motherlode that is), b) trollin' at Mickey's and c) waking up with some strange infection -- thus the 103 degree fever. He wrangeled together work buds -- many of whom I work with at one point -- at Big Wangs. Despite it's name not very gay. Although we tried to spice it up a bit. From Wangs we headed West with hopes of finding fame and fortune, or at least a trick with a job and a buss pass. JACKPOT!

We hit Motherlode, the Abbey and ended up at Mickey's. Despite how much the WeHooligans like to trash the place, Mickey's is always fun. At least folks dance. And smile. Is smiling illegal at the Abbey? Or is everyone just pissed about plopping done $20 for an orangish martini with less alcohol than a shot of Listerine?

At 4:00 AM, when my contacts called their union and went on strike, I decided to head home.

To be awakened at 9:00 AM by the roomies. We made breakfast. I had waffle duty, mostly because I believe that waffles are responsible for everything that is good in the world. For example, if the starving children of Africa has waffles, they wouldn't be starving anymore. Granted, if they had some balogna they wouldn't be starving either, but waffles are always better than balogna.

After loafing around for most of the day, minus a trip to the gym and the dive shop, I prepared for a party at the home of a divebuddy. Being that all my divebuddy's sans one are breeders, getting ready didn't involve much. Jeans, most likely clean. Check. Sweatshirt. Check. Baseball cap. Check.

The party was moderately quiet but nice. GREAT food. Fun company. And a fat chick claiming to be an ambassador to the gays. Here's the deal. To be a "fag hag" or "fruit fly" or other tragic name for straight girls that use gays for 98% of their social life, the gays have to enjoy being around you. It's like a nickname. You can't give yourself a nickname, you earn it by doing something embarrassing. The same is true for hagdom. You can not be a self-proclaimed hag. You must be chosen by a gay. I can't imagine any gay would ever choose this girl. If one did, as G-d as my witness, I am no longer pro-choice.

Sunday I headed down to the brothers house to have my ass kicked in H-O-R-S-E twice by my 8 year-old nephew. Of course, I intentionally threw both games to boost his ego and make up for the fact that I am only his uncle and not a super-cool dad. He'll have to face that reality some day and hopefully his sham victories will soften the blow. (I also was further humilated by having my lack of basketball prowess called out by an illiterate 11 year-old. )

Monday involved a trip to Disneyland that began with the onset of the symptoms. Wouldn't that be a cool ABC one-hour drama? Something about some virus circling the globe. It starts revealing itself in confusing and secret symptoms. Nothing too much to report from Disney besides the abundance of lesbians -- many wearing the popular "gay days" red shirts. Except it wasn't gay days and won't be for months. Are lesbians really that far out of the loops.

And then comes Tuesday... bed ridden. Sick as a dog. And still mustered it all together for my reality show debut... More to come.

PS: Can I get in trouble for too many photos of fat people? Or, a more philosphocial question, can you have too many photos of fat people?

Brian Brings World Peace

I think I finally figured out why most of the muslim world has their burkas all in a bunch over those Danish cartoons. Clearly its because the space in the papers used to run those poorly drawn pencil lines could have been filled with Aryan hottie Paul Walker!

Therefore, from this day forward, I believe all political and editorial cartoons should be replaced with (shirtless) photos of Mr. Walker. Afterall, you can't properly operate a suicide jacket if your hands are all sticky and gooey... from you know, cotton candy and peanut butter. That's whay you eat when you are reading the paper, right?

Can you roll me over, please, I can't see out the window?

Radio commericials are the funniest things ever. Not intentionally funny. I haven't heard an intentionally funny spot since I worked for Sarley Bigg & Bedder. More like witty little commentaries on how pathetic American culture has gotten.

For example, there's Rent-a-Wheel. Much like rent-to-own furniture which we maligned as children as the last resort of those too poor to care. My aunt's house was full of RTO furniture. It's really nothing more than buying furniture on credit--with FREAKISHLY high interest rates. Well now, "if you've got bad credit or no credit, or have a hard time paying your bills, you can have those cherry rims you've always wanted." I'm not trying to judge you but if you can't pay your bills, maybe $2,000 rims on your beat-up Nissan Sentra isn't what it'll take to make you happy.

This morning, I heard the best. In a commerical advertising some big appliance sale, they had a woman going through a littany of reasons why she needs to upgrade ALL of her kitchen appliances at once. The best: "The dishwasher is so loud I can't hear the TV."

How lazy do we have to be to be upset that the machine we created so we don't have to work interferes with our sitting on our ass staring at the machine we created so we don't have to read books?

Simply Put

California has been productive -- even efficient -- recently in cleaning out its death row. After a short dry spell and an attempt in the legislature to create a moratorium on execution, we are about to kill our third inmate in a little more than a month.

I am now and will likely always be opposed to the death penalty. And the Los Angeles Times puts it more eloquently than I ever will.

...there is a far simpler and more principled reason to spare Morales' life. Californians should not put Michael Morales to death because we should not be in the business of killing human beings, even if they are rapists and murderers. It is long past time for California to eliminate capital punishment and instead condemn the most brutal criminals to a lifetime in prison.

Kisses to Gov. Vilsack

While violating along held blogging standard of not bloggin' about Iowa twice, I felt this was necessary reading for everyone! (PS: Amy is from Iowa for those of you on the outs.)

Britney Spears has been thrown in to the culture war. (Special prize for anyone who sends me a photos of Britney a) in fatigues, b) being fed to ravenous alligators or c) being sober and smart.) Iowa Governor Tom "Look How Hip I Am" Vilsack (must avoid obvious ballsack pun... oops... too late) defended his pro-civil unions position by lampooning the Britsters quickie Vegas nuptials.

Gov. Tom Vilsack, expressing support for civil unions for committed gay couples, drew a pointed contrast Tuesday with the quickie marriage of pop star Britney Spears two years ago. "I do think that we as a state ought to honor commitments, and we ought to reflect that in policies that we have," Vilsack said. "I personally don't think that it is fair . . . for Britney Spears, who was married for 51 hours to some guy in Las Vegas (for) that guy (to have) more rights than someone who's been committed to another person for 25 years."

It's about time someone started being honest. Vilsack ain't no ACT-UPper, but he clearly can form a coherent thought. How can a country with 50% divorce rates, a party in which most leadership is on their second or third marriage, a president who'd rather choke to death on a pretzel watching TV alone than spend time with his wife, how can these people call same-sex marriage or civil unions or domestic partnerships an attack on the "sanctity of marriage."

PSII: Remember when the Episcopalians got all uppity with their new gay marriage that they started destroying the 500 year old denomination? Well, where's the irony in the fact that all those Episcopalians would be Catholics had they not started their own church BASED ON A DIVORCE!

Thanks Queerty for the heads up!

Dear diary blog,

My friend Amy is a bitch. She makes fun of me all the time. And she has the memory of an elephant. (I said MEMORY Allen, so don't run back and get me in trouble.)

Unforunately, she's also beautiful. And other people like her and there is nothing I want more than to be liked by other people. (Not to be confused with THE OTHERS on Lost, they can go to hell for all I care. Unless there are any hot gay others, in which case, my number is... How much do you think an "other" makes?)

So as long as she's beautiful and popular, I guess we can be friends.

Love,

Brian

EDITOR'S NOTE: Amy's not really a bitch at all. She just made fun of me today. And, well, you know how I can get!

What the F*#%?

The Republican National Committee has approached 30 US cities for proposals to host the 2008 convention. And they are starting to get some answers: NO!

The city of Chicago has said that they have other priorities, like serving the predominantly Democratic constinuency. (Sidebar: With the city's history, why would anyone want to host a party convention in Chicago?)

The other cities the GOP approached include: Anaheim, Atlanta, Boston, Charlotte, Columbus, Dallas, Denver, Detroit, Houston, Indianapolis, Los Angeles, Kansas City, Memphis, Miami, Minneapolis, Nashville, New Orleans, New York, Orlando, Philadelphia, Phoenix, Pittsburgh, Portland, Sacramento, San Antonio, San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle, St. Louis, and Tampa.

San Francisco? Really? That's great. It's a city in which 78% of the residents vote Democratic and the rest are split among the Greens and the Peace & Freedom Party. New Orleans would be great, too! No messy protesters unless than can swim.

I understand the imagery of taking the fight to your enemy, but I think its absurd for the parties to host conventions in places where they have no stregnth. Exhibit A: The 2004 Republican Convention in New York. Democrats outnumber Republicans 6 to 1 in New York. They may have some Republican electeds, but Pataki and Bloomberg win elections by running away from the national Republican platform. Obviously, its was a disgusting effort on the part of the GOP to milk 9-11. (Why did the Democrats let it happen? Why didn't they pick the city first? Okay, I know the '92 convention was in New York, but we could double up in this case.)

So Republicans: Stay out of blue cities. We'll let you wander it to the occasional blue state, but die-hard Democratic strongholds like San Francisco, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, Detroit, New Orleans, Philadelphia, Portland, Seattle, etc. -- you know, all the places you'd actually want to go to -- they're off limits.

QUESTION: What's a political party that must hold a HUGE national convention every four years supposed to do when they spend 90% of their time insulting and attacking urbanites to exploit the fear and votes of rural and suburban dwellers? Can you hold a national convention in San Bernandino?

Pity Party

I got an email last week from a vendor at work. I've known her for years because we used her at my last job, too. Apparently, after nearly 4 years, she doesn't think very highly of me because she invited me to a Valentines Day Singles Party that she -- AND HER PARTNER -- were hosting for the gays.

Important Note: She was hosting the party to raise money and awareness for the Trevor Project, which is a really cool organization that works to prevent teenage suicide by gay and lesbian kids. Noble cause. I like 'em. Let's roll!

Oh, lord! This was sad. There were a couple of interesting people. The guy who busted me making fun of the ice skaters was decent enough, even if he's old enough to be my father. Oh, yeah. Nearly everyone was old enough to be my father.

I've been told I have an "old" soul, or that I am mature for my age. Which is actually quite funny because most of my longtime friends actually consider me quite immature. Go figure! However old my soul is, my ass is 27! Do that math people. If you lived the Johnson administration, rather than studied it in school, you are probably too old for me.

My favorite of the night was this guy who seemed friendly enough. He was eavesdropping on a conversation I was having with some woman from Venice. We were talking about living near the beach. He lives in Playa del Rey, too! Apparently, he lives there because he "was kicked out of West Hollywood for not being gay enough."

That's such a tired line. I hate when uninteresting or unattractive people insist that they are alone because they aren't "gay enough." If you have a dick and you suck dick you are gay enough for about 98% of the 'mos in West Hollywood. He thinks because he's 300 pounds, he's not "gay enough."

I don't live in West Hollywood, mostly because I don't like city livin'. I like it a little more quiet at home. Oh, and because I'm poor. Okay, mostly because I'm poor. And I love my alternative gay hangouts as much as the next westsider. I do know, however, that most people who reject "West Hollywood," whether the metaphysical place of the neighborhood bordering West Hollywood adjacent, do so because they reject themselves. This guy is probably unhappy with himself, with the image he created but it's easier to blame a faceless-ideal then look inside.

Buddy, I hope one day you find someone who will love you. If you don't want to change, than don't. But understand that while most of us don't demand the six-pack abs and the ass-o-steel, we do want someone who cares for themselves and likes themselves. Work on it.

Happy Birthday to Me!

How much do you love me? Do you love me enough to come to a birthday party for me? In Texas? At a hotel ballroom? Where you have to pay to cover your meal? A $100?

You'll still get me a gift, right? Good. Because I have a wonderful list of suggestions.

(Fake) Dr. Bridget Hillard of Texas, crazy-bat-shit Christian red-stater, is throwing a) her own party and b) asking guest to pay $100 to come! This is friggin' fantastic! PS: $100 a person for the Hyatt Regency in downtown Houston? What in god's name is she serving? The Beverly Hills Hotel can do a fantastic event dinner for about $80 per person. Is she making a profit off this?

Thanks Pen15. You are the best!

Being a Jackass is Hard Work

I was at a party last night and the Olympics were on. Some French ice skaters was "competing" and he fell... TWICE! Oh boy. That's the best. I love it when they fall. I love it because, really, ice skating is such a pompous sport. Look at their faces when they skate.

Except, I got caught smiling when he fell. I told the guy how great it is when they fall and about 3,000 pounds of judgement came crashing right on top of me. Being that I didn't know anyone at this party -- I'll explain later -- I felt like I better fix this. So I said, "It's great when they fall, because that's when you really see how good they are. See how he just picks up and gets right back in to the routine. If I fell, I'd sit on the ice and cry. But not these guys, they are such (prepare yourself for the word) athletes."

It gets better. This woman at work -- the gift buyer that insists we all contribute $10 everytime some lonely fuck has a bowel movement -- got in a car accident on her way home on Monday. (The irony is that she normally takes the bus.) Well, they might as well drape the windows in black and sit shiva in the conference room. I guess I would be more sympathetic if this wasn't the fourth time she's been to the hospital since I started here.

Entitle-whosit?

I work with a nutcase. She's in her mid-60s and is a lawyer. We're a non-profit legal clinic. In her 30+ year career she's never worked in free legal services. She drives a big Lexus and lives in the Palisades. Our clients live 6 people-to-a-one-room-apartment in gang-ridden, drug-infested part of the inner-city. They ride the bus... when they can afford the fare.

Our parking lot at work is, maybe, 30 yards long. If you parked in the farthest corner, it would take you no more than 45 seconds to walk from your car to the office. Yet every morning, this women "invents" a parking space for herself. She just can't handle not being right by the door.

Maybe she's afraid she'll fall and break her hip. Old people do that you know. Or she's afraid of all the poor people around, you know, it being legal aid an all. (In which case she may want to ditch the gawdy jewelry and $70,000 automobile!)

Why is it that the rich -- and she is rich, this is a second career for her and her husband has $$$ too -- seem to feel entitled to so much more than the so-called "Welfare Queens" of Ronald Reagan's America?

Valentines Festivus!

Maybe I saw Walk the Line too many times. Maybe it was a bad idea to pick up that box set of OZ around Christmas time. Maybe I just need a more stimulating job.

But today, I found love. Well, I haven't picked him out yet, but I know I will. How appropriate for Valentines Day.

By the end of the day I will have picked out my boyfriend and we'll start a wonderful life together. I'll find him here at www.meet-an-inmate.com!

Really Bad Music

Last night, at FUBAR with my friend Allen, the DJ was playing some old Smiths songs. Wow, I really like the Smiths. I decided to track down some of their CDs for my drive to work this morning. Unfortunately, when I moved I only unpacked about one-third of all my CDs. The Smiths albums are apparently packed away in our storage. I'll get them later.

While scanning my unpacked CDs, I realized how bad my taste in music can be. I grabbed one album that stood out and have been listening to it all morning: Savage Garden's Affirmation.

This isn't the one with that really cool "Chicken Cherry Cola" song. But it’s fantastically horrible and delicious none the less. It dawned on me that music is more about experiences, I guess like most art. I really like this album because it came out -- and I picked it up -- during my senior year of college. I can't help but tie these horrible synthesized tunes with one of the best times in my life.

What are you listening to?

Understatement of the Century

"Cindy Sheehan's long-rumored challenge to Democratic Senator Diane Feinstein was a long-shot bid for the seat."

No shit! I'm not a big fan of Diane Feinstein (I think she's weak!) or the war in Iraq (I think it could have been done a lot better, you know, with less lying and stuff!). But if Sheehan ever thought she had any chance of being anything more than a pain in the ass of journalists who would have to type two names next to "Democratic candidates include", than she should be committed.

Diane Feinstein is a 14-year incumbent. She's survived three statewide elections -- and run in four. She's sitting on millions and millions in campaign contribution on top of being one of the 5 wealthiest members of Congress. Oh, and she actually understands legislating.

The upper house of Congress is not a place for political novices. There is too much to be done there and too few people getting in your way when you are gonna do something stupid. You can not be a single-issue Senator. It's bad for the Senate and it'd be bad for California.

Cindy... take a vacation. You've earned it. And your movement needs it.

Who the Hell?

All the news today is about the poor manners of blacks and Democrats at the funeral of Coretta Scott King. “How dare those animals not behave themselves in the presence of such classy folks as George W. Bush?”

Jimmy Carter (former Democratic President, peace activist and Georgia native) and Rev. Joseph Lowery (former aid to Martin Luther King) eulogized their *personal* friend Coretta Scott King by promoting her legacy of non-violence and her opposition to war. She spent 50 years -- not enough of them at the arm of her husband because of the bullet of a) a maniacal racist who she was able to forgive or b) a vast government conspiracy involving the CIA, FBI, LBJ, RFK and KFC -- promoting non-violence.

And useless runts like Tucker Carlson, Ken Mehlman, Don Imus, Joe Lieberman and the rest of them think they know a better way to honor Coretta Scott King. Well, here's the deal Joe Lieberman. When you are invited to honor your toothless lover, er, friend George W. Bush at his funeral, you do it any way you like. Tucker Carlson, when Pat Robertson passes, you can write whatever eulogy you want. We level-headed, erect-walking men and women promise not to interfere. Ken Mehlman, when the insurance industry and tobacco industry and gun lobby and Haliburton pass away -- you know, all your closest friends -- you have free reign.

But don't you dare place ownership on President Carter and Rev. Lowery and think you can speak for a woman you never met, a woman whose legacy you've worked to subvert, a woman who would never turn to your for anything. Let President Carter and Rev. Lowery mourn their friend in the way they see fit. Let them politicize a political figure. Let them be activists around an activist figure. Let them remember her the way they knew her.

Mom and Dad get the Brokeback Bug

Saturday evening. Brian has tried several times to return a call to his parents from earlier in the day. Finally, his phone rings. He checks the caller ID. Sure enough, it's Poppa's cell phone.

Brian: Hey, Dad. You guys called earlier? Where've you been?

Dad: We've been in the movies all afternoon. What are you doing tomorrow?

Brian: All afternoon? What did you see all afternoon?

Dad: We went to see Brokeback Mountain.

Brian: Alone? Did you know that's what you were seeing? Were you somehow misled into the theatre by a roaming gang of trickster homos?

Dad: Nope. Your mother and I decided to check it out. What a beautiful movie. A little sad.

Brian: I know you hate sad.

Dad: But this was great! I really liked it. -Damn Mary, shut up. Here. Here. Brian, here's your mom.

Mom: Hey sweetheart. What are you doing tomorrow.

Brian: Diving. Did John and Judy go to the movies with you.

John and Judy are their partners in crime. J&J live across the street. They've eaten dinner with J&J every Friday night since I left for college in 1996. The once-a-week dinners have grown to 3 to 4 times a week. Sometimes more. Every holiday at home involves J&J coming over for dessert, if they aren't at dinner itself.

Dad: Of course not. You know they are big, dumb redneck Republicans. They wouldn't enjoy art. Plus, they refused to go when we invited them.

Okay. You know its a milestone when your dad--the oldest of 9 Catholic children raised in Middle River, Maryland by a steelworker and a child-bride housewife (Grandma was 16 when she was married. Pop was only 17, but still)--recognizes the homophobia in others. My dad is 63 years old. A devout Roman Catholic who was, for nearly 10 years, a Holy Cross Brother. He rarely talks politics and certainly isn't a crusading liberal activist. But one thing is clear, that the love for his son transcends anything he was raised with, learned with age, or picked up late. Having a gay son has really been a force for positive change in my parents.

Granted, you don't have to be gay, want to be gay, like gays, have gay children, had a lesbian experience in college or voted for John Kerry to enjoy Brokeback Mountain. It's a great film and beautiful story. But it still makes me proud that my parents went and saw it. In a theatre no less.