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February 28, 2008
The Turd Whisperer
Amazing Grace was written by an Englishman and not by slaves as Oprah would like to have you believe. She's such a goddamn liar.
Anyway--
I'm still in New England. I just had a lobster roll at Hauty's. MmmMmm. If you're ever in Hampton, New Hampshire, I highly recommend it -- only $7.50!
Now I'm at a coffeeshop trying to catch up on some work. Free wi-fi! But it's hard to work when some woman is chomping her potato chips right next to me. So fucking rude. I think she's a lesbian, though it's hard to tell in New Hampshire, since all the women here seem to have short, frosted hair. Regardless of sexual orientation, there is no need to chomp so loudly. Put the chip in your mouth, close your mouth and then break the chip apart with your teeth. When you close your mouth, the annoying sound is muffled. Why is that so hard to comprehend, Peppermint Patty?
DO I SEEM FUCKING CRANKY!?!
Well, I'm not.
But I've been around a lot of people lately. And when you're sharing close quarters with other people, you may get agitated by certain little things...like turds.
It's really distressing when someone doesn't flush all of their turds. And when I have to take a simple piss and stumble upon one of your disgusting floaters, I want to tell all your friends on Facebook how irresponsible you are with your turds. Your turd has now become my responsibility, because if I were to leave the bathroom and let the turd stay, it would look like I left it there, and I have a pristine bathroom reputation to uphold. So I try to flush your nasty little turd, but your nasty little turd is one of those small ones that just twirls around and around but never gets sucked down the drain for no other reason than to waste my time and make me curse your lazy anus. No matter how many times I flush, it's become a game of turd pong. And I'm playing a game of turd pong because you were irresponsible with your own turds. Take ownership, sicko.
To make matters worse, a little Japanese man gave me a boner the other day - during a massage. I was so embarrassed, but it's....uh...been awhile...given certain circumstances and the such...since I...well...you know...um...hence my goddamn crankiness.
Speaking of boners, frosted hair, turds and Oprah...there is a rumor that I may be heading to Chicago towards the end of May for the 30th anniversary of some event for sash-wearing homosexuals. Oh, dear..."Hidey ho!"
Posted by durban bud at 10:49 PM | Comments (16)
February 24, 2008
dBud's 2nd Annual Oscar Ballot
Do you think Tilda Swinton's friends ever call her ~ ? Cuz I probably would.
And the winner is...
Patrick - New York, NY
Runners-up:
BobScott (who won last year!) - Washington, DC
Thomas - Los Angeles, CA
The most correct was 15 out of 21. The two runners-up got 14. Most people got around 10 right. No one did really bad...well...except for a certain blogger from the Boston region. No judgments, please.
Honorable mentions:
Ben V. - Salt Lake City, UT
cb - Saint Paul, Minnesota
Jason - Bakersfield, CA
Sorry, Brett - Homer beat you by 1.
Homer: 8
Brett: 7
There was a glitch on a couple fields that may have shown the names of nominees from last year on your ballot email, but luckily none of the movies (they were supposed to be) won anyway.
The top 3 submitters with the most accurate picks will receive a DVD of the fagulous Icelandic film Eleven Men Out. The movie is officially released in the States on March 4th. And no, despite my affection for porn, it's not. Judging by the poster, what's not to like?!? Even The Hollywood Reporter liked the film!
The winner will also receive Goldfrapp's latest CD "Seventh Tree" from Mute Records, which becomes available February 26.
Thanks for playing, kids. Good times.
Posted by durban bud at 11:19 AM | Comments (19)
February 22, 2008
Letting Go
I had my suitcase packed and was almost out the door to catch a plane when the phone rang around 7am. I figured it was Rob reminding me to bring something he knew I would forget. And it was him. "He just passed away."
I took a cab to Union Station. The cab driver was a li'l Chatty Kathy. Somehow he talked me into having him take me directly to the airport in Baltimore, instead of the train station. I think it's when he asked me how old I was, "What are you, 25, 26?" I was like, "Oh you're so sweet. Actually I'm 24, thanks. *giggles* And yes! I would love for you to take me all the way to BWI." I managed to talk the price down considerably. I think he just wanted someone to hear him out.
He brought up politics, crime, race, life, death, etc. He spent quite a bit of time telling me how he doesn't really like black people. This was kind of odd since he was...black. "But I'm from Trinidad!" I said, "Uhhhh...they're not all bad, except for Jada Pinkett Smith. There's rotten apples in every bunch." Then I looked around to see if maybe I was being Punk'd.
Anyway, I'm sitting at a coffeeshop in New Hampshire. It’s snowing like crazy. Everyone is yelling: “My cah wouldn’t staht this mahnin’!”
It's all very surreal when we begin to face the mortality of our own parents. You start to deal with things that your peers are also going through, things that you still feel too young to acknowledge.
A lot of people are saddened by the death of Rob's father. He worked in the school district for 37 years; first as a gym teacher, then as the athetic director.
He was quoted in a local newspaper as saying, I never had a lot of money, but I did have a very rich life, full of wonderful memories with friends and family, and a soulmate of over 46 years. A cliche, maybe, but one I wish more people would realize.
In the 12 years I’ve known him, I never saw him sad, depressed or angry for a long period of time.
He was always sweet to me, but after his cancer diagnosis, and my own issues a couple years ago, we became closer. Strange, I know, but it's true. When I said goodbye to him after my first visit to see him since his diagnosis, he gave me a big hug, and then he did something he had never done the previous ten years -- he kissed me on my cheek. "You take care of you," he said.
That's how wonderfully unselfish he was.
And despite the toll it was taking on his body and how he was aware of the inevitable, he held Rob's hand and occasionally kissed it and kept smiling until the very end.
"You take care of you."
Posted by durban bud at 03:07 PM | Comments (26)
February 15, 2008
The Road Less Desperate
There comes a point in a gay man's life when he stands in front of a mirror in an Abercrombie & Fitch dressing room and thinks, "Do these Baxter Low Rise Slim Boot Destroyed jeans make me look desperate?"
That happened to me about a year ago.
I've never been much of a fashion queen, but I do enjoy a pair of well-made jeans that can last a couple years. A & F used to fit that mold. But these days, aside from comfort, it also helps if they aren't designed for one particular season or man-breed.
I went through my Abercrombie phase from 1996 to 2002 (incidentally, my clubbing years occurred from 1999 to 2002 -- hmmm). My family took notice and gave me gift cards to the store on most holidays. And they still do. I guess I should have told them I no longer shop there, but I was hoping they would notice so I wouldn't have to have "the talk." I mean, they should have noticed I stopped cutting off the ends of my jeans years ago, right? I never did enjoy how Abercrombie discriminated to those under 6 feet tall.
Through the years I have accumulated quite a lot of gift cards. Last year I decided to see what I could get. I wanted to try on some of the jeans the kids are wearing these days. So I tried on a pair of low-rise jeans. I am never doing that again. The A & F angertwink employee (one of the Jonas Brothers, I think) who helped me find "my size" could hear me sobbing and pawing the mirror as I cried, "Whhhhhy, oh God, whhhhhhy?"
I looked a fool. The jeans fit so tight you could see the nerve-endings around my hole. But it wasn't so much the tightness that was alarming, it was how ridiculous I looked. I looked like a gay Superfriend -- "Form of...an icy sssuperfag."
The angertwink knocked on my dressing room door and asked, "Do you want to try on a larger size?" I'm like, "No...but I'll take a tissue."
It was at that moment I chose the road less desperate. It's painful for a gay man in his thirties to go through "the change" and admit that he no longer can get away with wearing whatever he wants, but, much like adolescent acne, it eventually passes and we move on (to Target khakis).
I ran out of the dressing room, handed the jeans to the Jonas Brother and bought some boxers and baseball caps instead.
Do any guys look good in a pair of low-rise jeans? I suppose some older twinks can still pull off the look rather well, but then again, those same guys look like hell when the lights are turned on at 6:00 in the morning, revealing more than just glitter on their faces and an empty water bottle in their hands.
So, despite the new A & F gift card I received in the mail today from my sister, I'll stick to my "regular-rise" Quicksilvers that last me throughout the years. I can always use more boxers and baseball caps anyway.
Posted by durban bud at 09:26 AM | Comments (20)
February 13, 2008
Is There Buttsex in Heaven?
You know damn well you were thinking the same exact question last night. So I'll ask the question for the both of us. And if there is buttsex in heaven, do we have to use condoms? Seems like it would be unnecessary, seeing as it's all pure and clean and whatnot.
Read the first and last 2 paragraphs if you don't want to read the rest of the post and just answer the question. And if you're stumped, ask your boss if buttsex is allowed in heaven. Then let me know.
My sister brought up the afterlife again, and how she's been doubting her faith lately. She's been praying for a number of people in her life who are suffering from various awful illnesses, and none of them are getting any better. I told her she probably wasn't praying hard enough, maybe try waving snakes around or speaking in tongues, like Dane Cook does. That'll get His attention.
But isn't praying really just begging for something you want in a respectful tone? But if you keep praying/begging for the same thing over and over, don't you think God is gonna get sick of your constant begging that he's tuned you out and is instead watching a post-menopausal Cybill Shepherd scissoring the bejesus out of that chick from Best in Show on the latest L Word episode, or maybe he's even brainstorming solutions for the big, violent mess in Pakistan. Or maybe he's listening to who Jada Pinkett Smith is praying to win an Oscar this year.
Then again, maybe He's Just Not That Into You and doesn't want to answer your prayers.
Of course this "unanswered prayer" will now get spun by the Christian media into another life lesson that it was all planned well in advance. It makes us appreciate the prayers He does answer, right?
I tend to remain quiet when she brings up the Lord. She's very passionate about it, and I respect her for that, even if I see the whole thing through a skeptical pair of fierce realistic lenses. It's funny cuz we were both raised in the same Southern Baptist church -- yet she kept attending the church after she turned 18; I escaped and studied the probability of dinosaur and human coexistion and eventually moved to DC to study the Art of Man Ass -- which I graduated summa cum laude, thank you very much.
The primary motivation for belief or faith in the supernatural is the fear of the unknown -- more specifically, death. Things we don't understand or can't relate with, we judge as less-than-us or, worse, a threat. Belief in a higher power provides comfort when a loved one dies (They're in a better place now; you'll see them again one day) or as a light in the fog operated by Edie Brickell during a major emotional storm (Keep praying; he will guide you through the darkness and into the light, Carol Anne). It's all so sweet that it's hard to argue against those things -- especially since they do tend to help some people feel better. And good for them. If it helps, cool. I, of course, need concrete facts. And after learning that Santa Claus was a cruel hoax that my parents enthusiastically engaged in for years, I learned adults are really just hypocrites with varicose veins and cannot be trusted.
The polls say the majority of "happy people" all have some sort of spirituality component in their daily lives. I have tried to wrap my head around the generic less-threatening term spirituality to see if I can buy into it. I've tried -- really, I have. I even have a special cockring that seems to bring me good luck. Sometimes when I think I'm getting all spiritual and at peace with the rest of the world and I'm all centered with my chi, Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" starts blaring in my mind speakers and I lose focus and instead try to imagine what went wrong in the mid-80's to Starship. Like, did they read the lyrics to We Built This City before proudly recording the words for the entire world to hear?
But my biggest problem is with this everlasting life thing. No one seems to have specifics on what's expected up there. I guess we get re-acquainted with those who died, but then what? Hang out with our family and friends forever and ever? Sounds like a sweet, mellow idea at first -- but that would be fun for like a week, and then I'd need my GaySpace. I would ask Mother Teresa -- the new Regional Concierge Manager of Heaven, Mid-Atlantic Area -- where all the gays hang out. She would answer me immediately, while lip-synching along to Tegan & Sara's "The Con". I knew it. She was always dowdy, wasn't she? I bet she wears a Peaches t-shirt in heaven.
She pointed to a colorful waterfall where Baltimora was performing Tarzan Boy in a small leather loincloth to a bunch of moustached men and Jerry Falwell. "They're over there, son." A prissy older man in sequins sauntered by with a puppet he called Madame and she said, "Oh, not that tired old thang again. And I'm not referring to you Wayland. I can't handle any more Tarzan Boy Crap. She's tired. I know, I know, no judgments in heaven. Blah blah. God is great. God is good. But I'm just a piece of fucking wood. Kill me now! Why don't we ask Falco to perform for a change? He's jonesing to play the fountain. Rock Me Amadeus or send me to purgatory please."
Getting back to my question: can we have buttsex in the afterlife? Or is that behavior only allowed in the pits of hell, cuz I'll totally move down a few floors for some butt lovin' if we're just gonna sit around and talk for like ever and ever? Help me understand.
After we die, what happens?
I say nothing happens, sadly, but that doesn't sound very comforting to others; in fact, it sounds downright tragic and something to fear. But the truth has always been scary. Better to just ignore, I guess, and make everything sound magical and hopeful. But truthfully, none of us know what really happens when we die. We speculate and hope for the best. But I think I have a pretty good idea though. And I am totally cool with it.
Posted by durban bud at 05:52 AM | Comments (23)
February 10, 2008
Lay Off the Biscuits, Aretha
I was on the Maury Povich Show the other day. Well...not really...but I did have to fly Southwest Airlines. I hope nobody saw me. To make matters worse I had to take the Marc train to the airport in Baltimore cuz nobody could drive me there. Ugh. What's next, skid row? It's a fine line, y'know.
Oh, I kid. But it was my first time flying Southwest. Despite the horror stories I'd heard -- and the extra Purell wipes I packed --everything went very well -- impressive, actually. And so affordable! Plus, they seem to have retired their brown and red colored planes. Well, at least the one I flew wasn't one of the Bloody Stool fleets; it was red and blue. Progress!
I'm still in New Hampshire. The ground is covered in snow. I forgot to pack boots. Me on the beach near Rob's parents, workin' my Ella Ella Bean look:
Posted by durban bud at 09:34 PM | Comments (13)
February 07, 2008
Straight Talk
Because the candidates have been speaking ad nauseum lately, I've picked up on all their annoying verbal idiosynchracies when they venture off-script. Except for the well-spoken Huckabee -- though I have issues witnessing his lack of dental care when he speaks -- they all overuse certain phrases regularly, like we all do to varying degrees. Barack is the king of "Uh"; Hillary is the queen of "Ya know"; Ron Paul is the grand wizard of "And ahhhh"; McCain sucks the verbal teat of "Reagan"; and Mitt Romney is just...unlistenable. Maybe not quite as important as health care I suppose, but something to remember when electing someone to a four year term.
For the record, I say "Um" way too much. But as we all know, "um" is really just short for "cum"...so at least I keep my sentences interesting.
Anyway, something else occurred to me last night when I watched John McCain give his post-election speech to his supporters. As he spoke passionately from the teleprompter, I recognized his voice from somewhere else, but I couldn't figure out where. I kept trying to picture who he sounded like. Is it a celebrity? Another politician? A family member? A Raging Stallion exclusive? Hmm.
A melody with that voice entered my head. I tried humming it along with his speech. Where have I heard this song before? Oh God, where???
Then it hit me. This is what I heard him say during his speech:
"My fellow Arizonans...you know, I was over 40 years old before I could claim a hometown like Reagan could, and I can't express how fortunate I feel to have found a home in this beautiful state that has come to mean so much to me and Reagan...Your nails won't break and your toes won't stub. You never get a fever when there ain't no hole in the washtub..."
OMG - that's it! Emmet Otter is running for president.
I don't think he's always channeled Emmet; I would have noticed that before. I think it's a trait he's acquired with age -- which would also explain why Oprah is sounding more like Elmo every day. One can infer that aging eventually leads to some sort of muppet tone development. Think about it. It makes sense. Like weaker bones, it's just another part of growing old. We all could probably assign muppet characters to the changing voices of our older friends and family. Try doing it this weekend with your elders. They would really enjoy it.
You can hear Emmet McCain speak on this video of various bloopers from Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas. As you watch it, you should hear the similarities. If you don't, you may have already developed the muppet tone and can't differentiate. And that's okay. No judgments. Muppets are cute.
The outtakes are amusing too -- especially if you watched the classic movie every holiday like I did. Um, enjoy!
Posted by durban bud at 12:19 AM | Comments (9)
February 05, 2008
Dr. Jeckyl & Mr. Clyde
I won't bore you with another Clyde post. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I will! I'll try to be brief.
We got Clyde a gentle leader. It is the most fantastic invention since the Roomba or maybe the anal douche. Some people say it's cruel to use on dogs; I say it's the Baby Jesus rewarding me with presents.
He has been an absolute delight to walk. No tugging, no pulling, no yelling at him. You can hold his leash with two fingers and he won't pull.
It was so nice out on Sunday, Rob and I took him to the Circle. We got some burritos from Chip O'Tlay and sat by the fountain to enjoy the beauty of DC and people watch.
There I was, basking in the sun, enjoying the sights, with my cute mellow adopted dog resting comfortably by my side. Many dogs walked by. He noticed them but sat relaxed. I had no worries, cuz I had the gentle leader. I put his leash under my foot, as I ate my glorious, high-carb, high-fat, high-calorie burrito. MmmmMmmm. Color me tranquil.
Then a boxer dog walked by.
Without warning, Clyde yanked the leash from under my foot and did an Air Bud down the fountain steps and onto the other dog. I'm not exaggerating this. He was like Bjork on a photographer. It was surreal. I ran after him, still holding my glorious burrito in one hand. Luckily the owner of the other dog seemed quite trained in the field of dog attacks. He instantly grabbed Clyde from behind and pulled him off without incident. He told his dog to sit - which he did immediately. Must be nice. He handed the leash back to me; I apologized and he walked away like nothing ever happened.
So there I now was, stunned, in the middle of the circle, with everyone staring at me and my troubled dog. I felt like Britney's mom. "Hi, y'all!" So I did what any normal person would do -- I took a bite of my burrito.
I scolded Clyde and took him back up the fountain. Some college kid sitting next to us while gabbing on his cell phone, put his phone down and said in a stoner voice, "Dude, I know you're really pissed at your dog right now, but that was fucking awesome. So bad-ass."
No, it wasn't.
There are limitations to the gentle leader. Live and learn.
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On a completely separate topic, I'm off to New Hampshire tomorrow to spend time with Rob's father. He's in the final stage of his battle with brain cancer. He's much too young to be dealing with this. Such a wonderful, kind man and incredibly supportive and giving father. So please send some positive vibes and bearhugs up to Rob and his family.
Um, Happy Super Duper Tuesday!
Posted by durban bud at 02:21 PM | Comments (16)