November 13, 2007

The Millennials

Millennials are taking over the work force and they're even more incorrigible than Gen-Xers, if that's even possible.

Gen-Xers are largely responsible for creating the "40 is the new 30" phenomenon that is sweeping the nation. We're more laidback; we're educated; we don't rush into marriage; we don't feel pressure to procreate; we age better; we're more sensitive to others (thank you, Kurdt); we're politically, socially and environmentally responsible; we're willing to enter into therapy; we wear witty t-shirts; and we created casual Friday. So show us some goddamn respect.

Millennials are growing up even later in life. They live at home longer; communicate only through text and instant messages, cell phones, online social networks and blogs; develop life skills through video games; and they write articles to emasculate their elders.

Rapid advances in technology during their formative years are mostly to blame for their selfishness, as well as sensitive parenting, but the primary cause is likely due to the absence of multiple Emmy-award-winning actress Patricia Wettig in their lives.

For most red-blooded American teenage boys, watching thirtysomething was a rite of passage in the late '80's. We always imagined dining with Patricia (Patty) at a quaint, upscale cafe in Philadelphia -- perhaps sharing a cranberry scone and a hot plunger pot of hazelnut coffee -- as we discussed our relationship problems and feelings.

Sure, some teenage boys preferred the raspy-voiced, spunky Polly Draper as their BFF, but Patricia was the one we all trusted to tuck us into bed, adjust the netting on our lacrosse sticks, and share our most intimate secrets with (like the tingly sensation Ken Olin gave us in our groin).

Sadly, Millennials never got to experience the raw emotional brilliance and tell-it-like-it-really-is honesty of a Patricia Wettig. If they had, they would have greater compassion and respect for those of us in our thirties and beyond. And I'm sorry, but Moesha was no Patricia Wettig.

Rent thirtysomething on DVD, Millennials. Watch and learn. Respek.

Posted by durban bud at 10:07 PM | Comments (29)

November 8, 2007

Reply to All

I was sitting in front of Rob's laptop tonight when someone IM'd him around 11:30. Rob was getting ready for bed, so naturally I wrote, "Hi sugar!" The person responded with "LOL". Hmm. I'm not buying it. Do people actually laugh out loud when they type that? I doubt it. Is it really that funny to make someone explode with laughter? I hope not. Then again, According to Jim is still on the air, so maybe it's easy to laugh at the mundane. Rumor has it, beginning December 1st, LOL is being retired from the Internet. Take note. ROFL.

Anyway, a few months ago, Jimbo -- who just celebrated his 2000th post and is now suffering from carpal tunnel -- sent me an email that someone took a dump in the bathroom at JR's and it stunk up the place. I'm always glad he thinks to notify me about such things. I reckon he did this cuz he knows I'm very anti-dumping in public restrooms. The odd thing was he cc'd a number of other people on this email. So, since he dragged all these innocent people into this shit, I replied to all explaining my position on public dumping.

This prompted a long reply-to-all discussion about it with all the other carbon copied kids. It got quite graphic, with Jimbo talking about dropping meatball-sized turds outside in a field while he was living in Kazakhstan. This was immediately followed by someone asking to be removed from "this email thread". Uh-oh.

I didn't recognize the name of the person requesting unsubscription so I asked Jimbo who it was. He didn't know. I'm like, "But you included him in the original mass email." He still didn't know. Then he looked at his list of contacts and realized he sent it to the wrong person, and that the guy was a colleague of a friend from years ago that somehow still managed to be included in his contact list. LOL!

Apparently several people didn't see this guy's request and kept replying to all about proper shitting etiquette. Poor guy -- probably a gentle Christian man having a rough day at work and then getting his inbox pummeled with potty humor and feces stories.

I realize this probably isn't funny to you at all, but I was seriously LOL and eventually ROFLMAO.

So, let this be a lesson: Be very careful when replying to all. Don't shit in public bathrooms unless it's an emergency. And don't forget about December 1st. LOL.

Posted by durban bud at 12:12 AM | Comments (18)

November 1, 2007

Eating Dog

About 10 years ago I watched a disturbing documentary on HBO called To Love or Kill: Man vs. Animal. A man traveled the world showing how some societies eat animals that we would consider off-limits. One scene included an American woman taking her cat to a pet psychic. He juxtaposed that scene with one of cats being boiled alive in Thailand. Yum. Then he would show how cows are worshipped in India, followed by a cow getting slaughtered in America.

There was one particularly upsetting scene at a Thai restaurant, in which a little girl -- with some sweet coaxing from her mother -- picks out the dog she wants to eat for dinner. It was a German Shepard. It was slaughtered and cooked nice and tender for her.

I became a vegetarian for a month after watching that. Slowly I graduated to eating fish again, cuz, they don't have any feelings, right? Eventually I made it back to being a full-fledged carnivore.

Anyway, I've been watching this new show on The National Geographic Channel (now owned by Rupert Murdoch, btw) called Taboo. Since I'm part-man and part-freak, I rather enjoy it. Recent episodes have included transexualism and burn scarification. Fascinating!

The latest episode was again about unusual food eaten around the world -- especially in Vietnam, Thailand and most of Africa -- where they apparently eat anything: scorpions, tarantulas, bats, horse, snake hearts that are still beating, dogs, cockroaches, maggots and anything else that moves.

I don't think I've eaten anything one would consider bizarre, except maybe semen. Though, there was that one time I accidentally inhaled a fly and swallowed it. It wasn't my fault! I didn't chew it so I'm not sure if it was tasty; however, afterwards I did start quickly rubbing my hands together. Also, I grew wings.

I did eat alligator last week in Charleston. Is that bizarre? Seems more common lately. And, like everything else fried, it tasted like chicken.

It's all relative, I guess. We're a bit ethnocentric when it comes to food, aren't we?

Still, I don't think I could ever eat this guy.

Posted by durban bud at 12:02 AM | Comments (23)

October 10, 2007

Forgive Me

As most of you know, I'm not a big fan of young kids. They smell. BUT, when I receive emails like this from my 8-year-old niece, my heart melts a little. OMG, am I going through the change?

"Uncle TJ before I see you I may have glasses even thoe I see good but anyway I can't wait to see you soon I love you so so so much and tell Uncle Robb I miss him too and love him just like I love you what did you do today? Well miss you a lot I have a test tomorow like 10 10 times is 100 and 10 2 times is 20 so I know a few times tabels."

[GULP]

My sister's family just recently moved to the Netherlands. The sad thing is I communicate with them now more than I ever have -- even on the TELEPHONE.

My niece emails me the latest Dutch words she has learned:

"Uncle TJ wit means white zwart is black rose is pink rood is red bleuw is blue dag also means day and bye."

These kids are getting one hell of an education by living in another country.

I'll be seeing them in a couple weeks. The whole family is meeting up in Charleston, SC for my mom's b-day. None of us have been there before, but we thought my parents would enjoy a place they haven't been in the South.

Then we all meet up again in the Netherlands for the holidays. My sister is taking us to another fabulous city in Europe for X-mas Day. It's a surprise for my parents -- who I know will be mortified and thrilled at the same time -- so I will definitely be documenting the whole thing with my camera.

For the Charleston trip, I am implementing my 3-Day Rule, but for the European trip, I have significantly broken that rule to allow for jet lag, travel time and maybe a couple trips to a Parisian bath house. Ho ho ho!

After that, I will be sick of everyone -- except my niece.

Dag!

Posted by durban bud at 12:27 PM | Comments (15)

October 9, 2007

Mister Fister Bangs a Tranny

I sure hope everyone enjoyed the Columbus Day holiday. I paid tribute by watching Home Alone, Mrs. Doubtfire and the first Harry Potter. He's simply the John Hughes of our generation. How did you honor the legend?

Mister Fister celebrated along with us, staying over the long weekend. While he was here, these pop-ups appeared frequently on my computer:

OnlineHost: Support Breast Cancer Awareness Month! Visit United for Pink today.
*****DaddyNYC: evening all
***bttm: hi room
***20005: tops?
***20005: doms?
***20005: discipline?
***BTTM: Hey guys! Horny bttm at conn and *** aves looking to be used for your pleasure now with no recip needed whatsoever. PVT / IM me if interested.

This town is full of subs, and they all have my IP address now.

I guess to coincide with the recent trans-inclusion controversy, Mister Fister told us a story about how he made love to a trans man recently. One would expect a woman who has a sex change to be into women, but not always so. Some chicks wanna be guys and still like guys (and vice-versa). Fascinating! See? Gender and sexual orientation are intertwined.

I offered to cook a pork loin one night, but Mister Fister took a hissy fit, complaining about being Jewish and not eating pork or something. I told him, "But it tastes like chicken." I'm guessing the Torah also frowns on DOM/sub gay online hookups, but it's eating pork that takes the cake. Consistency has never been a strength of religion.

I also may or may not have participated in a John Denver karaoke rendition with the Sarge at some point during the weekend, but I don't want to talk about it. For press inquiries, please contact Mr. Bartender.

A good friend told me that his lesbian sister found out her girlfriend cheated on her with a man, so to punish her, she removed all the dildos from their home. That'll teach her!

The new Bachelor has a twin brother. I would enjoy being the bologna in that manwich, though they prolly wouldn't enjoy it as much as I would -- unless I did that thing with my _____, which no one can resist. Mmmmmm.

Anyway, it was a wonderfully educational weekend.

Posted by durban bud at 10:25 AM | Comments (10)

May 12, 2007

Switch

When I was a wee young boy, I was routinely exposed to such expressions as "I'm gonna whoop the tar out of you" and "I'm gonna skin you alive". Luckily that never happened, as it would have led to some discomfort while sun-bathing on the beach. Plus, I don't have any tar in me -- that I know of -- so the threat was moot.

I was spanked, though -- never beaten, just lightly paddled. I told my mom that that led to my homosexuality. She disagrees, and thinks that all the chocolate Nesquik mix I ate out of the container led to my affection for man-butt - although she didn't phrase it like that.

When my mom was punished as a kid, she was forced to pick a twig from a tree and endure her switching. Those southerners can be so mean. There's some evil hidden behind those perky smiles, fresh-baked apple pies, and speaking in tongues.

I just ordered her some flowers for Mother's Day, which is very kind of me, considering. She's going to accuse me of waiting too late to send her a card, forcing me to spend too much money on flowers. She knows me so well.

I think there should be a Gay Children's Day. We should be honored too for our spectacular existence. We're a very unique breed, y'know. Plus, I deserve some fucking flowers every year. Or, at least, a card.

Posted by durban bud at 11:16 AM | Comments (18)

April 1, 2007

The Pizza Boy: He Delivers Sssecrets

A man delivered a pizza to me last night. It was a surprise since I had not ordered one. I suppose it was delivered to the wrong address, but I was hungry, and quite frankly, people shouldn't make mistakes. I still tipped him, though.

Then I remembered that this must be The Sssecret, working its magical charms. I knew I would begin to receive gifts; I just wasn't expecting them so soon. But I don't question the wisdom of The Sssecret.

There were artichokes on it. I have never seen them on a pizza before. Unfortunately, there were no anchovies. And I do enjoy the 'chovies. I realize I'm like the only one, but I have an affection for all things salty and hairy. Maybe they will be on my next free pizza.

I had a couple slices and put the rest in the fridge. After that, the phone rang. Caller ID suggested it was the front door. I assume they were calling to "complain." So I didn't answer. I was full and tired and didn't feel like being bothered. There's already enough negativity in the world. They left a message about needing my "credit card number." Bitch, please. If you have a problem with it, take it up with the laws of attraction.

I wonder what else The Sssecret has in store for me.

btw, I was totally kidding about this! There were no artichokes.

Posted by durban bud at 11:59 PM | Comments (9)

March 30, 2007

I Reckon They Call Me Mr. Snizz

I learned that word from this week's South Park. Hillary Clinton had a bomb stuck up her snizz. I rather like the term.

They gave her a southern accent on the show. I suppose it was to make fun of her recent appearance in Alabama, where she spoke with a southern drawl to an audience. People think she was faking it - but I don't.

Both my parents have distinct southern accents so I'm pretty familiar with the dialect. Even though I was raised in Upstate NY, I would accidentally fall into a twang when surrounded by a bunch of hillbillies family members from West Virginia. It's a strange phenomena, but it happens easily. Kinda like when you hang out with a bunch of straight guys for an extended period, you start overusing words like "dude," "bro," and "tits." Or if you hang out with a bunch of gay men, you instinctively start smoking meth, while discussing the legacy of Anna Nicole Smith.

Anyway, I will be all alone this weekend, so I reckon I'll be having plenty of anonymous buttsex. I just hope there isn't another home invasion, y'all.

UPDATE: Actually I'm not alone. There has been a moth fluttering around my home since yesterday. I don't have the energy to disclipline her, so I'll just let her be. I've named her Rolonda - my tribute to the short-lived talk show from the early ninties. So, yeah, it's just me and Rolonda.

Posted by durban bud at 5:24 PM | Comments (14)

December 30, 2006

The Year That Broke My Sanity Hymen

I suppose I should reflect upon 2006 as a year of learning life lessons and growing as a wiser man, but who am I kidding -- I would rather have been waterboarded.

My life played out like an episode of Desperate Housewives, or worse, Queer as Folk. There were elements of deception, sickness, death, sex, substance abuse, job woes, anxiety, turmoil, debt and theft. The only thing missing was murder -- although that may have happened --but if it did, I was not knowingly a part.

Some stuff I wrote about, but I had to keep some juicy details to myself, since other people were involved. I hate when that happens!

I'm not just referring to my own issues; many people around me also had their share of drama this year. It just seemed like a vicious cloud was raining shit biscuits on a bunch of people.

I had 10 good years of virtually no drama. Things were going very well for me on all fronts -- maybe too well. While most people experience ups and downs within every few years, I had more ups -- then again, I was probably high. So when it came my turn for a few downs, they hit me all at the same time, and I wasn't prepared.

Luckily I've climbed out of that creepy, black hole with only a few scratches. I'm still dusting myself off, but I'm in a much better place.

That said, there were some bright spots in '06. Two words: Jake Dakota! No seriously, I have some of the most amazingly supportive friends and family who stood by me before, during and, more importantly, after the ugly. It's a cliche, but you do learn who the most loyal people are in your life when something bad happens. And to those people, I raise my Diet Coke with Splenda as a toast (wheat bread, of course).

I've also made a lot of new friends throughout the year, who I'm confident I'll remain close with. Some of these include people who went through similar experiences, bloggers, and even some of you I don't know, who took the time to write me some nice words.

Despite my cranky posts as of late, I've had a low-key, relaxing, enjoyable holiday. It couldn't have gone smoother. And it will end on a good note as I'll be heading to the beach for a quiet, intimate New Year's celebration, thanks to the kindness of Sally, she who holds big, big suitcases.

So here's to a much better 2007 for all of us! Except Robin McGraw.

PS: I'll be selling my hymen on eBay for anyone interested.

Posted by durban bud at 12:25 AM | Comments (10)

December 17, 2006

Tuesdays With Larry

I finally made it up the stairs to my new temporary home. When the door opened I saw three twin-sized beds. You've got to be kidding me. I walked in and was pleasantly surprised by the accommodations. It was no Four Seasons, but it could pass for a Red Roof Inn -- a not-so-bad choice given the circumstances. The pleasantness quickly dissipated when two older gentlemen entered my room.

"You must be the new guy?"

"Yep."

"You're a lot younger than the other guy we had in here. He was an old man. Died today."

"Are you serious?"

"Don't worry -- they sanitized the bed not too long ago."

"Are you gonna come to the lecture tonight?"

"I don't think so; I need to decompress."

"I'm Larry and this is Alan. What got you in here?"

"Stress."

"Me too."

Larry was 57 but looked mid seventies. His face was hard and worn, showing years of abuse. He walked with a pathetic limp and talked with a smoker's growl. Alan was affable but forgettable.

I sat on the bed of death and looked around for awhile. I glanced over to my new roomie's bedside table and noticed a book about Ronald Reagan. You've got to be kidding me. I am being punished, deservedly, I suppose. I put my head in my hands and sighed, wallowing in my own self-pity.

The perfect son, the "All American Boy," as they would say, the guy with a seemingly awesome life, was now fully exposed with cracks and imperfections on his shiny veneer. This sudden verisimilitude in my life performance was almost liberating, for once.

I stayed on the bed for a few hours, writing in my journal and reading inspirational crap.

My roommates returned a couple hours later. Larry took off his clothes to get ready for bed. Not surprisingly he was wearing tightie-whities, only they were no longer white -- they had a dirty grey hue to them. Gross. Just look away.

I thought it a good idea to get to know the guy sleeping right next to me, which was very unusual since I wasn't fucking him. He told me all about his hard life. He's married, the father of 5 girls, a wealthy executive vice president of a Fortune 500 company, and a raging alcoholic with an unhealthy affection for cocaine and Valium.

He told me he would be admitted to a hospital in a couple days for chest surgery.

"Why?"

"I got shot in 'Nam, and it's caused all sorts of problems around my heart."

"Shot?"

"Yeah, some gook shot me. Missed my heart by a centimeter. I turned around and saw this 12 year-old gook girl put a bullet in my chest. Caught me by surprise. But I still managed to squeeze out 5 rounds in her fuckin' face. Bitch. She was kinda hot too."

Um, security, I'd like to switch rooms, pronto.

I knew I wasn't going to sleep. I went down to the nurse's station and requested a sleeping pill. "I'm sorry, we can't give you anything without the doctor's permission. And he won't be in the office until tomorrow morning."

I went back to my room, defeated.

Larry asked, "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep."

He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. "Come here." I followed him in. He closed the door and reached into his toiletry bag by the sink and pulled out a light blue pill. Great -- my first night here and I'm already breaking the rules.

"What is it?"

"It's contraband."

"I get that, but what kind?"

"It's a Tylenol PM. Shhhh, don't tell no body, 'kay? It's our little secret. Let me know if you need any more."

The bathroom was now our very own speakeasy.

We went to bed around 10pm every night thereafter. I sat in my bed and wrote in my journal while he read his Reagan book. But mostly we just talked. After each talk, I tried to write down some of our wild conversations. I knew I had to document this shit.

He led a fascinating, reckless life. it was so different from my own experiences, yet we both still ended up in the same place.

Larry hung all of his dirty laundry out for all to see if they were willing to indulge him. So he lamented about his miserable marriage, his days in Vietnam, his successes in business, and his numerous DUIs. He crashed his third company car, thus resulting in his current predicament.

I was very nosy inquisitive with him but he rarely asked anything about my personal life.

Until he did:

"So you're a fag?"

Here we go. Ouch. "Yes, though I prefer to be called buttfucker. And you're a breeder?"

"Well, I do like the pussy."

"Apparently. You have five kids. Your wife must be sore."

"You mind if I ask why you like dick?"

"The same reason you like pussy."

"Yeah, but two dicks can't make babies."

"True. But with rabbits like you and your wife helping to overpopulate the planet, consider gay people to be God's unique invention for global quantity control."

"You're not attracted to me, are you?"

"No offense, but I find you repulsive."

"Cocksucker!"

His blatant honesty helped to soften the sting left by some of his more ignorant verbal darts. We know straight guys think and say these things all the time when they're hanging out together, but to witness all of the standard homophobic talking points uttered from one man's mouth was hilarious yet sad.

This kind of juvenile banter occurred frequently but culminated in the following vulgar exchange:

"I don't know how you could like a guy's butt. Do you know what comes out of that?"

I was waiting for someone to ask me that exact question so I could counter with a mental list of other disgusting bodily fluids and functions produced by women that I had memorized.

"Blood, urine, yeast infections, babies, afterbirth and queefs come out of vaginas. It's all relative, innit?

I added, "I'm sure you've fantasized or even done a woman up the butt, hypocrite."

He never brought it up again.

I would often see him around the campus, outside smoking a cigarette. He would yell, "Teeeeeeeeee Jaaaaaaaaaay, whazzup, buddy?" I would pat him on his back, causing him to cough. I'd say, "Stop smoking."

"Fuck you."

I was eventually transferred out of his room and into a better residence.

He would ask me to sit and chat with him whenever he went outside to scratch his smoke itch.

He told more crazy stories. Some were tame, like the time he was doing business with the first guy who manufactured tilapia fish in the US, a decade ago.

"It was in Chicago. They had Olympic-sized pools filled with them fish. They were basically made in a lab, a cross between a catfish and another type I can't remember the name of."

Other stories were far more disturbing. Some guys on campus told me to ask about the "incident" at the bar. So I did.

"I don't like to talk about this," he moaned, "but I'll tell you."

While in Vietnam he parachuted with a bunch of other men into some village. They all took refuge at a local bar frequented by green berets. They were all getting hammered, when a man wearing a long trench coat entered. The man walked over to another man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. He crept up behind him and took out a long machete hidden in his coat. He raised the machete over his head. And with one strong swing, he sliced the man's head off. The head went flying onto the floor, while his body sat upright on the barstool for about 20 seconds, blood spurting everywhere. Customers were screaming and running. The murderer was tackled and arrested. Apparently the beheaded man had slept with the guy's wife.

"Them green berets are fucking crazy," he would say. "I'll never forget the image of the guy's body sitting on that stool with no fucking head."

I wasn't sure how to respond to this uplifting little story. Um, so how 'bout that Taylor Hicks winning American Idol?!?

I asked, "Have you ever gone into therapy to deal with all this?"

"Yeah, I did when I first got back. Haven't been in awhile."

"I'm not sure what I would do if I witnessed the shit you've seen."

"You develop you're own coping mechanisms, most of 'em aren't healthy. Stress can be a motherfucker. You're lucky you're taking care of your shit at a young age, instead of waiting, like me, to deal with your demons when you're an old man. Consider this a blessing, kid."

"Yeah, but my stress is nowhere near your level; in fact, I'm embarrassed by my silly life drama."

"It's all relative, innit?"

Larry was almost done with his stay. The day before he left he spoke before the campus to say his thank yous and hopes for the future. He was just about done speaking when he paused, looked towards me and said, "And I'd like to thank TJ for being the best roommate a guy could hope for." This caught me off guard. I smiled and got all shy.

As he walked back to his seat, I stood up and patted him on the back. He coughed.

The next morning we sat outside on the bench one last time. He was waiting for his wife to pick him up, his bags packed by his side.

He lit up a cigarette and said, "Look around at all these fuck-ups. Major fuck-ups. But you know what? At least they're willing to admit their imperfections and make an attempt at bettering their lives. Most people don't do anything and just complain about how unhappy they are or lie about it. Every single person has demons of some sort -- whether it's drugs, anger, food, shopping, money, work, sex, religion, depression, love, blah, blah. It's not always visible to the naked eye, but it will rear its ugly head eventually. It'll get you. And if you don't know how to cope it'll knock you on your ass. Everyone should be able to check out for a month to take inventory on their own well-being. It should be required by law."

I felt an odd sense of pride for a moment; I knew I had done the right thing. Then I thought, OMG -- am I being featured in a Lifetime Movie of the Week starring Valerie Bertinelli?

"We won't see any of these people again. We'll talk about keeping in touch, but we won't. And that's fine. We all have our own lives, our own shit to deal with. And most of these people will be back anyway.

"That said, here's my card if you ever want to talk. Do with it what you will. It's there if you ever need me. But I think you'll be just fine."

I put it in my pocket, knowing I would never look at it again.

His wife arrived and drove up to the main entrance. We both stood up and hugged. I managed to squeeze one more cough out of him.

"Stop smoking."

"Fuck you."

I started to walk away but turned back around to ask one final question, after rehashing some of his words of wisdom in my mind.

As he was getting into the front passenger seat, I yelled, "Hey Larry -- do you think you'll ever have to come back to this place?"

Before he closed the car door he looked out at me and smiled. With a subtle nod of his head, he answered, "Yep."

Posted by durban bud at 12:28 AM | Comments (12)

November 26, 2006

Pilgrims & Indians: Part 2

The first thing my mom said to me was, "You're too skinny." She likes me to be plump, like this guy. "I'm not skinny, Mom." "Well, your pants (pronounced: paints) are fallin' off your butt." "That's cuz I can't afford a belt. Hey, where's your costume?!?"

As my mom gets older, I'm noticing her speaking volume has increased to a glass shattering level. I believe this is a Southern trait. When the women in our extended family get together, they yell over each other to be heard. If drinking is involved, I have to leave the room.

Things went fairly well, except for the little hole in the turkey pan. The juice dripped onto the burner in the stove, which created a minor fire hazard. Of course, my parents showed up as this was happening. I had to open all the windows to let the black smoke escape. My mom walked in and said, "I CAN'T (pronounced: caint) BREATHE! WHAT IN THE HELL IS HAPPENIN' IN HURR?"

Luckily, Tos saved the day by bringing an extra pan. "I LIKE (pronounced: lock) THAT TOS. HE'S A GOOD EGG. AND HIS PARTNER IS NICE (pronounced: nas) TOO."

Dinner was good. About half an hour after finishing, my mom said, "LET'S GO CLEAN OUT YOUR CLOSET."

This reminded me that I had not planned anything else for them to do while they were here. So the next day I decided to take them to see some historic landmarks.

On Friday, we went down to Union Station to see the bathroom where Senator Larry Craig allegedly had gay sex. My mom said, "THIS IS DISGUSTIN'." "Indeed, it is."

On Saturday, I took them to Starbucks. My dad was none too happy about this, as he has weened my mom off of caffeine the past few years due to a hyper incident. "You can order a decaf, Mom." "NO, I'M ON VACATION. I'LL HAVE CAFFEINE!" Fine. I'm an enabler. My dad declined to take part. As I glanced back, I witnessed him at the condiments area stuffing his pockets with packets of natural sugar. "I caint find this stuff back home." "Yes you can, Dad. It's found in stores, where you have to purchase things."

We took our coffee to the Circle to people watch. My parents have turned into Joan and Melissa Rivers. I now know where my cattiness comes from. "SHE SHOULD NOT BE WEARIN' THAT. HER BUTT IS TOO BIG." "Mom, please use your indoor voice." "SHE CAINT HEAR ME." The woman looked back at us. My dad said, "That guy kinda looks like an angertwink. Is that what you would call him?" "Yes it is, Dad. Good call!"

From there, I took them over to the Iraq embassy conveniently located in Dupont Circle. For some reason, they posed for a picture in front of it. "MAKE SURE YOU GET THE IRAQ SIGN IN THE BACKGROUND." Okie doke.

They, once again, opted to sleep in the spare room on the futon. They both woke to severe back pain. The next night my dad set an Aleve by the side of the bed in case my mom needed it in the middle of the night. In the morning my mom said, "I TOOK THAT ALEVE BUT IT DIDN'T SEEM TO HELP." My dad said, "No, you didn't. You took a Tic-Tac I put on the bedside table. The Aleve is still sittin' there." She awoke with back pain, but fresh breath and a burning stomach. I love my parents.

All in all, it was a pleasant visit. When filming wraps on Suitcase Sally's reality show, The Irritation of Ira, I think my parents are next in line for their own reality show. It needs to be seen to be believed.

They are gone now. My ears are still ringing and I feel fat. But I have a clean closet.

Posted by durban bud at 10:10 AM | Comments (6)

November 20, 2006

Pilgrims & Indians: Part 1

I'm cooking a very traditional meal on Thursday. I told my parents they don't need to bring anything, but my mom insists on bringing canned corn. "I got the corn on sale at Tops, so let me bring it. And let me bring a pie (pronounced: pah)."

I wish they would fly here, but they insist on driving the seven hours, cuz it's "cheaper". They become such nervous nellies driving in the city. Last time they drove here, I met them out front to help them park. I saw a car slowly moving by, starting and stopping, starting and stopping. I waved at them. My mom saw me and smiled--frantically waving-- until a large SUV began blaring the horn at them. They hit the gas, drove through a stop sign, and attempted to drive down a one-way street the wrong way. I didn't see them again until an hour later. Apparently, they got caught in Dupont Circle doing a continuous loop. How they ended up several blocks from my place is still a mystery.

I told them that my Thanksgiving dinners are a little different than most, and that it's customary to dress up as a Pilgrim or Indian. "Your father is not gonna be no Pilgrim." "Then he can be an Indian. All he has to do is wear a feathered cap and perform a war cry before we eat." "I don't think so." "Then he'll have to be a Pilgrim or dress in drag-- it's what we do here in DC." "Y'all are weird in DC."

"Your father found a little mixer thing at a garage sale, that I think you'll like (pronounced: lock). You can make smoothies with it." I know what this means; she's trying to pawn the shit off on me. I think you'll like it is code for your dad is collecting shit and I want to get rid of it. "Okay, but we really don't have room for anything else."

"Well, I would also like (lock) to bring down some old 45's we don't listen to anymore. I think you can prolly git a few bucks out of 'em if you sell 'em on the eBay. There's even some Everly Brothers records in there that I'm sure are worth a pretty penny." Yes, Mom, emphasis on penny.

My dad has become obsessed with accumulating crap in his old age; so much so that my mom has banned him from Target. He has a secret stash of matchbox cars, baseball caps and beef jerky he keeps hidden in a bag in their garage. Whenever I go home, he takes me to the garage to show off all the cool things he found on sale. "Don't tell your mother though." Once he drops my mom off at work, he heads over to Kmart or Target and roams the aisles for unnecessary bargains.

The last few times they have visited, they have declined sleeping in our bed, which puzzles me. For years, they've always slept on sodomy central with no problems. I've surmised they must have found some santorum or something on the sheets and it has traumatized them. They now insist on sleeping on the futon in the spare room, a bed that no one in their 60's should be laying on. My dad is tall and has back problems, but they're very adament about sleeping there.

It doesn't help that my sister has a big ass house in Colorado that they are used to visiting. My sister brags, "Well, we have four different king-size beds they can choose from." To which I ask, "Where do you live again?" "The suburbs of Denver." "Thank you."

They are not coming down until Thanksgiving Day, but I have a feeling my dad is already warming up the car, waiting on my mother.

To be continued...

Posted by durban bud at 12:34 PM | Comments (7)

October 2, 2006

Thruples Are The New Black

We met a nice guy on the plane coming back from San Fran. We chit-chatted with him as we were waiting for our rides to pick us up from the airport. He told us his partner was coming to pick him up. Our ride showed up; we said goodbye and left.

The other evening we attended a lovely party hosted by a couple we have become good friends with. There were several cute mandies in attendance. As we were mingling with some of them, the guy we met at the airport enters with two other guys. We say:

"Hey, how are you? Good to see you again."

"Hi. This is my partner."

"Hi, nice to meet you."

"And this is my other partner."

"Oh hi, nice to meet you too."

I had never met a thruple before, at least, in person. My brief knowledge of thruples usually involved the dissolution of friendships, bitterness, rage, and in one case profiled on Forensic Files, murder. So naturally I asked:

"How long have you all been together?"

"Five years."

Wow, that's like 15 in gay years, and 30 since three are involved.

Color me fascinated. I need to read up on this shit. I wanted to ask several questions, but didn't think that would be quite appropriate. Yet.

Full disclosure: I was almost involved in thrupledom, although no labels were ever attached to it. My pathetic experience resulted in me having a breakdown and entering rehab.

How ever do they do it...successfully?

I could never do it; I require too much attention. Why do you think I have a blog? I need more than one person to hear me out. Actually, that sounds like I do need to have more than one mate, but, you get my point.

Sexual threesomes or foursomes are difficult enough, but at least you have the luxury of sending the individual(s) on their way when all is said and done. And I have very limited experience in this area as well, cuz again, I require full attention. So I usually spent my time waving and saying, "Hey, I'm over here. Don't forget about me or I'm gonna throw a hissy fit," which is always so very attractive.

And all of these experiences occurred while I was heavily intoxicated. Since I no longer indulge like that, you will need to be far more creative to get me in the sack, unless, of course you are Jake Dakota; then all you need to do is show up and squat.

Anyway...

As we were getting ready to leave the party, we say our goodbyes to the hosts. One half of the couple introduces me to another of their friends and adds, "We're dating him."

I look at Rob who is smiling. The only thing I could think to say was, "Am I on Candid Camera?" No response. Realizing he was not kidding, I say, "Nice to meet you."

So there you have it. One party. Two thruples.

I say to Rob, "Why didn't they tell me earlier?"

"They probably didn't want you to mention it on your blog."

"As if!"

Posted by durban bud at 12:37 PM | Comments (18)

September 18, 2006

Talk Sex With Durban Bud

I think I would be a better sexpert than Sue Johanson. She doesn't really know what the hell she is talking about sometimes. Don't get me wrong; she seems like a lovely woman to share a drumstick with at a Swiss Chalet, but sometimes I want to smack her with a vibrator.

Some guy called in last night and said he was having trouble reaching an orgasm while pummeling his girlfriend. She told him that maybe he is worried his penis isn't big enough which is causing him to not be able to finish. Huh? I was like, c'mon Sue, ask him if he has other stressors in his life right now, or if he's on some kind of medication that could be causing this. But she didn't ask that. Those seem like obvious questions. Instead she gave the guy a dick-size complex; now he'll never cum.

What exactly are her credentials? She's not a doctor. Her bio says she's a registered nurse and a mother and a grandmother. My friend, Gregg, is also a registered nurse, but I wouldn't take sex advice from him. I'm a web guy and an uncle and a son, so I guess I could be a sex educator too.

I should co-host that show with her. She could handle the cooter and old people questions, and I'll handle the rest.

I always wonder who these people are that actually call into these shows. I don't know of anyone who has ever done that. It seems like most of questions could be answered on the Internet. If they have the Oxygen network in their household, it's a good bet they also have Internet access.

I used to listen to Dr. Ruth when I was in middle school. I would lay in bed with my little headphones hooked up to my boombox and listen as she talked openly about gay people and anal sex. She was very pro-gay and pro-butt sex. I think she was the first person I knew of that did that.

I love hearing about people's fetishes. Jimbo pointed out this one on his blog. In all my sexual exploits, I haven't come across someone with an odd fetish. I wish I had met a guy with a foot fetish. I love to have my feet rubbed. He could have rubbed them all night if he wanted and then finished with "This Little Piggy." That would have made me happy. If you know of any unusual fetishes you've encountered, please let me know. That shit entertains me.

So if you are considering calling up Sue Johanson's show for some advice, consider asking me instead. I'm sure I could provide you with the answers you are seeking.

Posted by durban bud at 12:09 PM | Comments (13)

September 7, 2006

The Korean Lady

The Korean woman who runs the convenience store down the street loves me. I made the mistake of telling her that I like the new Diet Coke with Splenda. She ordered a bunch of the 2-litres specifically for me. Well, apparently Coke has ceased making this version due to poor sales, at least that's what she told me.

I walked in today to buy whatever caffeine product I was in the mood for. There is a huge line at the register. She sees me and starts yelling, "WE HAVE SPLENDA FO' YOU! IN CAN!" I'm startled, "Huh?" "WE HAVE SPLENDA IN CAN IN BACK! WE FOUND FO' YOU!" She stops checking people out and orders one of her kids she holds hostage at the store to go to the refridgerator in the back to bring me some. People are clearly annoyed and staring at me. "That's okay, I don't really ne--." The kid who must be 9 years old goes to the back and brings out a large box." "SEE! WE FOUND CAN FO' YOU!" I walk away and hide behind some jars of pasta sauce hoping she will continue checking people out. She is still yelling. Please stop.

The store eventually empties, so I come out of my hiding place and head to the register. I feel obliged to purchase the large box of cans. "WE FOUND FO' YOU!" She is still shouting even though I am like a foot away from her. "Thank you. You didn't need to do that." "Well, we know you love-uh the Splenda." Great. Nothin' like being known as the boy who loves his Splenda.

As she's ringing me up, I notice a bunch of bags filled with a yellow liquid for sale by the register. I pick one up to investigate and see a pickle in the bag. I make a look of disgust on my face. She notices and says, "Those fo' black peoples."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Those fo' black peoples. They love in bag."

"We have pickle in jar fo' you over there."

Oh dear. I have no idea how to respond to my little racist friend.

"I make pickle in Korea. They so good. I make you some. I bring in recipe fo' you so you can make."

"Yeah, um, I don't think I want to start making pickles. Thanks."

"Oh, you no like pickle?"

"No, I like pickles. I just don't need to make them." I can't believe I'm having this conversation.

"I make good pickle. They vedy, vedy cispy. So vedy vedy cispy."

"Oh, I do love them crispy," I add for some odd reason.

"I bing in recipe fo' you! So vedy cispy."

I smile and leave.

If I go in there next time and she has a huge line and YELLS at me that she has my pickle recipe, I am never going back.

Posted by durban bud at 1:14 PM | Comments (6)

September 6, 2006

Trick

We all have our share of bad hook up stories. I have tons of them. I've erased most of them from my memory, but one memory resurfaced the other day when I went to a party to see a bunch of friends I hadn't seen in a long time. I was introduced to one of those awful tricks I had a one night stand with a long time ago. A really bad one night stand. Ew.

I met this guy when I first moved to DC at some trashy bar called the Frat House. I have since learned that Men + Frat House = Automatic Booty Tang. At the time, I was all, "I don't have one night stands. I need to get to know the person first before we engage in any sexual activty." I was, after all, severely naive with like moral values and shit.

For some reason, he's always been kind of a dick to me since our original evening of doom. I'm really not sure why. Was he expecting more? Did I somehow offend him? Is his penis still bleeding? Who knows. All I know is the sex was horrific. I think he wanted anal, but this was in my innocent pre-anal days, so maybe he was really bored.

Whenever I would see him in a bar thereafter, he would ignore me, give me dirty looks, or throw napkins at me. Fuh Reek.

I noticed him early on in the evening at the party. I was caught by surprise cuz I had never seen my friends hanging out with him before. He looked awful. He definitely has let himself go. I thought he was hot when I tricked with him. Then again, I was probably wasted. Another reason to stop drinking! Anyway, he is now troll-like.

One of my friends introduced me to a number of guys. Rumpelstiltskin was one of them. My friend is like, "Do you know TJ?" He said, "Nope." I'm like, "Uh, yeah ya do. Your tongue was up my mangina* for like half an hour, lie bag!" But I didn't say that. Instead I said nothing and shook his troll hand. This was followed by an uncomfortable silence. I excused myself from the group and vomited in the kitchen sink.

Maybe I was totally forgettable to him, or maybe he considers me a troll too. I don't care.

One night stands aren't really one-night stands anymore. They always rear their ugly heads one more time in your life. Eventually.

* Gay Glossary

Posted by durban bud at 1:01 PM | Comments (8)

August 28, 2006

I Am Not My Back Hair

There are so many subcategories in life.

Human Beings > Men > Gay Men > Furry Gay Men & Their Admirers > Furry Gay Men & Their Admirers Who Write About Their Lives On The Internet > Furry Gay Men & Their Admirers Who Write About Their Lives On The Internet & Want To Float On A Tube On The Potomac.

That last category is the one Jimbo & I assembled on Saturday. Actually there were more non-bloggers that came along, but you get the point.

Knowing that I would be shirtless on this excursion, I faced the dilemma that all gay men and women face when exposing their torso to the world, "Should I shave my back hair?"

I don't have much back hair at all, but there is a small tuft of it, mostly on my upper back. Oddly, it's becoming more blonde as I age through my thirties.

When I used to go clubbing on a regular basis, I would always present myself as freshly manscaped without a hint of fur in unsavory places. Those days are over; I have accepted my furriness, and I am at peace with that.

Anyway, a fine group of handsome men came along for the tubing trip. I had a blast. The two hour ride ended up taking four hours. The day was absolutely beautiful. Pics are here.

It's amazing how comforting it is to be amongst your fellow "subcategories".

Posted by durban bud at 9:39 AM | Comments (16)

August 11, 2006

We Are The 80's

I just saw Loverboy perform on Regis & Kelly. Aging sucks. They sounded good, but the lead singer now looks like Violet Beauregarde from Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.

I saw them in concert back in the '80's. I remember pumping my fist to "Lovin' Every Minute Of It", and then someone threw a beer bottle at me, so I stopped.

I used to go to a ton of concerts in the '80's, mostly with my friends, Pam & Reenie.

I went to see Ratt with my sister and a couple other chicks. They insisted on standing near the front of the stage. I told them this was a bad idea cuz we'll get separated, and won't be able to really see the show with everyone standing in front of us. They insisted. We all got separated. Towards the end of the show, I saw my sister being hoisted over the crowd. She didn't look happy. Her Jordache jeans were ripped, her mascara was all over her face, and her nicely permed hair turned into some sort of afro. Told ya so.

My dad took me to see A Flock of Seagulls and Billy Idol. I wanted to look hot for the Billy Idol show, so my mom used her curling iron to give me that oh-so-cool feathered hair look. It was a nightmare. I must have been the youngest kid there, and the only one with a parent. My hair was ridiculed, and my dad became increasingly uncomfortable as Billy Idol masturbated onstage.

I saw the Bangles with Reenie. I asked her who was opening up for them. She said, "It's some group called TBA. I've never heard of them."

I saw Heart a number of times. I still love them. Pam used to crank and sing along to "All I Want To Do Is Make Love To You" in her car. I think she did this to let men know that she is available and kinda slutty.

I saw the Thompson Twins and OMD. That was my first exposure to a gay event. Before the show, I asked the hairdresser at Haircrafters to make me look like Corey Hart. I brought in a picture of him (which is the photo up there ^), and said, "Make me look like him." She ended up cutting my ear with her scissors. I let out a blood curdling scream. She laughed. I had to wear a band-aid on my ear to the show. I looked nothing like Corey Hart, but I did wear a bunch of O-rings. I am was such a fag. The drummer chick from the Thompson Twins gave me her drumstick. I still have it. By the way, Corey Hart was so hot.

The 80's. Good times.

Posted by durban bud at 10:26 AM | Comments (12)

August 3, 2006

The End Of The World

My sister thinks the end of the world is coming very soon. She reiterated this point to me last night on the phone. She's been saying this for the past 10 years. And I hear about it at least 3 times a year.

I keep telling her that times have been worse; we just never heard about it cuz there were no TV's or radio or Internet or cable channels hundreds of years ago constantly feeding us bad news; plus, we weren't alive then. She always says, "I just have a feeling about this, I can feel it." And then she adds, "I just want us all to be together in the afterlife." Huh? Why wouldn't we be? I know I'm a horny heathen from homo heights, but why can't I come? I love my sister, but sometimes I don't get her logic.

I always want to ask her what we'll do in the afterlife, cuz if we have to hold hands and sing "Crown Him the King of Kings" everyday, I think I'd rather take the elevator to the lower level, thank you very much.

I think the topic came up cuz we were talking about global warming. She said her mega-church near Colorado Springs has been preaching a lot about the end of times. I'm like, "Don't they preach about being a good person in the here and now." "Sometimes," she says. Ugh. She then started talking about the middle east and something about wars and seven years of destruction and that being a sign or prophecy as foretold in the bible of something or something. As she was giving me a litany of "signs", I became distracted by a werewolf/man on TV.

ABC News was doing a "special report" on medical oddities. Apparently, this guy has a condition in which he grows an abnormally large amount of hair all over his body. Here's the disturbing part, I wasn't repulsed by him. In fact, if I was at a bar at 2:00 AM and my choices were between, say Lance Bass and the Wolfman, I would totally bang the Wolfman. It would be a more unique experience, plus it would be fun to make him howl.

Anyway, my sister finally regained my attention when I heard her utter something about the anti-christ.

I'm like, "Huh?"

"I think the anti-christ is coming."

"It's already here. It's on Headline News. And its name is Nancy Grace."

"No, that's not it."

"Is it David Hasselhoff?"

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I. Have you heard him sing? Tubular Bells comes out of that guy."

"It's not him. We don't know who it is yet."

"Okay, well when you do know, could you please call me, sugar tits?"

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

Good article: The Dinosaurs Roam the Earth

Posted by durban bud at 2:17 AM | Comments (5)

August 2, 2006

Jewel's Teeth

I could never be an escort. I don't know how those guys do it. I walked by a man yesterday who was taking out his trash. He had his shirt off, and I remember thinking, I totally could not have sex with that guy.

I need to be able to see the person well before I would engage in any kind of intimate contact, and a simple photo won't do. I did manage to seal the deal with some scurry guys back in my slut phase, but I was always piss drunk. Always. But if I were an escort, I couldn't be piss drunk, so how do they do it? I'd like to think I could, so I could make a few bucks on the side, but it's just not in my nature. I would dry heave uncontrollably, and that might be seen as a turn-off to some paying customers.

When I first moved to DC, I answered a personal ad (this was well before Manhunt or gay.com or BMB or bravotv.com). I chatted on the phone with this guy for a couple hours. He seemed pretty cool. He lived close by so I invited him over to hang out. He kept saying he was good looking, but "good looking" is relative, isn't it?

I opened the door to find a decent looking man, but not exactly my type. One of my many faults is my shallow tendency to focus on specific details in a person, and this is not always a good thing. As he entered my little studio apartment, he put on a big smile, and that's when my focusing skillz went into overdrive. He had teeth like Jewel. Exactly like Jewel, in fact. My earlier meal of spaghetti-o's quickly returned to my throat. A few spaghetti-o's made it into my mouth. I nervously smiled back at him, and forced the spaghetti-o's back into my belly.

I offered him a beer. He accepted, and as I walked to the fridge, I said to myself, "Who will say-eee-ave your soul if you won't save your own."

What do you do when you've invited someone over to your place and you find out you're not attracted to him? Ugh, I don't know. You make the best of it, I guess, but I certainly wasn't about to get all naked with this dude. I was hoping he felt the same about me.

I turned on the TV. That's a good way to avoid uncomfortable silence. We were sitting on the couch watching Saturday Night Live and eating cheesy poofs. The cheesy poofs were a bad idea cuz they got all stuck in his snaggleteef. I did my best to avoid staring at it. At one point, I think he became aware of my dilemma. He started speaking with a mumble, so as to avoid fully opening his mouth.

He put his arm around me. Ew. And then he climbed on top of me. Double ew. He was a big guy, very muscular. I couldn't breathe. I kept thinking, Oh my god, I'm gonna be featured on Forensic Files. He's going to kill me with his dagger toofs cuz I'm not attracted to him.

He kissed my neck and looked directly down on me. We were face to face. It got very quiet. He looked me in the eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Time was standing still. As I stared into his eyes, all I could think was, "My hands are small I know, but their my hands, not yours." I swallowed another gulp of spaghetti-o's. He seemed to read my mind, and raised up off of me. Relief. Maybe it was his intuition.

We chatted a little more, and he said he needed to get going. Great! Thanks for your order, please drive through. You weren't meant for me, and I wasn't meant for you.

I felt kinda bad after, but I shouldn't have. I never suggested we would hook up, but then again, I was pretty naive.

We all have our little quirks and turn-offs. I just think it's best to know exactly what you're in for before you decide to fool around with someone. Attraction is key. You can't force it.

I still don't know how escorts do it. How can you fake attraction?

Posted by durban bud at 8:08 AM | Comments (10)

July 27, 2006

Is There Drama In Heaven?

Heaven is a wonderful belief; we get to see all the people who died before us that we miss. But what do we do after we enter?

I guess we get to "catch up" with our loved ones, but then what? Do we just walk around endlessly smiling at one another? Do we play shuffleboard? Trivial Pursuit? Twister? Do we work? Do we gossip? Do we get to masturbate? Do we poop? What the hell do we do? Think about it.

There would be like, a trillion people in heaven, if not more. If there are a trillion people, there must be some drama.

I know I would stalk Kurt Cobain, Thomas Jefferson, and Dana Plato (from Different Strokes) for awhile, but would I get annoyed because so many other people are trying to monopolize their time? Would I even attempt to speak to Jesus, or is he too busy running from the divine paparazzi?

Do we become like ghosts or spirits, and head back to planet earth to watch over the ones we love? I would probably do that for like, a day, and then I would scope out all the people having sex so I could watch for days. But if I'm thinking that, all the other ghosts are thinking that, so that means billions of people are watching us all have hot sex. The idea is kinda creepy.

Do we speak to the other ghosts who are looking over the same person that we are? If so, do we have disagreements over the proper haunting technique? If we don't interact with other ghosts, does our spiritual existence become lonely? Do we get to complain to God if one of the other ghosts is bugging us?

And most importantly, what would we wear? Would we wear all white outfits like this guy, or would we wear what we died in, or would we be all naked?

An eternity is a very long time; I don't want to live an eternity. I think I would get really bored. In fact, after about a month of "catching up" with my relatives, I would be ready to kill myself. Can I do that there?

Maybe heaven is a poorly thought out illusion to comfort our fears about death. It's a nice idea, but details matter.

It probably doesn't matter for me, since I'll be in hell for all the butt sex I've had, but if, by chance, I do enter heaven, I need these questions answered before I sign up.

Posted by durban bud at 8:27 AM | Comments (4)

July 26, 2006

No Public Dumping

Miss Manners: Hello?
Me: Hi, Miss Manners, it's TJ from durban bud.
Miss Manners: Ew. Um, hello, Mr. Bud. I'm actually glad you called. I've been meaning to speak to you.
Me: How are you today?
MM: I'm divine. I'm enjoying an exquisite Cranberry-Orange Scone with my dear friend, Heloise. She was kind enough to drop by to help me remove some nail polish I spilled on my afghan. How are you this fine mid-morning?
Me: I'm doing well. What did you want to speak to me about?
Me: Well, I'm concerned about your excessive use of foul language lately. It's quite offensive, especially the "C" word.
Me: Well sometimes the extreme always leaves an impression.
MM: Call me when the shuttle lands, Mr. Bud, and please stop using quotes from Heathers. Be original for Christ's sake.
Me: Okay, but really, is the "C" word any different from the "B" word?
MM: Did you have a question for me?
Me: Is it okay for someone to go the bathroom in a public stall?
MM: Of course, it is. That's what they're there for, dear. Wait a second, are we talking about number one or number two?
Me: Number two
MM: Oh heavens to betsy. Unless it's an absolute emergency, the answer is no. It is simply rude and unnecessary, much like your blog.
Me: That's what I thought, but a lot of people do it. A friend of mine recently did, and it was in a bathroom that only fits three people.
MM: I'm about to upchuck my cranberry-orange scone. Is this your friend who packs his entire wardrobe for short trips?
Me: No
MM: Is it your friend with the incessant gagging problem?
Me: Um, I cannot confirm nor deny.
MM: Is he a republican?
Me: Who?
MM: The defecator
Me: No, why?
MM: Because most public room defecators are republicans. The act itself is very selfish. They think their shit don't stink, when, in fact, it does stink, and it affects all others around them. Screw the rest of the people. And neo-cons have the most offensive BM's; Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and Condi are all public poopers. It's in their nature, and unfortunately, there is no solution to the madness. Is your public room defecating friend a homosexual?
Me: Yes
MM: Hmm. I thought your people knew better than that. Is he from Texas?
Me: Actually, yes. How did you know?
MM: Just a hunch. Gay Texans are a different breed, very cute and likeable but generally full of shit. Literally.
Me: Yikes, I have friends in Texas.
MM: Hold on, Heloise is shootin' her trap.
To Heloise: What?
MM: She said, things are bigger in Texas, and that includes their enormous poo. Heloise made a funny.
To Heloise: Keep scrubbin'
Me: Well, how do people avoid having to go?
MM: You have to think of it like this: What would Jesus do? Jesus would bake his brownies first thing in the morning, he would eat a healthy breakfast rich in fiber, he would eat a light lunch, and healthy small snacks throughout the day. He would avoid unhealthy binge eating and the Olive Garden. He would become regular. It's quite simple actually.
Me: Well, what if they have some sort of medical condition and can't help it?
MM: Then they must work at home, or become a real estate agent. Why do you think there are so many real estate agents? They have the freedom to poop.
Me: Hmm.
MM: Heloise wants to talk to you for a second.
Heloise: Jimmmmmmmbo, whazzzzzzzzup? Jimboooo. Jimbaroni. The Jimboni. Whaaaaazzzzzzup? The Jimeister. Jimbalyaaaa. Jimbo Juicccccce. Whaaaaazzzzzzup?
Me: I'm not Jimbo.
Silence
Heloise: Chrissssssafer, whaaaaazzzzzup? Chrissssay. Chrissssay. Chrisssay from Three's Company. Blah, blah, blah, Chrisssay. Jesus H. Chrisafer, whaaaaazzzzzup?
Me: This isn't Chrisafer either.
Silence
MM: Grabs phone. I'm sorry about that.
Me: Has she been drinking?
MM: She's had 2 mint juleps, but she's been huffing the hell out of the nail polish remover.
MM: I'm sorry, dear. So just to sum it up, public dumping is bad. It's poor etiquette. It's right up there with gum chomping. Emergency public pooping is the exception, not the rule.
Me: Okay, thanks for your time. I'll pass along the info.

Posted by durban bud at 12:35 AM | Comments (8)

July 22, 2006

Anna Goldstein

I've been having to work a lot this week, and it's really starting to piss me off, as it interferes with my afternoon naps.

In the meantime, this fucker was found climbing my walls. I had not invited it over. Please leave. I've named her Anna Goldstein. I was admiring her spiderman-like climbing skillz, as she walked on the ceiling, when she slipped and plummeted to the floor. Scared the shit out of me. I thought she might eat me, so I tried to kill Anna Goldstein with my birkenstock, but she got away. I could have searched for her, but I thought maybe it was a good idea having her around, so she could eat the other recently uninvited guests, the ants.

We finally called in the big guns to remedy the situation. I was sick and tired of them crawling on me while I was working. They've been a real problem this summer. I think one of them even hitched a ride with me to Safeway the other day. I deliberately didn't buy anything with sugar just to piss it off.

Anyway, the big guns are a very attractive, big muscled gay couple. The big guns have big guns. Ba-da-boom. They've been our bug killers for the past couple years, although they don't do anything for crabs; I've asked. Let's hope they fixed the situation until next year.

Last night, I volunteered my participation in a safe sex/drugs survey and interview for a local health clinic. I'm all about donating my time to help the children, plus they were giving me $75 and some pizza for spending two hours with them. Score!

I participated in this computer simulation of a conversation a gay guy might have with someone he's just about to bang. It was basically to try and teach people the correct way to go about discussing safe sex with someone you don't really know before actually hooking up.

It was easy, but when it was over I was interviewed by this guy to get my feedback on the simulation. The guy couldn't have been over 24 years old, and he was obviously straight. The short-sleeved button up dress shirt gave it away. So I'm talking about condoms and cum and butt sex with him. I thought I would be uncomfortable, but I think he was much more uncomfortable than I was. He appeared very nervous. I tried to put him at ease by over-emphasizing words like pounding, manhole, rimjob, squealing and Janice Dickinson.

Several times he would ask me the same question phrased differently; so to break up the monotony, I would blurt things out like, "I'm Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacCleod." Ya know, cuz I wanted to keep him at the top of his interviewing game. And I think I did.

When that was over, another man had entered my residence. It was another exterminator of sorts. He was there to repair all my computer issues. In between chastising me for having too much software, too many bugs and downloading too much porn on my system, he asked me an unusual question.

He asked why we gay people refer to ourselves as the "gay community." He said, "It sounds like a term created by politicians that generalizes who you all are. You and I probably have more in common than you and a black, 4-foot tall lesbian from Alaska, yet she's part of your 'community' and I am not. So what exactly is your community?" I'm like, "Um, uh, I guess people are part of our community if they share the gay experience." He's like, "Yeah, but everyone's experience is different, so what is this community? Is just being gay primarily who you are?" I'm like, "Uhhh, ummm, how's that computer coming along?" Luckily, Anna Goldstein made a return appearance, which caused him to scream uncontrollably, so our conversation came to a close.

I was actually impressed he had the balls to ask me some questions about the topic. He was a cool guy, and best of all, he fixed my laptop.

It's been an interesting week.

UPDATE: Anna Goldstein met her unfortunate demise this evening, courtesy of a Dell Computers catalog. We will all miss her tenacity and spirit. Godspeed, Anna.

Posted by durban bud at 11:10 AM | Comments (4)

July 10, 2006

My Search For Winona Ryder

I had a surreal dream last night; I dreamt I was hanging out with Tony Bennett and Joey Ramone. Only it wasn't a dream, it was a flashback.

In my silly Things You Don't Really Need to Know About Me post, I referenced my former republican roommate. He was a secret service cop, and he took his job very seriously, maybe too seriously.

He always felt the need to "protect" me. I'll give you some examples:

We were watching TV one evening when we heard a noise outside our patio. He took his gun out and told me to "get down." I complied as he went out to investigate. It was only a rat.

After a night of heavy drinking at a local bar, I knocked over a chair that was on a table as the bar was closing. The bartender rushed over to see what the commotion was. My roommate took out his badge, shoved it in the bartender's face and said, "I'll take care of this."

Another evening, we were driving down a quiet street when a few teenage boys pretended to throw something at my roommate's camaro. God forbid, you fuck with his camaro. He put on the brakes, told me to stay put, lept outside and confronted the hooligans. He flashed his badge and began frisking the unsuspecting teens. I was mortified. He said, "You like harrassing people? Well, I like harrassing derelicts." I put my cap over my face and prayed for him to get back in the car. "Please stop, please stop."

Anyway, not too long after, he took me to one of the big music festivals in the area. A bunch of my favorite artists were playing: Better Than Ezra, Bush, Hole, Juliana Hatfield, etc.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining. I laid down on a blanket as Juliana took the stage. I told my roommate how cool it would be to meet her. He went to get us some beers and was gone for awhile. He came back and started motioning for me to follow him. "Huh? Where are we going? I want to watch Juliana's set." He said, "C'mon, hurry up. I've got something better."

I followed him to a side area by the stage. A bunch of men motioned for me to come over, and opened an area for me to walk through by a fence. "What is going on?" "Just pretend you're a senator's son and I am protecting you." Um, okay. Score! I got backstage! I was so excited, I wet my panties.

Normally, I'm not into the whole celebrity thing, but, goddamnit, today was my day to be a celebrity geek.

Juliana had just finished her set and dove into the crowd. As she walked down the stairs off the stage, I was the first person to approach her. I said, "Hi Julie (cuz, ya know, I'm on a first name basis with her), I'm T.J." She was out of breath and her mascara was running down her face, "Um, oh, hi." Some annoying fan approached her as well and ruined our stimulating conversation. She handed me a camera and asked me to take their picture. The girl put her arm around "Julie" and put on a big smile. Julie stuck her tongue out and I snapped the photo.

By then, I was over Julie. Now who else can I bug?!?

General Public were also performing, so I struck up a conversation with some of their lackeys. "Can I get you anything," one of them asked. "What do you mean?" "Would you like something to drink, like a beer?" "Oh, sure. And keep 'em comin'!"

General Public's people were keeping me nice and sauced. "Did you hear Winona Ryder is here?" "No," I tried to play it cool. THE Winona Ryder is HERE, I thought, from one of my favorite movies, Heathers! "Maybe I'll go say hi later." My panties were drenched at this point. Soul Asylum were the main attraction, and Winona was dating the lead singer at the time. My mission was confirmed.

I was now in the tunnels of RFK stadium. I spent too much time with the General Public boys that I was missing much of the show.

Courtney Love was just finishing up a surprise set, so I ran back to the stage so I could accost her. I was screaming, "Coooourtneeeeey!" Her people shielded her from me, and she got into a jeep. I kept screaming. She flashed a big smile and gave me the finger. Whatever, her loss.

Who next, who next? Oh, there's Gavin Rossdale! At the time, Bush were my favorite band. They filled my Nirvana void. I passed by Gavin several times, and he always smiled and said hello. For some reason, I was nervous to go up to him. I finally did, and asked if he would sign my T-shirt. He was more than gracious and very friendly. After he signed, I asked, "Have you seen Winona?" "Nope, sorry."

I ran into Juliana again. Since I was getting into the whole autograph thing, I asked her to sign my T-shirt as well. She looked at the Bush graphic on front of the shirt, and said, "That's kinda offensive." The image is of a man dressed as a bush. "Huh, it's just a bush," I said to her, not realizing how odd that sounded. She began to write her name. "You're pen's not working," she complained. I patted her on the back, "Don't worry about it." I pulled my shirt away. I know Juliana Hatfield is not giving me attitude, 'mmm'kay.

The Bush boys were about to hit the stage. My roommate flashed his badge again and the festival people allowed me to get onto the side of the stage to watch their performance. I was in major dork mode at this point. I gave the bass player a hug, told the guys to "go get 'em," and watched as they got into a prayer huddle right before stepping out in front of 55,000 people. I did everything in my power not to let myself run onto the middle of the stage and do a little jig for all to see. The whole thing was so surreal.

After their set, I ran back in the tunnels to find my next victim. Alison Stewart from MTV News was back there conducting interviews. I asked her if she wanted to interview me; she declined. I grabbed her microphone and did a number of Beavis & Butthead impersonations. "Allithhhon Thhhtewwwart ithhhh not very nittthhh." I then asked if she would allow me to be in the next installment of the Real World. She was a good sport and we actually spoke for awhile. "Have you seen Winona?" I asked. "Nope."

I was standing in a hallway with my roommate and some people from MTV. Joey Ramone came up to chat, and one of the festival folks introduced me to him. When people would ask who I was, I would say "I'm T.J." and my roommate would say, "I'm protecting him." Nobody seemed to really care or ask any followups. Joey Ramone did say, "Whoa, you must be pretty important." I'm like, "You have no idea."

Juliana came over again, "Do you have a cigarette?" "Nope. Smoking is offensive."

For some reason, Tony Bennett was also on the bill. The alternative crowd loves him, I guess. He came into the hallway. He spoke to a few people, but they left him just standing there. So I said, "You're that guy who really likes San Francisco." Big. Dork. Moment. He smiled and I introduced myself. I followed up with, "Didn't you just win a bunch of Grammys?" Luckily, he did in fact win Best Album earlier in the year. He was very sweet and charming.

Then everyone seemed to disappear except for Joey Ramone, Tony and me. Joey was like 7 feet tall. Tony is about 5 foot. We were all just standing there in silence, so I said, "Have you guys seen Winona?"

By this point, it was getting late with still no sign of Winona. I ran through the tunnels stopping at various dressing rooms to see if anyone knew where she was. Soul Asylum were getting ready to perform, so people assumed she was outside by the stage. I went outside to continue my search. She was nowhere to be found. *Sigh*

My roommate was showing signs of wear, and was itching to beat the traffic as the concert was coming to a close. My search for Winona had come up empty. Oh well.

I didn't meet Winona, but I did learn something about myself that day. I'm a huge dork.

Posted by durban bud at 11:15 AM | Comments (4)

June 27, 2006

Big Love

I saw one of the most beautiful things the other day; two morbidly obese women were holding hands walking down the street. I was happy they found each other. I realize their love may be cut short by diabetes or heart disease, but at least they do have this time together.

It goes to show there is someone for everyone. I do believe in the whole soulmate idea. I believe some of us do go through many soul-aquaintances for a period of time, but the real soulmate is out there, and not all of us find them unfortunately, but if you're lucky enough to find them, you will know.

I see a lot of people desperately searching to find "the one". I'm not sure it works that way. I think it happens more naturally, and without much effort.

I also see some people become so bitter and jaded about not having a partner; this negative aura breeds through their relationships with others; they may not think it shows, but it really does, and I'm sure it turns people away.

We all have baggage, all of us, and relationships are fucking hard sometimes, but it's best to check the biggest baggage before boarding the plane of love. Obviously, some of that baggage will be brought into a relationship, so you'll need to stow it neatly in the overhead compartment, and check on it periodically to make sure it hasn't shifted into a worse place. Trust me, I know this firsthand.

The bottom line is we all have someone out there who fits us like a glove. In the meantime, relax, remove resentments, take your anti-bitter pills, enjoy life and let things happen. And when it does happen, you will absolutely know.

Posted by durban bud at 11:01 AM | Comments (9)

June 4, 2006

Damien

I met the anti-christ today. He was disguised as a 3-year old African American boy.

I worked out this morning, and afterwards grabbed the Sunday paper and took it next door to the Health Bar to chill out, read and consume some coffee. It was quiet and pleasant, only a few other people were in the restaurant.

A man sat down with a young child and ordered breakfast. His order included protein pancakes for himself and a smoothie for the kid. For the love of god, you NEVER order smoothies for anyone under the age of twelve. A 24 ounce sugar shake is just a bad idea.

I got through the first couple sections of the paper in relative peace, the calm before the storm. And. Then. I hear this uncontrollable giggling, followed by screaming. I keep my head in the paper so as not to make eye contact. Please go away, please go away.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a flash of lightning, or what appears to be lightning. The screaming has now been redistributed to the other side of the restaurant. I lower my paper ever so slightly, and witness Speedy Gonzales blazing all over the place. Jesus, please don't come over to my table, please don't. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!," he yells as he jumps on my booth. Fuck, now I have to pretend like he's cute and adorable.

"Hi there," I wave.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"What's your name?"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Between screams, I swear I can hear him say, "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell."

He yanks the paper out of my hands, puts his head in my lap, screams, and promptly farts. "You are a disgusting foul creature," I want to say. I would have pepper sprayed the bitch if we were alone.

His baby daddy finally comes over to retrieve him, but not before he throws all of the sections of my paper onto the floor. "Leave the man alone," the daddy shouts. The kid hops off the booth, grabs the Travel section of the paper, throws it at me, laughs and jumps back up. I fake laugh, but I can't breathe from all the ammonia and hydrogen sulfide seeping out of Damien's ass. Is this beast still wearing a diaper?

He starts crumpling the Arts section. That's it, mini-Mephistopheles! Don't you dare fuck with the Arts section! Here, take the Sports page instead. Rip it to shreads, bitch. I don't care!

"Pick up the papers for the man." Yeah, Damien, pick up my papers. Instead, he head-butts my chest.

"He's quite a character," I tell the anti-christ's father. "Yeah, he's somethin'. Sorry about your papers." "It's okay." Not really. I wanted to add, "If we kill him now, we will save all of mankind. What do you think?" But I don't.

For some reason I start channeling Supernanny, and in a lame British accent I mumble, "Someone needs to go to his naughty mat." What? Where the fuck did THAT come from? I scared myself. But I was right. Somebody needed to discipline Rosemary's Baby. He DID need to go to his naughty mat, if his naughty mat was back in hell.

Damien notices two women eating peacefully nearby me. I can see the darkness in his eyes. The music to "Ave Satani" begins to play. A couple crows fly by outside. He's contemplating his next reign of terror. He leaps up and pounces on the poor women. I hear Daddy Damien apologizing to his latest victims.

I gathered my newspaper, finished my coffee and ran home. I took a long shower to wash the diabolism from my skin.

Satan's children are very different. Pure evil is in their eyes. They stalk their prey, and attack without warning.

The anti-christ is alive and well in America, folks. His name is Damien. And he likes smoothies.

Posted by durban bud at 7:35 PM | Comments (5)

May 9, 2006

The Hearing Slut-Boy

I took a sign language course in college. I went to RIT back in the day. RIT is also the home of the National Institute for the Deaf, so all my classes there included a signing interpreter. I was kinda fascinated by this unique language. After RIT, I tranferred to AU here in DC. They offered a course in signing; I needed an elective so I took it.

For some reason there was an influx of gay deaf boys in DC while I was taking the class. This provided me an opportunity to put my mad signing skillz to work (and maybe also score some deaf man-butt). I really didn't know that many phrases but I could always spell them out cuz I was the king of the alphabet. My limited signing vocabulary consisted of, "My name is TJ," "I go to college," "I like to drink beer," "Nice to meet you," "I enjoy making out," and "Yes, Jesus loves me, for the bible tells me so." That last one I learned when my parents forced me to go to sunday school as a wee young boy. It was also the one I would pull out if I wanted to clear the room.

Remember when gay guys referred to each other as "Mary"? Yeah, that annoyed me too, but a friend of mine introduced me to the "Whatever, Mary" signing technique (demonstrated right over there <---). I felt I needed to teach some of the deaf boys this new bitchy phrase so I showed them how to do it. They loved it.

I was at JR's one drunken evening. The place was packed with deaf boys. I could see a number of them signing "Whatever, Mary" all the way at the other side of the bar. They would try to speak this whenever they would do it but it ended up sounding like "Whaaa-ebahhh Ma-wee" which was followed by loud deaf laughing. Seeing a bunch of drunk, obnoxious gay guys doing this was priceless. I felt I had contributed to deaf culture. And this made me happy.

I would always close the evening by signing "Nice to meet you." They would usually giggle when I signed this. I didn't understand why.

I went to get coffee at a local cafe down the street. There were a couple deaf guys there signing so naturally I had to involve myself in their conversation. One of the guys was very attractive; the other one looked like Beaker from the Muppets. He's my favorite muppet. When this guy tried to speak I swear I could hear a high pitched, "Me-me-me-me-me."

Anyway, we signed for awhile and I closed with my infamous, "Nice to meet you." They began snapping their fingers wildly with the sign for "No!" Huh? What did I do wrong? They put their two index fingers together and said, "This means meet." They then put their index and middle fingers together (which is what I always did) and said, "This means fuck." Uh-oh. Beaker reprimanded, "You said, 'It was nice to fuck you.'" I got bright red. They couldn't stop laughing. But I could. So basically I was telling all the gay deaf boys in DC that it was nice to fuck them. How lovely. I was now known as the hearing slut-boy. I felt so dirty. I stopped involving myself in signing conversations after that.

In deaf culture the difference between meeting someone and fucking them is one finger. Something to remember.

Posted by durban bud at 8:23 AM | Comments (7)

May 2, 2006

Food Stamps

So here's the thing, somebody needs to create an ATM/credit card machine that lets you swipe your card the same way each time. I'm a fairly bright guy; not lately, but usually. Every time I try to use one of these machines it takes me a few minutes to get it to accept my card. I approach the machine. I see the little graphic of the proper swiping technique. I put my card up to the graphic just to be sure. I swipe. I hear the "Family Feud" red "X" sound and Richard Dawson saying, "Try again."

This always seems to happen at a busy store. I was at Safeway. I go to check out. I swipe my card. The cashier, Laquita (and that was her real name) says, "It did not go through. Try again." So I do. "You selected food stamps. Are you gonna use food stamps?" "Um, no."

My little error has created a major problem for her register. A woman behind me notices what I selected so she chimes in, "Don't be embarrassed; I had to use food stamps back in the day." "I'm not using food stamps," I giggle. To which she replies, "You say that in a condescending manner. You think there sumpin' wrong wit food stamps?" "No, there is nothing wrong with food stamps. I am just not using them for this transaction." "Oh, so you do use them sometimes?" "No, I have never used food stamps." She now asks her daughter for her opinion. "Tamika, do you think there is sumpin' wrong with using food stamps?" "No!" Tamika shouts. "I don't either, Tamika, but I am not using them." "Well, you may have to someday."

The mother chimes in again, "Brotha thinks there sumpin' wrong wit food stamps. Has a chip on his shoulder or sumpin'. All rich people do." "I am not rich. At all. If I do have to use food stamps, I will." "But you jus' said you will never use them." "I did not!" Security! Why am I having this conversation? Please stop talking to me. I take a deep breath and ignore her.

Laquita pages Kyle, the manager, for register assistance. Kyle skips on over. "He selected food stamps." "Are you using food stamps?" Kyle glares at me. A huge line has now formed in my lane. "No, I hit the wrong button." Kyle lets out a big sigh, stares at me for a few seconds and begins to hit numerous buttons on the register in a bitchy manner.

"Brotha hates po' people," the mom tells the manager. I accidentally start speaking like her, "I do not hate po' people." "You sho seem like you do. Ya seem a little racialist too." "Wha-wha-what?!? I am not racialist. At all. Why would you say that? Please stop talking to me." "See? You racialist. You too good to talk to me." How did this happen? I give up. I look around and notice several people giving me dirty looks.

Kyle corrects the situation and asks me to swipe my card again. "Better not select food stamps again," the angry mom mutters. I smile at her, pay and leave. I realize as I am leaving that they will now remember me as the "food stamps" guy. Or Mark Fuhrman. Or maybe a republican.

As I am walking home, a homeless man approaches me asking for change. I ignore him. That angry woman has now given me a complex. Maybe I do hate po' people.

Posted by durban bud at 11:49 AM | Comments (10)

April 29, 2006

Home Invasion

So someone tried to enter my residence last night, uninvited. I was home alone when I heard someone turn my doorknob. I ran upstairs and looked out the peephole. There was a figure leaving the front door of our building. It looked like a woman. I wasn't wearing my glasses, so it could have been a fat man for all I know --I'm near-sighted for those keeping score. I made sure the door was locked and bolted it for extra safety.

I began watching several death shows to pass the evening away. The History Channel was showing back to back episodes of some 9/11 documentaries. I thought to myself, "How could anyone watch these morbidly depressing shows. You have to be pretty deranged to sit through that experience again." So I watched them both. I switched back and forth from the Discovery Health Channel cuz Dr. G was performing some intriguing autopsies. After that I switched on over to one of my favorite death shows, Forensic Files. The narrator, Peter Thomas, could make eating ice cream sound frightening. He's the same guy whose voice is sampled throughout that 1985 Paul Hardcastle Vietnam song, 19. After a marathon of that show, Skeleton Stories came on. This is why I should kill my television.

It was now 1:30 in the morning. Again, I was homo alone and resting peacefully in the comfort of my bed.

Then, the sound of the door handle turning occurred again. This time the handle was turned extensively and the door was trying to be pushed open. I thought it may have been Rob returning unexpectedly from a quick trip. This would be plausible except for the fact that he has keys and would have knocked or called if he had forgotten them. There wasn't a knock or the sound of anyone's voice, just the constant turning of the doorknob and the thrusting of a locked door. The sound suddenly stopped.

I was freaking out. I lept out of bed, ran upstairs and peered through the peephole again. The front door to our building was slowly closing but no figure was in sight. It was obvious, though, that someone had made a fast getaway. I contemplated running out to see if I could catch a glimpse of the murderer, but realized I was only wearing my leotard boxers. Fuck it, I ran down the hall anyway but they were long gone.

Who the fuck would try to come into a home at 1:30 in the morning when most people are likely sleeping? If they were going to rob our place, wouldn't they come during business hours when most people are away? If it were a bunch of drunk partiers who hate me, wouldn't they start yelling or banging on my door to piss me off? If someone wanted to have hot, sweaty man-sex with me, wouldn't they have at least called first? This was all very strange. Then I thought perhaps it was hot new porn star, Jake Dakota, finally responding to some of my stalker emails for an unscheduled visit. I did tell him he is allowed to come whenever he wants.

I laid back down and slept the rest of the night without being slaughtered or raped. I awoke in the morning and realized I had left the back gate wide open with the door unlocked. Um, oops. It obviously wasn't Jake Dakota as he would have come through the back door and not the front.

If this happens again, I will taser their ass, tie them up and force them to watch HGTV.

Courtesy Mustang Video

Come to dBud, Mr. Dakota. Seriously.

Posted by durban bud at 5:39 PM | Comments (7)

January 24, 2006

Baseball Caps

So last night I went to dinner with Joe to discuss life, drama, why January seems to be the worst month of the year, and the pros and cons of the latest Raging Stallion video. We walked down U Street to find a decent place to eat and shoot the shit. We decided on a restaurant in the "new, cool, U Street corridor" called Creme or, as I now like to refer to it, Suck My Balls Diner. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant at the time we walked by it so we thought it would be perfect. Joe had been there before and said it was good.

We walk in. The staff is friendly and seats us at a lovely small table. I was dressed in jeans with a long sleeve shirt and a T-shirt over top of it and, of course, a baseball cap. It's cold in DC now (obviously) so I usually wear a skull cap to cover my sensitive, li'l ears. Because of this, my hair was a disaster so a baseball cap was definitely in order after I took off my winter cap when we arrived in the door. Joe is also dressed in jeans and a button up shirt. He also wore a skull cap until the hostess offered to seat us. He had no baseball cap because, well, he has no need for one.

The waiter immediately comes over cuz no one else is there yet, introduces himself and takes our drink orders. Later, we order a couple appetizers and sit there for awhile and talk.

We get our appetizers and order entrees. The small place starts filling up with a few more people. As we are enjoying our appetizers, a petite young woman approaches me.

"Hi," she says. "Can you please remove your cap?" Excuse me? "Are you serious?" I asked, completely taken off guard. "Yes," she insists. What the fuck. Um, is someone about to sing the National Anthem or something, I thought. Or is Nelson Mandela on his way here to be honored this evening? "But I've been wearing a skull cap all day so my hair looks scary." "Sorry, sir." Yeah, me too, bitch.

I am humiliated. I felt like I was on the Waltons and Daddy just yelled at me for eating at the dinner table with a hat on while he was saying grace. Mostly, I felt like John Boy's mole, as if everyone were staring at it while pretending not to notice.

It's winter time and I need a haircut really bad. I don't have long hair at all. I mean, the hair I do have I usually keep very, very short but it's January and I've been lazy so it's kinda scraggly looking.

It wasn't so much the fact that I had stepped into a pretentious restaurant with a "no hats" rule (although a "dress code" was not listed anywhere); it was the fact that they did not tell me this when I got there. There were tons of staff members and virtually no patrons when we arrived and we had been there a good twenty minutes. Perhaps that would have been an ideal time to let me know that my baseball cap was a big no-no instead of waiting for us to order expensive food with several more people now at their tables. I guess my T-shirt and jeans (with a few holes in them) were just peachy though.

I comply with Nellie Oleson and remove my hat. I look worse than ever. Now, I look like the Unabomber dressed like a gay Kurt Cobain. I could have gone to the bathroom to "primp" but I was pretty pissed so if I scared a few people away, too bad. Plus, I'm just not that good at styling my hair. If I do it myself, I end up looking like Squiggy from Laverne & Shirley. I'm no meterosexual. (I also can't shave my head completely cuz I just don't make an attractive bald guy. Some guys can pull it off but not me. I shaved it off myself one day and scared everyone including the beagle we were taking care of at the time. He began to shiver uncontrollably when he saw me).

In defense of Creme, the food was good and the atmosphere was pleasant. However, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth (ba-da-boom). We ate really fast so Joe and I could get the hell out of there and go somewhere else that wasn't quite so judgmental about wearing hats in the fucking winter. We were still friendly with the staff (even Nellie Oleson) and tipped our waiter nicely.

I wear baseball caps a lot. I always have ever since I was a kid. It's second nature to me. Some of my friends get annoyed because they think I look better without them. Some also might say I wear them a lot to hide a receding hairline or balding or avoiding growing up. Maybe I am, subconsciously, but I do it cuz I always have and I like them. My dad does the same thing. He wears them all the time and he still has a good head of hair. In fact, he collects baseball caps (yeah, that's a bit more than I would do but whatever floats your boat) and he's, like, in his 60's.

Of course, I don't wear them all the time, especially at some formal business meetings, certain upscale events, or, of course, sex in a hot tub, etc. But if I am paying you for a meal (or Joe is), don't bug me with silly clothing requests when I have been there for awhile.

Some also might say that a guy in his mid-30's shouldn't be wearing them at all. Fuck that. I agree some things look silly on guys over 30 but, mentally, I am still only 24 so I will continue to do so if it makes me happy and I don't look or feel completely retarded.

I ain't gonna worry about it. I just won't go back there (except maybe in drag). Wouldn't that be funny? I guarantee you, I would make an ugly woman and be scarier than the Unabomber. THEN what would they say?

Posted by durban bud at 1:11 PM | Comments (15)

January 16, 2006

Frosted Mini-Wheats

While everyone was out enjoying a hot and naughty MAL/Blowoff weekend and my selfish heart was breaking into a million little pieces, I was contemplating my one and only barf story from school.

In middle school and high school, we used to have to do those annual state exams to see how many sit-ups, push-ups, squat thrusts, etc. we could do within a minute during gym class. Phys Ed was my first class of the day during 7th grade.

I always did pretty well on these exams. I used to be really skinny. In fact, I used to take supplements to try and gain weight during my later schooling. Wow, seems like years ago. Then I discovered that if you truly want to gain weight just take an affection for beer. Works like a charm.

I finished class and went to second period which was my math class. I sat behind a girl with a big nose who always dreamed of being a figure skater. After sitting at my desk for a few minutes, I felt very nauseous. I put my hand over my mouth and tried to avoid any thoughts of puking. This CANNOT happen right now. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Think of something else. Ignore it. Think of boobies. Think of economics. Think of math, for Christ’s sake. Little sounds started speaking from my belly. Figure skater turned around and smiled at my embarrassing noises; I smiled back. It all happened so fast. If I could have left the room in time, I would have. Then. It let loose. Frosted, Mini, And Wheat all made their big performance debut.

I lost it. Big time. Frosted mini-wheats spilled all over me. Everyone looked at me. One of the single most embarrassing moments I can ever remember. Luckily, I had a friendly math teacher. He told everyone to leave the room immediately. The kids ran out the door and I remember several of them turning around pointing, staring and laughing at me.

I didn't know what to think or do. I sat there just covered in my own breakfast. I felt and looked like Carrie only instead of blood; I was covered in Frosted-Mini Wheats with 2% milk added into the mix.

The good news was I got to leave school for the rest of the day. I also got to stay home the next day so I guess it wasn't THAT bad. (I did also barf in church while singing, "He Lives, Christ Jesus Lives Today," but I'll save that story for another day).

As bad as it was, I learned to masturbate for the first time while I got to spend time away from school (yeah, I know, I was a late bloomer). But remember, the Lord does work in mysterious ways. ;-)

So when you're feeling down and sad, just remember the other times in your life which were far worse and you'll be able to get through those newer "not-so-good" moments.

That is my Dr. Durban tip of the day. I'm here to help.

Posted by durban bud at 1:16 PM | Comments (8)

January 11, 2006

Turleen

I got my mom the Trailer Trash Turleen doll for X-mas. They were spending the holidays with my sister and family in Colorado, so I thought I would give her one little gift to open while she was there, so she wouldn't have to pack and cart back other presents I would have sent. I chose to send her Turleen.

I called my sister's place X-mas morning to wish them all a happy and joyous Pagan celebration.

After my sister gave me a lecture about making fun of white trash, my mom got on the phone and told me she had opened the gift. She then mumbled (so the kids couldn't hear) just what the hell it was. I told her it was doll. She said, "I know that, but I cannot play this in front of the kids." I'm like, "First off, lose the muffled voice; we're not discussing money laundering. Secondly, she is not the Bride of Chucky; Turleen doesn't say anything nasty, really. I'm thinking, just wait until my oldest nephew opens his Eminem's greatest hits CD. I told her to go to the bathroom and listen to what Turleen has to say if you have to be so secretive. Pretend you're doing a bump, Mom.

Of course, my mom loved it. It was a great conversation piece as I knew it would be. Even Ms. "Making fun of Trashy People is Not Very Nice" invited some of her neighbors over to witness the beauty of the trailer trash doll.

Here's the best part: I knew my mom would have to pack Turleen for the trip home. Well, every which way she would pack Turleen, the doll would start talking. She said she wouldn't shut up. She kept repeating, "Bubba Junior, get off your sister." She said it took almost a half an hour to get her in the proper position so she wouldn't speak.

As they were carrying the suitcase through the airport, my mom said Turleen would start speaking or laughing or burping while they were walking down the halls. Both of my parents were mortified. As soon as Turleen seemed to shut up, she would yell, "Pour me a double, I'm drinkin' for two." My parents (who are so conservative looking) sat in their seats waiting to board the plane while their suitcase continued to speak and burp occasionally.

Do something sweet for your family for a change. Whether it's their birthday or Flag Day, Turleen is the gift of a lifetime.

Posted by durban bud at 12:24 PM | Comments (6)

January 3, 2006

Mama Cass

Fat jokes can be funny. They're like gay jokes. One or two may cause a giggle but that's about it. It's an easy way to get a quick laugh cuz it's still acceptable to make fun of fats and gays. That's why Letterman & Leno do "Brokeback Mountain" jokes every fucking night. The writers are running out of clever writing.

And aiming fat jokes at gay men is just a sin. I think it's in the Bible. I believe it's in the Book of Luke, Chapter 12-14, Verse 34-35 or something close to that. It says something like, "and those one in teneth who possess such fabulousity and hot muscle bearishness shall never be made aware of any physical flaws regarding belly protrusion for it is an abomination unto the Lord, 'mmm'kay? And can I get an amen?). We're already insecure about our looks and life enough (even if we have 6% body fat).

Went to a New Year's small gathering with some friends. Joe was the host and it was wonderful. Bob came over and my Rob. Joe also invited Wayland Flowers & Madame a gay couple we did not know. They were, um, lovely.

I made an innocent little joke in front of everyone that I had gained a few pounds during the holidays and my mid-section had now made me resemble Mama Cass and that I need to hit the gym hard if I am to make it to MAL in a couple weeks. It was a fucking silly joke. Wow, was that a mistake. First off, my apologies to the Cass family. I meant no disrespect. I enjoy poking fun at myself also. I'm a good sport. If I can dish it out, I can take it (especially when I know what they are saying isn't that extreme; I may be beefy but I ain't fat).

Well...we decided to have a bite to eat around Joe's dinner table and then play games there. He bought his dinner chairs from a relatively new furniture store in DC called Muleh a couple years ago. Muleh has freaky furniture. Sorry, it may appeal to some but not for me. That's irrelevant though. Joe purchased four dinner table chairs from that store. Only one chair from the set still exists to this day. Of course, who do you think broke the 3rd one? Yep, I made my Mama Cass joke and sat down in the motherfuckin' Muleh chair. This is what I and everyone else heard next: "CRRRRRRRUNNNNNNNNCH." Joe. My. God. Is this really happening to me? I mean, I'm not fat. The holiday weight gain is not THAT bad; now I'm thinking it is BAD! I'm breaking fucking chairs with my heavy body weight (and also oddly humming "California Dreamin" as I fall to the ground)! I am Chris Durban Bud Farley. Or so I now think.

Joe informs me that two of the other Muleh chairs have also broken recently from other "non heavy" people. He can't take them back or call the place to complain because the chairs were purchased on his ex's credit card. Well, I will complain. In fact, I will never shop there. I know some of you have bought things there and I do appreciate their uniqueness but would you sit on a couch that looks like a bird's nest.

We decide to start the DVD movie game (which I think I'm gonna kick everyone's ass at). I should have made sure all movies featured in the questions were post 1980. I'm sorry, I don't know old movies.

The game was not the point; the incessant fat jokes littered throughout the entire game and visit (for that matter) were the point. And they came from that couple I had just met!!! They were relentless. I can poke fun at myself; I usually do on this blog. You can poke fun at me, a lot of people do (which is fine if it is funny and clever); I will laugh but after 20 of the same type of jokes from a couple guys I just met, I probably will stop laughing. If, after fat joke #21, you can't say something witty then you really need to hang up your New Year's Eve comedian shoes. "According to Jim" is funnier than the same one-liners they were throwin' at me. The others that were there can confirm this. They agreed enough was enough (although no one said a word, I guess that would make it even more uncomfortable).

I played along and tried to fake laugh at every single one of their jokes. I asked Joe if he had any ham sandwiches to serve the lovely couple. Unfortunately, he was all out. Finally, the game ended and the sweet couple left. I'm sure these guys are very nice (except to me) and I'm sure they would be awesome to hang out with.

The rest of us had an enjoyable time. Seriously, we did, until, of course, we saw Dick Clark. I'll just leave it at that. After seeing that, you can joke about me all you want. He's a real trooper for going out there in public so I have nothing to complain about.

But I will find something.

Posted by durban bud at 5:43 PM | Comments (6)

October 24, 2005

Man Crush

Rob thinks my straight neighbor has a man crush on me. I don't think I agree, but I will say his behavior was a bit odd the other day.

We've lived in our building for 2.5 years. Everyone is straight except for us and the guy who lives next door who owns the yippy weiner dog that barks all the time. He used to own two of those awful creatures, but one of them mysteriously disappeared. ;-) Anyway, we are friendly with everyone but we don't hang out or anything.

We got an Evite from one of the married couples two weeks ago inviting us to a party they were having on Saturday. After their little par-tay, everyone was to go out to a club. It was basically a pre-party celebration because their favorite club was closing. I did not know they were clubbers. Everyone in our building is progressive, but I would not classify any of them as the clubbing type. What do I know.

I received an email from my neighbor earlier last week asking me to check my spam folder for an Evite he had sent, cuz he had not heard from me yet. Okay, I'll get right on that.

I decided to respond the day before their little party. I sent my response. Of course I said we would be there; I mean, they're our neighbors; they know if we're home; we can't lie. Plus, they are nice and we do like them.

At almost the exact same time there was a knock at our door. Rob gets it. I hear our neighbor asking if we had received the Evite. Rob, who is clearly clueless about the party (mainly because he is not the event planner in the relationship), says he does not know. I hear our neighbor say, "Where's your boyfriend?" Rob, being ever so thoughtful says, I think he's sleeping downstairs. I decided I needed to nip this in the durban bud.

I walk up the stairs. He sees me and starts yelling at me, "Dude, ya gotta come this weekend. This club is so amazing and it's closing. Ya gotta come. You like to DJ, right?" I'm, like, "Well, I'm just a bedroommmmm..." He grabs my hand and starts pulling me down the hall into his apartment. Okie dokie.

He asks what type of music I like to hear at the clubs. He says, "You like house, right?" "Yeah," I say. "You gotta come, ya gotta come." I said, "We are planning on stopping by your place Saturday night." "Ya gotta come out to the club too, ya got to." I'm thinking, um, no I really don't. He starts hitting me on the shoulder. "Dude, c'mon, c'mon. I'll get you in free." I hate when guys do that to me. I'm not your little brother. Do not hit me like I am your little brother. It's a pet peeve. If you do it again, I'm gonna tell your wife you gave me a rim job. He grabs me by my shoulders, starts shaking me, looks me in the eyes and says, "You're coming!" Stop shaking me, I am not salt nor pepper. If I were a baby, I would be dead.

He puts on some house music and tells me how awesome it is and that I HAVE to be there. Why doesn't Rob HAVE to be there? I appreciate the music. So does Rob. I have TONS of house records so I understand all of it, but I don't NEED to go to this place. I really don't. I told him I'm sure the club is nice, but we really don't go out to clubs much anymore. I also said we've never been to that club, so a crowded closing party for its regulars is not a place I want to be. He starts hitting me on the shoulders again. "You're coming! If you go, I'll buy you a trip to Cancun." I was getting scared. We know each other but we don't KNOW each other. Please get me out of here. Plus, um, didn't Hurricane Wilma pay a visit to that place? Can you make another offer?

I said, "Well, we'll see," and left down the hallway. Another, "You're comin!" Doubt it.

Next day. We kinda had plans to go out with Hot Joe that night (after we stopped by our neighbors, of course). It got later in the evening and the weather sucked, so we decided to stay in and watch a movie instead. I informed HJ that we had to stop by this party but he was welcome to just chill out with us if he wanted. He comes over.

The party was from 8-10pm so we decided to go at about 9:50. We walk down the hall and open the door. Smoke begins to seep into the hallway. When did Robert Downey Jr. move in?

We walk in and, of course, did not recognize anyone except a cat we sometimes baby-sit (or is it cat-sit). It was walking on the table with all the food. My neighbor sees us and starts yelling, "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey!" Everyone turns and looks. He gives us huge hugs and instructs his wife to introduce us to all the people in the living room who look really uninterested in meeting anyone at the moment. I tell his wife it is really not necessary (since everyone was already deep in conversation). She agrees.

My neighbor starts yelling and pointing at me to his friends, "That's the guy I was telling you about! That's him!" Huh? What could you possibly be telling them? I mean, we've never even hung out or really talked all that much. Anyway, I smiled and said, "Hi."

Joe and I scurried off into the kitchen to look for a beverage. There was another cat on top of the fridge. Here, kitty kitty. There were bottles of beer but we also saw cans. We used the cans deliberately. If there were any two people who would not be allowed in the club, it was us. We were both wearing t-shirts and jeans. We looked like we were from "King of the Hill." This was a deliberate move. The club is casual but most people dress up. I wanted to fit the part of someone who would not be going, so as not to disappoint him too much when we broke the news.

"This is gonna be so much fun, man." "Yeah, I'll bet it is. We just wanted to stop by for a bit and say hi." "Dude, you're coming." "I can't. I'm not dressed right." "You look fine, plus you're gay. They love that." If this were being filmed, this is the point I would look at the camera. "Don't let me down. You gotta be there. Hey, man, I'll even go to a gay club with you, but I'm not takin' off my shirt! My belly is too big." He lifts up his shirt to demonstrate. Ew. I don't need to know your business. He then disappeared for a moment.

We did meet several lovely people there. Gay and straight. Lots of DJ's. I spoke to his beautiful wife briefly. She mentioned that her husband really wants me to go and then mentioned the "Cancun trip if I go" offer. Again, I would look at the camera.

After chatting it up with a bunch of his cool friends and wife, I was itchin' to go home. I had one beer and that was enough.

We said goodbye to everyone, but I didn't see my neighbor. Perfect. Let's go. No drama. We start to walk down the hall. Then. He appears. "Don't let me down, dude." "I'm sorry; we'll just feel like we're intruding." He looks at ALL of us and says, "I'm really disappointed. You guys should be there." Good, I think, at least I don't get all the blame. Then. He puts his hand on my chest, pushes me against the wall and says, "But I'm REALLY disappointed at YOU." Um, security. Again, I am not your little brother. Stop touching me!

He made some more offers to try to get us to go (which were rather intriguing), but we wouldn't budge. We went back to our quiet, smoke-free, serene place. We chilled out, watched a crappy horror movie remake and had a productive Sunday.

I'm not sure I would classify it as a man crush. Maybe he was just really excited (or, um, something). But, then again, what do I know.

Posted by durban bud at 10:35 AM | Comments (13)

October 12, 2005

The Grudge

We had a yard sale the other weekend. I am trying to get rid of a ton of shit I do not use anymore. Anyway, as I was cleaning out my closet (insert Eminem beats here), I came across a bag that contained some weed a number of old cards and letters from ex-boyfriends and friends during my first few years of coming out. Since I didn't date guys until I was 20 I decided to hold onto (almost) everything that was given to me. I never got to experience love letters from guys in high school so I always wanted to have hard copy proof that somebody actually liked me the way I wanted/needed to be liked. Make sense?

Most of these guys were so sweet and gracious to me. I wish I could say I was the same in return. I was new to the whole dating process, insecure, inexperienced and kind of a dick. I dated a number of people at the same time. It was just such a great feeling to FINALLY get the attention I desired. So I saved a lot of it. Even my ex who I bitch about a lot wrote me some of the nicest letters I have ever gotten (now-a-days I guess they would be called "e-mails"). I don't know. I was young and I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorry for behaving like a moron to those guys. Most of them didn't deserve it. Now I'm not apologizing to every guy I dated, I'm just saying the majority deserved a lot more than I could give them at the time.

My point is I'm trying to be better about holding grudges against people. All people. At the time, I would tell horror stories about those guys and exaggerate mean things those guys "did to me" to make me break up with them or what-not. I'm not just referring to people I've dated; I'm speaking about friends as well.

It's funny how some people come in and out of our lives. We can be so damn close for a number of months and then never speak to them again. It's just odd. I can honestly say that I do not "hate" anyone. I think Ann Coulter, Tom Cruise and Doris Roberts are giant douches. I don't hate them though. I just feel sorry for them cuz they're very ignorant and self-absorbed. There are definitely people I am disappointed with or people I choose not to hang around simply because we are just not compatible or I find their behavior toxic. And, guess what, people? We cannot be compatible with everyone. Nor should we try to be. A lot of people will like us but there will also be people who just won't click with us. And that should be okay. I think we all have this need to be liked by everyone but that's just not reality. And it's okay.

I used to be such a grudge holder. If you ever crossed me I would never give you another chance. It was silliness I now realize. I am more mature now so I can actually SEE the way I was behaving. At times, I felt it was genetic.

I have one of the greatest mothers in the world. I love her dearly. I never met her father. He left my grandmother for another woman when my mom was just 13 years old. My mom's 4 other siblings had moved out of the house at that time. My mom was the youngest. My grandmother had to work 3 jobs just to provide the basic necessities to live. My mom never forgave him for what he did. She never saw him again. I never met him.

He died a couple years ago. My mom did not go to the funeral. Her other siblings did. They continued a relationship with him even though what he did was deplorable. My mom has her reasons for never speaking with him again and I do not judge her for her choices. If I were in her shoes, I probably would feel the same way.

I do have to say though that it would have been nice to meet him at least one time, ya know, just to shake his hand and look into his eyes to see if we had any sort of resemblance. Even if it were just for a few minutes. I don't know. The whole situation is sad but I completely respect my mom's decisions. I wonder at times if this "grudge" (deservedly so) ever affected her throughout the years. Maybe not. She was always amazing and sweet with my sister and me. I do know it would have affected me. Maybe she is just a stronger person.

And I'm certainly not saying that someone who has done you wrong needs to be immediately forgiven. We can be cordial when we see them but also choose not to spend time with them or celebrate them as a human being. That's fine. All I'm trying to say is some of the grudges we hold against other people end up making us more bitter and angrier at the world. It's just not worth all the built up anxiety we hold inside toward another human being.

I get classified as aloof a lot of the time. Some people consider this as I don't like them. It's all silliness. We need to stop trying to analyze what/how other people feel/think when we, honestly, have no idea. And we really need to stop thinking that others are thinking about us because, in reality, they probably are not spending anytime thinking about you.

Bottom line is there are people in horrible, inhumane situations around the world. Is your grudge against someone else really that important when you compare it to how the majority of people live in this world? I think not. Life is too short. Let it go.

Posted by durban bud at 1:11 PM | Comments (9)

October 5, 2005

Birds and Hugging Etiquette

This past weekend was gorgeous in DC. Sunny and 70's the whole time. I decided to take advantage of the outdoors since I didn't have much to do. I went to the Circle on Saturday to people watch. I brought my little blanket, a magazine and some music. I laid down in an area by a tree that had a good view of all the people walking through the park. I noticed right next to me a few booths set-up in which people were offering to give "Stress Tests" to unsuspecting passer-byers (e.g. poor people and tourists). I was surprised how many people fell for it. It's a great marketing tool for those scientologists. People sat down, were asked a few questions and then that Diuretics book (or whatever it's called) was shoved in their faces to purchase. I wanted to warn those that actually stopped for a "stress test" what they were really all about. But I was too relaxed in the sun to move. People need to learn on their own.

As I was enjoying the serenity of the afternoon some fuckhead decided to throw bread crumbs in front of my blanket. The man appeared to be homeless so I cut him some slack. I still gave him a dirty look. Not really sure what that would accomplish but it made me feel better. If he has no money, shouldn't he be eating those crumbs? After the 100 or so pigeons descended by my resting place, another fuckhead (who did not appear homeless) threw some crumbs on top of the other ones. Hi, I'll take "Rude Motherfuckers" for $200, Alex. Suddenly, I was Tippi Hedren in The Birds. I started swatting them with my magazine and screaming. I was looking for the nearest telephone booth. If you must feed the birds there are plenty of other spots in the park to do this. Do people not know how disgusting birds are? I mean anyone who would care for filthy birds has to have a few screws loose.

My buddy David joined me at the park. After watching this 22 year-old drunk boy stumble all over the park at 2:00 in the afternoon, we decided to leave.

As we walked down the street I saw a bunch of guys I had not seen in awhile. These were people I knew but never really hung out with. I felt this immediate uncomfortable feeling us gay guys sometimes get when we're not sure what form of affectionate acknowledgement to give. Should I hug them, hug them with a kiss on the cheek, shake hands, or just nod and say, Hey? It's always so odd for me. I'm usually just a hand shaker and, once in awhile, a hugger. Some people I hardly know kiss me on the cheek or, if they're drunk (or I am), on the mouth. Some people I know really well just wave and say hi. Gay guys have a whole unique way of greeting each other. I find the hugging thing very sweet even though I don't always practice it. I wish more people would do this. It's just weird when you don't really know the person so you're not sure what their level of comfort is yet. And it never fails when I give a gay guy a hug and THINK he probably is the kissing type I move in to plant him a kiss on the cheek only to realize he just wants to hug, starts to pull away and I end up kissing his ear. Ew. I end up having that bitter taste in my mouth for the next hour.

Straight guys used to be easier to greet. It was always a handshake which I have no problem with. In fact, I usually prefer it that way. Now it has turned into that rapper bump-chest hug like thing. I still don't know how to do it correctly. There should be classes on it. This one straight guy I'm friends with does this with me whenever I see him. He approaches me. I get nervous. I reach my hand out, he grabs it, pulls me in, we bump shoulders and I instinctively put my arm around him and pat his back as if to say, "There, there, ol' straight boy." Never fails. I can't help it. It's in my nature. Most people usually release after the shoulder bump. However, I don't. Whatever.

I should add, though, that I am a sucker for BIG BEAR HUGS for those that I know and, of course, really cute guys. Eddie Cibrian, Matthew Fox and Dean Coulter (see below) can give me a bear hug whenever they want. I will even kiss their ears.

Posted by durban bud at 11:22 AM | Comments (11)

September 16, 2005

Shake Your Love

I didn't realize how gay I've become until I went to a free Debbie Gibson concert on our cruise. Actually, now that I think about it, there were guys there who were way gayer than I. During a quiet moment in her show some guy yelled to Debbie, "Gurrrrrl, I get lost in YOUR eyes, mmm'kay?" Looking fierce and determined he then sashayed like a professional runway model up and down the orchestra aisle, turning it into a temporary catwalk of crazy. When he reached the end of the aisle, he spun back around and stopped for a moment. Using his arms he formed an S shape and rap-sung "I just can't sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shake your love, boy," before resuming his imaginary catwalk duties, until his friends finally got a hold of him and escorted Miss Thing back to her seat away from the alluring spotlight.

Debbie performed a bunch of Broadway tunes for about an hour. I guess she's been doing pretty well in the theatre scene and wants to establish herself as a serious stage performer. Whatever. It totally put me to sleep. All the queens in the audience seemed to know all these songs. They kept clapping when she started the lyric. I really can't stand show tunes. Sorry, I did not get that particular gay gene. I am a sucker for eighties trivia and crappy music, though. If they come out with a Trivial Pursuit version focusing on eighties music, I will totally beat you.

After wrapping up the Broadway portion of her show she reemerged wearing jeans and launched into a greatest hits set. It must be weird being like 35 or so and singing "Electric Youth," a song you wrote when your hymen was still attached. I can't imagine reading things I wrote 20 years ago, much less reciting them in public. It would be very strange. But she seemed to be having a great time singing and dancing with various dudes in the audience.

Anyway, a few weeks earlier, Mike, our spin/cycling instructor at the gym, played a Debbie Gibson song during class. He usually plays one 80's song each session. This time it was Debbie's turn. Some woman chimed in rather loudly after he played the song, "If we didn't know you were gay before, we sure do now!" Everyone laughed. I could tell he was somewhat embarrassed. After class she kept going off on him for playing Debbie Gibson. It was weird, though, to try and get motivated by one of her songs.

"Shake your love; I just can't shake your love."

Um, no. That is not going to make me spin faster.

So because of this whole little Debbie Gibson controversy during his class, I thought it a perfect time to get my secret boyfriend spin instructor an autographed picture of her since he seemed to be a true fan (even though he's like 41 years old). Plus I figured my thoughtful gesture had the potential to score me some head behind Rob's back.

So after the show we stood in a huge homosexual line to meet her, just to get a little gag gift for a guy we have become friendly with but still hardly know well. Debbie Gibson t-shirts, CDs and photos were available for purchase while we waited. I was told I had to buy one of these items if I wanted her autograph. Mean! I was planning to have her sign an ATM receipt I found in my pocket. My little gag was becoming pricey. I decided to buy the cheapest thing they had -- a postcard. It was $7. Nice.

It was now our turn to say hi to Ms. Debbie Gibson. It was very awkward. There were lots of people around us taking pictures. The middle-aged men before us were saying things to her like, "You were so amazing tonight" and "You meant a lot to me when I was growing up. Your music helped me get through some difficult times." I'm thinking, "Only in My Dreams" was therapeutic for you? It never really spoke to me quite like that. A couple bong hits usually did the trick.

I didn't know what to say after hearing what those guys so passionately said, so I looked at her and just said, "My friend Pam has a nose similar to yours." She tilted her head as if confused and said, "Oh, that poor thing." "No, no, no -- your nose looks great,really. They just look similar." Okay, this has now gotten beyond weird.

I handed her the postcard, "Can you make this out to Mike?" "Of course," she said sweetly. She signed it and posed for the token photo. She handed me the signed postcard and we walked away. Uncomfortable mission accomplished.

I glanced down to read what she wrote.

Mike, so glad we met, Deborah Gibson.

GODDAMN YOU, DEBBIE GIBSON! I am NOT Mike.You did not meet Mike. You totally fucked up my gag gift, Debbie Gibson. I'm really pissed at you right now, Debbie Gibson.

I thought about going back to have her correct the mistake. But I had already invested too much time in this silly souvenir. It's the thought that counts anyway, right?

I have yet to give it to Mike. He better freakin' appreciate it.

What the hell am I doing here? Please kill me.

UPDATE: We gave him the postcard after class. He seemed genuinely flattered by our efforts. He has since had it framed. I confirmed this when he showed it to me one evening at his place.

Posted by durban bud at 7:15 AM | Comments (7)

September 14, 2005

Suitcase Sally / The Night the Lights Went Out in Sitges

Suitcase Sally

My friend Ira (on the right) needs his own sitcom. Things happen to him that really need to be written into a teleplay.

Anyway, as we were loading up our bags to head to the airport for our long excursion, Ira began freaking out when he noticed Rob and I had only brought one suitcase each. We've been to Europe before and don't really like or need to lug around a lot of bags. One big bag is perfect for us. We just took the essentials. Some of our clothing could be worn more than once and/or washed while we were there. Not a big deal.

Well, Suitcase Sally started to freak. "Oh my God! I knew I packed too much! I'm so embarrassed." As he popped the trunk open to put our bags in we saw what he meant. The music from the shower scene in Psycho suddenly played in my head. There, before us, were the largest bags we had ever seen. Apparently, he thought he was traveling on a revival of Madonna's entire Drowned World tour or something. They were also bright red. Ira is a person of one. We weren't quite sure why he felt he needed so many bags. I could picture The Waltons or The Jacksons or The Wayans family packing that much, but again, it was just Ira, party of one.

We arrive at the airport. There appear to be no problems. A few of the airline staff snicker, a couple people stared and some kids pointed when they saw his luggage but that was it.

As we're on the plane at maximum altitude, I couldn't help but notice the plane kind of tilting to one side. It was obvious where the big red bags were stowed.

We arrive in Barcelona. and head out to the taxi waiting area to go to our hotel in Sitges. The taxi drivers would see me and Rob with our one bag each and motion for us to come over. Then Ira would come into their view with his push tractor carrying all of his bags. They would let out a slight scream, gasp, curse and hit the gas hard as they could and speed off. This happened a number of times. I'm not kidding. No matter what we did, no one would stop. What were we going to do? We thought about taking 2 cabs but again, Ira's luggage would not fit in the trunk.

We had to rent something large. We decided to ask a man driving an 18-wheeler type vehicle. Surely, that would be big enough. And luckily it was. But it cost us 90 Euros. Oh well.

For the rest of the trip we informed people ahead of time that we would be coming with a "wide load". Most of the hotels had rented large cranes to move Ira's bags up to his room (kinda like they do with grand pianos). This worked out great as you can see below.

The Night the Lights Went Out in Sitges

As we arrived in Sitges, Ira asked to borrow my hair trimmer. I use it to keep my goatee nice and tight. Ira doesn't have a goatee (or hair for that matter), so I was concerned what he was going to use it for. He promised not to use it below his waist, so I let him use it.

About an hour later I notice the lights and TV in our room begin to flicker on and off. Hmm, this is odd.

The phone rings. I pick it up:

Me: "Hola"

Phone Caller: "Ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, pant pant pant, trimmer, pant pant pant, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, hot, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, blew up!"

Me: "Sir, I cannot understand what you are saying. Plea-"

Phone Caller: "Ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, pant pant pant, trimmmmmmer, pant pant pant, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, so hot, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, blew up!"

Me: "Sir, please calm down and take a deep breath so I can understand what you are saying. I do want to help you, but you really need to calm down." Suddenly I was a 911 operator. Secretly, I wanted to slap the caller like Cher did in Moonstruck, "Snap out of it!"

Then I thought maybe it was housekeeping so I said, "I'm sorry if you are calling about turning our bed down now, we're not interested at this time. It's too early. Thank you."

Phone Caller: pant pant pant, "YOUR trimmer just blew up while I was using it, pant pant pant , and shorted out the electricity in the building!" he finally said slowly and in an accusatory tone.

Me: "Oh my God, Ira is that you?"

Ira: "Yes."

Me: "I was wondering what was going on with the lights. MY trimmer blew up? What the hell were you doing with it?"

Ira: "It got really, really hot and made this popping noise, and then the lights went out. Your trimmer must be really old."

Me: "Are you okay?"

Ira: "Yes, I'm fine, but I only got to shave part of it off so now the other side looks ridiculous. Has it ever gotten really hot for you?"

I didn't want to know what he was referring to regarding that first part so I didn't ask. "It doesn't get really hot unless you use it for a long time. Did you use it for a long time?"

Ira: "No, it happened quickly."

Me: "Does the staff here know that you caused the blackout?"

Ira: "Yeah, I called them. They are sending someone up."

Me: "If they ask where you are from, please say Canada, okay?"

Ira: "They're here now. Gotta go."

I almost wanted to run to his room to see the expression on their faces when they saw what exactly caused this dilemma.

He calls back.

Me: "Is everything okay now?"

Ira: "Yes."

Me: "Did the guy who visited your room speak English?"

Ira: "No."

Me: "Did he understand what you were doing with the trimmer?"

Ira: "Not sure. He did pick up the trimmer, but dropped it cuz it was so hot. I think your trimmer is fried."

Great, I thought to myself. Ira probably used my goatee trimmer on his ass hair, and it took so long to shave it all, so my poor trimmer overloaded, freaked out and blew up.

Me: "Did you show the man your new hair pattern?"

Ira: "Shut up."

Me: "You told him you are from Hamilton, Ontario, right?"

Ira: "Shut up."

Rob chimes in, "What kind of adapter did he use with his converter in the European outlet?"

I ask Ira this question.

Ira: "I used the one that I use to charge my camera with."

Rob: "Um, Ira. That adapter should not be used for appliances like hair trimmers! Check the voltage amount it holds. You can't use that adapter for things like that over here."

Ira: "Oh."

Mystery solved and the lights went back on fairly quickly. However, my trimmer did not come back on.

I'm sure the folks at the Hotel Calipolis in Sitges will never forget Ira. Nor his luggage.

And this was just the start of our trip.

Posted by durban bud at 1:30 PM | Comments (7)

August 22, 2005

Mango Was There

Went to the beach one last time this summer. We're gonna be gone for a long time starting this weekend so we wanted one last hoorah there.

Stayed at Tim & Donn's beautiful house in town. They are wonderful hosts and great guys.

Saturday morning we spent on the beach. Perfect weather. The water was nice. There were finally big waves we could play with. Spent about 4 hours out there.

We all left back to the house for a pre-happy hour party (or to take naps and shower). When we arrived back at the house we noticed a few more gentleman had joined us. I did not know them. Most of the men staying at the house were older and had facial hair (I guess it's a requirement to stay there) but there was one person who stuck out like a sore thumb and that, my friends, was Mango from Saturday Night Live (or, at least, that's who he resembled). Now, I don't care if you're nelly or twink-like. I don't care if you're masculine and brute-like. I DO care if you're ignorant. So if you are nelly AND ignorant, I WILL make fun of you.

Most people congregated in the kitchen while chatting so I went into the living room to start a new discussion area. It worked as a few people followed me. Rob immediately joined me when he found out Mango's boyfriend was an extreme-right wing republican. My partner is extremely knowledgeable regarding politics and history. If you debate him about any political/history issue, he will shoot you down and make you look foolish in front of your friends. And it will be funny. Go ahead and try it if you want. I'm always up for a good laugh. However, because he is thoughtful, he decided to just remove himself from the situation.

Again, I don't care what political party you belong to but if you are ignorant (e.g. extreme right AND gay), I will make fun of you.

Anyway, we were chatting with this other guy we had met. He seemed nice, very intelligent and articulate on political issues. Normally, when drinking is involved, I stay away from politics and religion. I've learned my lesson in the past. He began discussing his days in the military and how he killed someone. Thanks for the buzz kill, buddy. What do you say to something like that? I said, I think I need another drink(s). Excuse me for a moment.

I chugged about 3 beers and decided I could handle the conversation now so I went back. They were discussing how China will be the new super power in 10-20 years. I'm like, "Yeah, but has anyone seen the new Green Day video?"

Then the power went out. Apparently, the baby jesus was listening to our conversation and punished us. It was bad timing because Tim & Donn were getting ready to make a huge meal. The house music in the background was now gone. You could here a pin drop. Mango appeared sad because Deborah Cox and Kristine W. ceased to over sing their fierce anthems! Dear god, what was Mango to do! The worst part, however, was that Mango's voice was now audible from where I was sitting. Ironically, Mango's drink of choice was (or is it were) Mango-tini's. For the record, I did not have one single mixed drink during this "pre-happy hour" party. I learned my lesson the last time I was there. One mixed drink at their place is really equal to about 7 and a half normal sized mixed drinks one might find at, oh, let's say, the Olive Garden.

I heard discussions of rimming, vaginas, scat, queefing, more vaginas and then I heard Mango say the following, "I do not want to turn 30. When you turn 30, your life is over!" And then I think he smacked his own sassy 28-inch waif waist ass and snapped his fingers. It got deathly quiet.

Oh really, Mango? Please remember everybody in the room was over 30, if not 40. This queen is 27. 30 is just around the corner, bitch. Luckily, I was on the other side of the room (and I was at somebody else's house) so I kept my mouth shut and tried to be somewhat respectful. However, were I at a different place, I would have snapped his skimpy li'l Flashdance leotard and said,"You LIVE in Richmond, Virginia and are a dating a far-right republican, YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD!"

Mango left soon after. Whew! People started clapping from across the street. Angels wept. Marc, Tom and Tony began square-dancing. The power came back on. The sun came back out. A mini-marching high school band passed by our block playing Celine Dion's, "A New Day Has Come." It was all very surreal but cathartic. I guess the baby jesus didn't like Mango either.

We had a wonderful dinner and met some of Tim & Donn's awesome friends. Apparently, they didn't know Mango either. He was a friend of a friend or something.

We met Tim & Donn while naked in a hot tub. You can meet some real quality people this way I am learning. We sure did. You should try it sometime.

Posted by durban bud at 8:19 AM | Comments (6)

August 15, 2005

Camp Crystal Lake

"Chu, chu, chu. Ha, ha, ha."

Went to an undisclosed location this weekend with two of my bestest friends in the world, Marla & David. Marla just purchased a "getaway" place near West Virginia. It's really nice. Apparently, it's a ski and golf resort area.

All I know is it was very hilly by her place. Reminded me of traveling to West Virginia every year as a kid. I got so sick driving those mountains. Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me want a Dramamine. It's a whole different world where my folks are from. I had to go back a few years ago for my grandmother's funeral. Some of my cousins (twice removed or something) kept referring to me as the "city boy." One of them had the audacity to say to me, "I am so glad I'm not like you." I thought, oh really, John Boy. Well, at least I have all my teeth and I don't have an affection for the Oxycontin, mmm'kay.

I'm a bad back seat driver. I'm very aware of this. I don't have a vehicle anymore so I tend to get a little emotional if I see someone about to drive us into the ditch. I do the common "huuuuuuh" sound when I see us about to crash. I did that a number of times and Marla finally turned around (resembling Regan from "The Exorcist"), "Don't fucking do that," she spewed. "You're a goddamn motherfucker. You're going to kill us all by scaring me, you piece of donkey shit. YOU ARE worse than Ann Curry ever could be. I WILL kill your pussy ass if you do that again. Satan rules." Okay, maybe she didn't say it just like that, but it seemed that way.

We stopped at a Food Lion in scary Virginia somewhere on the way there. If there ever was proof of Obesity in America, it was there. I also noticed a lot of women like to dye their hair platinum blonde and crimp it. Honey, 1982 was, like, 23 years ago, please stop playing Pac-Man and listening to Journey and move on. There are also a number of video stores around there that also serve as tanning booths. Is this normal?

Anyway, Marla's place is nowhere near the place where my parents are from. It's a wonderful place to just go and chill the fuck out. And that's what I did. We got some groceries, grilled out, drank about 37 beers and just relaxed. I needed that. It was awesome. Me and David (who is one of the few people that can make me laugh my ass off all the time) had a blast. I want to go back. Maybe you can come with me.

We were very secluded. Not used to that. It was so dark at midnight. I was kinda scared. All I could think about when I was sitting in my room alone was Jason Voorhees. If he broke through the sliding glass door, what would I do. I immediately thought I would hide under the bed. Remember that scene from Friday the 13th, Part 2 when she was under the bed and peed when she saw a rat? Yeah, well that's what I would do. I didn't picture the hockey masked Jason though. I pictured the Jason from this version. I think he is much scarier.

We also met some of Marla's neighbors. One of them resembled Paul Bunyon. He told me that he was shot twice in the head. Dear god. I thought to myself, "Holy shit. This man is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is going to be profiled on Forensic Files when he stabs the be-jesus out of me."

Whatever, I survived and there was no murderer around us (that I know of).

We had a great time. Please join me next time, if you can. I'm a good time.

Posted by durban bud at 3:15 PM | Comments (10)

August 8, 2005

Whip Smart

Went to see Liz Phair Friday night with the boys. It was an acoustic show with just she and her partner, Dino. They were phenomenal. Started with Polyester Bride. Ended with Fuck & Run. Bob is remixing one of her new songs so we went backstage after the show to say hi. I got to bug her. She was a good sport. She caught me singing (read: butchering) Whip Smart so she helped me finish the chorus. I've decided I have a huge crush on her. Please don't tell Rob. I think she is probably the only woman I could cross over to the dark side for. Again, please don't tell Rob. New CD, Somebody's Miracle, comes out October 4th. Please support my new girlfriend. And, yes, I will be her whore. I don't care.

Saturday morning we all went to the beach. AWESOME time. Met up with a bunch of people. Here's what I remember (in no particular order): warm ocean water, handstands, sun, sushi, thunderstorms, putting sunscreen on Joe, dolphins, Tim & Donn, beer, Bob waiting for us at 6pm sharp, hugs, dinner at Sole, sushi, ice cream, running out of the Sandcastle so no one would see us staying there, good times. My lips are chapped.

Love my friends. Seriously.

Oh, by the way, if you spent money on seeing a movie called, "The Dukes of Hazzard," please stop reading my blog and stay away from me. We would not get along. Thanks.

Posted by durban bud at 9:59 AM | Comments (6)

July 29, 2005

Circle Chomp

I was the unwilling participant in a circle chomp the other day at the gym. I was minding my own business working out alone in a corner when this nelly, leathery figure decided to lift his weights next to me. No problem, I thought. Then I noticed in the mirror this enormous wad of gum snapping loudly from his mouth. He was going to town on that poor thing. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Snap, snap, snap. I thought perhaps he was related to Britney Spears or maybe worked at the DC DMV.

If you want to chew gum, that's fine. But please do it in a somewhat civilized manner like, oh, I don't know, with your mouth closed. It is possible, people. Insert gum into mouth. Close mouth and chew. Continue chewing your little heart out while your mouth remains closed. I don't need to see what's in your mouth or how many fillings you have or what color the piece of cud is. Also, please remember, if you do chomp your gum like a cow you will be one flatulent motherfucker in a couple hours. Remember that, people. All that poor air you are inviting in needs to go somewhere. If you see your friend doing this you might want to avoid them later on. You've been warned.

Another man shows up with his friend and they are both chomp, chomp, chompin' away. They pick up their weights and force me into the corner even more. They were chomping AND talking. "Did you [snap] happen to see that Blowout show the other [pop] day? Gurl, that Jonathan [snap] Antin queen is [pop] such a bee-yotch!" Chomp, chomp, chomp. Ssssnap, ssssnap. "Oh my god, I hate [pop] that show. That guy is sssssuch a dicky head." [snap]

I looked around and saw yet another man chomping away. Was this a new gym policy no one had told me about? I appeared to be the only one gum-less. Then I thought I was being Punk'd but, luckily, remembered that I am not a celebrity.

I was trapped by the circle chomp. I was feeling claustrophobic. My face was getting flushed. Must remove myself from frightening situation.

I went to the gym for a nice workout and ended up in a Rice Krispies commercial starring Snap, Crackle, Pop and me. Ugh.

Posted by durban bud at 9:18 AM | Comments (8)

July 10, 2005

1994

This is not a funny story. This is not a pretty story. Most people don't know this story, not even some of my closest friends. But it is a real story. And it is mine.

I have a wonderful life: Great partner to share it with. Awesome friends. A loving family. Nice home. Life is very, very good to me. However, it has not always been this way. I hit rock bottom in 1994. And I hit it hard.

I've been analyzing a lot of my life lately. I've been talking more honestly about things that have happened to me; exploring new things I thought I would never do; I've also been looking at some of my behaviors throughout my life and trying to figure out how they might have looked from someone else's perspective. This has actually been a good thing and a cathartic thing. Not sure why it's been happening now. Maybe it's a midlife crisis; maybe I'm just getting a better perspective from experience; maybe I just need to get it out there.

I grew up like most people who tend to be somewhat sheltered; never visited any big cities; never explored different cultures; never traveled far; I went to church every Sunday; I went to bible school every Sunday; I went to vacation bible school every summer; I made jokes about gay people; and I eventually registered as a republican.

SIDENOTE: I also thought Red Lobster was a 4-star restaurant (I seriously did. I still like it, people. It's a guilty pleasure so if you want to take me, I'm game. But don't tell anyone). That was catty to say. Whatever.

We think black or we think white. Churches teach us to think this way; family members teach us to think this way; politicians teach us to think this way; we do so because that's what we only know.

My parents both come from huge, deeply religious, conservative families and have a large amount of conservative friends. Here a republican, there a republican, everywhere a re-pub-li-can. We did tons of family trips to see these people, or they were always over visiting. Most of these people were so sweet and friendly, but the way some of them talked about certain things was not so loving or sweet. I kept getting mixed messages about everything. I was confused. Some of my uncles are ministers and they would throw the "N" word around left and right. This seemed a wee bit odd to me.

Don't get me wrong; my parents were wonderful to me and are very loving and accepting people. They even had a gay friend (a quick shout out to the "Kinny"). I think it's cuz they escaped the hills of West Virginia and moved to a somewhat more progressive place. They were the exception, not the rule. However, the environment (and I'm not just talking about family life; I'm also talking about school life) I was raised in was not always that way. I was surrounded by homophobia as, I think, most sheltered people are.

I was this guy growing up in an environment that I totally did not fit into-- a square peg, if you will. I knew I was different but had no idea what to do about it.

In 1991, my hormones were raging. I was 20 so I thought it was about time I did something about my true sexuality. I was gonna see if I could secretly meet some guys for dating. This was such a taboo and dangerous thing for me to do. No one knew my secret. This caused me severe anxiety and panic attacks. I had trouble getting through class. I couldn't work. I didn't want to get out of bed. I decided I needed some serious help.

I told my mom I wanted to see a psychiatrist. Sorry, no psychologists, no social workers. I wanted the top of the heap. This was really hard for her to hear, but I assumed it was better than her hearing, "Hey Mom, I kinda like guys' butts!" The stigma attached to the word "shrink" was devastating to her because of what she was taught. This was a black and white issue and it was definitely on the negative side.

Since my mom is so amazing and always wants me to be happy she found one for me (recommended by a co-worker who had a son who was also in therapy).

I went to see him one time. And ONE time only. I explained my panic attacks. Of course, I never said the word "gay" through the whole session. Outing myself this early on would be too scary. I would be judged badly and that would be just too hard to handle. He recommended I try breathing exercises. Umm, okay. If that doesn't work then we'll try medication.

I gave the huffing and puffing a try. Hmm, this doesn't seem to be working. I tried again. Nope. Not gonna work. I called the guy back.

"Not gonna work, doc." Okay, I'll mail you a prescription. I get it in the mail the next day. Perfect. 40 milligrams of Valium a day. I get it filled and suddenly I am mellower for the next two years. I would get a month's worth and call the doc when I ran out. Next day I would get it in the mail. We had a great system.

I came out to a few close friends (first to my amazing friend Pam) and even went out to some bars.

I moved to DC in the summer of '93. I knew virtually no one. I had only a couple friends. I was such a naive, inexperienced kid from suburbia but knew that if I didn't make a big change in my life I would not live a happy life. I was close to graduating back in Rochester but threw all my credits away and started over at AU. But it was something I had to do.

I was moving to a new world where I was about to get a huge perspective change. I only had one perspective on things -- black or white. There were no gray areas except that huge gray area of my sexuality. I remember hearing how bad being gay was in church so I always thought to myself, Hmmm, I don't think I'm a bad person. I think I'm pretty good actually. Maybe some of what I'm hearing is bullshit because people think only in terms of black or white. They don't see the gray area or another perspective. Some people don't want to listen to facts or see someone else's point of view based on THEIR life experiences.

Anyway, I moved to DC and immediately got into a relationship. A very, very, bad relationship. Since I had never truly dated before I was a complete basket case. Again, so naive and inexperienced AND ignorant.

While this new relationship was happening, my 40 mg/day drug habit was about to end. Badly.

I didn't realize what a gross amount of the drug I was taking until I ran out. I called my doc on my Thanksgiving break while I was back home to refill the prescription. He said, "No." I'm like, "Why not?" "Because you live out of state and I don't feel comfortable prescribing this to you. You need to find someone down there." Umm, okay Dr. Dickhead. You've totally got me addicted and we've only had ONE session in TWO fucking years and now you want to be ethical?

40 mgs of Valium is just insane I have since learned. I remember doing a school paper on a biography of Truman Capote (much later) where in the book it said something like, He had taken 40 mgs of Valium, which to the average person you could blast a car horn in their ear and they wouldn't flinch. And I had been taking the shit for two years every single day.

Obviously, I went through severe withdrawal. I had awful shaking, sweating, crying. I wanted to die. Feelings of hopelessness. The works. I had it all.

I went to a school counselor (cuz it was free) during one of my less than happy days and told her I was having suicidal thoughts. I told her I was gay but not out to my family and a lot of other friends. Only my close friends knew. She told me I should speak to someone who is gay. Thanks, lady. I left.

Now I'm no expert on school counselors but if a student is talking about ending their life, you might want to, oh, I don't know, call them later to see how they are doing. I got nothing. Bitch.

I spoke to my primary physician in DC to see if he could recommend a shrink in DC. My insurance did not cover "mental illnesses" so I was very reluctant to go to one. Even though it was life or death. He referred me to someone. Somehow I found some money and went to see him.

Keep in mind, at this point, I still did not know that the drug I was taking every single day was a huge amount. However, he did know after I spoke with him. I was heavily addicted. He also mentioned the gross negligence on my doctor's part back home.

How wonderful I thought. I go on a drug to help me deal with one problem (my dirty little secret) and now I have TWO fucking problems. He put me on some new anti-depressant to counter the awful feelings I was experiencing. It was none of the popular drugs we see advertised all the time now. Some weird name. I was to take four pills a day for the next few months. It would take about two months for me to start feeling better. Great, two whole months before I feel better. Tick. Tock. This new shrink actually seemed to care though. He gave me his card and deliberately wrote an emergency number on the back.

I was already on a downward spiral. I didn't seem to care or really take notice. If I missed a dose, I would double it up. I also continued the extremely toxic relationship. I couldn't speak to my parents about it because they didn't know my deal. It was a very, very, very, very lonely time.

January 14, 1994 is a bit hazy but it did happen. I woke up that morning and had sex with my ex on his twin bed we both slept in. Well, I wouldn't really call it sex. It involved him dry humping my leg to ejaculation. I know what you're thinking. Ew. So am I. In fact, I want to barf. He then would look down on me as if to say, "Do I really have to finish you off now that I'm done?" I looked at him and said, "Don't worry about me." He hopped up and went to take a shower. I got up too as I had to leave for school. It was a few metro stops away and a shuttle bus ride.

I got on the metro. The metro stop for AU was coming up. The metro stopped at the station. I did not get off. I don't know why. I don't recall having ANY other thoughts. I felt okay. I lived at the next metro stop in Friendship Heights. I went home.

My apartment in Friendship Heights was such a shit hole. I lived in a basement studio apartment. It was awful. Very dark. Full of bugs. Antique appliances. Brady Bunch colors. But it was cheap and close to school so I lived there.

I went into my apartment and grabbed my full container of anti-depressants (oh, the irony) and got a glass of water. I had a full bottle of Jim Beam on the counter and I thought about using that instead. I stared at it for awhile and decided against it. I used the water. I also got out my shrink's business card with the emergency number on the back.

The rest is a bit hazy. But I realized I had done something so fucking stupid.

I called my only real close friend in DC at the time, Cristina. She was so good to me. She was/is an angel. If anyone knew what I was going through at that time, it was her. She saw things firsthand. Whenever my ex and I would go through one of our 20 breakups within the eight months we dated she was there for me. I would call her at 2 am to explain the latest breakup and she would cab over in the middle of the night and just hold me on my bed while I cried like a baby. I love this woman so much for all she did for me. I still talk to her. I don't get to see her much anymore but we share an unconditional love and bond I will never forget.

Anyway, she picked up the phone and I just said, "Something's wrong" and hung up. I immediately dialed the emergency number on the back of the doctor's card. That's all I remember.

My poor parents had been notified by phone that I was in the hospital. My parents got in their car and drove 7 hours to see me. My mom would stop at a gas station pay phone to check on my status. She asked them, "Is he going to make it?" The doctor told her, "It's too soon to tell." They finally arrived to see their son lying in a hospital bed filled with tubes and wires surrounded by 6 doctors and nurses trying to save his life.

I woke up in the hospital the next day. My ex was there. And my ex's roommates (one of them being Cristina). They explained to me that I had been on life support. The surgeon told my parents she had never seen someone recover from something like this. She worked so hard to save my life and did. And I am so grateful.

SIDENOTE: The doctor also said they found large amounts of Ibuprofen in my system. So I guess I grabbed a bunch of those while inhaling the other bottle. Guess I really wanted to finish the job. Sarcasm, people.

The hospital would not release me until they felt I was no longer a danger to myself. They assigned me to a shrink on staff and put me "upstairs" with the other loons. I was mortified. The people up there had severe mental problems. Psychotic problems. Schizophrenia. Hurting Others. It was terrifying. I thought, I'm not like these people. I'm just, like, gay and anxious about it. Please release me.

I had to attend group therapy and I recall some psychotic woman (I think she had a "shit throwing at other people" problem) telling me that I have a chip on my shoulder cuz I wasn't very friendly to the others. The nerve. I told her, "Look, Sybil. I don't belong here. I am fine now. I did something very stupid but I will get better if I get out of this hell hole so shut up. Someone please sedate her." Hospitals should have purgatory-like places for people in my condition to go to rather than the hell that is the loonie bin. I realize that is insensitive. You stay there for a week and then tell me I am insensitive. It was making me feel worse.

My new shrink was really good to me. My ex was really good to me as well. The sick thing is this was the only time we were so close. He genuinely seemed to care (at least in front of me) and I thank him for that. Because he was around so much and affectionate, people knew we were together.

The new doc knew this "area" of my life was part of my downward spiral and anxiety and, more importantly, my cry for help. He told me I had to come out to my parents. So I did. From my hospital bed. They were wonderful as usual. And, of course, told me they already knew. My dad said, "Are you sure you're not bi?" Only in his southern accent it sounded more like, "Are you sure you're not bah?" I'm sure this was his one glimmer of hope. I said, "Sorry, Dad. No."

I'm sure this news was devastating to my parents. They took it very well in front of me and I love them for that. The guilt I felt for putting my family and friends through this ordeal could have led me back to the hospital but I knew I had to move on if I was ever going to get better.

I was released from hell a couple days later. I continued my toxic relationship for a few more months and finally broke it off.

Coming out to my family was the healthiest thing that came from this. In some sick way, maybe this was meant to happen. It was a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I do realize, however, that my parents' reaction is far from what most gay people get in return.

I'm not proud of what happened at all and take full responsibility for my actions. I do think though that it happened for some reason (and I'm really not a superstitious person at all). It's just too weird. I also think that my story is not all that uncommon. I just think those people are not around anymore to speak about what happened.

I was at rock bottom and turned my life completely around. Will there be bumps once in a while? Sure. Have there been? Absolutely. But I can handle them better.

Now all you scientologists out there don't get a woody from what I've written. As I've said before, there are some bad doctors out there BUT, more importantly, there are very good doctors who are responsible with prescriptions and help save lives. I wouldn't be here today without their help.

Oh yeah, I'm also no longer a registered republican. I'm a registered independent so I can see all perspectives of an issue -- black, white, and even gray.

Posted by durban bud at 7:14 AM | Comments (14)

June 25, 2005

Disease of the Seas

I'm going on a gay cruise. There, I said it. And I can't wait. I need a vacation. I always say that but I really NEED one especially after my last one. And I'm not just talking about long weekends somewhere or a week spent with family. That to me is not a real vacation (especially if there are babies involved). A real vacation is spent with friends or lovers, lasts at least two full weeks and involves NO drama whatsoever.

Now I know what you're thinking, a boat full of gay men is going to involve lots of drama. I'm sure there will be drama but it will not involve me. No, sir. No way. Been there, done that. Nope. I will have no part of it. This is not a circuit party event for me. I know there will be that element there but I will read a book, hang out in the water, enjoy a meal with friends, meet new people, play ping-pong with muscle bears, chill out and relax, enjoy new places and have hot sex with the wife my partner. That's all I want.

I've never wanted to go on a cruise. Just never appealed to me. However, when I heard there was a cruise going to TWO places I've always wanted to go AND lasts TWO weeks, I knew I had to kill two birds with one stone. By the way, that's a terrible expression.

I took a mini "vacation" back in March to San Francisco. We have some friends there and Rob had a conference so I hitched a ride. We try to go at least once a year cuz we do love it there. I also realize the weather is hit or miss. It was definitely a miss this time around.

We get there late one night and check into our hotel. I wake up at 3 in the morning to the sounds of severe nausea. Apparently, Rob has contracted some stomach bug or food poisoning or tape worm or demon possession or something. Welcome to San Francisco! He is a wreck. This occurs every 20 minutes for the next 12 hours.

Luckily, Rob starts feeling better the next day so he joins us while we continue to walk around in the cold rain. We went out to dinner with our friends, Matty and Michael who are terrific (and have a beautiful place there). We also got to attend a party by the infamous Todd and we got to play with the beagle. It was worth the price of admission just to spend time with those guys.

The last evening there we went out to dinner to a place called "Home" but a more appropriate name would be "Outhouse." They seat us in this large room and then it hits all of us at once. The wonderful smell of feces. We ask the waiter what the deal is. He tells us that a sewer line has broken and they are "working on it." Ew, okay. Can I have my chicken pot pie to go, please? Thank you.

Rob and I head back to the hotel and pack for our early departure at 6am. Then. At 3am I awoke to an unpleasant feeling. Bye-bye, pot pie! I realize I have picked up whatever Rob had at the beginning of our "vacation." Every 20 minutes. I am terrified. How the hell am I gonna fly home today? Rob could barely move when he had this illness. Now I have to go the freakin' airport and interact with humans. Calgon, take me away!

I suck it up and do my best to get through it. I just wanted to be home in bed with my blanky and pacifier.

We inform the flight crew of my dilemma. The head flight attendant asks me, "Are you really sick or just hungover?" What did you say, you insensitive slut? I wanted to throw my flask of gin at her head. Instead, I said, "I'm really sick." She asks if I think I am able to make it through the flight. I told her I thought I could. Actually, I didn't know but the thought of having to reschedule my long trip home would make me puke even more. "Well, I hope so cuz we don't want to have to divert the plane cuz of you," she said in a snotty tone. Then I added, "It's worse than having a Manhattan Furball." She said, "Huh?" I said, "Nevermind. Long story."

She gets me a ginger ale and a "sick sack." I guess that's a more pleasant way of saying barf bag. I never ever thought I would be one of those people that has to use them. She then hands me a Hefty trash bag. I am humiliated. I am seated in the middle of the plane. I look like death and I am holding a sick sack and a Hefty trash bag and I am shivering while wearing a sweater and winter coat. How'd ya like to be my neighbor on that flight? I pictured that scene from "Stand By Me" when there was a domino effect of vomiting. That would have been kinda funny actually.

I tried so hard to hold it together. I really did. But. As soon as the plane took off, I put to use that sick sack AND Hefty trash bag.

At that point, the flight crew knew I meant serious business. I even handed the insensitive slut crew member my Hefty bag of pot pie remains just to spite her. She declined and added, "Please deposit it in the bathroom." "Okay," I smiled.

They cleared the back row for me. That was nice of them. However, the rear seats do not recline. I literally looked like a propped up corpse. At least I was close to the bathroom. The odd thing is this whole event happened very discretely, believe it or not. Very few people noticed. I'm a pretty good patient.

It was a really weird bug because it was so well-timed and only involved yacking my guts out (thank god). Because Rob had the same exact symptoms we knew it would last a total of 12 hours. We were only on hour number 5 of my version of the illness and we had a layover in Denver. Wonderful.

I remember sitting there in my state of rigor mortis thinking that I did not feel particularly relaxed from this li'l vacation.

So I will really enjoy my next longer vacation. Rain or shine. The Disease of the Seas will be taking off at the end of August. I'm looking forward to it!

Posted by durban bud at 3:30 PM | Comments (5)

June 15, 2005

Manhattan Furball

A few months ago I invited Randy and "Herbie" over to watch a movie. We went to Health Bar right down the street to order some takeout beforehand. I go to Health Bar a lot. It usually takes about 20 minutes before the meal is ready to go. I realize that is a long time to wait, but I am used to it and accept it.

We went in and placed our orders. It was around 7pm on a Saturday night and was quite crowded. Since we had to wait, I suggested having a drink. I asked the bartender what kind of beer they had on tap. Before the man could finish telling me, Randy pipes in, "I'll have a Manhattan." Randy is one of those sweet-natured, friendly, well-mannered, church-going type of guys so his choice of beverage surprised me. I picture old, slutty, Laura Bush-like women as their primary audience. Randy asks if I want one. Always willing to sample new cocktails, I said, "Sure." He asked Herbie. Herbie, clearly annoyed that we had to wait for our meals, gave a sassy, "I'm not drinking." Whatever.

The bartender finished making them and handed them to us. I took a sip and realized that a Manhattan is really just legal moonshine. My stomach began to burn. Within seconds of taking a sip, a waiter informs us that our meals are ready to go. This would have to happen. The first time EVER they make our meals quickly, and we have ordered a foo-foo-shee-shee drink that takes about an hour to finish. Since Herbie wasn't drinking, I felt an obligation to hurry up. Plus, he kept giving me that "let's go now" glare. Only in his midwestern accent, it sounded more like, "Let's go knee-oww."

I told Randy we needed to finish them quickly. Randy took a big sip and got real quiet. Suddenly, a large cough erupted from his little body. He began to gag. Cough, cough. Snort, snort. Gurgle, gurgle. Sounds were coming out of his mouth that I had never heard before. I kept thinking, how did Randy get a furball stuck in his throat. He kept coughing. And. Then. The whiskey drink started spurting out of his mouth. I was waiting for the alien to explode out of his stomach. The bartender, who looks completely mortified, starts handing Randy baby napkins. Randy wipes his mouth while continuing to dry heave all over the bar. It gets worse. A frothy like whiskey mixture began to drip out of his nose. It was as if his nasal cavity had converted the Manhattan into a Whiskey Sour.

Herbie and I didn't know what to do so we kept patting him on the back as if to say, "Good puppy dog." Should we give him the Heimlich? I don't know. You give him the Heimlich. No, you give him the Heimlich. I'm not gonna give him the Heimlich. You give him the Heimlich. He wasn't turning blue yet so that was a good sign. In between dry heaves, he would chortle, "I'm cough cough gag gag okay." Herbie, remember, is already annoyed because we ordered a drink. Now he's even more annoyed because Randy is coughing up a furball, and creating a major scene in the restaurant.

A man sitting directly behind us puts his fork down from his meal, and looks like he might vomit. A young girl begins to weep. Her mother takes her away. People start leaving the restaurant. It all happened in slow motion.

Luckily, Randy's coughing becomes intermittent, and is no longer dripping from his nose. The furball has been expunged and he is okay.

We can joke about it now. But the damage was already done. Randy coughed up a Manhattan furball and ruined several people's meals.

I ran into Randy last night. I mentioned that we had a good picture of him from the Pride parade. He joked that I should put it on my blog. Good idea. But I have to include the furball incident too.

Good times.

Posted by durban bud at 11:45 AM | Comments (5)

June 9, 2005

Hold My Hand Day

So this weekend is Gay Pride here in DC or, as Rob likes to call it, the One Day Out of the Year That He Will Hold My Hand in Public Day. I'm just not a big hand holder. I think it goes along with my fear of being held down. I just don't like not being able to move about freely. I would make a terrible Siamese Twin. Okay, maybe that's a lame excuse. Maybe I'm really afraid of some truck driver from Laurel throwing a rock at me. I don't know. Just not big on the PDA (unless, of course, someone serves me some blue "kool-aid." Then I will most likely make love to you in front of everyone).

I do hold his hand from time to time. It's just kinda rare (like spotting Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. You may need a picture to prove it). Doesn't mean I'm not affectionate. I am. Just not in public so much. I'm a teddy bear behind closed doors. ;-)

Of course, when we first started dating I would hold his hand. That adreneline rush numbs any inhibitions. I think a lot of people do this initially to say to their friends and neighbors, "Look what I bagged. Not bad, huh?"

We all get giddy in the beginning of a budding romance. Sometimes too giddy (yeah, I'm talking to you, Mr. Cruise). It is a great feeling though when you really like someone and your excited and nervous to be around them and you have no idea what the future holds.

I met Rob about a year before we started dating. He was a co-worker of the anti-christ a guy that I was dating at the time. Rob was also in a relationship. With a woman! Stop laughing. No really, stop. Shortly thereafter, Rob came out of the closet. I remember thinking, "Wow, he's really cute and seems very nice. I wish I could show him the ropes of the gay world (like I was any expert) instead of Satan my boyfriend." Not that my ex was a bad person 666 is the number of the beast, I just felt that he might make the gay world look slightly less appealing. Luckily, we broke up. Ugh, that was a bad time and really bad year.

I was talking to my shrink and he asked me to define my ideal "type" of guy. I said, "Rob." He asked, "Well, why don't you ask him out?" And I explained, "That would be impossible because he works with Lucifer my ex." He basically told me that was a silly excuse because we were no longer together. It didn't matter. I was too shy to do anything about it anyway. Plus, I found out Rob was dating someone.

That summer, I went to Amsterdam for school. (You can read all about that wild excursion in my Hash Pipe entry). When I returned, I ran into Rob at some bar. We spoke for a long time. He was telling me that he had just spent a lot of time in Amsterdam and his Dutch friend was coming into town to stay with him for a few weeks. Odd timing. He also told me that he was single again.

About a week later, I saw Rob, his Dutch friend Bas, and another friend walking down the street. I was walking back from getting my hair cut and looked fabulous! Good timing. They asked where I was going to be later. I told them I would be at my usual hang out and they should stop by later.

It was a restaurant/bar on 17th Street where you could usually find me sitting at the bar. I was very friendly with the bartender. Straight guy too. Very cute. I used to make mix tapes and he would always play them and give me free beer. Now that I think about it, I was like the gay Norm. Yikes. Anyway, it wasn't necessarily a gay bar but since it was on 17th Street it got quite a bit of traffic from the homosexuals.

About 11:30 that night, I got a visit from Rob and his 2 friends at the bar. I was so excited and surprised. I started bubbling in my panties. They pulled up a stool and we shot the shit for awhile. Rob excused himself to the bathroom and I asked his friend if he thought Rob might be interested in "joining me for coffee." Isn't that what everyone says? His friend gave me this look like, "Ohh, yeah" and he started to shake his head up and down. Score!

Rob came back and I made my move. "Would you like to join me for a spot o' tea or perhaps a quick shag?" I said in a British accent. Okay, I didn't really say that but it was something like that except for the shag part. He said, "Yes." Double score!

We exchanged numbers and Rob walked me back to my apartment. We went inside and just talked for about 20 more minutes. Seriously, that's all we did. It was about 3:00 am so I walked him outside and gave him a quick little peck and said goodbye. I watched him walk away until I couldn't see him anymore. I had this enormous feeling of giddiness. Then I realized I made a huge mistake.

I turned around and grabbed the front door handle. It was locked. Fuckin' A. It was 3 in the morning. I had no shoes on. There was no way I could get back in. The only other people with a key were the family upstairs and there was no way I was going to scare the shit out of them at 3 in the morning. I had already done that a few weeks earlier but that's a whole other story. I couldn't walk anywhere without shoes. Well, I probably could but I didn't want to start any stories about this night-time Jesus prowling the DC streets. Everything was closed anyway.

It didn't matter though. I was so happy. And exhilarated. Nothing could make me lose this feeling. I took a deep breath and laid down on the walkway by my apartment. Nothing else I could do. It was shaded by some bushes so no one could see me. I curled up in a ball and rested my head on the grass and fell asleep. I slept so well that night. And have ever since.*

So this weekend, the most joyous of all gay holidays, I will hold my little butt muffin's partner's hand proudly. And I will take a picture to prove it.

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*Sometimes I do need an Ambien or two.

Posted by durban bud at 3:47 PM | Comments (10)

June 5, 2005

Whorehouse

We moved into a new condo two years ago and had (pretty much) the entire place renovated or updated except for the bedroom. That was a mistake. It is now starting to bother us a lot. With the exception of the bed all the "furniture" is old (mostly stuff we acquired during our high school/college years). My nightstand is a makeshift stacking table and Rob's is some plastic Ikea storage thing. We desperately need new ones. Actually, we desperately need our bedroom completely renovated. It is disgusting. If Candice Olsen is reading this, please call.

We heard that a new furniture store opened up in the area and was having a sale. Out of respect for the store I won't mention their name but I will give you a hint. It rhymes with whorehouse. We had shopped at whorehouse before and bought a couch. It was okay even though all the cushions became flat after one year. Maybe I was eating too much Chinese food or drinking too much beer. I don't know. I complained and they replaced the cushions. That was nice of them. The new ones became flat after 6 months. My warranty had run out. At that point we didn't care anymore. We would just sit on the floor or the chair and let our guests sit on the couch until we could afford a new couch. It was fun to watch them wiggle in their seats after about 10 minutes. If we really didn't care for the person we would invite them over to watch "Dances With Wolves" or "Schindler's List."

Despite that experience we decided to check out their nightstands. After all, they were having a sale. The store was beautiful. The furniture was gorgeous. We spotted a nightstand we liked. A pleasant man came over to us and asked if he could help. We said the typical, "Thanks, we're just looking." He said "Well jusssssst let me know if you need anything" and then I thought he said "Toodles."

The nightstands we liked were about $30 off each. We weighed the pros and cons and decided to get just one cuz we're cheap bastards. We alerted the pleasant man (who we shall call Mr. Potato Head). Mr. Potato Head said "Sssssuper, would you like to have it delivered or would you like to pick it up at our warehouse in Laurel?" A sudden chill came over me. I used to work in Laurel. Laurel is about a 30 minute drive into hell. I said, "We would like it delivered." He said, "Okay, there will be $90 flat fee for delivery." Huh. There must be a mistake. He must think I said we want the bed and that we live in Florida. "Ummmm, we just live 8 blocks from the store, can we pick it up here?" "No. You need to pick up furniture at our warehousssssse in Laurel." Another chill. Please stop saying that word. He disappeared to his computer for a moment.

Mr. Potato Head comes back and says, "We are actually out of sssstock of that particular model. We should be getting sssssome more in ssssstock in about a month. I would advissse you to purchassse now caussse there is a long waiting lisssst and you want to make sure you don't lossssse out."

Okay, ssssssso let me get this straight. I could purchase the nightstand that is $30 off. Pay a $90 delivery fee even though I live down the street or drive all the way to Hell on Earth, Maryland to pick it up. I could pay for it today, get put on a waiting list and maybe get one in a month. Sounds like a sssssssuper deal! Sssssign me up!

We said, "I think we'll pass." I was waiting for Mr. Potato Head to try to appease us so he wouldn't lose a sale but he just walked away. Whatever. We left.

Whorehouse does have some nice things. So does Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma and Mikasa. We've decided that we will have a party for our upcoming gay anniversary and "register" at these places so we can get all new things for our bedroom. So all you married muthafuckas who got the chance to register start saving your pennies. It's payback time!

Posted by durban bud at 5:31 PM | Comments (7)

May 31, 2005

I Heart Ira

Rob and I don't usually go out and "par-tay" anymore. We went through our clubbing phase and what-not years ago. It was a fun time but it got old after awhile. Plus, it definitely takes its toll on the body. On weekends you can usually find the two of us at home, watching HGTV (not my choice but Rob won't watch 'Forensic Files' or as he calls them "death shows"), grooming each other's chest hair and going to bed by 9:00pm. This past holiday weekend we let loose at the beach like we were the Hilton Sisters or Tommy Lee or Lindsay Lohan or Todd Elmer. Luckily, we do not do this on a regular basis.

Saturday morning Rob and I realized we forgot to pack underwear. Great. We thought it was a good idea to buy some so as not to scare the kids. We go to one of those nice fancy-schmancy gay clothing stores. Rob buys a shirt. I get a baseball cap (of course) and we pick up a pair of boxer-briefs. It was a brand I had never heard of but I figure they're all the same. Get home. Shower. Put on my new pair of pretentious panties and realize they are awfully skimpy and...uh...tight. I'm not a fan of briefs and these kind of resembled them. Whatever. Nothing I can do. No one will see them anyway.

I noticed some sort of string with a loop attached to it in the front part inside the underwear. Hmmmm. What could this possibly be for? I thought maybe it was to hold your penis down if you wanted it to lay a particular way. I don't know. I'm not very bright. I show it to Rob who is suddenly an expert on naughtiness and he's like, "That's a cock ring." What? You've got to be kidding me. Rob informs me that guys like to use it so it makes their package look bigger. Wha-wha-what? Oh my god. I vomited. You mean I bought stripper underwear? Indeed, I had. Ew.

Ira insisted on going to some "White Party" that night. Rob and I refused to go. He bought some fancy white clothes just for the event. I took a picture of him before he went which you can see below. You can also listen to Ira's welcome message.

Sunday we all went to the beach. Hung out there for a few hours. Gorgeous weather. Tons of people.

The night before we were given an invite to a Bear-like house party tea dance thingie. I thought, wow this has got to be interesting and dangerous. We all decided to go (me, Rob, Shawn, and Ricardo Montalban Ira).

We arrive. The house was huge and beautiful. Everyone is very friendly. People are scantily clad. Oh no. They are serving kool-aid like drinks. Oh no again. Like Maya Angelou always says, "When someone tells you to beware of the blue colored kool-aid drink cause it's very potent, believe them...the first time."

Two hours later we are naked in a hot tub. Dear god. I look around and realize I'm in the movie "Caligula." Oh no. Time to go.

We left and went to some bar (cuz apparently we had to have more to drink). Had a good time. Went back to the house and I tried to get Bob to perform Cher's "The Shoop Shoop Song" accapella but he refused. It would have been so punk rock. I would have even played the triangle but he still said no. Whatever. Next time. Buy his CD here. In fact, buy two.

Ira took some pictures at the party. Apparently, I like to kiss people when I am photographed. This is also evident in the first picture on my "About" page. Not sure why. I realize I kiss too much. I will work on this. I may post some of these pictures from the tea dance but there are some I can't for legal reasons. ;-)

For some reason Ira took about 20 pictures of me and the infamous Clickboo (who I finally met). Nothing scandalous. Normal pictures. Good guy.

It was a wonderful weekend with wonderful people and I cannot wait to go back. Ira is a gracious host and I love him. And next time I will not forget my underwear.

Click here to listen to Ira's welcome message (this is a wav file. doesn't always work, sorry. bad recording. piece of shit).

Posted by durban bud at 8:41 AM | Comments (11)

May 23, 2005

Rest In Peace, Oh Little Clarice

If you are unaware of li'l Clarice please read this post first.

The word is now out. I am the worst baby mama ever. Well, maybe not as bad as Susan Smith or Andrea Yates or Jessica & Ashlee Simpson's mom but I am up there. Little Clarice died while in my care.

We became aware of Clarice's existence in our patio on Tuesday evening. We left her alone for two days so the mom could help her out and let nature take its course. We also did some online research about caring for a baby starling. I would like to inform Ms. Bonner that soggy dog food is recommended as a good food source for fledgling starlings. Look it up, beeeee-yotch. We also read that if the mom does not show up for 2 hours then we should help it out. We did.

It began to rain a little on Thursday evening so we transformed a long plastic container into a little temporary shelter for Clarice out on the patio. We turned the container on its side, put a few towels in it, and a little cup of water and propped the lid against it so she/he/it would not get wet. If it wanted to get out it could easily just walk out.

The next morning she was fine. We fed her. She seemed happy and chipper and was even humming the lyrics to "All By Myself" (the Celine Dion version). It was pouring rain and blowing wind so I moved the container into my office (right by the door). She sat on a towel and was content. She would have easily died in the bad weather. There were only 2 times when she jumped out of her little home. Each time she would make a running dart for me at my desk. I would yell (as if she were a dog), "Get back there! Giiiiiiit back there!" She would tilt her head to the side, not understanding what I was saying. I would get up, walk towards the door and Clarice would follow me. Once we got to the door she looked up at me and opened her beak. I fed her and put her back in the container. She was very quiet and polite while I was working. She became my administrative assistant for the day. No pay, just benefits. We had a bond.

The rain stopped and it was getting later in the evening. Rob and I decided to put her back in the container and leave her with "nature." We put her on the towel and watched as she turned her head around to fall asleep. We checked on her again before we went to bed around 11:00pm. She still had her head turned. She was sleeping. She looked peaceful.

At 6:12 in the morning I woke and looked at the clock. I thought, cool, I have 2 more hours to sleep. I noticed Rob was up. I assumed he went to the bathroom. He came back to bed, put his head on my shoulder and said, "Clarice died." I was like, "Wha-wha-what! What do you mean???? How???" I was up for the day now. He said, "I don't know. It got really cold last night." Suddenly, I became the Indian from that old commercial where he is overlooking the highway of pollution on his horse. I looked at the camera and a big tear just rolled down my cheek. I couldn't help it. I felt a lump in my throat. I tried to control it. I pretended it was 1989 and I was watching Steel Magnolias during my straight years. Lump in the throat. Just keep your composure. Keep your composure. No tears. Stop it. Keep your composure. Think of economics. Think of church. Think of vaginas. Just don't let Sally Field make you cry like a girl. If you let a tear out, they will think you are a sentimental pussy. Then I realized it was 2005. Fuck it. I am a sentimental pussy. I'm not in the closet anymore. What am I thinking. Ball like a baby if you want. So I did. Over a pathetic wild bird I had only known for 4 days. But if you had known her you would have seen how frickin' cute and funny she/he/it was.

I refuse to believe that leaving her outside in the cold caused her death. She had all her feathers. She was a wild bird. However, had we known it was going to get so cold that night we would have left her inside. She obviously had something else wrong with her. I always thought that. That's why she became so weak. The mother probably knew this and left. I mean the bird was much more active the first 2 days. She would at least attempt to fly. Now she just wanted to eat, run after me and sit there.

She was found dead at the other end of the container. If it was too cold, I think she would have walked out of the container to try and find comfort somewhere else.

My intention was to get this bird back to health and have it fly away and come back for occasional visits with its other starling friends to say "Hey, what's up, guys." And then say to its other starling peeps, "Check out these cool gay guys that saved my life."

I realize her death is the best thing because I would not want the responsiblity for caring for it. We are going away this weekend. Who would look in on it? I mean, c'mon. Let's be real.

I received an email from some guy who said I should be happy it's dead because the birds are not native to our country and only cause problems to native birds and should all be destroyed anyway. I asked him if he was a Native American. He said no. I replied that perhaps he, too, should be killed then. No response. Whatever. This foreign bird came into MY world. I can do what I want. If you want to kill it, that's your sad business.

We buried her under the hosta where she originally took refuge from us. We put a stone and flower where she now lays.

Sometimes I think I'm just way too empathetic. I wish I could control this and just become an uncaring, mean-spirited, ignorant prick. How does one go about this? There must be a pill for this ailment. Do I start reading Ann Coulter books? Do I become a religious fundamentalist? Do I start supporting this particlular president?

Nah. I'd rather cry over a silly fuckin' bird.

Clarice's grave (by the yellow flowers). In lieu of flowers, please send durban bud some money. That will help ease the pain. Thanks.

Posted by durban bud at 7:40 AM | Comments (5)

May 20, 2005

I Am a Baby Mama

The other evening Rob and I went out to the patio to grill some Italian sausages (insert tired lame joke here). As we walked out I heard a bird flapping its wings loudly as it took off. I then heard something I've never heard before come from Rob. In the most delicate of voices he said, "Ohhhhhh, it's a little baby bird. Must have fallen from its nest." It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it. I knew I had heard that voice before but couldn't immediately place it. Then it hit me. It was Michael frickin' Jackson. Rob had somehow channeled him. I was frightened. I was waiting for him to say, "Sharing your bed with a little baby bird is the most wonderful thing you can do" or even "You mean you don't like to climb trees?" Luckily, he went back to his normal voice once we assessed the situation.

A baby bird had somehow fallen into our patio. Our patio is the perfect place for any injured bird to land. Please do not let this get around. The walls are high enough to offer protection but it is also open so other birds can come play/talk/console it. We had heard the weather was really windy last weekend so we assume that's when it happened.

As Rob and I walked out, the mother bird was trying to feed the baby. We scared her away. The baby began flapping about trying to fly. It could only get up about a foot high and then fall back down. It made it up onto our flower bed and took refuge under one of Rob's hosta plants.

We were concerned the mother would not come back so we sat there and waited. She finally did come back with some food in her mouth but she could not find the baby. Rob and I are watching this whole drama unfold through the sliding glass door as if we were watching a horror flick at a ghetto movie theater. We were yelling at the screen, "She's over there under the plant! Go get her!! What are you, stupid???? She's right there. Dumb bitch!!!" After about 5 minutes of looking around the mother flew away.

We would check back every few minutes to see if the mom had returned. No such luck. Rob (channeling a slightly more masculine MJ) said, "Oh, no. What if the mother doesn't return?" I told him I was sure the mother would return and to take an Ativan.

It was getting dark. Rob took out some ham and crackers and a little blanket for the poor thing. He did some research online and discovered the bird is a starling. We have since named it Clarice.

The next morning we found Clarice nowhere near the blanket and Rob had realized that he had, instead, fed a whole army of ants. Great.

To our amazement, the mom returned. We watched her feed her chick on a number of visits. It appeared she was trying to get the baby to fly. The baby was obviously injured from its earlier plummet into our world so it couldn't keep up.

Yesterday morning, the mom made its last visit. She made some squawking noises and took off, leaving the poor baby all alone. What a bitch.

I hate birds. They are filthy and disgusting and I have no use for them unless they are on my dinner plate. I got suckered into its pathetic life and now feel bad for it. I was watching it move around the patio and it kept looking up, sometimes chirping. You knew it was looking for its mom saying something like, "I can change mom. Please come back. I promise I'll be better. Praise Jesus."

Clarice seemed more and more weak as the day progressed. I was eating lunch staring at it just sitting there. I felt a calling. It looked hungry. I had to try and help. I took a little piece of chicken (oh, the irony) and went to it.

Clarice did not move away from me. She knew I was its only savior. I held the piece of chicken over its beak, waving it back and forth. Suddenly, its beak opened. It scared the hell out of me. It looked/seemed very vaginalistic. I don't know what that means either but it seemed that way. I dropped the food towards its sharp bird mouth. I missed. Damn. I tried again. Missed. Shit, I'm not good at this. The bird kept its beak open while I was fumbling around. I could tell the bird was thinking, "Dude, this really isn't that difficult. Just stick the fucking piece of chicken in my mouth and be done with it." That made it worse. My hands started to shake. I was embarrassed. Finally, success. It swallowed the whole thing.

I realized that it also needed hydration so I soaked some dog food (which was left over from a previous "Save the Animal" experience) in water and began feeding it. Clarice now loves the Alpo.

As soon as we open the patio door now, Clarice runs over to us. I am now a baby mama. The bird has imprinted that it is one of us and I am its mommy. It even lets us pet it. It comes when we call it. This is all very odd to me.

I want it to learn how to fly and move out of our place. I don't need this responsibility. Barbecues will never be the same if we have our own feathered Kato Kaelin joining us each time. We read that starlings can live to be 20. That won't be happening here.

Update: Clarice passes on.

View pics of Clarice here.
View Baby Mama lyrics here.

Posted by durban bud at 8:26 AM | Comments (3)

May 18, 2005

Hash Pipe

Wanna hear somethin' funny? I studied for a summer in Amsterdam and got college credit for it. AU offered a study abroad program through the University of Amsterdam called "Sexuality & Culture in Society." Are you still laughing?

I was walking aimlessly around campus one day, and saw this little brochure posted to a wall that mentioned the program. I thought, hmmmm, I could go to Europe for the first time (more importantly, Amsterdam), get credits towards my degree AND have my parents PAY for it? Where do I sign up!?!

I scheduled an appointment with the head of the anthropology department (who the program was really meant for) to express my interest. He was a nice guy. I knew he was gay so I tried to work it (so I put my thang down, flip it and reverse it). He made sure to mention that if my motives to attend were for fucking and getting high (his exact words) that I should just forget it; this was serious study. Of course, sir. I wouldn't think otherwise. I found out later (after we became friends and went to leather bars together) that he thought I was some obnoxious frat boy. I could understand the obnoxious part but a frat boy! That's funny. Must be those baseball caps I'm always wearing. Men who wear baseball caps are routinely misjudged. I'm gonna start an awareness organization. Anyway, I had to apply to get into the program. I did and a few weeks later got my acceptance notice.

It was kind of a scary experience for me once it sunk in that I was going. I had never been to Europe. I didn't know a single person in the program. I didn't speak a foreign language. I had no idea what to expect.

The whole drug thing wasn't a big lure for me. I really wasn't that into pot. I always ended up coughing my brains out. I couldn't figure out what the big deal was. I also still kinda felt the stigma of drugs as a big no-no. I used to be very anti-drug (stop laughing).

Fast forward, I get there, take the tram to my temporary apartment, meet the professors, meet the students, get my class silly-bus and let the games begin.

I felt kinda weird though; I was not an anthropology major and most of these people were graduate students, so I got a few "what does HE think he is doing here" stares. I was surprised there were only about 25 students in the whole program. They were also mostly from different schools (only a few of us were from AU) but it was nice to see some foreign students in the program as well.

It was crazy fun though. We did tons of field trips (sex change clinics, condom stores, gay history tours, etc) and heard from some of the most unique people (sex workers, transsexuals, women who refer to themselves as "boys," etc).

Some of the difficult class assignments involved comparing and contrasting sex shops. A couple classmates and I took our notebooks to the Red Light District to do some serious research. It was very interesting; this store has a lot of scat videos; this one does not. This one has a lot of woman on dog videos; this one does not. This one has sounds; so does this one!

Each school day would usually close with a party involving lots of beer. I remember stumbling through the streets of Amsterdam with a straight Italian guy that I had somehow met, who did not speak a word of English. We played pool and just drank all night long.

I didn't smoke much pot but I did (like so many of the tourists) eat the space cakes. I did this mainly to avoid all the coughing. They have since banned space cakes because too many foreigners (read: Americans) were getting really sick on them. Eating marijuana can be somewhat potent to delicate tummies.

Me and this guy Andy also tried mushrooms one sunny day. We went to some pizza place, ate them and sat there 'til they kicked in. I remember hearing "The Girl is Mine" by Michael Jackson, looking at Andy and busting out laughing. We decided it would be best if we moved somewhere less confined. We went to Dam Square and sat on some steps and just people watched for 3 hours. It was incredibly intense, surreal and awesome at the same time. I have tried them a few times since, but nothing comes close to that time with Andy. I wonder where he is.

I met some amazing people on that trip and honestly learned a lot from them. A group of us would sit around and just shoot the shit after school. We were so completely different in every way. I think every type of person was represented. I learned all about S & M and B & D from lesbians. I learned all about the leather scene. I learned all about limits and safe words. I learned about darkrooms. I learned that straight people can be kinky motherfuckers. I learned about butch and femme. I learned about Gender Identity Disorder. I learned that we are all so freakin' different and not to judge so quickly (unless, of course it is something said or done by George W Bush).

I also learned that this experience raised my GPA a smidge. ;-)

Posted by durban bud at 1:23 PM | Comments (4)

May 12, 2005

The Worst Years of Your Life

We hear it all the time while growing up:"Enjoy your time in high school because these will be the best years of your life."

Oh, really? They are? Then shoot me, you bastard.

I feel sorry for people who truly believe that. So basically after you turn 18, it's all downhill? Maybe for people who are isolated, narrow-minded and unwilling to explore outside the box like most of the "cool" people I went to school with. They still live in their hometown, they still hang out with the same people, they still eat at the Olive Garden, they still hang out at the same bars, they have completely settled down and that's it. No forward movement. The best years for them are now over.

I bought a book yesterday from a friend. It's called "Self" by Reynolds & Griffin. It's really amazing. Basically one of the guys writes a poem and the other one creates art work based on the poem. The lyrics are incorporated into the art. It's so cool. I don't believe it's available to the public except at occasional book signings. Once it does become public I will post a link to it. It's a must have.

Anyway, that book got me thinking about how creative I was as a kid.

I used to draw comic strips; I made paintings; I read a lot of books; I wrote short stories; I took drum lessons; I wrote poetry; I made a few latch-hook rugs (no comment, please); I wrote poetry. In fact, my teachers put me in some special poetry-nerd class cuz they were so damned impressed with my rhyming skills. I guess it gave them the chills.

I also made home movies with my dad's super 8 film camera. They were mostly horror movies starring real neighbors of mine getting chased and butchered. Yeah, I'm a little disturbed about that, too. Someday I'll transfer those to DVD -- they're hysterical.

One was titled "A Killer Gets Away," and the other was "Killer on the Loose (the sequel)." The best scene was when the killer (who I think was played by my 12 year old cousin) pops out of a garbage can while my 45-year-old neighbor was throwing out her trash. She gets strangled and falls over. Sidenote: That woman and her husband have since divorced. He has asked me for a copy of this particular scene so he can play it over and over again.

I adopted an interest in the DJ arts when I was about 13. My parents bought me a Technics SL-1200MK2 one X-mas. Whenever they would have a pool party or whatever I took it upon myself to DJ the event, whether they wanted to hear it or not. I played mostly inoffensive pop songs using a mixer for fade-outs and fade-ins. It wasn't like I was beatmixing a rave or anything. It was strictly fun for me to practice and kill time.

I was asked to DJ a few gigs here and there, including a college party when I was fourteen. Ten years later I found out it was a party organized for homosexuals Had I known that I would have played more Cyndi Lauper. I had no idea at the time cuz there were lots of men AND women there.

I also played a few gigs for an organization helping younger mentally-challenged people (read: retarded). Those events were very interesting to do and especially to watch. The kids seemed to enjoy these dances, so it made me feel good.

During one of the events, the head of the program took my microphone to make an announcement to the kids. I tried to segue into an inspirational song after her uplifting message.

The only positive song I could think of off the top of my head was "Don't Stop Believin" by Journey. Big mistake. That is not a song that people can dance to -- especially retarded people wearing helmets and drooling on themselves. As the music pulsed through the speakers they swayed erratically and bumped into each other. They looked scared and confused, asking "what the hell is this crap?" with their expressions. I heard Terri Schiavo-like moaning as if to say "maaaaaaaaaaake it sssssssstop!" I quickly faded into "Electric Youth" by Debbie Gibson. Much better.

Then I was in high school. All creativity I utilized seemed to wane. Eventually, it just stopped. I couldn't focus. I wasn't inspired to do anything. My grades started to suffer big time. I used to be super smart. Seriously.

Puberty sucks, and high school can be difficult for most people. That's pretty standard. I do believe, though, that when you know you are gay it is much, much, more difficult to nurture and explore your artistic soul.

Your sexuality is ripening, but you can't act on it, or discuss it with anyone without the fear of getting your ass kicked -- at least not when I was in school. You always feel like a freak keeping a big naughty secret. You try to fit in. You hear -- and sometimes participate -- in the cruel gay jokes. Some of us date girls to not be "discovered." It's awkward.

It's like a straight person going on a date with a person of the same-sex just to fit in. Can all you hets out there imagine forcing yourself to do that? It's not fun. Of course, you could also choose not to date. That, then leads to whispering and rumors. I only went out with a couple girls. Poor things. They must have been so bored.

I lived in fear of being discovered all through high school. There was this overweight black kid (who obviously has his own insecurities) who would call me a faggot almost every day. I didn't have feminine mannerisms so I couldn't figure why he constantly harrassed me. I thought maybe he could see right through me and KNEW my big secret. I won't mention his name but his initials are J.O. (and I think that's quite appropriate). At the end of the school year the teachers would hand out silly awards to certain students for their outstanding achievements. They gave the award for "Most Polite Student" to J.O.

I did have a small group of close friends (who I still adore) but I tried to be friends with everyone. I remember sitting at a lunch table with the "cool" people one day. One of the "cool" guys leans over to me and says, "Why are you here? No one wants you here." I didn't say anything back. No one else said a word. That "cool" guy was one homely motherfucker. I wish him well but I do hope he acquired the clap at least once since then.

I really did try to fit in but I think my insecurities just made me more of an asshole. I developed an attitude. I wouldn't let people get too close to me. I would make a mean comment and be rude so they would back away. By senior year I was so ready to get the fuck out of that hell hole.

I'm sure there are lots of people who enjoyed their high school experience and do consider it their best days. Good for them. If you're happy that way, fine. I will look forward, try new things, explore new places, meet new people, regain that creative spark and enjoy the best years of my life.

Posted by durban bud at 7:02 AM | Comments (9)

May 7, 2005

Please Do Not Call Me At 4:00 in the Morning

I was enjoying a nice klonopin induced sleep last night. Then. The phone rang. I woke up completely startled. I looked at the clock. It was 4:12 am. Who the fuck would be calling now?

There are only 3 reasons someone could possibly be calling at this hour: (1) It's a family emergency, (2) A friend is in the 'hood and desperately needs a place to crash, or (3) it's Pat O'Brien. It was none of the above.

The caller ID suggested a local number, but after the answering machine picked up I heard a not so local voice. It was our friend Todd and his buddy calling from San Francisco. They were obviously having a good ol' time. I appreciate you thinking of us over there, and wanting to express your love over the phone while having a wild time but please remember, we were 21 in 1992. That was like 13 years ago.

I would also like to remind people that if you do call and leave a drunk message, I will save it, edit it with some audio software and put it to music. It will be played at all the local house parties, and it will be funny. Trust me. I've already made 2 hot dance tracks this way, and a third will now be on its way. There is the hit "I'm a Fuckin' Drunk" by Bobbie B. taken from her audio message that said, "I don't know what the fuck time it is but I'm fuckin' drunk..." which was followed by some more foul language and slurring. There is also "Big Baby Bottom Girl" by "Dino" taken from his message that said, "When you send out that Evite to everyone on that list about my upcoming birthday party, please do not refer to me as a girl, or a big girl, or baby girl or bottom. Some of these people are my co-workers." Okay, I won't.

Todd is one of the most unique people you could ever meet. He's the owner of that beagle I'm chillin' with in the picture on this page. He is brilliant and crazy at the same time. He was a lawyer and a political consultant for the past 7 years. He, like me, was raised Southern Baptist so we both have interesting stories about that (I won't bore you with that now). His talent is much better put to use doing more creative work. He left DC to pursue something different in San Fran. I hope he has found it there. He has a lot to offer.

We went to see Todd a couple months ago in San Fran. We made plans to see Todd one night. We went for a bite to eat and then he took us to some bar in the Castro. He's very social so he started talking to the first people he saw. He immediately had his arms around them and we were forced to engage in idle chi chat. One of the men looked like Francis Ford Coppola, the other can only be described as a platinum blonde twink.

The next thing I see is a member of Menudo standing with us (or he looked like he is/was in Menudo). He couldn't be more than 20 (so I guess he was kicked out of the group). Todd has his arm around him and informs us that he is leaving with him.

"Umm, what? You are curb dropping us?" Then, for some completely odd reason, Todd suggests the twink go back to our hotel with me and Rob. "Ha, ha, ha, very funny."

I then ask Todd in front of his new friend, "Are you going to have anal?" I invite all of you out there who get curb dropped by your friends for a complete stranger to ask this question. It makes for an extremely awkward moment for the new couple and a whole lot of comic relief for everyone else. Todd leans over to me and says, "That's inappropriate." I know, and so is curb-dropping your friends for Menudo. Whatever, they end up leaving together.

Rob and I are standing there like, "Should we leave?" The twink then whispers in my ear, "I would love to watch you and your boyfriend have sex. I would also love to give you both a blowjob. It would be so hot." Umm, ew, no thanks, raincheck, bu-bye.

We left and that was the last time we have seen Todd. Just thought I'd share.

Posted by durban bud at 5:58 PM | Comments (3)

May 4, 2005

Corporate Book Stores & Their Employees Suck

It was a beautiful day on Sunday so I thought I would go to the closest book store to purchase "Stories From a Moron" by Ed Broth (Jerry Seinfeld) and sit in the Circle and read it and giggle a bit.

I stopped by Books-A-Million to get it (right by the Circle). I looked in their "Humor" section but could not find it. Everything in that area is completely disorganized. For some reason books about painting and animation are mixed in with other "Humor" books by Jon Stewart and Ellen Degeneres. I couldn't find it so I decide to go to the 'Customer Service' area. Shockingly, no one is there so I stand in the check out line with 10 other people. Finally it comes to my turn. The check out lady (we shall call her "Lateesha") looks clearly annoyed that I have a question and not a purchase. I told her the name and author of the book and she looks it up on her handy dandy computer. She says, "It looks like we do have some in stock in the Humor section." I inform her that I have looked there but it is hard to find anything. She tells me to look again and if I cannot find it that means it is all sold out. Ummmm...okay. I walk back over to the "Humor" section thinking this isn't very funny. I look again. "Authors listed in alphabetical order" the sign says. Okay, let's see: Jon Stewart, Dave Barry, Ellen Degeneres, Erma Bombeck, that guy who wrote "He's Just Not That Into You", Gary Larson, David Sedaris, etc. Hmmm, no Broth. I decide to march right back up to Lateesha and tell her I still can't find it. I thought maybe, just maybe, she would go to the section with me to help me locate it. No such luck.

I decide to walk 8 blocks towards downtown to Border's BOOKS & Music. Surely they would have it. I mean this is a book written by Jerry Seinfeld. I arrive at the store and locate the 'Information' sign. A petite young woman is standing there (we shall call her "Emily"). I give her the info and she types it in. For some reason when I say the word "Moron" she looks at me as though I have just asked her to look up a porno. In fact, her response suggests she really believes I have asked her to look up "Fuck My Tight Juicy Ass" or "How to Take a Fist With Very Little Lube." She says, "Ummm, no we DO NOT carry that and NONE of our other stores around here will be carrying that title either." "Huh," I say. "It's a book by Jerry Seinfeld." "I'm sorry," she says. What the fuck. I decide I hate Emily.

I haul my ass back to the circle, lay down on my blanket feeling defeated. I realize I could easily order from Amazon but I wanted the book that afternoon. Of course, when I get back home I look up Borders.com, do a search for the book and there it is. I could have it delivered the next day they say. Corporate online book stores rule.

Posted by durban bud at 11:44 AM | Comments (7)