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 (28)

November 08, 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 01, 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 09, 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 (9)

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 (17)

April 01, 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 05:24 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

(Names have been changed, obviously)

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," he said matter-of-factly.
"Are you serious?"
"Don't worry, they sanitized the bed."
"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 75. 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 all the cracks and imperfections on his shiny veneer. It was almost liberating to show verisimilitude in my life performance, for once.

I stayed on the bed for a long while, 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 very wealthy executive vice president of a Fortune 500 company, a raging alcoholic with an 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 Vietnam 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 this 12 year-old gook girl put a bullet in my chest. 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 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 would sit in my bed and journal and he would read his Reagan book, but mostly we would just talk. After each talk, I would write down what we discussed. I knew I had to document this shit.

I was fascinated by his life; it was so different from mine, yet we ended up in the same place. He would tell me stories of his miserable marriage, his days in Vietnam, his successes in business, and his numerous DUIs. He crashed his third company car, which resulted in his present situation.

I was very inquisitive with him, but one night he turned the tables:

"So you're a fag?"
"I suppose. And you're a breeder?"
"Well, I do like the pussy."
"Apparently. You have 5 kids."
"Why do you like dick?"
"The same reason you like pussy."
"Yeah, but two dicks can't make babies."
"Well, with people like you overpopulating the planet, consider gay people to be God's way of quantity control."
"You're not attracted to me, are you?"
"No offense, but I find you repulsive."
"Cocksucker!"
"Uh-huh."

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

"I don't know how you could like a guy's butt. Do you know what comes out of that?"
"Blood, urine, yeast infections, babies, afterbirth and queefs come out of vaginas. It's all relative, innit? Plus, 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, and say, "Stop smoking." "Fuck you."

I was eventually moved out of his room into a better residence, but he would always ask me to sit with him outside, while he smoked, to chat. Some stories 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. 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 him about the "incident" at the bar, so I did.

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

In Vietnam, he parachuted with a bunch of other men into some village. They all took refuge at a local bar that was filled with green berets. They were all getting hammered, when a man wearing a long trenchcoat 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 up the machete and with one hard slice, cut the guy's head off. The head went flying onto the floor, while his body stayed in the chair for about 20 seconds, blood spurting all over everyone. People were screaming and running. The murderer was tackled and arrested. Apparently, the beheaded man slept with 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, without a head." I wasn't sure how to respond to this. So, how 'bout that Taylor Hicks winning American Idol?!?

"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; he was leaving the next day. Before the entire campus, he said his thank yous and hopes for the future. He was just about done, 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 and a little teary.

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.

As he lit up his cigarette, he said, "Look around at all these fuck-ups. But at least they're willing to admit their flaws and actually do something about it. 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, body image, religion, depression, love, blah, blah. It's just 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 care of their issues; it should be required."

I felt an odd sense of pride for a moment; I knew I had done the right thing. Then I thought, am I in a Lifetime movie of the week starring Ted Danson?

"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. We stood up and hugged. I managed to squeeze out one more cough from him. "Stop smoking." "Fuck you."

I walked away, but turned around to ask one last question, as he was loading his bags in the car.

"Hey Larry, do you think you'll ever be back here?"

"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 02, 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 (17)

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 07, 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 01:14 PM | Comments (6)

September 06, 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 01:01 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 09:39 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 03, 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 02:17 AM | Comments (5)

August 02, 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 08:08 AM | Comments (8)

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 08:27 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 04, 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 07:35 PM | Comments (5)

May 09, 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 08:23 AM | Comments (7)

May 02, 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 05:39 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 01:11 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 01:16 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 03, 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 05:43 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