Meet Wolfgang

JR (aka The Delusioneer) recently adopted a virtual pet, a hedgehog named Pookie. He's really cute and seems like the perfect pet for JR. I have wanted a pet for a long time, but simply don't have room for one. Or the time to invest. Or the money. And I don't like walking or feeding them much either. So, I decided to follow the link provided and see what other virtual pets were up for adoption.

I was really tempted by this crazy spider who spins a web and just waits. But then I saw this lone wolf and I just knew. It really was love at first sight. I named him Wolfgang, after Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (a role I played in college theater). So, I brought him home and we've both been happy as clams ever since. I can let him roam around here in cyberspace and know that he can take care of himself. He's an independent spirit and probably the closest thing I have to a soulmate.

Say hello, Wolfgang!
(He is kind of shy around strangers, but he'll sniff you out and play with you if you're cool. Please don't feed him too much steak. Thank you.)

adopt your own virtual pet!

Wasted on the Young

Youth was certainly wasted on me. Maybe I just blocked it out, but I hardly remember a thing from my formative years. Take this photo of me on my trusty blue tricycle, for instance. I have no idea where, when or why this was taken. Apparently, I had run into that rusty pole, racked myself and started to cry. How precious! A Kodak moment, no doubt... My first encounter with a pole that brought tears to my eyes.

I'm thinking about this now because my sisters have recently taken up breeding and their offspring cause me to wonder at the miracle of life. Human infants are completely helpless and as I discovered, render me helpless as well. When my nephew Parker would cry, I tried in vain to comfort him and eventually just sat him, screaming, on the couch next to me and hoped he would pacify himself. This, I learned, was NOT acceptable. If I ever adopt, I want a kid old enough to take out the trash. Babies are so boring... Cute and all that, but not intellectually stimulating at all.

They are like little emotion dolls. But seeing as how am I fully aware of the range of human emotion and the triggers, I don't need the kind of practice they provide. I own a mirror.

Providence Moves Too

Be not a slave of your own past - plunge deep into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience, that shall explain and overlook the old.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

My mother ripped this quote out of her day-planner and shoved it into my hand as I left Arizona on Sunday. I like it well enough, I suppose, though I really no nothing of Emerson or his work. I had been digging around in some old boxes in the garage, collecting tragic lost love letters and incriminating photos, when my mother suggested that we burn it all. Burn my past. Let it go forever. I was intrigued, but I declined. I like the thought of everything still intact, just in case. Maybe we will have a barbeque on my next visit.

Personally, I have always loved a quote that I believed was by Goethe, but now it seems that's just not true. Who knows who said this, but I am glad they did.

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”

Hey Baby, What's Your Type?

My mother recently showed me a letter I wrote to her when I was about four, requesting that she upgrade the family typewriter to a word processor, as I had grown tired of constantly changing the ribbon. My point is that I came out of the womb with a knack for typing and do, as a result, consider myself a bit of an expert on "types." This has come up recently in conversations, both real and imagined, so I thought I should share a little of my wealth here.

Most people have a "type" that they are attracted to, whether they will admit it or not. More often than not, the problem with having a "type" is that you limit your own possibilities. Once you meet someone who fits the general physical characteristics you find attractive, you immediately start to work on making the parts (that are not easily seen) also fit.

I used to find myself in situations where I would feel: "You are absolutely perfect for me in every way, except for your personality, hygiene, vices, vocabulary, personal beliefs, etc." The scenario played itself out over and again, until I was able to meet someone, run the entire course of our relationship out very quickly and end it all, in the time it took other people to work up the courage to ask for a first date.

My "type", at this point in life, is anyone with a heartbeat. Dare I use this as a way to determine my future love life? I think not. Hey Baby, What's Your Type? As a pickup line, it has major problems. Though I am morbidly curious about these things. A person's "type" is usually very illuminating, sometimes predictable and more often than not; not me. I say this because I recently asked Mitch if he had a "type" and his reply really hurt my feelings, mostly because I can never be an albino midget amputee, thus never truly fulfilling Mitch's ultimate fantasy.

So, if you are into leather daddy's, muscle queens, latino twinks, or skinny British guys with a lazy eye, please don't tell someone who doesn't fit into those catagories. It will only make them feel inadequate and you look shallow. If you run into your type in a dark alley, by all means, let them know. But until then, let it be your dirty little secret.

Then again, part of my job description is to take confessions. So, if you must tell... Tell me. I promise I won't judge you to your face.

On Being Born

Thirty five years ago, I was in Heaven, just chillin' on a cloud, hangin' with this really fabulous angel, who told me that the only real requirement to be a gay man is that you must like cock, after that it's all paperwork.

Well, I liked cock well enough, so I signed up. Turns out there was a ton of paperwork. Sign this, initial this, sign this, suck this... Afterward, I was led down a corridor and into a large room with a sign that said "GIFTS." It was full of fags lined up to receive the special gifts that would enable them to thrive, as it were, in the real world. Set up like a job fair in a disco, there were booths for everything from Interior Decorating to Glam Rock. Others included Gaydar, Hair Styling, Dancing, Fashion Sense, Flower Arrangement, Potpourri, Culinary Skills, No Gag Reflex, the list was endless. I had just started to get excited when suddenly a loud siren went off and the lights flickered. A deep voice with a Southern accent filled the room saying: It's time, boys! I had never spoken to God directly, but somehow I knew it was him. Everyone started to panic, running toward the exit. Lights were flashing. Boys were screaming. Confetti and streamers shot out of nowhere for no apparent reason. It was fag-demonium!

"Wait," I shrieked. "I haven't gotten any talents!" An angel working the Nervous & Theatrical booth handed me an entire box full of N&T coupons and said: "Honey, just take these and GO!" Then he flew away, as I watched my fellow homosexuals flee. Soon, the room was empty and I was alone. I held onto the Nervous & Theatrical box and wondered why these two things came as a package. I was depressed already and a stray balloon bounced off my head. I bent down to pick up a couple of other coupons that had been dropped in the scuffle, but they were damaged, ripped or fragmented. I grabbed as many as I could. Some, I couldn't even make out what they said, I just stuffed them in the box. The voice came back. "What are waiting for, boy?"

"I didn't get to pick out any gifts," I replied. "I just got stuck with these." A soft, yet thunderous, rolling chuckle filled the air. A bit of movement in the DJ booth caught my eye.

"Son, you are gonna be fine! You have everything you need. Why look, you have an entire box!"

"These all say: Nervous & Theatrical. What does that even mean?" I asked God, cautiously approaching the booth.

"You'll see... Boy, now go! Walk out the door, just turn around-" And then he nudged me, using his God Powers, toward a tunnel type thingy that had magically appeared.

"Wait," I protested. "I didn't get a copy of my contract! I want to see my contract!" God just laughed and flicked me like a bug into the tunnel. Gloria Gaynor echoed through the tunnel as I left Heaven. He was the DJ after all. I don't remember much after that because: Sha-Pow! I was born.

And that, Children, is exactly how it went down.
_______________________________________________________
In order to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown I seem to have every year on my birthday, we have escaped LA.
JR, Mitch and I packed up and headed for the desert, our families, familiar territory, and the ghosts we love. There is nothing that compares with Mom's homemade Carrot Cake. Just a quick trip to help clear our heads. Last night as we drove down the interstate, we were given an extraterrestrial escort for part of the way. Aliens or angels, I just hope they were delivering the rest of our gifts.

Enjoy my birthday!
I love you.
SO

For Your Reconsideration...

When JR and I went out last night, we were in full "gutter punk" tragedy mode.

Mike had invited us to a party in Hollywood, to celebrate the release of the film: The Devil Wears Prada, which actually looks quite good. I love Meryl... Anyway, JR and I fully expecting Meryl to be there. She was not. We quickly realized it was one of those parties that gay boys throw on a Wednesday night to celebrate whatever might be happening in their universe. Madonna released a new album, come celebrate! Dolly Parton has a new wig, come celebrate! Dick Cheney shot somebody, come celebrate! The invitation stated: "Polish your stilettos and express yourself to the runway of success with fellow Fashionistas. Attitude required." Easy enough.

At one point, a camera crew was following around a good looking guy. Was he a celebrity? I don't know. He was dancing with some girl whose skirt was hiked up around her neck, then he was making out with a mohawked boy up against a wall. We positioned ourselves in the background of the shot and snickered. Well, the "on camera" talent noticed us and suddenly there are lights in our faces. We were on television... Mohawk says: "Why are you laughing at us?"

"We are not laughing at you, darling. We are laughing with you!" Was my reply. "Where can I buy the video?" Then he asked if I wanted to fight. I said no. The pretty boy wandered away and the cameras followed. "I guess we know who the star of this show is..." I told JR. Someone asked us to sign releases, which we did. I think it was for the LOGO network, but really, I was so wasted it could have been Access Hollywood for all I know.

Years pass before Mike finally arrives and when he does, we are very happy to see him. We go out to the front patio, for some "air" and I lay eyes on what I consider to be the sexiest creature I have ever seen. He wore a cute little hat like the Beastie Boys and leaned against the wall as if he were part of an art installation. I ask if he is straight, because usually it's the straight boys who do it for me, and he refuses to answer! He told me his name was John.

"Of course, it is darling," I purred. An attractive young actress named Kelsea was there, also quite interested in John. She told me that his presence in a gay bar did imply something. I was smitten and I promised to make them both stars. I was serious, but I think I came across at little too drunk for them to put any actual value into what I said. As we left, I spotted John at the bar and took his hand. "Oh, what could have been, but was never meant to be." When did I become such a stalker?

We followed Mike down to another club where we met Patrick, his roommate. At this point, I am completely wasted and have a hard time conjuring up anything intelligible to say. Patrick is another one of those "Greek God" types, who leave you with no other option than to write an epic poem about them. All too soon, the night was over and we made our way up the street. My Dr. Jekyll/Courtney Love transformation had begun and JR offered to drive me home. I suppose we made it, because here I am. I woke up exactly where he left me, still dressed, contacts glued to my eyeballs and big black boogers from the eyeliner smeared across my face.

I had decided that the new "in" thing was Tragedy, it was the look, the attitude and the accessory of the season. JR gleefully agreed with me and we have worked that angle for some time. At some point last night, JR asked me what I was thinking.

"I'm reconsidering," I said.

"Coming out tonight?" He asked.

"No, I am reconsidering my entire life, every thing that has led to this moment right now." Maybe it's time that I put tragedy to bed, the way JR helped me into mine last night. It was hard to let him go. No one wants to be tragic alone.

Wake up, darling... It's mourning.

You Can't Handle The Truth If You Can't See It!

While I am tempted to further alienate you with more fiction, I have decided to share a totally true story today.

I recently filled out an application for a passport. I have never had one, mainly because I am simply too lazy to travel to foreign countries. I grew up with Mexico in my backyard and they don't care about silly things like that. But seeing as how a whopping 8% of my readers are in Canada, with the United Kingdom running a close second, at 7%, I anticipate many invitations and marriage proposals that I don't want to refuse because I have no passport. I filled out the application online, printed it out and searched for the nearest office. This turned out to be a Post Office near my house, though not the one I can be found loitering at, late at night.

Upon arriving, a sign directed me to the back of the building. One couple was ahead of me in line, getting a passport for their daughter, who stared at me like I had two heads or something. Very rude child. Horrid genetics. Anyway, once they were gone it was my turn. I handed the man my paperwork and said: "I would like one passport, please." He reviewed my papers and asked to see my birth certificate. I handed him my credit card style "Birth Registration Card" and asked if that was acceptable. He agreed that it was and promised not to staple it to my application, as this might cause it to break.

"This card is pretty old and brittle. I think I will just use a paperclip,?" the man said. Old and brittle? It's the exact same age as me! But rather than be offended, I agreed that a paperclip would probably work best. He took my photo and then it was time to pay. I pulled out my check card.

"Check or money orders only," he told me. "You can get a money order in the main Post Office, if you like." On the website, it said I could pay with a card, but I didn't feel like arguing so I made my way back to the front office where I found myself behind a slow moving man. I tried to pass him and noticed his cane. He was blind. I couldn't cut in front of a blind man, could I? No, I decided. He must have been there before. He knew exactly where to stand and wait for the next available Postal Employee. I fell in behind him to wait my turn. There was only one woman behind the counter. She was explaining to the customer she was serving, that "Vicky" was on vacation for five days and that she is all alone and that makes her job harder and that makes her move slower, blah, blah, blah... Seconds dragged on and on. Minutes passed. Days. Years. I thought about the word: Postal and the various things it means. I knew that if she didn't shut her yap, I was going to go postal on her. Finally, she finished with her customer and said: "Next!"

The blind man stepped up to the counter and asked for a money order. She processed his request and gave him his total. He handed her his credit card, which she ran through the machine. "Please, enter your PIN," she told him, thrusting the electronic pad towards him.

"Could you do it for me?" He asked.

"It's against the rules. Get another customer to help you." By now, the line stretched to the door, but seeing as how I was next, I stepped up.

"I'll do it," I said in my best 'Good Samaritan' accent. The blind man thanked me and whispered his PIN number. I only heard the first two numbers. "What?"

"Are you deaf?" Now, I have never had the experience of a blind person asking me if I was deaf before, so I was unsure how to answer. Clearly, I am not totally deaf but I didn't want to insult him and I certainly didn't want to put my ear closer to his mouth.

"Sort of," I said, which is true. I often have trouble understanding soft voiced individuals, due to the fact that I like really loud rock music. He just smiled and began shouting his PIN number loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. I entered it for him and backed away, sheepishly.

"Thank you!" He said. "And Miss, I do believe that you are allowed to help the disabled!" She just stared at him with a scowl that I suspect she was born with. He collected his money order and started towards the door, tapping his cane in front of him. The Postal woman looked at me and shouted: "NEXT!"

I purchased my money order and returned to the back to pay the man at the passport counter. He paperclipped my birth card, the money order and my application together and told me that was all he needed. I would receive my passport as soon as possible. I left the Post Office and got in my car, pleased that I had actually accomplished something today. As I started the engine, my stereo came on. The volume was very loud and I immediately turned it down.

After all, what's the fun of traveling if you can't hear foreigners screaming at you?

Picasso's Revenge: Carpe Diaz!

Last night, I had the most disturbing dream.

JR and I were working at a doll factory in the Midwest. But wait! It gets worse. Basically, we worked on an assembly line where it was JR's job to snap the heads off the dolls that came out of the machine. Then, I was responsible for reattaching the heads, as some kind of "quality control" program. JR loved his job and I hated mine. Why should he get to have all the fun? He took great pleasure in beheading the baby dolls, especially. Soon, he was given the task of ripping off their limbs as well. JR bubbled with glee as he tore them apart, leaving me with six separate pieces to reassemble. Well, I had had enough and began what I call "Picasso's Revenge."

As the doll parts came down the belt, I quickly reconstructed them. Leg to neck. Arm to Leg. Head to Arm. Now, they were mutant dolls, and I began to really get into it. JR noticed what I was doing and happily joined in. Soon, we were aware that the "suits" behind the two way mirror that overlooked our workstation were watching us. We were summoned to the office. Busted! I was sure we would be fired.

We followed a guard down a narrow hallway with pictures of various celebrities adorning the walls. At the end of the hall, we were led into a room, designed apparently by David Lynch. Red velvet curtains hung on the walls, no windows, black and white checkerboard tile. At the far end of the room sat the president of the company, Mr. Dume. He was an old man with tubes running in and out of him and a severely hot nurse at his side. Female. Very Marilyn Monroe-esque. She checked his tubes and would reinsert them when they fell out. We stood there waiting for what seemed an eternity before he spoke.

"Gentlemen," Dume began. "We have been watching you with great interest. It seems you possess talents beyond your positions here on the factory floor. I have been waiting for you... I have a top secret project that needs men like you." He went on to explain the project which had been years in development, showing us various graphs and charts. DNA and machinery. Mr. Dume was a big fan of movies, especially blonde bombshells. It seems that the company had been working on a plan to introduce life-like dolls based on Hollywood stars. Through the magic of modern technology and modern DNA techniques, they were able to create "living dolls" that were exact replicas of their original.

"Then what do you need us for?" I asked, not quite grasping the concept. Mr. Dume motioned to his nurse.

"Marilyn, show them the prototypes...." Nurse Marilyn walked across the room to the corner, pulled on a gold braid cord and the curtains parted revealing a grotesquely huge Mae West, slumped over in a cage, drooling and sad. "Mae was the first to volunteer. Of course, this clone was too large to market and we have kept her here for 80 years. I destroyed most of the others, but I was curious to see how long they would live. As you can see, she stands at about 22 feet and weighs almost 800 pounds. She has never aged."

"Who the fuck is that?" Asked JR, too young to remember Mae. "That bitch is friggin' huge!"

"That was precisely the problem, dear boy," Mr. Dume replied. "Mae's persona was simply too big for the process and as a result, it was years before we could get something more... realistic. Marilyn, here was a breakthrough for us." Nurse Marilyn smiled at us, pleased with the praise. I looked closer and saw that she was indeed, a life size clone of Marilyn Monroe. It was amazing! Mr. Dume continued, "While this was a much needed improvement in scale, it was not without it's problems. Say something, Marilyn..."

Marilyn bit her bottom lip, nervous and scared. Mr. Dume just nodded in encouragement. She opened her mouth and the sound that came out was not human. It was more like a dolphin! She stopped "speaking" and turned away in shame. It was a result of experiments in mixing human DNA with sea creatures.

"Oh! I get it!" I said. "With Mae, you used a whale! Marilyn is part Dolphin!"

"Yes, it's true, Mr. Dume replied, as Marilyn rolled out a room service cart with a covered silver tray. "But times have changed and the ladies who grace the silver screen have changed, too. We finally found the right combination to make doll sized clones by using shrimp and.... they tell me that this Cameron Diaz is the modern equivalent." Marilyn removed the top off the tray and there she was: a Barbie doll sized Cameron Diaz. She looked pissed!

"Fuck you, Dume! You think I got nothing better to do, asshole! I'm outta here!" Then the tiny Cameron jumped off the table and began to scamper around the room, looking for a way out.

"Seize her!" Shouted Mr. Dume. "She mustn't get away!" The next few moments were chaotic. JR and I chased Cameron around the room, she was really fast and slippery, though. Because of her shrimpness, I supposed. Marilyn echolocated when Cameron tired running up her leg. She kicked and the Diaz was airborne. I ducked out of the way and JR reached right out and snatched her from the air. He returned her to the silver tray and replaced the cover. "Do you see now, why I need your help?"

"You want us to pull her head off? JR inquired.

"Not exactly. I need strong, creative young men, like yourselves, to train these creatures before they can be properly marketed. What do you say?" Mr. Dume waited expectantly for our reply. I looked at JR and could see our future in his eyes. They said: Let's do it. Being the slightly more practical one, I had a question.

"How many of these are we talking about?" Mr. Dume signaled for Marilyn to pull another cord, this time revealing a warehouse sized room full of tiny Cameron Diaz clones, practicing Karate, pulling each others hair and dancing, lots of them were dancing. I sighed. Anything was better than reattaching baby heads. "Mr. Dume, we would love this assignment. When do we start?"

We started immediately and quickly worked out a system. JR would capture the Diaz' one at a time and then I would talk to them, brush their hair and tell them how much joy they would bring to little girls (and some boys, too) by being their doll. It was surprisingly easy work. JR only killed a few by accident. It seemed we had found our calling.

Then I woke up.

Identity Theft or Personality Crises?

I've been duped. I feel like Oprah.

In the comments of my previous post, there was a most unfortunate misunderstanding involving my dear friend Mitchell and an internet impostor who fooled me with his linguistic trickery! It's just not like Mitch to post comments, especially on something as mundane as a Nacho Recipe. At first, I was amused, though somewhat suspicious. As long as I have known him, Mitch has never once indicated by word or action that he is literate in any way. Soon, more comments appeared, each stranger than the last. So, I called up Mitch and asked exactly what he thought he was doing? Claims of a relapse into Anal Compulsive Behavior involving a corncob, jalepenos and a curling iron, should have tipped me off as I happen to be the only foreign object that has seen the inside of Mitchell's bum since 1997. Still, I let my emotions get the best of me. I began to read the comments to him over the phone.

"Hold on a second," Mitch said before flushing the toilet and coming out of the bathroom. "What's all this now?" I showed him the comments and he just shrugged. You and your silly 'internet' thing! That has always been Mitch's attitude regarding my blog. "That's not me. Anyway, who cares? No one reads that shit anyway."

"It isn't shit!" I cried. "This is my ticket out of this hellhole! Mitchell, I am tired of you dismissing the things that are important to me! I work really hard on my blog in order to support you! I took you to the hospital when that girl sat on her lizard! I am always there for you and now I find out you've been shoving spicy peppers up your butt behind my back! It's over, Mitch. I can't do this anymore..." Then, for dramatic effect, I sank down to my knees and wept. Just then, my computer pinged, a signal that I had mail.

"What was that?" Mitch asked, ignorant of the technology. I sat up, wiped my eyes and clicked on my inbox. Sure enough, there is was: A new comment from "Mitch", posted while I had been ripping him a new one. I checked my watch to be sure. "Well," he persisted. "What was it?"

"It's a message from you."

"Transmitted, no doubt, from the computer I have lodged up my anus right now!" Mitch laughed. "Someone has been fucking with you, darling!" I stared at the computer screen in disgust and shame. I read over the comments again and the pain of how stupid I had been hit me hard. This time, real tears rolled down my face. I fell into a million little pieces. I looked to Mitch, full of regret and sorrow, and he turned away. Cold. Hurt. I tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.

"I'm sorry, Mitch. I don't know what happened. I just- I thought..." I was on the ground, clutching his pant leg. He pulled his keys out, a signal that he was leaving. I grew desperate. "Don't go! I'll do anything you want, just don't go!"

"Anything?" I looked up to see him smiling, one eyebrow raised. I knew what he was thinking and I knew that I would do it. In an effort to maintain some degree of decency here, I will not describe what happened next. Let it suffice to say that John Cougar Mellencamp got it right when he sang: "Hurt so good... Come on baby, make it hurt so good..." It's true, that sometimes love don't feel like it should but we all have to make sacrifices, right?

End of story, I let the Impostor know that I was onto him and no sooner had I done this, when a sort of bidding war broke out amongst some of the top names in news for the right to have us appear in a cooking segment on television! It's all there in the previous post! I can hardly believe it! It looks as if Mitch and I might become huge media cooking stars in the coming weeks! All my dreams are finally coming true!

Anyway, I should go now. I have to figure out how to give myself a much needed milk enema...

Mitch's Special Nachos

One of the greatest things about blogs is the fact that people will occasionally post recipes, which invariably give much greater insight into their secret world. Holly does this on occasion and I thought it was about time that I shared a little culinary advice.

Okay. Say you are sitting around in your underwear, you are slightly drunk and a tad peckish. That's what Mitch and I were when we came up with this recipe.

"I wish I had, like, some nachos." Mitch said.

"Ooh, yeah!" We both bolted off the couch and headed into the kitchen. Mitch found some processed pre-grated mild cheddar in the fridge, as I pulled out a plate and grabbed the chips. It was a bag that I have been working on and it didn't look good. You know how the bottom of the bag seems to collect the tiny broken pieces and crumbs? That's what I found.

"Fuck! I guess we are out of luck," I told Mitch.

"Nonsense!" Said Mitch, as he grabbed my large salad bowl. (Yeah, I own a large salad bowl. This is the first time it's been used for anything.) Then he dumped the entire bag of chips into the bowl and began to sort through them. To my surprise, there were plenty of "nacho worthy" chips hidden amongst the crumbs. We arranged them on the plate and covered them with tons of cheese. I tossed the remaining crumbs into the trash and Mitch carefully loaded the plate into the microwave.

"Be careful," I warned. "It doesn't melt cheese very well. Half will be fried to a crisp and half will still be cold."

"Darling, darling, my darling boy," Mitch cooed. "Let me show you something." He pointed to the control panel of the microwave and a small drawing of a piece of pizza. Mitch then pressed it and the oven fired up. Two minutes and counting. I thought for sure it would burn and tried to protest, but Mitch just pressed his finger to my lips. Naturally, I bit him before starting to suck on his finger and before I knew what had happened, the microwave dinged.

We popped open the door to view the results. What do you know? The cheese had melted perfectly over the entire surface. I wondered why I had never noticed the pizza feature before, especially since nachos are really just dozens of tiny pizzas. God, I love Mitch! We topped off the nachos with salsa and retired to the couch to pig out.

In case you missed it, here is the recipe:

Mitch's Special Nachos
Ingredients:
a bunch of tortilla chips
tons of cheese

Place the chips onto a microwave safe plate,
then cover with cheese.
Microwave on the "pizza" setting.
(Approximately 2 minutes at some magical power setting)

Top off with your favorite salsa.
(We like El Pinto medium with a splash of Tapatio for kick.)
Enjoy!

I hope you like this recipe. I have another one that I hope to post soon that involves "weiners." Happy cooking, y'all!

Big Trouble with Little Joe

Is myspace evil? Depending on who you ask, it's either a breeding ground for sexual predators or the greatest thing since sliced bread. Legends abound of people getting their big break because of the site. I figured that it's harmless enough, so I joined.

On my myspace page, I list a comprehensive, yet flawed, list of people whose work I admire. Heading up the list of actors is Joe Dallesandro, known mostly for his work as a beefcake model and a member of the Warhol Factory. I own at least seven DVDs which list Joe as the "star." Granted, my attraction to Joe is largely aesthetic, but I do find his early performances quite captivating. I have had a myspace page for quite a while and rarely give it much thought, which is why I was so surprised to receive the following email regarding Joe Dallesandro:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: michael
Date: Jun 16, 2006 9:06 PM

Joe Dallesandro is a male prostitute who sells his mouth and ass to any man or woman for the right price. The only reason he got his teeth fixed is because he was suckin off some faggot dentist in the '70s. He is also responsible for the death of his true brother(Bobby). He also slapped our own Mother around in the early 1980's and if I ever see the little faggot again I will beat his little punk ass. I realize that we all need our heros but I think you should maybe take a second look at yourself and your heros.

Michael G.
p.s. Joe has AIDS too but somehow I dont think you really care! LMMFAO

First of all, this message is from a stranger who, as far as I can figure, searched for people whose sites mention Joe Dallesandro. Secondly, LMMFAO stands for Laughing My Mother Fucking Ass Off! I had to look it up. So, naturally, I clicked over to Michael's profile to see exactly who I was dealing with. The photo shows Michael wearing a "Saigon Kick" tee and holding a small white dog. Black Sabbath is his background image. He claims to be "Superman's Fucking Dad." This is what he has to say about himself:

About me:
BORN IN A CANE BREAK , SUCKLED BY A LION, I'M A MEAN MOTHER FUCKER AND I DONT MIND DYIN !!!!!!!! YOU AINT GOTTA RESPECT ME , JUST KNOW IF YOU CROSS ME YOU WILL LEARN TO FEAR ME!!!!
Who I'd like to meet:
ANY OF YOU DOPE FIEND FAGGOT PUNKS WHO WERE RUNNIN WITH MY SON (SUPE) AND SUPPLYING HIM DOPE OR BUYIN DOPE FROM HIM !!!!!

He also included his Folsom Prison mugshot on his photo page. He has 10 friends. Obviously, Michael is a force to be reckoned with, so as I composed my response, I kept this in mind. Here is my reply:

Hello Michael,

Thank you for taking the time to share this information, it confirms the impression I had of Joe. He often portrayed male prostitutes in his films, so I suppose it's par for the course. I don't know much about him beyond what I have seen on film. For instance, I know nothing of the death of his brother Bobby. Was this drug related? It is absolutely ghastly to think that Joe might be responsible. I certainly hope that is not true, but like I said: I am ignorant about his personal life.

In this day and age, with how much we know about celebrities private lives, this truly amazes me. Please accept my most sincere sympathy for what you say Joe did to your Mother. That is truly repulsive and I hope for both your sakes that you and Joe never have to see each other again. I have no doubt that you would "beat his punk ass" into a veritable pulp. Maybe you are right. Maybe it is time for me to think about the qualities that I find admirable in people. For the record, I never said Joe is my hero, I merely admire some of the films he appeared in. I think that director Paul Morrissey was able to use Joe to show the demoralization and ultimate undoing of the "free love" generation.

I hope that you really do find it humorous when people "idolize" Joe and that you are not covering up some other, deeper pain. Thank you again, for the informative and thought provoking email.

DW

PS: In case you failed to notice on my myspace page, not far from where Joe is listed, there is a link to the ONE organization, which is dedicated to fighting the global AIDS epidemic. I support this and ANYONE who is affected by this affliction, contrary to the claim you made that you think I don't really care if Joe has AIDS. If he does, that is a shame. It's a horrible disease that no one should have.

I haven't heard back from him. I sort of hope that I don't. Myspace might be evil after all, but I believe in the good in everybody and do my best to respond to those who seek me out. If Michael comes here, I am sure he will have much to laugh his mother fucking ass off about. I hope he finds those "dope fiend faggot punks" who bought drugs for Superman!

UPDATE:
I did hear back from Michael:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: michael
Date: Jun 17, 2006 11:38 AM

Well I appreciate that you took the time to answer my letter. I am sorry that it came on so strong , but Joe has fooled so many other people and used them to his own advantage before that sometimes my writing comes on a bit strong. Please accept my sincerest appologies if I offened you in any way.

Michael

I accepted his apology and wished him well. I think he was sort of shocked to get a response at all. People are good at heart, after all. It's just a matter of finding it.

A Blank Canvas

My nesting instincts are in full swing.

I went with JR to look at a house that he wants to rent with some friends that are moving to L.A. We staked out the neighborhood and waited for the landscapers to pack up for the day and leave, before we pulled into the driveway. From the outside, it was nothing special. It was just a simple brown house with a dug up yard. Sprinklers were being installed and the thought of having to pay the water bill made me nauseous. Then, the owner showed up without the key, showed us the backyard and left to retrieve what she had forgotten.

Just the sheer size of the yard was intoxicating. I started to imagine what I could do with a yard like that. Barbeques, cocktail parties, maybe even a dog? Before long, the owner appeared again and let us in. The house was old and empty. She was in the middle of remodeling the kitchen and master bedroom, but we got a pretty good idea of “what it could be”. JR discussed the details of who would be moving in, etc., while I reexamined the structure. I found myself opening closets, peeking out windows and generally being as nosy as possible. Something about a completely blank canvas really turns me on. My inner decorator began to emerge and suddenly I sensed the vast emptiness of my own life.

I turn 35 next week and I am single, living in a bachelor apartment that can barely contain my belongings. I realized how desperately I need to get a “real” place, a husband, a yard. In short, I need a life. The trouble is: I am not fond of dating and that makes it much harder to find a mate. But my biological clock is ticking! I want to argue about the thread count of potential new sheets for a marital bed that does not exist!

JR took an application and we left, but not before I convinced the owner to pay the water bill herself, if she insisted on sprinklers for the lawn. We drove back to the Valley through miles upon miles of traffic. JR had two calls from potential dates for himself and set himself up for later that night. He had borrowed my copy of The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things and said that he planned to watch it with his date. I told him that it was not a good date movie and recalled the story of how a movie can destroy a new relationship.

I used to “hookup” with men over the internet. I don’t do that anymore, because it’s just too awful. Barry was one of those guys. I agreed to meet him at his house and realized upon entering that I would have to go from zero to freak very quickly if this was gonna work. Barry led my to the bedroom, where he promptly tied me to the bed, blindfolded me and stripped off my clothes. We had fun and I ended up staying the night, which led to many reprisals of the first act. Since we had established sexual compatibility, we decided to explore getting to know each other on a more “normal” level: dinner and a movie. The next night, I returned to find Barry slaving away in the kitchen. He had decided to impress me with culinary skills. Dinner was delicious but awkward. I have trouble making small talk that doesn’t involve the words “Hurt me, Daddy!” After pasta and a gorgeous chocolate mousse, Barry popped in a DVD of The Women starring Joan Crawford. But I was young and horny and stupidly unappreciative of his choice. The pasta had done me in, and as we watched, I decided that it was not going to work out between us. Much to Barry’s dismay, I excused myself and never returned any of his calls. I regret this now, but I did once break up with a guy when he told me his favorite movie was The Wiz. I am an accomplished saboteur.

JR went on his date and I stayed home, alone with my thoughts of deal breakers, compromise and the promise of a new day. I think I might be ready for a relationship again, but who knows? What I really want is a blank canvas.

Tenacious, Me? or The Big Empty

I have talent for certain things, but lack the tenacity required to bring them to fruition. Yes, I have tried eradicating entire elements from my life in order to make room for more worthwhile accoutrements; like a moral compass, blind ambition or even security. This is my undoing, have undone it all. Which is precisely why, when Mitch called today, I was forced to humble myself. My problems are not "all that", after all.

Mitch runs a support group for people who suffer from AC. If you are unfamiliar with this syndrome, please allow me to explain: AC stands for "anal compulsive", in other words, people who can't stop shoving things up their own ass. So, Mitch's little group meets twice a month, in order to encourage each other, offer support, etc. Having been a long term bed-wetter, I am more than familiar with the internal power issues at work here, admittedly, in reverse. For me, the problems had to do with inappropriate release and were cured by identifying what it was that I was afraid of "letting go." Those with AC, however, are compelled to "possess" things which are not natural. Imagine, if you will, trying to fill the emptiness you feel about the world, your life, your broken dreams... Literally, filling that void by sticking inappropriate objects up your bottom.

Mitch has been quite successful in helping people with AC, having suffered from it himself for years. He was able to transform his addiction by adopting a more philosophical approach towards his "hole", and the time he spent in prison helped a lot, too. When he called today, I knew that something was wrong. Had he relapsed again? I thought. Through his tears, he was able to explain.

"You remember Danika, right?" Mitch asked.
"The pretty one with the Care Bear tattoo?"
"Uh-Huh. She's in the hospital."
"My God! What happened?"
"Well, do you remember her pet iguana, Igor?"
"Oh, NO!"

"Yes!"

"Holy - Wow, that's gotta hurt!"

"They tried to save Igor, but...I, I - It's just so awful."

Unfortunately, this happens far more often than you would think. I get calls like this from Mitch and I just don't know what to do. And so, dear reader, I implore you: If you find yourself looking at something and thinking "I wonder..." DON'T DO IT! Especially when the lives of small animals are involved. Make Jell-O, instead! It takes a long time and beats the shit out of trying to explain why there is an iguana up your ass!

Then, I had to go over and comfort poor Mitch. I drove him to the hospital to visit Danika and made the mistake of stopping by the gift shop.

"What are you doing?" Mitch practically squealed.
"I don't want to show up empty handed..." I replied.
"Don't you understand?" Mitch asked with tears welling up in his eyes. "Everything in this room is a temptation!"

I looked around at the rows of stuffed animals, balloons and candy. "I guess I really don't understand." Then I followed Mitch into the elevator, empty-handed and grateful for my own lack of tenacity.

Sunday Bloody Mary

So, JR and I went to Pride yesterday in West Hollywood. I didn't really feel like it due to the overwhelming fragility I have been feeling lately, but I figured there was no harm in seeing a parade, right? We positioned ourselves on the patio of a bar with a good view and ordered a round of drinks. Since it was 11:00am, it was decided that Bloody Mary's would be the best breakfast alcoholic drink. We stayed there for the parade (Amanda Lepore! Janice Dickenson!) and the parade (guys with dogs! girls with mullets!) and the parade (Bloody Mary! Bloddy Maui!). I was well on my way to Betty Ford when we left the bar in search of food. We shopped a little on the way and our new friend Mike picked out some fabulous Prada glasses for me. JR got some pants, which were real. My Prada's were not.

Finally, we make it to a hamburger place and order beers and food. I didn't eat very much because I got caught up in a conversation, regarding travel and the best place to get a passport, with a really friendly lesbian. Then it was back to the bar for shots and beers and even more lesbians! We had fun and I even spoke briefly to Holly on the phone. After that, we went back to JR's car to regroup and prepare for the rest of the day. That's when I realized that I had lost my phone. JR gets a call from whoever picked it up and we end up chasing them around trying to get my phone back. That's about the time I snapped, and not in a cute Wayans Brothers way... More like Courtney Love on a bender.

It just seemed to me, that whoever took my phone did so to maliciously ruin my day and when I finally see them pull up on Melrose, I run up to their car and kicked it as hard as I could, then, much to my shame and horror, I found myself screaming racial slurs at them. This behavior I attribute to having sat through season 2 of Deadwood and watching Sarah Silverman's Jesus is Magic, both of which generously use the particular word I chose. JR dealt with the offended party and talked them out of pressing charges. They left and I took off running in the other direction. This happens quite often when I drink more than I should. I could not outrun JR and he really was an angel throughout my entire psychotic break. This is how we looked to passersby:


Unfortunately, we went back to the festival where JR tried to calm me down with beer and oxygen. Then a series of terrifying events happened, including using a disgusting portable toilet, eating dried up rice and some kind of meat on a stick while Taylor Dayne insisted upon singing her crappy songs on a too-near stage. After a bumpy ride that had me desperate to vomit, JR dropped me off at home. Needless to say, I won't be drinking for a while. When we got to my place, my parents called me, saying how worried they were because they had gotten a call from someone using my phone and it really freaked them out. I apologized and promptly passed out. I awoke this morning feeling like shit and far less than "proud" of anything I had done yesterday. Some lessons are never learned.

Some wounds are self-inflicted.

Trust Overfull of Ascension

As it were, those who choose to escape this earthly plain by means of ascension, do so without my blessing. For there is cowardice in heaven and courage in the depths of hell. I speak not of sacrilege, but of the cojones it takes to watch Ann Coulter dig her own grave. I speak of a world where Kevin Federline is allowed to breed. Lo, though the end is near, are we to believe in those who take to the sky? Or shall we place our faith closer to home?

Alright, Mr. Demille, I am ready for my Red Bull...

Abercrombie & Mitch

I am exhausted.

Last night, Mitch called in a panic. It seems that his toy poodle, Abercrombie, had escaped his apartment by jumping from the balcony into a tree. Mitch has been my imaginary friend for years and I felt obligated to help him search for Abercrombie, even though it irritates me to no end that he named his dog with the expectation that everyone would refer to them as "Abercrombie & Mitch"....

I went right over and realized fairly quickly that Mitch was losing it. I gave him some oxycontin and slapped him around a little, until he stopped crying. He showed me the balcony and the tree. I spotted some curly white fur on a branch and wanted to get a closer look. I crawled out onto the branch, that's when I spotted a couple of squirrels picking their teeth. No, I thought. Squirrels don't eat tiny poodles, do they? I decided to ask if they had seen what became of Abercrombie, a trick I had learned watching The Powerpuff Girls. A surly, fat squirrel named Brando came forward and said: "We don't know nothing 'bout no poodles, dig?" We locked eyes. It was a Mexican talking squirrel/human standoff, on the branch of an olive tree in Toluca Lake, one of the most intense moments of my life.

Then Brando lifted his tail and farted. I had to act quickly, I had heard within the squirrels fart the distinct, yet muffled "woof" of a toy poodle. I grabbed Brando and began to squeeze, not sure which end Abercrombie might come out. The other squirrels seemed genuinely shocked by this and one even fainted and fell out of the tree. After a breif struggle, Abercrombie popped out of Brando smelling of cashews and beer. I released the squirrel and he hobbled back to his friends. Abercrombie and I crawled back onto the balcony where I reunited him with Mitch.

I stayed over and the three of us made love until the sun came up, as we do occasionally. What are friends for, if you can't sodomize them while their dog licks your taint? Anyway, it was a happy ending for all. Now, I should really go smoke some crack.

Like A Martyr

I went out with my friend JR on Friday for a night of drinking and debauchery. It was the kind of night where we end up sitting in the grass at 3:00am sobbing uncontrollably, until the sprinklers came on and scared us away. We came home and compared scars until about 5:00am, then passed out. By the way, Guinness, Jack Daniels and muscle-relaxers bought off the internet, do not make that great of a combination.

I spent yesterday recovering and scouring the net for Madonna tickets, but gave up in the end. I've seen her act before and it not like she won't still be doing the exact same thing for the next forty years anyway. Madonna will be the first "bionic" popstar, just wait and see.

Another friend recently accused me of getting "all Mary-Kate and Ashley" on him. A vague reference to my schizophrenic personality. I replied, "I have fucked homeless people that are tighter than the Olsen Twins!" No one has any idea how much I have suffered....

All This Time, We Could Have Been Friends?

I'm in the strangest mood. I feel like I could fall in love at the drop of a hat. I saw Neil Patrick Harris on TV and thought: "Why did I ever break up with him?" We were never together, but my desire for reconciliation was almost unbearable. I'm not talking about lust here, people. I speak of LOVE! True instantaneous enamoration! I fell in love almost everywhere I went today. Even the Laundromat seemed to have a romantic feel this afternoon.

Maybe it's that I am getting older and my "nesting" instincts are kicking in... Like the gay guys version of a biological clock. I may only have a few more years of cuteness left before I turn "old school." I have a desperate need that I tried to fill by shopping. Yesterday I spent about three hundred dollars on all makes and models: new bedsheets, dishes, herbal colon cleansers, a tower fan. On the other hand, the teenager-I-never-was wanted: video games, DVD's and a carton of cigarettes.

To my credit, I did get the double-disc special edition of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and came to the conclusion that I am not Bette Davis, though I get that comparison a lot. I see the battle of the Hudson Sisters going on in my own head. Lately, Blanche has been moping about, feeling sorry for herself. I think it's time to let Jane out to play or, at least, let her kill something and serve it up on a silver tray.

The birds in my neighborhood are going crazy with the singing, especially at night. It sort of sets a "love is in the air" mood, but with the "bird flu" and all... Let's just say, death is in the air and it sounds beautiful. To quote Michael Stipe: "Oh no! I've said too much! I set it up."