The IKEA Drama

JR and I signed papers for the new apartment today. We got our keys and checked out the new paint job. I really love the place and can't wait to get all my stuff in there. Mostly, I am excited about the new bed that I am currently in the process of buying. This is the one I picked out at IKEA:

Of course, I would never use a baby blue blanket. Imagine something more vibrant in it's place, like me...naked.

I guess it was a mistake to look around too much, because IKEA has a way of making the interior decorator in me go wild. We looked for a new slipcover for the couch I have, but it's no longer in stock. We thought about the possibility of getting a whole new couch for our funky seventies apartment. There was this orange one that would look great with the white rock fireplace and the black shelves that I had agreed to.

Of course, JR thought it would look better in a Sand color, which I think just looks like dark white. I believe a light colored couch is a major mistake and I immediately protested. I hate things that blend in and match. I spent to many years of my life trying desperately to do just that. The carpet is sand colored and the rock fireplace is in the same scheme.

CUT TO: the two of us bickering like Lucy and Ricky at IKEA over a couch that neither of us can afford. I may have threatened to kill myself before ever buying a white couch, I don't know. It was rather silly and JR finally refused to discuss it any further. My whole point was that I believe that color adds warmth and inspiration to a room. He said: "I like things sterile." I don't want to live in a hospital, so we had to stop talking about it. For now, we will live with the old IKEA couch I already own. It was white, but has turned darker over the years. It sort of looks like sand. I keep it covered with colorful blankets and throws. That's where JR has been sleeping lately.

It has been a trying week as far as personal space goes. Two people cannot spend every waking (and sleeping) hour together in a small space without some tensions arising. Overall, it's been okay. We both like the same foods, so that's something. We smoke and fight and pack and laugh at strange things. Someday, we will probably look back at this week with fond memories, but for now, we can't wait to get out of here. It won't be long now.

And the next trip we take to IKEA, we are going our separate ways. That's what Lucy and Ricky would do.

Graduation Day

In an unexpected and dramatic move, I have decided to stop being such a bitch hermit and leave the apartment that has been my home for the last eight years or so. Not just leave it in the go outside before 3 am way, but actually move out.

This all started a couple of weeks ago when I accompanied JR to view an apartment in my neighborhood. He's been couch-surfing since he arrived in LA, almost four months ago. Originally, the plan was for him to move in with some friends, who either flaked out, changed their minds or lost them. My fate was sealed once I saw the grand potential and sheer space that one can exploit in an actual apartment, not like the shoebox studio I had been "living" in. As I have said, my nesting instincts are in high gear and a new home means a new chapter in one's life. So, the only logical thing to do was to move in with JR.

We must have looked at about fifty apartments before settling on one that we could both agree was too weird to pass up. At first, we did things his way, which means checking craigslist every fifteen minutes and scrambling across town to be the first to see and apply. Then we tried my method, which consists of picking a neighborhood you could live in and driving around looking for signs. While on the way to yet another craigslist appointment, we passed a strange building that was set back from the street and obscured by lots of big trees. We called the number on the sign and a woman named Stephanie invited us in to look.

The whole experience was like something out of a David Lynch film. Stephanie was a nice, older lady in a bumped out blond wig and lots of makeup. She wore a poncho shawl in a summery yellow color and was quite the hostess as she gave us the grand tour of her complex. The apartment we saw was on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The space itself, I can only describe as ghetto fabulous and totally retro chic. It has a sunken living room with a white rock fireplace and great big bedrooms with wall to wall closets. I fell in love at first sight and was ready to move in. "Don't you want to see the rest of the place first?" Stephanie asked. We quickly toured the buildings amenities and took applications.

Long story short: We got the apartment and move in later this week. That's the good news. The bad news is having to pack up all the crap I have spent a lifetime collecting. It has been an incredibly trying couple of days, with tensions running high and low. Letting go of shit is not my strong suit and I think I might have started my period today, but JR has been a trooper through it all. If our friendship can survive this week, I think there is nothing we can't do. I will be glad and sad to leave my little box of a home. This place has seen some of the worst moments of my life. It has been my sanctuary and my prison.

Now that "Bitch Hermit Graduation Day," as JR calls it, is around the corner, I am an emotional wreck. I hope, when I walk across the stage to pick up my diploma, that I do not trip on all the skeletons that got out of my closet this week.

Me Want Nookie!

This post is inappropriate for children. If you are a child, please leave now. Or the tooth fairy will come and tear out all your teeth tonight and leave you bleeding, crying and penniless. So, click the fuck out of here NOW!

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have sex with Cookie Monster? Really hot, ferocious, reckless sex?Just judging from the way he goes after those cookies, I would venture to say that he's a pretty good fuck. It has crossed my mind, but I am not into the Plushie Scene. Not that there is anything wrong with that. If your motto is: "I wanna fuck you like a stuffed animal!" More power to you. It's just not my thing.

It is kind of like how I know if a guy is really straight. A really straight guy has probably experimented in the gay arts at one time or another and will admit it, if pushed. Whether he was drunk or curious or in college, many men have dabbled, if you know what I mean. Even if a guy just starts making out with me to stop me from talking incessantly about the fabulousity of Christina Aguilera, that doesn't make him gay. That's what I mean by really straight. If he tried it and didn't like it, there is nothing I can do. Though, I will say that the majority of "straights" who have tried it with me, liked it and came back for more. But I digress...

I will readily and willingly admit that I have had sexual relations with a stuffed animal. It was okay, but not something that I needed to do again. I was thirteen and having a sleepover with my friend Galen, who introduced me to the concept and I suspect is still a practicing plushophile. We chose our "dates" from his little sisters collection of stuffed animals and snuck outside to the "fort" we had constructed. He had chosen a bunny and I had picked a panda. We climbed into our sleeping bags and began to hump the helpless toys with teenage abandon. We didn't stop until we heard a voice say: "Boys! Stop that!"

It was Galen's father, whom I had heard walk up on us. He had stood outside the fort for some time before admonishing us. That really turned me on. This was a man who felt it was patriotic to mow his front lawn in a red, white & blue Speedo and flip flops. I had often wondered what kind of man he was, to parade around in next to nothing and name his only son, Galen... I had never seen so much Man-Flesh on display in my neighborhood before. I had a crush on my best friends father and he had caught us raping small plushies in the backyard. I could never quite look him in the eye again. But I did watch him trim his grass, almost religiously from my bedroom window. Galen and I never had another sleepover, as it had been decided by our parents that we were too old for such things. It's just as well. I had my own masturbatory fetishes to explore.

Maybe someday, I will tell you about my days as a Zootaphile... Anyway, Cookie Monster is totally hot and I would do him in a heartbeart.

A Scanner Drunkly

You would expect Hollywood to have really good movie theaters, and we do. My favorite is the ArcLight Theater, which has big, cushiony seats with leg room, a fantastic sound system and large screens. It also features assigned seating, so you can pick your seat, but there really isn't a bad one in the house. One of the stranger features is the 21+ screenings, where you can drink alcohol from the bar, right in the theater. No smuggling it in... Which is really convenient.

JR and I went to see A Scanner Darkly at the ArcLight last night. It was 21+, so I got carded at the door, which makes me unbelievably happy these days. We had a few drinks at the bar before heading into the theater. After a long, horrible day of apartment hunting, we deserved a little relaxation. Now, I have never been much of a Richard Linklater fan. I hated those romantic crap-fests that he made with Ethan Hawke and that French chick. So the real draw to this film was the presence of its stars. I heart me some Keanu Reeves! And since the movie is about drugs, Linklater cleverly enlisted the Hollywood authorities on this subject, including Robert Downey Jr., Woody Harrelson and Winona Ryder. I was particularly jazzed about Winona because it is my theory that she is the Elizabeth Taylor of my generation, sans the multiple husbands. I hope this girl works until she is old, fat and crazy, too!


Anyway, the actual film was a mind fuck. I think this was due to the animated "rotoscope" thing they did. After staring at that for a few hours, reality gets twisted. Basically, the plot involves Keanu as an undercover agent who is so far undercover that he ends up being assigned to spy on himself. Oh, and he totally gets addicted to Substance D. I'm thinking the D stands for Drugs in general. The whole film is full of trippy metaphors and tweekers posing as thinkers. Now, in my reality, I'm tripping on Substance A, being Alcohol, watching this whole paranoid Big Brother freakfest go down. Am I in this movie or is this movie in me? Is this the best performance of Noni's career? Five years into my withdrawals, I became a major slut. Even if I could catch a beaver, I have no idea how to cook one.

So, yeah. I don't recommend drinking during your scan. It clicks the wheel, but the song never plays. Are the hemispheres of my brain competing? I have no idea, but if they are, they better keep it down because if I have to come up there...

Good To Be Gay

I used to be incredibly self conscious about the way the world perceived me. I would go to great lengths to emit an air of ambiguity, to disguise my true identity. I would only let my Fag Flag fly in the company of close friends. To everyone else, I was an enigma.

This is, of course, after I gave up drag and moved to Los Angeles from Tucson. In Arizona, I was fearless due to a nasty crystal meth addiction and the fact that I was young and didn't know any better. I arrived in LA, after a series of traumatic events, a changed man. At first, nothing seemed different. But the longer I was here, I realized that LA is just one big closet. Sure, there is the West Hollywood scene, but I wasn't interested in that. I had already partied enough to last several lifetimes. I wanted to be part of the "Industry", a cog in the wheel of the Hollywood Dream Machine. And that, my friends, is when I became aware of myself.

I suddenly found that my fantastically expressive hands were obscene. I erased words like fabulous and decoupage from my vocabulary. I cannot explain why, but I had unconsciously chosen to camouflage myself. Naturally, this didn't really fool many people. I am far too eccentric to truly blend in with the status quo. Nonetheless, my most frequent employer, a woman who has known me for five years, has not once asked me a single question about my personal life. We sit three feet apart for 12 to 18 hours a day, weeks at a time, and not one indication that she is aware of my sexual orientation. Which is fine, because frankly, it's none of her business. Yet, I know every detail of her homelife, her kids and her husbands business.

What I find ironic is that at some point, I simply stopped trying to hide it. It was exhausting, trying to pretend to be "one of the guys." I could never talk about sports because I regard sports as "something that just hits me in the head." I couldn't talk about girls, not the way straight guys do. A foxy girl walks by and they all comment: "Did you see that shake?" And I would think: "Did you see those shoes!" They would say: "I'd like to get me some of that!" And I would think: "I'd like to do her hair!" Then one day, Geoff started in on the gay jokes. He told one after the other and everyone laughed except for me.

"What's the matter," he said. "You don't think that's funny?"

"Oh sure," I replied. "I love gay jokes. I always have, since the second grade!" This seemed to shut Geoff up. Yet again, I had given a sarcastic and ambiguous answer. He came up later to apologize, said that he didn't mean to offend me.

"I was just trying to find a way to connect with you. I can't figure you out. I was looking for some common ground." And just like that, he found it. Under all my trickery and confusing behavior, I was human and so was he. That was a real turning point. I realized that I wasn't doing myself or anyone else any favors by hiding who I was. Except for the occasional (and rare) homophobic remark, I have found that most people find it charming when I say things like "What a fabulous decoupage!" They know who they are dealing with and I have a lot less stress.

I have been searching for a new apartment, which is exhausting in its own right. This morning, I called about a remodeled split level with a private rooftop patio. The woman on the other end of the phone said: "You sound like a happy guy?"

"Oh, I am!" I answered. I told her the apartment would be for myself and JR. She asked if he was cute and I confirmed.

"Well, then...The place is yours! Of course, it's still be worked on and I can't guarantee pink countertops, but you and your partner are at the top of the list!" Hearing this made me feel great. I guess it's good to be gay after all. No, JR is not really my partner in the way she assumed, but if it will get us into a lease... Yeah, JR is totally my butt boy. I was glad to know that there are people in the world who are partial to a couple of happy guys.

Wish I Was Ocean Size

There is nothing quite like playing in the ocean to give you some desperately needed perspective. All the little things you worry about on a daily basis seem to vanish when confronted by the awesome body of water, tossing your ass around like a ragdoll. Like I said, JR and I celebrated Independence Day in Malibu, chillin' with the fishes. At first, the water was as cold as Loni Andersons career. But we got used to it.

The waves were small and harmless, or so we thought. At one point, we noticed everyone running for the shore. My first thought was A Shark! Then, one second later, I was unable to think about anything. A really big wave gobbled us up and spit us out onto the beach. It lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. My mind kept repeating: Go with it! As if I had a choice. We crashed onto the sand and found ourselves the object of much pointing and laughter. A few yards away stood four young latino men, smiling and laughing at what they had just witnessed. We just smiled back and laughed at ourselves. Then, to my surprise, they ran towards the water, not wanting to be left out of the next round. We all played in the waves together, the ocean treated us all the same. It did not care if we were young or old, fat or thin, black or white, straight or gay. Mama Pacific is an equal opportunity destroyer.

We lasted a few more rounds. Then rested on the sand to recuperate from our wounds. JR got a sizable welt across his back and we were both bleeding from tiny rock cuts. That didn't stop us from going back in several times for more. As we left to go to dinner, I was practically in tears and JR was laughing wildly.

"You'll have a much greater respect for me once you hit thirty-five," I told him. Moments later, I was the one giggling like a schoolgirl while JR turned stony silent as the day finally caught up. To me, it felt like an emotional reset button, a way of zeroing out everything else. I needed the endorphins, I guess. It's not too often that I find myself in a good, old-fashioned life-or-death situation. Entangled in a wave, unable to do anything but ride it out: priceless.

I'm still digging sand out of places it's too horrible to describe. But, oh! The joy of being alive...

Meet Me In The Bathroom

I had a wonderful 4th of July, which is nice for a change. JR and I headed back to the beach in Malibu to frolic in the waves. I was secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Mitch and sure enough, we did, near sunset. The ocean is a wonderful, energetic and magical thing. It baptized us in beauty and recharged the soul. The sun, however, did a number on my skin. Last year, I celebrated with my family in Arizona on the top of a mountain. The year before that, well...

Given the increasing intimacy of the world wide web, I just couldn't resist sharing this video diary with you. Recorded on the 5th of July, 2004, many things have changed in my life since that time. Back then, I was forty five pounds heavier than I am now, I was friends with people named after historical tyrants, and I studied Kabbalah. I guess that explains the beard...

Basically, what you are about to see is a desperately unhappy version of me, bitching about a night out on the town. It's almost six minutes long, and I probably say incredibly offensive things, so be warned. Also, it's okay to laugh. I'm going for that "tragic-comic" thing here. Anyway, nuff said. Enjoy:



By the way, if this blog were a TV show, this would be the 100th episode. Sometimes people like to celebrate milestones like that. I'm just hoping I don't get cancelled!

Love You All,
Saviour Onassis

7/4 Shoreline

Ever since the horrible Identity Theft situation, I can't get Mitch to stop Googling himself. He'll sit at my computer and Google himself all day if I let him. Eventually, the tension built up so much that I was forced to Google Mitch myself. During which, JR called and invited us to a "biker bar" out in Malibu for some fish and chips by the sea, a place called "Neptune's Net." I had never been and jumped at the opportunity to get out of the house. JR agreed to pick us up, and Mitch and I quickly dressed for lunch. I chose to wear jeans and a vintage Playboy tee-shirt, while Mitch went for a more traditional "biker" look, which consisted of leather boots, tight black pants and a sleeveless shirt that said: Live Fast! Die Young! We were more than a little surprised when JR showed up looking like Michelle Pfeiffer in Grease 2. He had chosen a pale pink blouse, khakis and flip flops.

"I thought you said it was a biker bar?" I asked. JR just shrugged. So, the three of us headed out to Malibu, via the canyon and listened to tunes and sang and had a gay old time. When we arrived, I saw that it was indeed a true "biker" hangout, as there were about one hundred choppers, Harleys and the like, scattered across the parking lot. It being a holiday weekend, the place was packed. We stood in line, where I was made even more uncomfortable by a child who was constantly bumping into my ass. I would have said something but I didn't want to draw any more attention to us. I was still feeling vunerable about being called a "fucking faggot" the day before. I felt naked and almost sure that we looked as though we stepped out of the pages of Butt Pirate Magazine. Not to mention the fact that there were shirtless surfers all over the place, and bikers, and other types I seem to find extremely attractive, so I was on high alert. My first love was a biker and I have always considered them good luck. Anyway....

We order our food and take our pints out to the patio to find a seat. It was banquet style seating and when someone got up to leave, we quickly sat down across from a family. They were: Biker dad, hippie mom and a small kid, who looked remarkably like the child in a movie I had recently seen and that really freaked me out. He just stared at us, listening to every word we said. I tried to keep the conversation to a minimum, but Mitch and JR were oblivious, going on and on about lesbians and saying fuck and just about everything else I wouldn't want my nephews to hear. JR struck up a conversation with Biker Dad, while the kid and I took turns trying to kill a fly. I have to hand it to JR, though, he is truly fearless. I think that why I like him so much. He forces me to do things that challenge my comfort levels and for that I am truly grateful. In fact, my very first post was inspired by him.

After gorging ourselves on fish and chips and beer, we crossed the highway to stare at the ocean. It was a beautiful day and we sat and smoked and talked about life and the future. It was really inspiring. Eventually, the water worked it's spell on us and we made our way down to the rocky beach. JR headed towards the sand, where everyone was hanging out, but I insisted that we take "the road less travelled" and go north into the rocks. We found a spot that was almost completely secluded and made camp. I made little rock sculptures and watched as JR and Mitch had a rock skipping competition. It wasn't long before this descended into a rock smashing affair and I was afraid that a piece would ricochet back to clobber one of us in the head. We had a brief debate about the laws of physics, and then decided that we should stand on the slippery rocks and see how long it would take Posideon to notice us. I figured the God of the Sea was pretty pissed about all the rocks JR had thrown back into the sea. JR said that he was just "returning them to where they came from" but I argued that the sea had spit them out for a reason. As predicted, Posideon soaked us rather thoroughly. It was fun. We watched the surfers for a long time and then a school of dolphins swam by. I commented on how beautiful they were.

"That's what we evolve into," said JR, matter-of-factly. I just nodded and watched as Mitch walked away from me into the sea. We all have to evolve sometime. I just wasn't expecting my imaginary friend to leave me right then. Mitch swam out to the dolphins and disappeared. A moment later, a majestic creature sprung from the ocean for a brief goodbye. And as quickly as he had appeared, Mitch was gone.

We drove home, listening to Broken Social Scene. We didn't say much about what happened, just listened to the lyrics.

It's a shoreline
And it's half speed
It's a cruel world and
And it's time

And you're walking away
But where to go to?
And you're walking alone,
But how to get through?
If you wanna get it right
You can own what you choose
But you wanna live a lie
And love what you lose

It's a shoreline
And it's half speed
It's a cruel world and
It's time

While you're walking away
And I'm trying to get through
But you've gotta know their lies
From the lies they've told you
If you try to do it up
It all will leave you
If you try to steal the beat
The beat will steal you


I'll miss you Mitch. Come back someday? Okay?
I love you.

Get Along Pets

When I was a kid, I had a pet hamster, named Murphy. He was really cute and furry, and I adored him. I felt an enormous amount of guilt about leaving him to go to school. I decided that he needed a friend, another hampster to keep him company and provide the things I could not. Mom drove me to the pet store and we picked out the new friend. He was also cute and furry, I named him Whitey, because of his snow white fur. I couldn't wait to take him home and introduce him to Murphy.

As soon as placed Whitey into the cage with Murphy, the trouble began. They immediately disliked each other. They hissed and scratched and eventually, got into a fur brawl that sent me into hysterics. I reached in and snatched Murphy out of the cage, as I had known him longer and he had my allegiance. I tried everything to get these two to get along. I built a wall out of cardboard and gave them each their own side of the cage, but they chewed through it and set about destroying the other. Finally, I removed Whitey from the cage entirely and returned him to the small box he had originally come in, a temporary home until I could afford another cage.

That night, Whitey escaped the box and disappeared into my family's home. We couldn't find him anywhere. Then, a few nights later, there was a scuffle in my parents bedroom. Apparently, Whitey had scaled the drapes and paratrooped onto my fathers pillow. Dad awoke to find a ghostly rodent next to his head and flung Whitey across the room with enough force to render him lifeless. I was heartbroken. I had only wished for a friend for Murphy, but it just wasn't meant to be. Eventually, my brother murdered Murphy when he used him as moving target practice for his BB gun.

I have never owned another hamster.

Vicious Returns (I'm No Superman)

"You must think I'm some kind of gay blade..."

Saturday afternoon, I went to see Superman Returns with JR. After spending far too much time at IKEA, buying a large furry orange beanbag, we desperately needed a break.

As we approached the movie theater, I slowed down to deposit a bit of trash into a receptacle and hear these words: "Fucking Faggot". I turned to see who was so perceptive. An overweight "gangbanger" type with his skinny girlfriend passed by us, he kept his eyes on me, glaring.

I asked JR if he had heard, but he was far too busy reading me a description of an upcoming film with Clive Owen and Julianne Moore. The gangbanger kept turning around to see if I would react. I just stared blankly at him, wondering how I would feel about a knife attack. Yes, it's reprehensible that I assume he was a member of a gang. Just because someone is Hispanic, wears a wifebeater, has prison tattoos and isn't afraid to call sissy boys names, does not make someone a gangbanger. I know that, but I also believe that calling someone a "Fucking Faggot," (outside a movie theater on Saturday afternoon while he's with his girlfriend), says far more about the namecaller than it does about me.

I remembered an incident where someone had written "faggot" in the dust on the back window of my car. Instead of wiping it off, I chose to make an addendum: "with a gun." I left it like that for a couple days, hoping that whoever did it would see that I was not afraid. This time it was different. It was not an anonymous comment.

His words haunted me. I couldn't forget the look he gave me, as if I were the most vile creature on earth. He wanted me to give him an excuse. He wanted to kill me. He was not afraid. His girlfriend dragged him away and we climbed the steps to the theater. I stood in line to buy our snacks, while JR went to use the restroom. I stood there, just like everyone else, but I did not feel like everyone else. We gathered our refreshments and found our seats, way up close in the second row. During the movie, we laughed especially loud at Parker Posey's character, a victim of circumstances beyond her control, with empathy. Superman explains to Lois that he constantly hears the cries of humanity calling for a "Saviour."

Unfortunately, there is no Superman. There is no Saviour. People are vicious, especially me. At the recent Pride festival, I shamefully screamed out a racial slur at someone while in the midst of a drunken emotional breakdown. There is no excuse and I have felt truly horrible about it ever since. I suppose I got what was coming to me. Karma works in mysterious ways.