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wishfull thinking

bread is funny.

but there staff is scary

no jokes about "excellent service", or "crust" please.

and then there's this which gives "pan dulce" a new meaning.


as a pang of hope dances across my mother's heart

why am I getting the Victoria's Secret catalogue in the mail? I have never purchased ANYthing from there by person, mail or otherwise... Unless Marilyn is using my credit to by panties which would make me vomit up my kidneys...

But seriously... one or two was wierd, but now my boyfriend is starting to wonder. People are talking. "Honey... is there some part of your life you'd like to share?"

I might not be Butch like Cassidy but I'm not a screaming queen nor am I a cross dresser. (btw: stay away from "Breakfast on Pluto"... You could spend your two and a half hours more pleasureably; perhaps working for the Bush campaign or getting a prostate exam from Captain Hook)

I have nothing against cross dressing, though I don't particularly like the drag shows that parade one of two things: A) Barny Rubble in a dress B) a masogynistic charicature of misplaced feminine angst and bitter retribution. My sole experience with dressing in drag came in college when I was visiting friends in Santa Cruz. I smoked too much pot to care about the world, at which point my girlfriends (or here, I should say; friend-girls) decided that now would be the opportune time to play dress up.

Picture me, in a green, leather skirt, platform shoes, a knit midrift, a pink feather boa, with pot-induced lazy eyes, outside in the driveway smoking a cigarette while the girls survey their work... (they, too, were high - as is obvious from their fashion choices). Of course, this was the time when the hottest postal worker came up to deliver the mail. He had the look of a surfer and the body of Eric Bana. He was wearing shorts and I was obviously staring at his... package, as he handed me the mail with a smirk and a wink.

But I digress.

I live in West Hollywood - blocks from the only city haIl with a fishbowl filled with condoms and lube on the reception desk. I have a reputation as a homosexual to uphold. I can't have people thinking I'm jacking off to a magazine filled with walking anatomy lessons with bee-stung lips, demarol eyes and questionably resistance levels.

Of course, I'd have no problem getting Undergear ... but that's a different story. I much prefer vapid beefcake that live off of protein shakes and tuna to vapid cherry pie that lives off of cigarettes and tic-tacs.

That is all.


Tired and Cranky = bitchy post.

I'm exhausted so this isn't going to be creative, nice or well-written... I'd skip it totally if I were you.

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Last night we went to the Christmas party for that OTHER Hollywood awards institution; not the Oscars but that "other" one...

- yes, I'm not saying the name that rhymes with Bolden Bodes because they like to google.

Anywho; we designed the invitation so for the past month and a half I've been staring at a line of type that says: "The Beverly Hills Hotel"... and where do I drive to? The Beverly Hilton. Totally different hotel. The one that every OTHER FUCKING EVENT THEY'VE HELD IS AT! ... that's me. Always on the ball.

"honey, are you sure you're going to the right place?"
*sigh* "of COURSE!"...

(ten minutes later)

"oh, wait..."

Drinking was mandatory. Not because of the cache of the people there (because there WAS no cache of people there) but because of the scary fallen facelifts that resemble Jaba the Hut, the obvious male escorts, the attitude and the stench of misplaced egos attempting to inflate themselves by association with some facet of stardom.

You see, the Academy (and for you new readers, yes they're a client also... working for the other group is like cheating on your mistress with a hooker) is comprised of people who have actually achieved something in their field vs. the OTHER one (who's name I'm still not mentioning) ... the OTHER one is comprised of people who write about people who have acheived something in the field and live vicariously through their subjects' fame. ... fame they wish they had.

After copping an attitude, which everyone who knows me can attest comes easily, we finally made some friends.
Scene 1: Exterior patio; night. A group of attendees smokes at a table.
TALL GUY WITH ACCENT: "I was a designer for Calvin Klein until I just decided that the fashion world was falling apart. No one has respect for quality or creativity anymore"

JAKE: "M@'s an artist too."

TGWA: (in a condescending "that's cute" tone) "Oh, you're an artist? What kind of artist are you?"

ME: "... a successful one."

Scene 2: Banquet Table.
POMPOUS MAN: "So you MUST be here with someone... who are you here with?"

ME: "No one. We're here on our own merits. You?"

PM: ".... oh, I'm... so and so's guest."

ME: "cheers!"

Scene 3: Exterior patio downing a much needed cocktail and copping another cigarette.
FRIZZY HAIRED BITCH: "So what are you doing for them?"

JAKE: "We're designing their program for the event."

FHB: "uh huh. And does it look good?"

JAKE: "Yes. it's devoid of ads this year."

FHB: "The past four years have been devoid of ads."

ME: "No actually they've all been chock full."

FHB: "Last year's had no ads."

ME: "It was sponsored by Target."

FHB: "But there was no ad."

ME: "The front was a giant Target ad."

FHB: "............"

FHB: "So does it look good?"

ME: "It'll be the best one they've ever had."

FHB: "of course you'd say that. What ELSE would you say?"

ME: "Yes, but ONE of us knows what we're talking about!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

The best way to make friends in a pompous clique is to hate them and show it - at least to the assholes. It's "Alice in Misplaced Egoland" I've never understood the idea that; if you act more pompous than they, then they think you MUST be worth knowing... or something. it's wierd. very, very wierd.

But not everyone had their head up their asses. Julia (pronounced YOO-LEE-UH) from the MPAA was a doll, as were some others that we chatted with during the evening.

But we were by FAR the youngest ones there who weren't A) reletives B) escorts C) waiters

The gentleman sitting next to me at the table was 97. His second wife, sitting next to him, was from Antwerp. So was his first wife - both from Antwerp. ***

"So... do you spend a lot of time in Antwerp or something?"



"... yes, she's from Antwerp too."

wife leans over "Is he spreading lies about me?"

"... I honestly don't know."

I'm being an ass, but they were both very nice people.

In general it was ok... more of a work thing and an obligation to be there. But one of the main objectives of what we're bringing to them is visually upping their class-image... To be more like the Academy in perception. The organization and it's people are frantic about making themselves seem more classy....

and then everyone scrambles at the end of the evening to steal the centerpieces... no joke.

Perhaps the most symbolic cap to the evening is the fact that the swag bags had: Wine, ... Loreal VitaLift... and a microdermabrasion kit. ... which still isn't going to help those who's faces have fallen from bargain plastic surgery in 1972.

. . . . . . . .
*** addendum: I should clarify here that the 97 year old man was not sitting next to two wives. There is no amount of viagra that could facilitate this polygamy. His first wife had passed away in 1974. I was, at the time, being concieved.


"oh god, not him again"

yes, I'm afraid it's true. I am back in the blogosphere.

I killed groeg in may and he's resting in peace(es). We no longer talk. Christmas cards are not sent. In fact, I think he's shitting about me to mutual acquaintances, but I can't prove anything.

In the meantime I've stumbled into love and in the zenith of summer met the person that I actually WANT to spend the rest of my life with. I will do my best to make this blog about something OTHER than how wonderful I think he is because that would just give you all cavaties. But let me get this out:

He has a heart like Brazil - big and warm (without the clearcutting)
He has a mind like aristotle and a form like mortal sin (to quote Goldman)
The interest he takes in the things I like baffles and amazes me
He can cook (mercury can breathe a sigh of relief now)
He is good with money (ie: can keep track of it seeing as how I CAN'T)
He likes animals (and they tend to like him more than they do me... I'm dealing with that rather well)
He is a talented photographer

and, if I may (sorry baby)... just LOOK:

i love you baby
[I had to do that because I, of course, think he's hotter than Mars in August. You can find him here]

Somehow this person loves me and I'm not asking any questions. I'm just going with it. I came out to my family (more on that later) and the irony is that he is everything my mom always prayed for... except for the cock. I always told her she had to be more specific.

OK. Now that that is out of the way and you're all gagging from my uncharacteristic outpouring of emotion, I'll get to the meat of the post.

He urged me to come back to blogging. So, if you're happy - thank him. If you're pissed off - blame him. I hereby take absolutely no responsibility for the drivel that comes out of this page of inane ramblings and directionless texts.

that is all.



....don't expect anything spectacular