KYLIE or RUMMY?

(with apologies to GQ magazine)

It's easy to spot the differences between Pop Princess Kylie Minogue and Evil Overlord Donald Rumsfeld, right? I mean, one sold their soul in the quest for world domination, the other one sold their soul in the quest for world domination. I mean, they're at TOTALLY opposite ends on the spectrum of humanity, right? And no one would ever have trouble determining if a quote came from Kylie or Rummy, would they? Take this quiz and test your knowledge.

Kylie or Rummy? You decide:

1. "Look at me! I'm sweet and lovable."
2. "I'm a great napper. A terrible sleeper, but a great napper."
3. "That's a really good question, and if I could tell you, I would."
4. "You will receive only honest, direct answers from me, and they'll be either I know and I'll answer you, or I don't know, or I know, and I won't answer you."
5. "I've got to have a man. I've got to have a man!"
6. "Once in a while, I'm standing here, doing something, and I think, 'What in the world am I doing here?'"
7. "This kind of backlash didn't really seem to be coming from the people. It was more from the media, because they were bored."
8. "If you are not criticized, you may not be doing much."
9. "That's why they say, 'Have you cracked America?' They say it because it's hard. You have to crack it like a piece of rock."
10. "This is fantastic! I've got a laser pointer... Holy mackerel!"
11. "I haven't done anything terrible or punishable. I'm being attacked for just being myself."
12. "It was the first time my boyfriend had seen me perform."

ANSWERS:
1. Rumsfeld
2. Kylie
3. Kylie
4. Rumsfeld
5. Rumsfeld
6. Rumsfeld
7. Kylie
8. Rumsfeld
9. Kylie
10. Rumsfeld
11. Kylie
12. Kylie

NOW YOU CAN SIT ON IT, TOO!

There... I've gone and done part of the work for you, so go ahead and check out this little ditty from Bea Arthur, OK?

THE CULT OF BEAUTY / BOOTY

"I don't feel like I'm oppressing anybody..."

When I was first offered the job (you know the job, the one in porn), the first thing I did (well, the first thing after I changed my Pampers, which had been ruined when I laughed so hard, I peed) was take my dad out to lunch. We went to the Shakey's Buffet by my old high school, partly because it was closing that week (forced out by "redevelopment" don'tcha know?), but mostly for the Mojo potatoes.

Now, pops and I can talk about anything, and I mean, ANYTHING. Yes, I'm wired like my mom, but that's why checking in with the ol' man makes so much sense: he is a solid yin to her yang, which makes him an ideal devil's advocate in situations like this.

I told him all the details: the pros, the cons, but still playing my cards close to my chest (a total departure from my normal neurosis). I have reservations about taking the job, but I'm hoping that if I don't bring them up, and then HE does, it validates my concerns.

It's fucked up, I know, but this was new for me, in a number of ways. Usually, if I have doubts or second thoughts about something, I'm secure (or maybe just stubborn) enough to bow out, stick to the plan and feel good about it. But this time, oh, this time was different. For once, I was able to fully grasp and digest the amazing new world unfolding before me (mine for the taking, it would seem), and I want it... I mean, I REALLY want it... but, again, I have those nagging doubts-doubts now snowballing into (irrational) fear because my dad... hasn't said a word. This is a VERY unusual development. My dad always speaks his mind, no matter what the consequences. But now, he's just sitting there, munching on his pizza crust.

"So. . . uh, waddayathink?" I eek out, diving for the last of the Modjos.
"About what?" he counters, calmly stealing a thick Modjo slice off my plate.
"Uh... the job," somebody with a voice like mine says.
Silence.
"Do you think I should take the job?" I ask, my emotions (finally) boiling up to the surface.
"I think," he mutters, not even trying to hide a small sigh, "if it is work you think you can do; work you think you think you would like, for an amount of money, benefits and growth opportunities justifying the investment of your time and..."
"But what do you THINK?!" I ask, cutting him off, and now painfully aware of how transparent my doubts are. He sighs. (Again.)
"I think," he says, shifting in the booth, as he starts again, "If it's work you think you can do, that you think you'll like, for that kind of money..."
He doesn't even bother to finish.

The talk eventually turns to the impact of the adult industry (hegemony, dominant beauty standards, and the usual White Opression talk) and the kind of influence I'll have if I take this job. But for the first time in my ENTIRE life, my dad doesn't urge me to rebel-doesn't incite revolution. No, he tells me not to rock the boat, just learn all that I can, and focus on the new skill sets I can pick up, for the NEXT job.

Several months later, the topic comes up at a small family gathering. Over the course of the discussion, I admit/confess/brag I'm enforcing the dominant, fascist body cult, and contributing to low self-esteem everywhere, and (only half-joking) cap it off, saying, "I don't feel like I'm oppressing anybody!"

But as the laughter died down, a thought jumped up, into focus: All those times in the past, when it felt like there was some larger force, an unseen system 'keeping me down' maybe those pricks didn't know how much they were hurting people-hurting me... but the warm glow of enlightenment dims as I realize that at some point, they knew. It was pointed out to them, or they knew all along but didn't have to face the ugly truth at the start of their oppression, whatever. The point is, they kept going, even after they KNEW the negative impact, which means they intend to inflict harm, and didn't lose any sleep over it.

But hey, when it's work you think you can do; work that you'll like... you fight the power, buck the system and speak your mind when it will be most effective, not just when its called for.

Thanks for letting me learn this one on my own, pops.

HE'S A DANCIN MACHINE

OK, so I know nobody asked, but here's my list of cock-rockin' tunes for May (in no particular order):

Lazy [Freeform Five Remix] X-Press 2 feat David Byrne - A hot little white label, no-holds barred, tower-of-power horns house mix I've been trying to track down for about two years now. Amazing.

Tipsy [Original Version] J-Kwon - Every boy needs a booty shakin' track to play as he towels off after his morning shower.

Everything's Not You [Quivver Space Mix] Quiver - Another track, from a few years back, rockin' my world even HARDER, now that I've got a copy to call my own. Decadent vocals, epic breakdown and a killer build-up... I'm in heaven.

Galvanize [Album Version] Chemical Brothers feat Q-Tip - Phat, freaky, wet, wicked and wild. This one really gets the blood pumpin. Everytime I hear it, I get so amped up, I forget that I don't know what it is REALLY about, too busy thrashin' around to listen for clues.

Give It Away [Album Version / Extended Club Mix] Deepest Blue - I first heard this one, as part of a mash-up featuring the vocals from iiO's "Rapture," which filled my head and haunted my soul until I found the original version. And it haunts me still.

and finally . . .

If I Can't Sell It, I'll Keep Sitting On It from the Broadway production of "Just Between Friends," starring the incomparable Bea Arthur. You have to hear this one to appreciate it, but trust me when I say it is delicious. (You can buy it at the iTunes music store for only 99c, so check it out!)

NO JOKES ABOUT FLAMING, OK?

Your Element Is Fire

Your passion and emotion are as obvious as the brightest flame. You make sparks fly, and your passion always has the potential to burst out. You are exciting and creative - and completely unpredictable. You sometimes exercise control, and sometimes you let yourself go. Friends describe you as sensitive, spirited, and compulsive. Bright and blazing with intensity, you seem mysterious and moody to many.

What's Your Element?

AND NOW, FOR SOMETHING DIFFERENT...

OK, so I've bitched quite a bit about my last job. But there were aspects of the job I really, truly loved: The people. No, not just because they were so damn sexy (although, that was a plus) but because they were so cool. I met plenty of amazing people working in the porn industry--I'd have to say I was blessed.

WHACHU' TINK U KNOW?

Posted by: zippersparks

WHACHU' TINK U KNOW?
THE FOLLOWING WAS POSTED TO THIS SITE, ANNONYMOUSLY:


"Dude, are you on crack? 'Six months'? He was out of the office for about seven weeks total. Check your calendar or HR... seriously."

I'D LIKE TO TAKE A MOMENT TO ADDRESS THIS, IF I MAY:

1. If you actually READ the post, it implies that he was not there for a TOTAL of six months of my first YEAR, meaning that when you add ALL the time up, he wasn't there for the majority of the time.

2. The seven week period where he was out, was only for the ACTUAL surgery -- that doesn't include the time off for the first procedure, OR the time off for appointments.

AND FINALLY:

No, I am NOT on crack -- what a RUDE thing to say. Even MORE disturbing, is the fact that you obviously know who I am, but don't even have the B@LLS to identify yourself, you damn, ignorant stoner.

Sheesh

PART TWO:

Posted by: zippersparks

PART TWO:
"And for my next trick. . ."

OK, so let's fast forward past the inevitable: The fact that the process of revamping the magazine is a horror (nobody helps, it turns into a big mess, my boss comes back from his surgery and totally f*cks with everything I've spent the past three months on), the fact that while my boss was away, everything went haywire, that they made me go to therapy (for tardiness) and the fact that over half of the staff is gone. Yeah, let's just jump right past that, to the part where my boss gets back and (over the course of several weeks) makes the following comments:

"I never thought your writing was very good."

"You don't seem to be able to do you job, on a day-to-day-basis."

"Look, that's the way it is. I have the bigger office so I make the rules. You should be smart enough to recognize that."

"Is that what you're eating?"

So now he's back (which I had been waiting for, thinking that once he was back, the job would be 'worth it' again, or at least the hardship would be bearable), and proceeds to completely change my work behind my back, and present it to the Pres/Pub as my work (she caught on, but didn't do much about it), and generally treated me like a second-class citizen. When I asked him why another employee got better treatment, his response was, "Look, So-and-So does his job REALLY well. . ." and then, realizing his mistake, he stopped.

So there it was. I mean, he was right, I should be smart enough to figure it all out. But it wasn't a matter of my intelligence. If things really were as I was lead to believe (that everyone else had their sh!t together, and I was the lone screw-up), I'm smart enough that I would have recognized that.

OK, so I got more of my shit together. But that still didn't help. I did everything they asked of me, no matter HOW ridiculous, including changing how I dressed (only on the days we had meetings). But none of it worked! I'll give you a classic example:

There were complaints (I was told) that I wandered around the company too much -- that I was in other people's space/face too much and that I was too loud. So, I sat at my desk, and if I needed to speak with someone, I used the intercom system. Only thing is, if this person was in the same room, they would freak out. Apparently, they thought this was weird, and even MORE annoying than when I walked around.

So, the chatter became that I was weird. So, I walked around, only when absolutely necessary, and spoke very quietly, kept my hands at my side and my eyes down. Which made people assume there was something terribly wrong with me (illness, drugs, they assumed everything -- even that I was related to the Pub/Pres!).

Bottom line: No matter what I did, people just liked to bitch and moan. And the Pub/Pres took all the office gossip as fact, and managed based on what "the grapevine" had to say.

It was never, "So, tell me what's going on with So-and-So," but, "Why can't you get along with So-and-so?" or, "So I hear you're annoying So-and-so, could you knock it off?"

I mean, everyone just complained to throw attention off of what they were doing (leaving for 3 hour "lunches", bringing their dog to work and keeping it under their desk, or showing up and hour late every day, just to name a few). And it was like management couldn't function unless there was someone to string up, and, well. . . I'll let YOU finish that thought.


MY PART
OK, so I have to take ownership of a few things. First of all, my reactions to everything I just mentioned ranged from unacceptable to psychotic, I'll admit that. I flew way off the handle a number of times, and never really gave it much thought. I didn't always have my sh!t together, either. And after a while, although I followed every order, I would bitch and moan about it, or do it with clenched teeth and fists. Not exactly a model employee, I know. I'm not going to blame anyone else, or point the finger. I was a SH!THEAD, no two ways about it.


SO, NOW WHAT?
Things were chugging along, disaster after disaster, and I started to wonder where it was all going. I shared my concerns with the Pub/Pres and the VP of HR, both of whom asked me to "hang in there" because "things were going to change in a major way" but they couldn't say how or when.

Then, things changed.

[to be continued]

I MAY NOT HAVE A JOB...

But I have a good time,
With the boys that I meet
Down on the line.

Said, I don't need you,
So you don't approve?
Well, who asked you to?

-from "Wham! Rap" by Wham

Man, I am really FEELIN' this one right now...

AND SO THE STORY GOES...

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WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, WILLIS?

My goddamn rock solid ghetto shiznit name is Munchi Cwac Cwac.
What's yours?
Powered by Rum and Monkey.

MUSIC BURGER (Mmm, tasy!)

OK, so from time to time, people will ask me what I'm "listening to," or, what's in "heavy rotation" in my musical life. Most of the time, I'm pretty guarded about it.

I'll tell you why. (Not that anyone asked.)

Music, like the food we like to eat (or worse, who we like to eat), is a matter of an incredibly personal nature. There's no accounting for what we like -- it's a combination of conscious and unconscious. Much like dining out to eat, just as I wouldn't shame a friend by saying, "Eww... you're going to eat THAT?" I also wouldn't scold someone just because they like, say... Celine Dion. (Although that is an almost unforgivable sin. Almost... but that's another story.) I've seen people dip their salty French fries in their frosty cold chocolate shake, and I've personally enjoyed odd dishes like Brie and mango quesadillas, and Ethiopian food. (No jokes, please. That's so '80s, a la Space Shuttle Challenger disaster jokes!) So who am I to judge?

Like any other art form, the genres I claim to dislike are actually the ones I know the least about. Beyond Dolly Parton, the Dixie Chicks (whom I adore mostly on principle) and Reba McIntyre, I must confess ignorance when it comes to country music. But I'm continually wowed when I'm exposed to it. I'm not saying I actually LIKE it, just that it's full of surprises. Country (or Country-Western) has a deep-rooted history full of tradition and a time-honored focus on actual talent. Nashville is one of those towns where you're actually expected to PLAY AN INSTRUMENT! (The horror!) While the twang of most country singers makes my short'n'curlies fall out, I think singers in this genre have the most natural (and/or finely trained) vocalists of any field out there. I still won't listen to it for more than 5 minutes, but my respect for it grows with each time I'm exposed to it.

[NOTE: I love, love, love me some SheNayNay Twain, but let's face it: She's NOT really country. When the Osmonds sang, "I'm a little bit country," even THAT was more believable than Shania being labeled a Country-Western Star. Still, those are some pipes she's got.]

So here, now that I've rambled on and on, boring you to death, are my current play lists, as of 3.24.05:

SINGLES (in no particular order)
1. "Since You Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson
2. "Breathe" by Erasure
3. "Goodies" by Ciara
4. "Nasty Girl" by Inaya Day
5. "What R U Waiting For" Gwen Stefani
6. "Breed" by Humate
7. "I Like It" by Decibel feat. LaVeetra
8. "Cities In Dust" by Siouxsie & Banshees
9. "Precious Box" by George Michael
10. "Shake It (Like a White Girl)" by Jesse Jaymes

REMIXES (in no particular order)
1. "Easy As Life" [Offer Nissim Mix] Deborah Cox
2. "Mother and Father" [Peter's ReInvention Mix] Madonna
3. "Yeah vs Toxic" [White Label] Britney Spears vs Usher feat. Ludacris, Lil' John
4. "Since You Been Gone" [Jason Nevins Mixshow] Kelly Clarkson
5. "Left Outside Alone" [Jason Nevins Club Mix] Anastacia
6. "Do I Look Like a Slut?" [Peter's Dirty Ho Mix] Avenue D
7. "Whatchulookinat?" [Peter Rauhofer Unreleased Mix] Whitney Houston
8. "Anything" [Club Mix] Offer Nissim feat. Mya
9. "Nasty Girl" [Rauhofer's Sleaze Mix] Inaya Day
10. "The World Is Mine" [Deep Dish Remix] David Guetta

ALBUMS (in no particular order; but only 5 at the moment)
1. "Poetica" by iiO
2. "Live@Roxy4" (2 discs) mixed by Peter Rauhofer
3. "Divas To the Dancefloor, Vol. 2" by Various Artists
4. "This Is Not a Test" by Missy Elliot
5. "Songs" by Luther Vandross

THE SONG I LISTEN TO, BUT WOULDN'T WANT PEOPLE TO KNOW I DO:
"The Music That Makes Me Dance" from the B'way Soundtrack to FUNNY GIRL

PARTING THOUGHT:
"Sing like you know the words...
Love like your heart has never been broken...and
Dance like it matters!"

OH YEAH... THAT

Lost. Lousy. Lusty. Loved?

Hmm. The current state of my mind: FRIED. Like an onion blossom, or bucket of French fries. I've sponged-up all the greasy, no-good-for-you oil I can hold, and I've turned into a big, oily mess.

OK, yuck. That's a nasty analogy, but I think what I mean is really clear.

Is it me? Could it be? I've been in worse jams, and had better results, so no... it's not ALL me. I just don't see other people in my life doing anything other than pointing fingers cause it feels good not to focus on their own hurt... which sucks, cause ALL I'm doing right now is focusing on my own recovery.

Recovery from being in the hospital for a month with pneumonia. Recovery from the last three years of my life, where it seemed like everything imploded, just because IT COULD.

/sigh/

THE TINKERBELL SYNDROME

from "Cultural Musings, Misfits and Mistakes" (Unpublished)

“I think I he suffers from the Peter Pan Syndrome—he just won’t grow up.”
“Yeah? I think I’ve got a case of the Tinkerbell Syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“I think that if people don’t clap for me, I’ll die.”
-overheard on North Campus, UCLA (1996)


No, really. That’s really how the exchange went. OK, so the conversation took place between two theater majors I knew, but it still revealed a major insight into the modern mind. Approval: It’s important, but how important? And what do we use to measure the applause? I firmly believe our inner critic, however it is developed, plays a bigger role than we realize. But again, the question as to where this weight, this importance placed on approval looms large.

Take, for example, the young man in the conversation—the one who self-identifies with the character of Tinkerbell. Setting aside his homosexuality (which is difficult, considering he flames like a charcoal briquette), the reference is fascinating. It isn’t a nod to the over-commercialized, branded on every imaginable item of clothing a sweat shot could turn out version poor old Uncle Walt pimped out. No, this is a direct reflection of the original stage play, where the audience is asked to clap if they believe in magic, which will restore Tinkerbell’s life force. (OK, to add the homosexuality a woman, in most, if not all, stage versions, the title roll of Peter usually performs back in - you connect the dots.) In Laughing Wild, a wonderfully wicked stage play, there’s a recounting of a childhood trauma, more specifically, a production of “Pan” that goes awry. In it, the audience has been so shocked by the play’s poor quality (Wendy seems to be getting fatter in each scene, the alligator crawls offstage and eats a child in the first row—you know, the usual), and they’re too scared to clap. Of course, Peter screams at the audience that they killed Tinkerbell, which only adds to the trauma.

Aside from wanting to plug an incredible, dark comedic romp, I bring this up because it bears direct resemblance to what a Tinkerbell Syndrome might look like. (On a side note, I find it odd a theory developed explaining male immaturity, but no corollary ever emerged explaining female irrationality and/or moodiness, but I digress.) Blame, guilt and displaced negative emotions all factor in to the equation, most likely in an inverse manner. That is to say, if a youngster is berated and belittled all his life (whether he deserved it or not) the result is an adult specifically tuned into modes of approval that directly counter-act the negative imprint of his childhood.
Sounds simple enough, right? No, you say? Specifics would help, that’s for sure. Let’s go back to the young man from the UCLA scenario. His father, quite overweight, put an enormous amount of pressure on his son to be thin and (presumably) more athletic that his talents allowed. There wasn’t any apparent shame in his moving into the performing arts, but the now-skinny young man (a “husky” child by his own account), thrived on the physical feedback that matched his father’s patterns of approval:
“You look so thin.”
“What a thin figure you have.”
“You’re a great dancer—you make it look so athletic.”
“If you were straight, girls would be all over you!”

OK, so I threw that last one in to be a bitch, but if you knew this guy’s obsession with passing for heterosexual, you’d take the dig too. While the first three all seem generic enough, a little more personal insight betrays the deeper, darker power at work here. This particular young man and I were socially acquainted, so I was privy to some of his “inner” thoughts and private moments. (I put quote marks around ‘inner’ because these moments, like everything else in his life, were played out publicly for applause/approval.)

[NOTE: For the purposes of this essay, applause and approval are interchangeable.]

He constantly obsessed about his weight, the weight (and cock size) of the guys he dated, making everything a less-than private competition. “See? I’m skinnier than N. Look At his pants compared to mine,” he would rant, going through the other guy’s closet when they weren’t looking. Never mind that they guy in one case was a raver, and wore jeans at least four to five times larger than his actual waist size. No, this was a competition—a war declared on the world, when it was his father he was angry at.

Psychobabble? Perhaps. Mud-slinging? Mary, keep yo’ mouth shut! Scary insight into why this one individual has yet to come to peace with his inner-turmoil, find true love or lasting success in his career of choice? Only time will tell.

JG [REVISED, JANUARY 2005]

FAMOUS BOYS I LOVE/KNOW, Part One

THE NIGHT CHRIS GORHAM DISSED ME
from Two Gemini of Verona

“Look!”
“Chris, I need help with my tux,” I mumbled back.
“You’re not looking!”
“Chris…” I moaned, turning around. There, in the middle of our dressing room, was Chris, wearing nothing but a dance belt and a look of total dismay. Correction: a pink dance belt.


OK, I should back up and set the scene a little better. It’s 1990-something, Spring Quarter at UCLA. I’m in the Theater department’s production of Two Gentleman of Verona. The musical. Yeah, you heard me: The musical. As in singing, dancing and general faggotry. It’s like someone decided performing The Bard’s least interesting play wasn’t bad enough, no, there should be singing. And a big Chinese dragon, for no particular reason.
So why did I participate? Well, that’s another story. Let’s just say I had my reasons. Anyway, so I’m cast in the chorus (I was robbed, I tell you), where I met plenty of interesting characters. Among them was the dream Christopher Gorham, from like, Fresno, or Bakersfield, or something. He was (or is, I guess) super-talented, and super-disciplined: A total pro. His stint on the WB’s Popular, some years later wasn’t a surprise to anyone who worked with him. Chris has a masterful ability to walk that wicked line between black humor and camp/drama. Delish, for sure.
Anyway, the process of rehearsing for a main stage production at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television is a rigorous one, as you might imagine. During the almost 10 weeks we slaved, learning dance routines, etc., Chris and I walked that same line he walked so well on stage. I think I annoyed the sh!t out of him. No, I’m pretty damn sure I annoyed the sh!t out of him, but he seemed to enjoy hating me. He more or less steered clear of me, unless I was making a total ass of myself, which even I must admit can be pretty entertaining.
This particular production of Two Gents was meant to be a multi-cultural celebration—the kind of show where you lower a kitchen sink on stage at the end, just for good measure. In one scene, towards the end of the second act (“Milkmaid” for you B’way geeks out there) the director had three couples singing back-up: One hetero couple, one lesbionic couple and two guys. Guess who was part of the faggotry? Yup. The end of the song has one of those cute little “button” endings, so the director had all the couples turn and kiss each other on the last note. No problem.
We’re in one of those warehouse-style rehearsal spaces in McGowan Hall, the building housing UCLA’s Theater Department. It’s very, behind-the-scenes; think of PBS’s Stage By Stage: Achingly glamorous dancer girls stretching on the bars by the mirrors, tape on the floor, black boxes for stage pieces strewn about. Very Fosse, but nowhere near as sexy. We’re running through the number for the first time, full-staging. The kiss comes and goes, and I’m off for a quick sip of water.

“Juan, have you ever kissed a guy before?” I hear from behind.
I turn around, and there’s Christopher Gorham, tormentor and tortured hottie.
“Yes,” I sneer, starting to walk away.
“Really. Cause you looked scared as hell up there… right before that kiss, s'all.”

Now, let me be clear: I had, in fact, done more than kiss another guy, just not in front of a bunch of other people. To top if off, the other guy was a smelly (but talented) straight guy. Oh, no, the topper is that my parents were coming to opening night, and bringing my dear-sainted grandmother. You know, the cute little old lady with a direct line to God, and a Bible in, oh I don’t know… every room in her apartment. But I digress.
Yes, I was terrified. Scared sh!tless. I’d kissed other guys in public, only those times, I was too drunk to care who was looking. But now, there was a roomful of people. I had spent the first two years of my sentence, er, undergraduate at UCLA building up a reputation of sorts. I was funny, fabulous and no one was going to rob me of that, least of all some twat from Fresno.
“Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno anymore.”[1]
But Chris was on to something. What the heck was so afraid of? Everyone knew I was gay. And I mean, everyone. I’ve never really dug too deep into the subject. Let’s just say that after graduation, I lost 65 pounds, and worked my inner sh!t out.
For one, brief moment, Chris’ usual attempt to amuse himself, and make me squirm in the process had failed to amuse him, and actually had impact. Nevertheless, I had the last laugh, of sorts.

So, back to that dressing room. It’s the quick-change, between Verona and Milan. A killer number, where we start in hand-dyed peasants clothes, sandals and bongos and finish the number in city-wear. For Chris, this meant some pleather-lycra outfit from hell, and rollerblades. (He was a bike messenger.) For me, the opera-diva/club-kid, it meant a tux (tails, ya’ hear?), platform disco heels and a ton of Liberace jewelry. This was the meaning of quick-change.
Oh, and on top of that, we had to stay on stage for about 90 seconds after the peasants’ exit, to make sure the set pieces were locked and pinned in place, so Milan wouldn’t go rolling all over the place once the Afro-Cuban-Ghetto-Queen dance number kicked in. (Apologies to Mr. Director, but it was pretty ghetto.)
Well, like any properly trained, disciplined actor (about to go on stage in lycra shorts), Chris wore a dance belt. Don’t know what a dance belt is? Imagine a jock strap with a big, silky padded cup in front, instead of the sexy mesh you’re used to. It served the same purpose, only in a more, theatrical way. Well, Chris provided his own dance belt, but the theatre techs insisted on doing all the laundry themselves.
Now, in their defense, it was the only way for them to get all the credits they needed to graduated, but from the outcome, I’m guessing someone wasn’t paying attention the day they talked about, oh, I don’t know, LAUNDRY. See, someone threw Christopher’s pretty, white dance belt in with those red, hand-dyed peasant shirts. And hence, the pink dance belt.
It was a sight I’ll never forget, In an instant, he was human again. My tormentor, taken down a notch: There, he stood, in pink, before that fag who he was sure had been checking out his ass in said dance belt (um, duh—and it’s a nice as you’d expect).
Like the pro he was/is, Chris got dressed, helped me go full-on Liberace, like he did every night (OK, I had to put some of the rings on myself) and we still made our respective entrances. And only I knew he was skating around the stage, singing (perfectly in tune), wearing a pink dance belt.

JG (Revised 12/05)


------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] from Airplane, bitches. Oh, go out an rent it!

MMM...TASTY!

Yup, that's me. Lick it up, baby. Lick - it - up!

CAN I GET A WOOT? OH... GUESS NOT

WHO AM I TALKING TO?

It's actually funny, talking to myself for the whole world to see...and nobody's looking. OK, that does it:

1. I'm posting my next essay, Tinkerbell Syndrome essay today, if it kills me, and I'll have the rest of the features I'm writing for FRESHMEN magazine posted by Monday. Who's gonna get me in trouble? OK, well maybe my boss, but if I just show the numbers (traffic to this site), I'll get more sympathy that anything else.

[ASIDE: This is for me to practice my writing, play with Web stuff and have an online forum, in case I start actually doing something interesting.]

2. I'm gonna improve this blog - think about how to make this more interesting, add some photos, links and other fun stuff.

Soon.

LATER NEVER THAN BETTER

Oh, I am soooooo confused right now, you know? No, you don't. There's no one out there.

OK, so I do have a couple of new posts (mostly for myself), but the "HoYay!" article I wrote for FRESHMEN magazine (site here) isn't ready yet -- in the copy edit part of the process, the "Tinkerbell Syndrome" and "The Salieri Complex" aren't even half-way to where I'd like them to be...

I'll get to them this weekend, if I don't make it to the Chi Chi LaRue party in San Diego...long story, need rest now.

FISH GOTTA SWIM...

and birds gotta fly..."
Man, oh man, on man. Gus Mattox (web site here). Do you know him? You should. It's not THAT unusual for a guy in porn to be sexy (great bod, killer smile, amazing...well F&B). But what's a little more unusual, is how smart and personable he is.

Don't get me wrong, there are lots of super cool, intelligent, crazy/sexy/cool porn stars:

Michael Lucas NO, his lips don't look like that all the time, and YES, they're real. He's actually one of the smartest, coolest, nicest guys I've met in porn so far.
Josh Weston He has a great bod, a sweet soul and it turns out he's a killer writer. What, you don't believe me? Watch out for the April issue of MEN magazine, on our new, signature back page.
Blue Blake...OK, wait.

I could sit here and list all the cool ones, but I was talking about Gus, and I was talking about him for a reason. He's been doing quite a bit of writing for me, in MEN magazine, and now he's got something going with UNZIPPED. Don't quite know what, but the guys from Unzipped are my favorite, and Gus rocks, so it should be awesome.

What really blows me away about Gus is how approachable and funny he is. He just got back from a COLT Studios (Buckshot) shoot with Dean Phoenix (how many covers do I have to put you on, before you say hello?), iPod Miklos and make-belive boyfriend #2, director/PR/marketing guy, Kristofer Weston. (Kris just hooked MEN up with a hot, hot cover for April, so make sure you keep an eye out for it. But the coverguy is m-b b/f #5, so hands off!), Anyway, Gus got home from the shoot, and sent me a bunch of great email, which got shorter, and shorter, and shorter until he finally admitted he was lagged and went to bed. (Alone? He didn't say...)

Anyway, there's just this...warmth surrounding everything he does, and when I checked my work email this morning, I read through his email again, and now I can't stop grinning...

Oh yeah, there was a debate in our office as to whether or not he looks like Cary Grant or somebody. I dunno. He looks like him, which is all he needs.

[NEW POST LATER TODAY on HoYay!, Blogspeak and Other WWWierdness, as well as a posting of my original essay on "The Tinkerbell Syndrome" and other social phenom. See? Told ya I was gonna be back.]

CLOSER TO THE LIGHT (Part 1)

Forgive me father...it's been almost a month since my last post. I'll try and do this each Sunday/Monday to recap/map-out the seven days He gave me...and that I seem to be wasting.

THE SOUND OF ONE HAND SNAPPING
The reason I've been so low-profile? Drugs. No, seriously, my boss has been making my life really sh!tty for a while now. He just announced he's stepping down, which is a good thing...I think. He's going after something else, something he says will make him happy. So I'm happy for him. But it begs the question, as my friend Philip is so fond of saying. [SNARK: Just saw him for the first time in a couple of years, with his partner Josh. They haven't changed a bit. J'adore them. J'acan't imagine them in my life now, but not opposed to it, on some level.]

So, the question: WHAT THE HELL? No, really. What has the past couple of months been about. I mean, what is he like? What's he like, anyway? I took this job for him. Well, I took it for the person I thought he was. He failed to mention (as did the VP of HR and the president of my company) that he wouldn't be around for the first six months...the time that was supposed to be spent training me, molding me.

[SECRET] You see, I'm perfect for this job, I've just...uh, never done it before. Much love and respect to the pres. of the co. for taking such a huge chance on the kid, and even deeper, profound love and respect to her and the rest of the troops who stuck by me (or in some cases, came around to my "side"). I've been told, by people at this company, that I "require a lot of attention."

Uh, duh!?! A new employee, especially one who needs training, usually requires attention. And attention must be paid, one way or another. I'll spare (myself mostly) everyone the long, boring drama...it wasn't really about me, in the end. I took it, dealt with it the best way I knew/know how. And even though my supervisor leaving (thus, oh, I don't know, DOUBLING my work load?!) being out of the picture wasn't the resolution I had in mind, it's the one life gave me.

The president of our company, and indeed many of the new-hires she brought on in the wake of my arrival (OK, so I'll go back over The Drama in a later post, I'm trying to be a big boy and not dwell, OK?) rock, and rock hard. There's a general feeling of, "this should be more fun," taking center stage now, and it feels right. I mean, it's porn...GAY porn, at that, and our company is on the verge of becoming the Turner Entertainment of gay porn, so if I can just hold out...

AND THAT'S IT
No, really. I've never wanted anything so much, and had to just be...someone other than me. It's downright sh!tty at times. I get hazed pretty hard, have to deal with some major passive-aggressive behavior, am held to a different standard that most of the other employees, have to deal with my "street cred" with the staff and put out strange fires...like the rumor/joke that the prez and I are related. I won't get into THAT one, but if you know my boss, and you know me, you know how laughable it is. The more I learn, the more I master my job (and I mean MASTER, have you seen the February issue of my flagship magazine yet?), the more twacked things get...which is the exact opposite of what you'd expect, right?
It should get easier, the harder I work, but it doesn't. But at least I know what part of the mess is mine, now. And with my parole officer, uh, I mean, boss, on his way out, there's more mess to clean up/more ground to claim.

Yeah, it's a mess...but if this what success feels like (and I don't know if it is), I'll take it.

I'LL TAKE IT ALL