porn is where you find it
Just scanned an insurance submission for a company called "Big Boy's Steel Erection."
Work is a gas!
Just scanned an insurance submission for a company called "Big Boy's Steel Erection."
Work is a gas!
Groundhog day means only one thing to the Epicurean set of downtown Chicago: 49cent Burger Day at McDonald's!!!!
It's true! I braved the besieged McDonald's next to Nick's Fish Market. My reward? Four 59cent cheeseburgers and two years off my life. Junk food like this was always withheld as a sort of reward by my stupid health-conscious parents, so even though I feel like a margarine-arteried slob while eating, there's still the warm-blanket feeling of forbidden comfort food.
Here's the McYumsville, a sandwich I invented. If you get with a McDonald's that will play ball you're all set, if not, you'll have to order the parts separately and assemble.
I will list the ingredients of the McYumsville from the top down:
One Apple Pie
One Spicy Chicken Fillet
Swiss Cheese
One slice of McGriddles Pancake-Bread
American Cheese
Pickles
One quarter pound hamburger patty
One Apple Pie
That's the McYumsville! McYUM! Add Katsup, Mustard, or Ranch Dressing to taste. For extra fun order large fries embedded in a triple-thick chocolate shake.
If someone makes and eats one of these, taking pictures along the way, I will reimburse them for twice the sandwich's value. And give them a medal. And eulogize them the following week.
Hey Girl, nice hair. I notice by your profile settings that you're single. That's rad, cuz me too. Let's bone this Friday. Straight up. Maybe we can do it in the bathroom of a sports bar. I know a couple with really spacious handicapped stalls. ;) If I'm not too tired afterwords, I'll give you a ride home in my Scion; I had the gearshift custom-made to resemble the joystick I play SoCom with. I got to be back at my house kinda early though, me and some former KA brothers are forcing some nerds to build us a time machine so we can go back and stop suffrage.
Damn, son. My blog disappeared. Horrors.
The past few weeks have been so busy, so disorienting, so emotionally bewildering, that I am at a loss as how to adequately relate them. I'm reading soul-immolating books, racking up fines at video stores (for Rize and Hustle & Flow), feeding the insurance robot pieces of paper from 9-5, performing the yuk-yuks almost every day, and slowly making sweet love to life on a leopard skin chaise lounge.
Things are good.
I'm not going to say anything about friendpower's NYE except that someone offered me $20 to play Radiohead's "Karma Police." Which I did, right between Johnny Cash's "Hurt," and an entire Black Tape for a Blue Girl album slowed down to 7 bpm. I guess some people's idea of a perfect party is drunkenly singing along to the songs they would have been crying to in their Mom's Jetta Sophomore year. Diff'rent Strokes!
Through the stress, I managed to have some fun, and thanks to the absorbing work I was putting in on the ones and zeros (we play CDs ya'll), I entered 06 as sober as an Episcopal Bishop.
On Monday, I met some friends downtown, and watched King Kong at the largest, loudest theater we could find on short notice. The movie is quite a spectacle, and Kong out-acts everyone.
After the picture, I frantically scrambled to make it to a canceled rehearsal.
Sometime later I found my way up to Lincoln Square and joined comrades Irvin and Allie at the Chicago Brauhaus, a German Beer-hall with 50s vintage decor and clientele. As a little fellow at a Yamaha keyboard played polkas and torch songs, my trio wolfed down hearty meals of wurst, liver dumplings, headcheese, and sauerkraut all washed down with overflowing amber mugs of Spaten. Our diminutive waitress was very charming, and it was my guess that she spends her off-hours making toys at the North Pole. There was a couple clumsily making out at the bar, and I said a silent prayer of thanks for my New Year's sobriety.
After our meal we strolled back to my apartment, and lounged in my sitting room while Irv and Allie argued archaeological ethics. Allie admitted that she had been on a dig where her party had unexpectedly discovered human remains. This discovery was covered up by the head professor in order to prevent the dig site from being claimed as a Native American sacred area containing the remains of an ancestor. This ethically uncertain cover-up, led Irvin to criticize all of archeology as an arrogant denial of a culture's experience of death and the afterlife. Allie would not concede this, but did admit that archeology and anthropology were understood by her, and most colleagues, to be subjective disciplines hinging largely on the interpretations of the scholar, not objective observation. Her perception tells her that the people are dead and don't care. We all resolved to be cremated.
Allie also told me about feminist-archeology, which focuses on the household rather than the broad "cultural meta-narrative." This discipline is what my white male friends and I refer to as "Loser's Archeology," usually before we light a cigar with an Indian Treaty, and have another slice of Baby Seal Veal.
The evening closed with discussion of King Kong as an anti-colonial allegory. Then we smoked banana peels and looked at my Wheel of Time black-light poster while listening to Wish You Were Here. College is fun.
End of year lists are for fux. What do I care what Dusty Pitchspin's "Best 150 Freak-folk Nuggets of 2005" were? Who says that Bloggy O'Newsday's "Worst Disasters of 2005" is on point? Where does Y.M. FitzCosmo get off with her "05 Textile Highlights?" Today's classics are tomorrow's clay pigeons. Take heed dipshits. "The list" is some vh1 high fidelity hack shit 4 Real. I don't simper and waffle over a bunch of things that might qualify as *blank*. I don't write lists, playboy. I make singular, cold, unwavering decisions that will resound through the annals of history as FACT. Word is bond. Ergo...
Here is my thing of 2005.
Absolutely fuck everything else. Goodnight everybody.
Last Wednesday night was awesome beyond belief. I was privy to a show by the dubiously named DJ crew Flostradalmus, and their long-banged, bespectacled entourage. The town hall pub was jacked by every club-rap fad of 2005 and beyond. All the way from Houston screw, to Crunk, Baile Funk, Baltimore Club, Three 6 Mafia, Onyx, Freak Nasty, and ...Gang of Four!? Yes, it was a sexy nerd affair, so I pulled up my sock garters, tightened my Croakie, sprayed on some lavender body glitter and straight ground on some film-school drop-outs.
When the room got shut down, my shirt may have been in the process of being waved like a helicopter, but it was my heart that has taken flight.
Two days later I was jet-lagged and sick: prostrate in the car of my wonderful mother, being driven home from the airport to spend Christmas with the folks. I sang depressing Chiristmas Carols with my Granny, ate homemade chicken soup, petted my geriatric dog, and rocked out with my awesome Dad.
Christmas was a full repeat of Thanksgiving's excesses. I went into complete sugar shock on the 26th and hallucinated for 13 hours. In my stupor, I was beset by an army of Elves and Reindeer who danced around me wildly to the strains of "Make em Say Uhh." Joseph and Mary were turned away from the velvet rope at the Coloxxeum club, and had to spend the night at the Henhouse where Jesus was born in the DJ booth during the "Whoop There it Is/No Diggity " megamix. Three wise guerrilla marketeers brought gifts of Axe Bodywash, Garnier Fructis, and Platinum Rims. Linus had his blanket hanging on the left side, ahem, the Crip side. Tiny Tim saw the Grand Canyon from the seat of his Rascal Scooter. Santa Claus bled Grapefruit MD20/20.
Good Holidays.
Hey. God bless us everyone.
This past Friday Chicago's Metro played host to a sold out crowd of total lesbos in honor of the final performance of The Chicago Kings: Chicago's premier drag king ensemble. Sharing the bill was North Carolinian king troupe The Cuntry Kings, featuring the talents of my friend Carrie. Such a night of hot sweaty Chicago-on-Carolina action was certainly not to be missed by this Male Gazer! I arrived at 10:00 in the company of my aide-de-camp Irvin Lawrence Carsten III, whose woolly beard was the envy of all present. We got standing-room in the mezzanine and tucked in for a H-O-T evening of gender performance. The evening got off to a rip-roaring start with the classic butch-femme comedy stylings of Maxwell and Jessica. Typical banter:
"Who likes vagina!????"
"That last act made my panties wet!"
"Who here majored in women's studies!!???"
The acts themselves were honestly, very impressive. The Chicago crew was hilarious, frequently rising above the boy-camp I was expecting, even lip-synching to The Avalanches crazy sample bonanza Frontier Psychiatrist.
The Cuntry Kings killed. Every piece was like a candy-coated editorial cartoon fed to you by a wiccan pep-squad.
Criticism corner: 9 out of 10 Drag Kings still look like this guy.
After the show Irv and I met up with Carrie and his high School friend Sara. We spoke for 2 minutes before we were promptly snubbed for hot bois and marooned on the dancefloor. I spent the next 20 minutes trying to dance to ringtone techno and getting elbowed by snarly genderqueers who really should have excused xemselves.
At the end of the night Irv and I were voted 8th cutest couple right behind Dirk Thruster and Lil' Toolbelt. Such fun!
The Week in brief: Saw Los Olvidados with Emily, sang sea chanties with a Harvard man at a country/western bar, danced to Lynyrd Skynyrd, ate pie and drank Hot Toddies, saw MF DOOM perform his rapping, and made a spectacle of myself at the IO holiday party.
Last night my Portuguese-speaking roommate and I went to Sonotheque for a Baile Funk party. I made that booty jerk 4 realzzzzzzz. This 35-year-old dude with a fur coat and a perm kept trying to teach me how to do the robot.
Looking forward to another week end of breaking sweat/hearts.
