Observations of the airport in Frankfort, Germany:
-An entire legion of adults guzzling Beck's at noon (if you can't beat 'em, join 'em)
-An American tourist wearing his money belt on the outside of his pants (note: the pickpockets see right through that trick)
-Standing smoker stations intermittently throughout the airport in poorly ventilated areas
Observations of the airport in Washington D.C.:
-A line of at least 20 people waiting impatiently for Wendy's, while the Potbelly's at the end of the terminal was deserted (same price, better quality ... odd)
-Unconvincing drag queen giggling into an unresponsive pay phone
-Smokers lounge walled off by glass (inside looks quite like a sauna, although I've heard that cancer isn't good for your pores)
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Cracker Barrel
There are two ways to get a southern boy's heart racing: one, tell him that Billy Bob has just bought a new mud-slinging truck to race around after cow-tipping has lost its appeal, and two, spotting the yellow and brown sign of the Cracker Barrel coming into view on the interstate.
When I say "Cracker Barrel", what typically comes to mind? Good southern cooking, aproned waiters and waitresses that can't wait to slop up a healthy serving of grease-fried lard, and of course, the fluffy biscuits served with the country straight-to-your-thighs gravy.
Accurate? Well, yes, in the golden age of the Cracker Barrel dynasty. Now, I am afraid to report, the legacy of this once great giant of the diabetes-inducing American chain restaurant industry has begun to lose its flourish, its fancy, and its general appeal.
Cracker Barrel has a new rule: the star-aproned waiters/waitresses are not allowed to bring out the plentiful buttery biscuit delights unless requested by the customer. My flittering fairy-boy server (probably the only gay in the village, poor lad) reported this shocking news to me (I'm sure in order to save his tip ... how else are the customers supposed to know that it's CB being cheap, not the laziness of the server?).
Moreover: the green beans were canned, the mashed potatoes were instant, and dammit- those biscuits were just not buttery enough !!!
The only positive news I have received about CB is that it has just recently added sexual orientation to its discrimination clause for employees, preventing those in Georgia and Alabama from ousting those damned queers (*sign of relief from my waiter boy*) and terminating them without due cause (WHAT?!? Being gay isnt reason enough? But just think of Sodom and Gomorrah!).
Makes you wonder where we'll be 50 from now? Gays might have equal rights, but the biscuits will totally suck.
When I say "Cracker Barrel", what typically comes to mind? Good southern cooking, aproned waiters and waitresses that can't wait to slop up a healthy serving of grease-fried lard, and of course, the fluffy biscuits served with the country straight-to-your-thighs gravy.
Accurate? Well, yes, in the golden age of the Cracker Barrel dynasty. Now, I am afraid to report, the legacy of this once great giant of the diabetes-inducing American chain restaurant industry has begun to lose its flourish, its fancy, and its general appeal.
Cracker Barrel has a new rule: the star-aproned waiters/waitresses are not allowed to bring out the plentiful buttery biscuit delights unless requested by the customer. My flittering fairy-boy server (probably the only gay in the village, poor lad) reported this shocking news to me (I'm sure in order to save his tip ... how else are the customers supposed to know that it's CB being cheap, not the laziness of the server?).
Moreover: the green beans were canned, the mashed potatoes were instant, and dammit- those biscuits were just not buttery enough !!!
The only positive news I have received about CB is that it has just recently added sexual orientation to its discrimination clause for employees, preventing those in Georgia and Alabama from ousting those damned queers (*sign of relief from my waiter boy*) and terminating them without due cause (WHAT?!? Being gay isnt reason enough? But just think of Sodom and Gomorrah!).
Makes you wonder where we'll be 50 from now? Gays might have equal rights, but the biscuits will totally suck.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Big, fabulous, and black
"It's a man's world, but for gay men, it would be nothing without a big, fabulous black woman" -- The Advocate, April issue
Nothing could be more true than this quote; indeed, a big, fabulous black woman is unparalleled by any other delight in this mad mad world (save chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter ... which may solely be responsible for the big woman in the first place).
A few weeks ago I had the divine pleasure of seeing Rent on stage at the Warner Theatre. One of the cast members was just so: a big, fabulous black woman who had seen her fair share of peanut butter and other things tasty besides. She had that booming, boisterous voice to match her smooth and sexy shuffle across the stage. Oh yes, she was totally hot.
Fate smiled upon me that evening; I was invited to the cast party at a nearby restaurant and bar immediately following the show. And there she was in all her extravagant glory, chomping down on calamari and hoovering down the cheese dip (oh, to be the cracker that gets to be near those lips ... get it???) But what to say? What to do? Where to hide in all of my gay-but-still-diggin-the-chick shame?
Luckily, Jonathan enjoys torturing me and took it upon himself to destroy any shred of dignity I have remaining (which isn't much now after that nude sleepwalking catastrophe last spring). He marched squarely up to my shapely goddess, introduced himself, and proceeded to inform her of my unrequited love for her, the opposite sex, ironic as that may be.
I was mortified.
And then it happened. In a moment of bewildering flattery and charmed appreciation for the magic she in fact knew could bewitch the very foundations of my solely-male desires, my hot-mama-twinkie swished her way towards me and engulfed me in her cushiony wonder.
Quote of the evening from this talented and refined lady of culture and class: "This bitch must eat !!!"
Soooo hot, I can't even tell you.
Lufthansa airlines
Ahh, Lufthansa: offering the best in quality, service, and inconvenience.
This story begins on a calm and misty morning in the Eternal City. As the sun breaks over the horizon of this chaotic epicenter of art, culture, and irritability, one would never guess that the highly prized American values of service, pleasantness, and alcoholic consumption would be met in flight while streaming fluidly across the Atlantic.
Why is Lufthansa so surprisingly wonderful? Well, it's not run by Italians, and that's just the beginning of it.
When sitting in seat 40.K, the in-flight entertainment is quite often the horrifying amusement caused by the cantankerous odor drifting sharply from the lavatories. However, when flying with Lufthansa, there is a competing odor to win your olfactory affections: sweet honey rolls served with butter and cheese.
The food is unparalleled by any other airline. As an added bonus, real metal silverware is provided to assist you in consuming the feast with a steady hand (and inciting a compulsion for kleptomaniacs). I had half a mind to take a set back home with me, deterred only by the thought of running through the detectors at security with enough red on my face to match the spaghetti stains on my beard.
And, undoubtedly the best perk, there is the generous offering of free alcohol on every flight (*college freshman awake beneath a showering of beer cans and cock their heads in amazement*). Yes, I said it: free alcohol. Wine, beer ... even Baileys. There is no charge, nor even a look of disapproval from the attendant (just one from my aisle-seat co-passenger after my third glass ... I can hold my liquor, just not my bladder).
However, like all fairytales with those characters who have bitten the apple of bliss and found only half a worm, this story does have squirmy ending. For all of its painstaking attempts to please me beyond all forms of conceivable happiness (and sobriety), Lufthansa decided to delay my luggage until the next flight from Europe came in 4 hours after my arrival.
So, I see how it's gonna be, Lufthansa: get me all boozed up and leave me in a strange place without my clothes and underwear. Wait a minute ... wasn't that my first date with Jonathan ???
This story begins on a calm and misty morning in the Eternal City. As the sun breaks over the horizon of this chaotic epicenter of art, culture, and irritability, one would never guess that the highly prized American values of service, pleasantness, and alcoholic consumption would be met in flight while streaming fluidly across the Atlantic.
Why is Lufthansa so surprisingly wonderful? Well, it's not run by Italians, and that's just the beginning of it.
When sitting in seat 40.K, the in-flight entertainment is quite often the horrifying amusement caused by the cantankerous odor drifting sharply from the lavatories. However, when flying with Lufthansa, there is a competing odor to win your olfactory affections: sweet honey rolls served with butter and cheese.
The food is unparalleled by any other airline. As an added bonus, real metal silverware is provided to assist you in consuming the feast with a steady hand (and inciting a compulsion for kleptomaniacs). I had half a mind to take a set back home with me, deterred only by the thought of running through the detectors at security with enough red on my face to match the spaghetti stains on my beard.
And, undoubtedly the best perk, there is the generous offering of free alcohol on every flight (*college freshman awake beneath a showering of beer cans and cock their heads in amazement*). Yes, I said it: free alcohol. Wine, beer ... even Baileys. There is no charge, nor even a look of disapproval from the attendant (just one from my aisle-seat co-passenger after my third glass ... I can hold my liquor, just not my bladder).
However, like all fairytales with those characters who have bitten the apple of bliss and found only half a worm, this story does have squirmy ending. For all of its painstaking attempts to please me beyond all forms of conceivable happiness (and sobriety), Lufthansa decided to delay my luggage until the next flight from Europe came in 4 hours after my arrival.
So, I see how it's gonna be, Lufthansa: get me all boozed up and leave me in a strange place without my clothes and underwear. Wait a minute ... wasn't that my first date with Jonathan ???
Saturday, May 6, 2006
Rent, then and now
If you look under Article IV.a of the gay man's membership manual (and no, I am not referring to Spartacus), you will find the following clause: A man, defined loosely as an organism with male genitalia, who is attracted to another man of the same species, is required under the bylaws of Gaydom to know at least 85% the lyrics/music to Rent.
So when Jonathan asked if I wanted free tickets to see Rent opening night in D.C., naturally I referred to the manual for instructions. Article IV.b : any invitation to see Rent, paid or otherwise, must be met with a shrill squeal, multiple handclaps, and a gay hop or two in the air (see picture iii.a for Jack from Will & Grace).
This was my second Rent experience; first time was in New York, in the gaping-wound-bleed section (nosebleed just doesn't do it justice). This time, however, I was front and center, literally ... row G in the orchestra.
It's amazing; no matter how well you know the show or sing it in the shower or hum it on the metro or blog about it or etch the lyrics on trees with a heart around them or gurgle Listerine to the tunes or strum the beat on your knees during counseling sessions for obsessive tendencies, the show is still impressive and new.
It's been two years since I saw Rent in New York, and so seeing it again made me realize just how much has changed in that time. I had just come out, feeling released, fresh and free, but still a bit regretful and angry with myself because I had spent so much time in the closet. For any of you who adhere to Article IV.a, you will know that we should "forget regret, or life is yours to miss".
It was a long lesson to learn; but in the end, I look back and realize that if I had come out any other way then it just wouldn't be my own unique story. And, seeing that there is no day but today, looking forward is much better than giving the remorseful past a moment's glance.
So when Jonathan asked if I wanted free tickets to see Rent opening night in D.C., naturally I referred to the manual for instructions. Article IV.b : any invitation to see Rent, paid or otherwise, must be met with a shrill squeal, multiple handclaps, and a gay hop or two in the air (see picture iii.a for Jack from Will & Grace).
This was my second Rent experience; first time was in New York, in the gaping-wound-bleed section (nosebleed just doesn't do it justice). This time, however, I was front and center, literally ... row G in the orchestra.
It's amazing; no matter how well you know the show or sing it in the shower or hum it on the metro or blog about it or etch the lyrics on trees with a heart around them or gurgle Listerine to the tunes or strum the beat on your knees during counseling sessions for obsessive tendencies, the show is still impressive and new.
It's been two years since I saw Rent in New York, and so seeing it again made me realize just how much has changed in that time. I had just come out, feeling released, fresh and free, but still a bit regretful and angry with myself because I had spent so much time in the closet. For any of you who adhere to Article IV.a, you will know that we should "forget regret, or life is yours to miss".
It was a long lesson to learn; but in the end, I look back and realize that if I had come out any other way then it just wouldn't be my own unique story. And, seeing that there is no day but today, looking forward is much better than giving the remorseful past a moment's glance.
Bother of the bride
Why do brides always stand on the left in wedding ceremonies?
According to a reputable source, brides in Medieval times were often stolen from neighboring cities (gentlemen, I have an alternative strategy for what happens when there aren't enough ladies in town ... what are you doing tonight???).
Therefore, the groom (or one of his 6 brothers, sobbin' sobbin') had to always be on the lookout for some angry father on a rampage because he didn't get a dowry. By having his blushing (or bleeding) bride on his left side, the groom had his right hand available to extract his sword should he need to ward off any person attempting to slit his thieving throat.
I can't imagine a time when women were in such short supply. Now women are everywhere: on buses, in public parks, and even in the bathrooms at Omega.
The only comparable situation I can think of in modern times is the extreme shortage of straight men in the District. Therefore, straight boys of DC be forewarned!!! Should a woman approach you, pretending she's interested in football and the revolting way you keep your toenails, be on the alert!!! The only reason most girls even enter sports bars is because of the low lighting, you know.
Although I don't suppose it would be that incredibly difficult to kidnap a straight man. Simply wave a soft, rotund piece of exposed flesh in front of his eyes and there'll be enough drool to take on the Hoover Dam. Second, entice him with chili-cheese dogs and the promise of a beer gut before he turns 30 and trust me, the straight boys will come a-runnin'. Throw in your tolerance of his bad manners and really poor taste in clothes, and that straight boy will be all over you like white on rice.
But while racing to the altar, girls, make sure to have the groom on your left with his right hand occupied. Should he resist the vows and attempt to fight, we all know that a boy's left hand is weaker ... perhaps from too much time extracting that damned sword.
According to a reputable source, brides in Medieval times were often stolen from neighboring cities (gentlemen, I have an alternative strategy for what happens when there aren't enough ladies in town ... what are you doing tonight???).
Therefore, the groom (or one of his 6 brothers, sobbin' sobbin') had to always be on the lookout for some angry father on a rampage because he didn't get a dowry. By having his blushing (or bleeding) bride on his left side, the groom had his right hand available to extract his sword should he need to ward off any person attempting to slit his thieving throat.
I can't imagine a time when women were in such short supply. Now women are everywhere: on buses, in public parks, and even in the bathrooms at Omega.
The only comparable situation I can think of in modern times is the extreme shortage of straight men in the District. Therefore, straight boys of DC be forewarned!!! Should a woman approach you, pretending she's interested in football and the revolting way you keep your toenails, be on the alert!!! The only reason most girls even enter sports bars is because of the low lighting, you know.
Although I don't suppose it would be that incredibly difficult to kidnap a straight man. Simply wave a soft, rotund piece of exposed flesh in front of his eyes and there'll be enough drool to take on the Hoover Dam. Second, entice him with chili-cheese dogs and the promise of a beer gut before he turns 30 and trust me, the straight boys will come a-runnin'. Throw in your tolerance of his bad manners and really poor taste in clothes, and that straight boy will be all over you like white on rice.
But while racing to the altar, girls, make sure to have the groom on your left with his right hand occupied. Should he resist the vows and attempt to fight, we all know that a boy's left hand is weaker ... perhaps from too much time extracting that damned sword.
Friday, May 5, 2006
Metro bitch
There's something highly thrilling about that mad dash from the escalator to the Metro just as the carriage doors are closing. It's a race against the machine, against all of humanity; the one moment of the day where you are challenged by your own physical prowess alone. The flurry of office papers, the line at Starbucks, and all the suits in the world cannot stop you from scurrying like a squirrel, barreling towards the Metro car and colliding with everything in between (move it granny! and take your 3-legged dog with you!!!).
In an attempt to calm the general public from their mad dash to personal satisfaction, a new female "voice" as been installed to warn passengers of the about-to-close doors.
"Stand back!!! Doors closing ..."
She sounds like the bride of Hitler. I half expect a metal nightstick to appear out of nowhere and clobber the next suit that attempts to vault his/her way through the doors. She's so severe!!!
Then what follows our Metro-Nazi's warning is a tinkering chime noise that sounds like our beaten-suit's unconscious face was just slammed onto the keys of a poorly-tuned xylophone.
I nervously ask the person next to me, "Sir, this train is going to Shady Grove, right???" ...
In an attempt to calm the general public from their mad dash to personal satisfaction, a new female "voice" as been installed to warn passengers of the about-to-close doors.
"Stand back!!! Doors closing ..."
She sounds like the bride of Hitler. I half expect a metal nightstick to appear out of nowhere and clobber the next suit that attempts to vault his/her way through the doors. She's so severe!!!
Then what follows our Metro-Nazi's warning is a tinkering chime noise that sounds like our beaten-suit's unconscious face was just slammed onto the keys of a poorly-tuned xylophone.
I nervously ask the person next to me, "Sir, this train is going to Shady Grove, right???" ...
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