A million monkeys at the typewriter.

My god. It appears that Justin--yammering on endlessly to the ether--has finally come up with a valid point. Granted, he was utterly unable to rebut a single one of my points regarding fag hags, but he was able to stammer out a primitive idea about the importance of certain items. Let's see if he said something intelligent.

The three things he says we need are as follows:


A wallet


A cell phone


An iPod

Now, I will systematically destroy him.

First of all, you do not need a wallet. No one needs a wallet. Do you know how they sell shitty clothing that no one would wear? The wallet is one such item. Justin, your idiot of a brother (and I only know he's an idiot because he has refused to distance himself from you genetically) lost his wallet. That means that he first thought it would be a brilliant idea to keep all of his money, thousands in gift cards, his credit cards, all his IDs, and quite probably an unused condom in some godforsaken, ratty leather wallet that can barely close. Then he had the lack of foresight to lose it. Listen, you do not need a wallet. You do not have a vagina, and therefore do not need to keep all of your things in a big bag that you carry around and slam into me when I try to pass your slow walking ass on the street. You have fucking POCKETS. Keep your cash, an ID, and one credit card in there. If you are carrying around more than that, you are clearly so oblivious that you do not know what it is that you will need when you get to your destination. And I do not want to know you.

Second, you do not need an iPod. You should have bought a fucking iPhone.

Third, if people would listen to me, you will soon only need your cell phone. The Japanese already use chips in their phones to make payments, use subway passes, and probably even determine the fuckability of people in their vicinity. Americans clearly deserve these chips. I am fucking tired of carrying cash.

Justin, again, you are so, so damn close to actually making a point. I would encourage you to keep at it but I know that you will fail.

ET Phone Gone

Okay, I'm back. Luckily the only thing that seems to be truly wounded from last night is my pride, and anyone who knows me knows that I had very little of that to begin with. The South (read, me) will rise again!

Clearly Clint will continue to deny up and down that he had anything to do with last night's beating, but I maintain that if I were to hire 4 Jersey boys to meet me somewhere, they'd be the cast of the Broadway show, and they'd be in my bed.

Any way, one thing that has irked me and continues to do so is the loss of my cell phone. I have already left iChat away messages and Facebook statuses urging friends to not call or text me or send me any compromising photos (note: if you were going to send me such photos, you probably have my email address... so use it.)

In today's world there seems to be a holy triumvirate of Shit You Don't Want to Lose. In my mind these are:

1) Your wallet.

2) Your cellphone and

3) your iPod.

Now keep in mind, these are things you Keep On Your Person at All Times. Losing your house, your continence (like Clint), or your laptop are probably pretty terrible, too... but I'm not talking about those trivial things.

Any way, so my cell phone is gone. I have to say that I am positively shocked that I am not at all losing my mind about this. I padded my pockets in search of it last night, found nothing and said "huh, I lost my cell phone. Well, better get to bed! Have work tomorrow!"

This morning I walked into the Verizon store, reported the phone stolen, and they gave me a number. I called the number and a brand new Verizon LG enV is on its way to my office tomorrow morning. That simple.

I also have my entire phone book backed up via remote database storage, so upon receiving my phone, I won't have to be one of those guys who sends out the massive party invitation to send him your number. (PS: Worst parties EVER... stop inviting me!)

Though, on the other hand, those "phone number parties" are an excellent way to try and get cute Facebook friends' phone numbers that you never had before. Maybe I'll make one any way, and ask those invited to also email me compromising pictures to help me pass the time.

It's actually relaxing not having my cell phone on me! No incessant buzzing. No constantly wondering if I got a text. No worrying about losing it. It's gone, and I'm stuck without it for 24 hours.

Now friends have said "well, what about all your numbers?" Again, I think technology has me covered here. Every night my phone runs an auto-backup to some unknown place. I imagine it is sending my contacts to a safe data facility. Unless it's just sending those compromising photos to Clint, who may have figured out how to hack into my phone.

Last week my brother lost his wallet. I imagine this is still the worst thing in the world to lose. He had to run around town getting new temporary IDs. He lost hundreds of dollars in cash and gift cards. He had to cancel debit and credit cards. God. Now THAT is horrifying. Probably the worst thing you can lose.

Those of you with iPhones may debate me though and, until I get one next year when my contract runs out, I won't know for sure. If you store tons of info on it, and then lose it, I could very easily see your life descending into biblical chaos on par with all the plagues mixed into one Jamba Juice smoothie-style plague (also known as any date Clint goes on - oh and he makes you pay for your own Jamba, some fucking gentleman).

So what do you think? What's the worst thing you could possibly lose? Virginity doesn't count because I know this readership like the back of my hand and all of you lost that a very, very long time ago.

xoJR

This is getting ridiculous

Clint, you are dastardly. It's one thing to send me to Connecticut by way of deceit. Or to insult my love of vegan lobster rolls (also called Fobster!).

It is another thing to maliciously send thugs out against me.

Last night I extended an olive branch to Clint and invited him to Musical Mondays to join me and my Plus One Alum Austin, who now seems like a faded memory of happy days gone by. But Clint says he's busy - apparently to keep his shaven weasel appearance he undergoes four hours of nightly pampering including lying in a bathtub full of pudding and masturbating to 1980's kiddie porn.

So I go off to Musical Mondays and have my fun singing Patti, Bernadette, Sutton. Around 10 I get approached by this very cute, very thuggy looking guy. His hair is spiked. Positively Gotti. Of course he's from Jersey. He starts making out with me and off we go. Twenty minutes later I leave Austin and take the Jersey boy outside, en route to my apartment.

But first he says he needs to stop at Duane Reade for more hair gel and menthol cigarettes. I say sure, why not? He then led me around the corner to a waiting trio of other muscled guys. I was hit by my sudden unrealized fantasy of an all out tri-state orgy with guys who collect fuzzy rearview mirror dice and do irish carbombs for breakfast.

And fists.

I was beaten down, they took my cell phone, and cut my laptop cord. Staring up through the blood in my eyes, I would have thought this a random hate crime, until Jersey Boy 1 said "Courtesy of Master O, you little bitch. Bet you'll have spelling errors in your post when you write about this tomorrow."

Enough Clint! Now I have no phone. My laptop is bleeding out like a dishonored samurai. Is this a Bill Murray comedy? Stop ruining my life!

At least they all used my laptop to vote for Steven Tylor O'Connor... even they can appreciate a talented twink (even if you don't think he's a twink).

And seriously, have that Jersey guy call me.

Oh, and fag hags are amazing, don't hate on them just because you smell like turned yogurt and no one will be friends with you.

xoJR

Justin's drinking problem has yielded terrible friends.

So apparently Justin went out last night because he didn't even have a chance to reply to my brilliant, award-winning post last night. That, or he noticed the update and stayed in last night, cowering in the corner of his room and sobbing at his inability to respond to me. Either way, I am disgusted. Is this any way to run a blog? I want to vomit all over his head.

I suppose it's up to me to keep the discussion going, so today I am going to tell you why I hate fag hags.

I suppose that this is a bad example of a fag hag, because if you know who Kathy Najimy is, she's a smart actor who has her own life beyond gay men. But depicted in this picture is the ultimate fag hag fantasy. I guess if you're not aware of the official definition of a fag hag (also known as a fruit fly), the definition is a woman who cannot get a man by normal means, so she turns to gay men who are sexually non-threatening. It is almost an absolute guarantee that a true fag hag looks like a ball of Crisco in a dress, topped with a troll doll head.

A lot of gals nowadays with a higher-than-average number of gay men in their lives will refer to themselves as fag hags. Again, this is false. If you can get a boyfriend on your own, you are not a fag hag. That god-awful show Sex and the City has ruined an entire generation of women for numerous reasons, not least of them is by misnaming them as fag hags if they have even thought of having a gay best friend. Of course, if you're on the make for a gay best friend and you come to me, I will never take you shopping, I will not bring you along to the gay bar just for lolz and cosmos, and I will most certainly not be near you when water is leaking out of your face. God, is that unattractive. But nonetheless, if you are even worth looking at, you are probably not a fag hag.

The Onion has already said this better than I have, so go read that. I have to get a shower and figure out where the hell Justin is.

You cannot defeat me.

Justin, when will you learn? You cannot simply dodge my brilliance. I enjoy particularly how you tried to go straight to sex appeal, completely changing the subject from your closet veganism. It is obvious to me--painfully so, in fact--who is the winner of the Ann Coulter Excellence in Media Award, and who is not. [answer: it is you. that was an insult.]

My concern now turns to your unfortunate use of the term 'tumor' to refer to me. I'm not sure if you know how metaphor works, but it's pretty damn stupid to infer that I'm going to kill you. Why would I do that when I can watch you squirm and suffer instead? I'd rather keep you darting back and forth, terrified, between my paws before growing bored with you and crushing you. But I suppose that's how you want it then.

Allow me to turn to the subject of this twink you've chosen to plug. First of all, he's barely a twink! Sure, he's got the requisite thinness and youth and looks and gay-spelled name, but he's 5'11"! He's hardly a pocket gay! And the fact that he's chosen to spell everything right on his website without resorting to boi, u, or 2 means that he's actually intelligent. I'm sorry, but this boy is too big and too smart to actually be a twink. Twink card revoked.

Second, why is he enlisting our help? He should get his boyfriend, Chef Gordon Ramsay, to bankroll his pet project.



Ooooh, that's right. We are getting played, playas. This kid is already famous. I'm not falling for it.

I voted anyway though. I mean, sex with a hot dude is sex with a hot dude.

A Twink in need... is a Twink that will sleep with you

I am beginning to think that the best way to deal with d-bag Plus One Clint this week is to just go ahead and ignore him.

...But I MUST defend myself first. I've never been to Connecticut, except, of course, to drive through it as quickly as possible. I mean, the only Connecticut exports I know of are World Wrestling Entertainment and the art of wrapping one's sweater either around their neck or waists.

That's it.

So, in my effort to ignore this malevolent gay tumor that has affixed itself to my blog and will no doubt metastasize through the week, I will turn to something I do like - Twinks!

Oh who doesn't love a good twink? Especially a smart and talented one? Especially one that lives nearby and is single!

Well, my friends, have I got one for you. His name is Steven Tylor O'Connor and, when he's not dancing at parties and drawing the eyes of many, he is acting on stage and screen (and drawing the eyes of many.)

And, after a few years of giving me and my ilk tasty eye candy, Steven now needs our help. He's even made us a special video.



Aw cmon! How cute is he!? And don't ask me about the odd birthday party balloon mural behind him - you can ask him after you vote for him. Consider it gay karma. Hear Steven out. Vote for his show.

And the payback? He'll sleep with you. No seriously. Vote for him, take a screengrab of the page, and then find him on the town. Provide him the screengrab and he goes home with you. No questions asked!

And a note to you smart asses... if you have already had sex with him, you owe him a favor. He will also no longer sleep with you until you prove you've voted. Sorry. Dem's the breaks!

So, get on it. Here's the info:

What it is: The Doorpost Film Project is an International Film Competition.

How much we spent: They did this on NO budget. They literally had no money to make this.

The competition: The guys were chosen to be in the top 100 out of over 5,000 movies submitted. They are now competing to be in top 10. If they make top 10, they get a $35,000 budget to make their next film about "HOPE."

What he needs: Steven needs people to go to http://www.thedoorpost.com and create a free account. Once they do that, they need to go to http://www.thedoorpost.com/redemption/morning and vote for the film.

To vote, you must rank the film in 7 categories and leave a comment. THEN, there will be 4 other movies in your queue. YOU MUST RANK AND COMMENT on these 4 other films for their votes to count.

Sure, I won't lie to you - that extra step sucks. It's a big ole Clint-Osterholz-style pain in the ass. But, since we're stuck with Clint this week, we should all endeavor to be as unlike him as possible. One way to do that is by doing a good deed, versus being a huge steaming pile of free-range chicken shit.

Voting lasts until the end of April. You can also check out Steven's website at http://www.steventyloroconnor.com for more details.

My search for free WiFi has yielded Food with a Conscience.

Well, Justin has allowed me to co-blog for almost 13 hours, and already he's spreading lies. He made some SPECIOUS claim (please look up that adjective if you do not know it; I am certain Justin does not and shall be highlighting them in caps along the way) that I mislead him to going to Connecticut for a date that I needed rescuing from. First of all, I am 6'3" and I know KUNG FU. There is no need to rescue me. I am the rescuer. Second of all, Justin still turns tricks outside Darien, CT, every Sunday evening. I'm sure that he just had some dickheaded, money-conscious john leave him instead of driving him home, so he had to hitchhike back. Not that Justin is any sort of stranger to thumbing his way back home.

In any case, I am getting down to business here. I am sitting in a local chain RESTAURANT, enjoying free WiFi and a salad. Let me illustrate.



This is me, and this is a Po' Boy. The greens are organic, as is the chicken, which is also panko-encrusted. In fact, virtually every bit of my meal is organic, hydroponic, or something trendy, green, and vegan. For anyone who has not spent a significant amount of time in New York, you'd be totally clueless that a bunch of Fortune 500 sharks in business suits would prefer to eat $10 salad that is socially conscious as opposed to not.

In fact, it turns out that in Midtown, it's pretty fucking hard to get a normal meal, by which I mean something that is perhaps unhealthy, or maybe made with genetically modified organisms. Chipotle refuses to cram its chickens into cages (thereby making them delicious with lots of JUICES that can only be produced through abuse), and Chop't insists on using natural cane sugar in its sodas. I'm sitting literally two feet from a picture of a bunch of farmers, loading a truck with romaine lettuce. Don't tell me this shit! I don't care where my food comes from!

I want my food to do two things: keep me full, and not cause a life-threatening BOWEL obstruction. That's it. Please stop charging me extra because you treat your animals humanely, or you did not use science to make your vegetables taste like steak, or you paid your day laborers in more than beatings and table scraps. I want a damn lunch for under $10.

I bet you Justin likes his food all healthy and conscientious. I bet you he cries when someone beats an egg. I bet you he drinks teas with pomegranate flavor, and enjoys free-range grass-fed beef. Or I bet he would if he weren't a damn raw food vegan PETA terrorist. Give me 3 40s: 40 oz. of steak, 40 oz. of potatoes, and 40 oz. beer. And if you can punch a kitten in the face while doing it, it'd be all the better.



Fuck yeah.

Meet Clint!

Dear Plus One Clint,

Imagine my shock when I found your post (titled "Justin, You Suck") up here this morning.

When we began speaking on you being my Plus One, you understood that I would do anything for you.

So last night when I received an urgent text message from you begging me to save you from a date gone wrong at a Bob's Big Boy at that truck stop in Connecticut, I grabbed the closest Zipcar I could find. Only to arrive at a closed truck stop with no gas left in the tank.

I get back here at 10 am (late to work might I add) to find that this was all some set-up to usurp my power. Tricky, friend. Very tricky.

I have half a mind to kick you off... but you seem to have read the fine print in the J+1 contract, and know that we are bound to blog together for the entirety of the week.

What you did was low. But you know what? I take the higher road. I won't play your immature games. Anyway, I guess I should go ahead and introduce you to the rest of my readers...




My Name: Clint Osterholz. C-Dawgg. C-Money. The Feloniou$ C. That tall blond racist guy. Douchebag. Tiny dick.

My Location: the epicenter of the universe. I have a healthy ego, but I am not totally egotistical. I can also be found in garbage cans, hunting for scraps of food.

My Site/ Sites: http://www.seeyanexttuesday.com

What I might post about: Whatever electrifies my brainfats. This includes underage boys, fat men in g-strings, and naziism.

What I love: Being contrary. And pretzels with peanut butter and Nutella with Corona. Oh, and little boys - did I forget to mention that?

What I hate: Rachel Ray's lexicon. Myself - I mean, wouldn't you?

My Last Word: Tune in Saturday to find out! If you correctly guess the final word of my final post, I will give you a secret prize. It is a secret because I just made this up and I need to figure out what I can realistically buy that is a good prize. At this point let us assume it is something cookware related. Oh, and I'm a douchebag!

Justin, You Suck.

Hello to all of Justin's regular readers. My name is Clint Osterholz, and I am going to be entertaining you this week. My sense of humor is often dry and professorial, as evidenced by my award-winning blog, See Ya Next Tuesday.

As you can see, Justin has already dropped the ball! Technically it is Monday, yet there is no introductory post. Nothing to herald my coming. Fantastic. I don't know what sort of two-bit operation that boy has running here, but I am a busy man. I cook. I entertain. I make people laugh (via my award-winning YouTube Channel). I make people think (via my award-winning vlog series on Queercents). I suppose it's up to me to uphold some damned standards around here.

This week I shall also be keeping track of the number of times Justin has dropped the ball. Please follow along with me!

Justin drop ball count: 1 (thus far)

And now, I am off to slumberland. In the meantime, I suppose, Justin will figure out a way to properly run his only goddamn creative project.

Justin Plus One my ass. This is Clint Plus One Half.

It's so hard to say goodbye, my love...

Well that inevitable day came that you, the readers of J+1, have to deal with every week, either through tears or gratitude. It's the day when the co-blogger you have grown to know has to say his goodbyes.

It's the day when Justin opens the J+1 cage and says, "Be free once again!" and watches the blogging bird he nurtured fly away a better creature. This week must be particularly hard for your e-hearts because you're truly losing something wonderful.

Me.

Wow, what a week, huh? We've learned about our past attachment to and current reluctance to let go of McDonald's. Justin turned us on to the dangers of dropping the BF bomb. We've whimsically recalled the days of sophisticated alcoholism. We even learned that dating has no formula.

Yes, I think good has been done here.

Also, we should take a moment to celebrate the exciting news that as of today, Iowa has joined Massachusetts and New Jersey in the righteous fight for gay equality in society and our homes. Now, I'm not going to say that this is a direct result of the awesome blogging power that is Justin + Austin, but I don't think anyone would correct you if you did.

So farewell for now, dear readers. I hope to you see you soon, if Justin will have me. And in reference to how I will cherish my time this week allow me to end with a quote by Ms. Hedwig Robinson:

"When I think about all the people I have come upon on the road, I have to think of all the people who have come upon me."

Good night, everyone, and adieu!

Flirty McFlirtingson

Reading Austin's penultimate post on his flirty behavior and consequent dropping of MY trademarked (fuck YOU Sex and the City!) boyfriend bomb got me thinking about flirting in general.

My most recent ex once told me that he was a flirtatious guy. This got me jealous. Until, of course, I saw what he meant by being "flirtatious" - which essentially included speaking to men and being nice to them. To him this was flirting. To me it was speaking to men and being nice to them.

You see, Austin, it appears that people have different definitions of what flirting actually is. I, for example, can be a HUGE flirt. But when I say flirt, I mean something rather serious. To me, flirting is as much a precursor to sleeping with someone as eating bad fish is a precursor to vomiting. If you do the first one correctly, the conclusion should promptly follow.

Between things I say and the things I do, when I put my game face on and set to flirting, I have a set goal - sleep with the recipient of my flirting.

My flirting is far from innocent. It starts with smiling and jokes, but I step it up rather quickly. I stand closer to the guy I'm talking to. I put my hand on their arm when telling a joke or asking a question. That hand then holds on a bit longer as the night goes on. I lock eyes with them and smirk if able.

Needless to say, when I am in a committed relationship, I don't flirt. Because, as you can see, my definition of flirting is a hardcore, goal-oriented process. Not just some batting eyes and titters.

It makes me wonder: what do other people consider flirting?

And if you don't know how to flirt, you can always take tips from these girls:

KABLAMMO-HAAAAAAY!!!

What an delightfully appropriate time to bring up this topic, since (as my comment on Justin's last post stated) I was right in the middle of said situation when I received the new post. It was a quintessential Gossip Girl moment when my phone blew up, and everyone started gasping and giggle in my direction. Except for, well, it was just me and my imagination.

As Justin mentioned, I am "practically" gay married to my boyfriend of 8 months. As Justin can attest, this is a rarity for me because being a gay Aries male, it's all about the conquest and the conquering of sexual territory before moving on. So one of the first things we had to come to terms with was that I'm a big ol' flirt and that wasn't going to change. Fortunately, he's the same way and also not the jealous type (unlike this fiery ram).

So I take full advantage of the freedom that gives me. I even sometimes see how far I can take it when someone is obvious hitting on my before dropping the BF Bomb. It's very Whitney of me (it's not right, but it's okay). It's partially because I see part of my worth as how attractive others think I am. But that's an issue my therapist and I are working on.

Anywho, I was in my favorite West Village haunt, Marie's Crisis, last night sans boyfriend. As I was singing along to obscure showtunes with the rest of the queens, two guys sat next to me. One of them, a cute Asian, gave me a smile as he pretended to know the words to "America" from West Side Story (ironic, no?). "Here we go again," I thought.

Well the kid was rather shy, so it never was a blatant come on. I enjoyed his company and his twinky charm up until it was time for him to leave. I told him to have a good night, thinking I had escaped dropping the proverbial nuke. I thought it went well. We chatted, we sang, we laughed at the crazy pianist. There was no need to make it awkward.

About 20 minutes later or so, I thought it would be prudent for me to start making the epic trek back to the Upper East Side so I could get to work on time the next day. As I was saying good bye, I see Asian coming back into the bar. He sees me, and as I was saying I didn't expect to see him back, he hands me a receipt from Starbucks and says, "Well I didn't want to regret leaving without giving you my number, and I needed to go to bathroom anyway." Before I could say anything, he hastily brushed past me and headed downstairs to the restroom.

At this point, I was honestly at a loss as to what to do. As Justin said, there is just no proper way and/or protocol for this sort of thing. So I'll be honest, I just left instead of waiting for him. However, as I was walking to Union Square, I started to regret such a course of action. So I take out the paper, and dialed it on my phone. At this point, though, it seems a little much to simply call him to say I have a boyfriend. On the other hand, he was so sweet and brave to come back in to that bar to do that. That takes some balls. So just as I spoke about in my first post this week, I didn't want to dash his confidence for future men.

Thus, my chosen course of action? A text. I said he had a lot of guts to do what he did and that it didn't go unnoticed. I added that I would have walked him home, but... I have a boyfriend and didn't that was appropriate. His response? "Ok then. Well, it was nice for what it was."

KABLAMMO-HAAAAAAY!!!

Poor guy. I normally don't have any remorse for that sort of thing (because by a rule, I'm a heartless bastard), but this one got to me. I should be more careful with the sensitive ones. But I feel like this particular handling of the situation was the best one. I was retelling to a female coworker this morning, and she said that was perfect. It was what she would want to happen if she was that kid. "At least," she said, "I wouldn't be sitting at home wondering, 'why didn't he like me? was I not pretty or fun?'"

So I guess when handling this situation, the key word is consideration. I don't see anything wrong with flirting or just having a good time, especially if that's just your personality. But when you reach that line (and I think we all know where that is), it's best to bring it up. I wouldn't recommend being subtle about it either. It's so obvious and slightly sardonic when you just slip in "my boyfriend and I" into a conversation.

On the other side of the conversation, if you find yourself getting hit with the occasional BF Bomb, it's okay to take initiative. It's very flattering to be asked if I have a boyfriend. I think it's an appropriate and viable question.

Working together, we can help minimalize BF Bomb fallout and make the gay world a better place to live in.

Droppin' the BF Bomb

All of this back-and-forthing with Plus One secret lover (what, you all didn't know? come on, it's obvious!) Austin about boyfriends and one night stands has brought up another thought in my mind, and that is the BF bomb.

This is a term I created just now. Feel free to use it, but you need to say "Trademark Justin, God and Owner of Justin Plus One" when you utter it. If you don't, expect litigation - I know lawyers.

Anyway, let's set the scene.

You have a boyfriend. A relatively serious one. Then, one day, you meet someone while out in the real world. At a party, at a bar, at the burning man. They're cute, they're fun, they're interesting. You start chatting.

And, as you chew the rug like two sex-starved lesbians, it begins to occur to you that your conversational partner MIGHT be flirting. But, goddammit, you can't tell! You know you're both gay. You're both cute. There's just no way of telling. They're stopping just shy of that flirting line (as in they haven't fully grabbed your junk just yet.)

Now, were you single, this would not be an issue. You'd grab their junk (or, if you're a fan of Austin's post on traditional dating, you'd ask them out bowling and to meet their parents... maybe kiss their cheek at the end of the night!) And then you'd know depending on the part of you that they slap in response.

But you are NOT single. You are practically GAY MARRIED. And, for the sake of this situation, you are not in one of those kooky, open-ended, play when able hippie gay relationships (yanno, like the ones I constantly find myself in.)

Well, Keanu, what DO YOU DO?

Common sense says you should just go ahead and DROP THE BF BOMB. It's Homo-Hiroshima, this bomb. Able to wipe out a city of erections in milliseconds. And when it drops it sounds sorta like "KABLAMMO-HAAAAAAY!"

Problem is, as I previously stated, they have not actually outright flirted with you!

Ah, this was always a problem for me when I was in a committed relationship. I would find myself NOT telling them that I had one. Because, the few times that I did, I would often be harangued.

"Well THAT'S a little presumptuous of you! What makes you think I'M hitting on YOU?"

So maybe you wait a little longer, to see where it goes. All the while it's like your boyfriend is sitting on your shoulder, giving you that "oh you are SO not getting fucked after this" look they usually employ when you are beating them in board games, or teasing them in front of friends.

And then, FINALLY, this stranger maybe does something quasi flirtatious, like try to give you a blow job. You release your itchy trigger finger, and drop the megaton BF bomb.

(KABLAMMO-HAAAAAAY!)

Unfortunately, they can (and probably will) let you have it. "I was JUST asking you out for coffee! I give rim jobs to EVERY stranger I meet on the street, you assumptive asshole!"

Or, on the other end of the freak-out fence:

"WHY WOULDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT YOU SHADY MOFO!?"

In other words, you can't win. If they don't know you on Facebook and see your status and your kissing boyfriend photos, you are fucked. You will get yelled at one way or another. Of course, you can avoid the whole issue by running, screaming like a little girl whenever a cute stranger approaches you. But if they're actually Ed McMahon dressed as a Chelsea Boy, prepared to give you a million dollar check... well, that's your loss.

I'm sorry, but there is NO way to properly tell another gay man you meet on the street that you have a boyfriend. Sure, you can try to artfully slip in "well, me and my BOYFRIEND" but I have found that this often does not work either. Probably because they aren't listening to a word you are saying.

It is something that I don't envy you for, Mr. Helms. Being single, I have no BF Bomb to drop. You, however, being romantically shackled, leaves you with a big fuckton bomb to drop on the heads of smitten twinks to your left and right.

I must ask you sir, how do YOU do it? Teach me, I am ready to learn.

Have your cake... and fuck it too...

Now that Justin, the esteemed gentleman from across my street, has shared his so-called "counterpoint" to my stance on traditional dating, allow me to happily marry the two viewpoints in a segment I like to call, "We're Not So Different, You and I..."

The stance I took on dating when you, well you know, actually date was meant for a specific set of instances. The type of boy you should ask out is the boy that you genuinely want to get to know better. This does not include someone you see at a bar that you just want to get naked, especially if it's after Mr. Drunk has already come out.

So I do agree with what Justin is saying as well. Why date when all you want to do is get off? I say this with much experience, because when I'm single, I am really good at it. There's not point in slowing down for (and spending money on) a person who you aren't really that interested in taking thing further. You're hot, he's hot, have sex, move on. It's that simple. Just make sure that he's on the same short-term wavelength that you're on.

But when you meet that boy who is really great to talk to, who shares your interests, and just intrigues you, consider the slower approach. Of course, it may not always work out, but sometimes the excitement and romance is in the hope that maybe it'll work out this time. And so what if it doesn't? Isn't life about the journey?

Let's take a moment of reflection along side Ms. Minnelli for a moment, shall we?


In conclusion, yes. Have fun, sleep around, enjoy your singlehood. And also, yes. Keep an eye out for that boy who could be "the one". Then take your time with that one. The contrast could be quite fun. Variety is the spice of life, after all.

Come What Gay

My most humble and respected co-blogger and Plus One, Austin took an interesting turn off of my most recent dating column, Booty Call on the Blarney Stone, to bring us a fantastic State of the Gay Union (at least as it stands here in the Isle of Manhattan).

And you know what? He's right. The dating culture (in NYC) seems to have gone the way of the sock hop and soda shoppe (read: you can only find it at Disney World, and even then it's pretty phony and laughable.)

Why is this? Is it because in NYC we all just move so fast?

Are we just finding the wrong people who lead us on to get it on?

I can produce a list of men I've met on "respectable" dating sites who were quicker to my bed (or floor, or the alley next to Mr. Black) than the people I've met on less "respectable" dating sites.

So what gives!?

Well, I have no fucking clue. Because I've never had a good sense of what a relationship is. Before my ex Paul and I formed our most holy (and 5-year-long) union, my longest relationship was about two months, with the majority lasting no longer than 7 days.

This was because in the past, I would meet a cute guy, we'd make out, and I'd go ahead and ask him to be my boyfriend three days later. I didn't know any better! No one taught me the way that dating works. I thought - oh, okay, so we've kissed... now we have to be boyfriends! Then I say I love him in a note or email! Then we're together forever and ever!

Clearly the boys I proposed to didn't know any better either, because they would say yes. And then we'd be boyfriends for a few weeks, talking on the phone all night and doing all the stuff Michael Jackson sings about in "Remember the Time" until we realized -wait- I don't like this guy. Then they'd dump me, or I'd find a way to get them to dump me, because I was a coward.

Then I met Paul and things changed. Mostly because he abhorred me when we first met. He thought I was cocky. Shallow. Obsessed with sleeveless tees and capri shorts.

AKA: He was an excellent judge of character.

Well, I had to chase him down for a full summer and autumn (spending longer running after him than I spent running WITH anyone before him) until I finally made the kill and got him to fall in love with me.

We then had five faboo years together.

When we ended I found myself back where I left off - a club kid (one who now drank, at least) with a desire to be out all the time and until all hours.

I believe this was put best by Plus One Alum, Blair Bryant Nichols who said "When you broke up with Paul, did you stumble into a time machine?"

Yes. Yes I did. But with one key difference: I now know that I can kiss and sleep with and date guys without calling them a boyfriend. I did this prior to my next boyfriend, and then resumed it again after he and I broke up a few months ago.

Now I know that I don't need to take it slow and date someone. Mostly because I have yet to meet anyone who makes me want to take it slow. No one has seemed interesting enough. Funny enough. Exciting enough. Unlike me enough.

The problem with slow dating is it assumes a happy conclusion already. The mystery. The chivalry. The dinners and drinking and talking. It's a great move if you're ready for something serious. But, god dammit, I sure ain't! I proved that to myself quite some time ago.

When I find that guy, maybe I'll take it slow with him. Or maybe we'll discover we're perfect for each other after that first drunken night in bed.

I'm not ruling out possibilities just as much as I'm not searching for anything in particular.

In the end, I believe Ewan and Nicole put it best when they said "Come what may." That's my credo, too.



And, yeah, I know they said some shit about eternal love and death after that, but I'm only giving them credit for the first half.

xoJR

I hate myself for doing this...

Oh Dr. Justin, I do so love me some McDonald's cheeseburgers as well. I actually love fast food in general--Wendy's, Burger King, and (dare I say it) Taco Bell. It's cheap, it's delicious, and it's fast. What more can one ask for?

My first word as a baby (and this is no joke) was "McDonald's". I had the first 10 or so birthdays of my life at the one in Indianola, MS. I cried when they replaced the original wooden and metal playground with the now popular plastic ones (I got over that one really quickly). I knew the menu by heart by 12 and fell in love with the Quarter Pounder with Cheese (no onions!) at 13. While going to college right outside of Jackson, MS, I knew exactly which McDonald's to go to at what time to get the most perfectly salted fries.

Let's just say, I know my fast food.

However, my lifelong love affair with popular fast food chains was tragically ripped apart with the passing of the New York calorie law. The minute those hefty numbers went up next to my beloved victuals, I had to turn my back and head to the nearest deli. For the second time in my life, I shed a tear for McDonald's.

Now I know many of you have probably seen Supersize Me (I did not), so I don't want to belabor the point. But on average, a person should intake about 2000 calories a day, give or take depending on height, age, weight, sex, and exercise (feel free to check out your own suggested daily caloric intake, mine is 2397!). I would assume that most people consume the most during dinner, so I would guess a typical lunch (if you don't eat breakfast) should be around 600-800 calories. Let's examine the number of calories in some of McDonald's popular items, shall we?

300 - The basic cheeseburger (Justin's fave)
510 - Quarter Pounder w/ cheese (my original food obsession)
540 - Big Mac (gross)
630 - Crispy Chicken Club (soooo good though, right?)

So those aren't too bad, but I'm guessing that most people like a bigger bang for their buck. That's when the "value" meal comes into play. This includes fries and a drink. I would hope everyone would know of the evil of cola to their bodies (and ignore it like I do), so I won't go there. Let's consider the fries, though:

380 - Medium fries (more than double the basic cheeseburger)
500 - Large fries (you sure you want to supersize that?
15 - Ketchup packet (what? are you kidding me?)

I think that's all we need to see. I won't even go into breakfast (1150 cal for Big Breakfast) or desert (1160 cal for Chocolate Triple Thick Shake). It's bad news, bears.

So I suppose the moral of this story is beware what you eat at McDonald's and whatever you do, AVOID THE FRIES!!!!!

I'm so sorry, my love...

You Can Has Cheezburger!

Reading Austin's post on historic April Fool's gags made me STARVING. Mostly because I have always wanted to eat the Loch Ness monster. Bitch probably tastes like the best chicken on earth.

Okay, maybe not. But that talk of Burger King got me thinking of my favorite food in the world: cheeseburgers. Well, cheeseburgers and pizza. But I'm going to talk about cheeseburgers.

But wait, Justin! I can hear you all saying. Cheeseburgers!? But you're working out and dieting! You're losing your boyfriend 15! You trying to be a fat motherfucker this summer!?

Chill out, I say! Relax. I've got it all under control.

Because, get this, at a McDonalds or a Burger King, a cheeseburger is the second most healthy thing you can eat (read: healthy means not as bad as the other shit). The first is a hamburger.

Well, the first would be a glass of ice with a side of mustard... but I call that breakfast.

When you're out and hungry, and McDonalds or BK is calling out to you - consider my friend the cheeseburger. Either the tasty Burger Shots at BK, or the simple cheeseburger at Mickey Dees. Either hits the spot, stops the hunger, and nicely absorbs any booze you may have guzzled previously.

Now, keep in mind, I'm not talking about those crazy steakhouse double fried onion quadruple patty orgy burgers (hey, pickles, no biting!) Those have more calories and fat in them than you'd need in a week.

ANYWAY. Cheeseburgers! Yes! Slightly cheesy. Slightly circus-animal-meat-y. One single flimsy pickle drenched in ketchup. Delicious! And not terrible for you.

Sure they look delicious when all fluffed up for the camera. Like little smiley faces sticking their cheesy-ketchup tongues at you.



And sure they look embarrassing in real life. Like the same face after it was beaten to a pulp in an alley.



But they're still tasty (especially when you're drunk and/or starving).

Think of it as an online hookup. The guy looks all clean shaven and sexy in his pix, and then you get there and realize he's a wiz with an airbrush. If you drove long enough, you'll grin and bear it, right? Same goes here.

Yes there are better things in this world, like Plus One two-time Alum X Alexander's Pumpkin White Chocolate Chip Cookies. But some of us are naturally skinny, and some of us have to resort to a tiny cheeseburger when we want to feel like we're "being bad."

Fool Us Twice...

Justin, I totally agree with you, mostly about being gods, but also about the decline of April Fool's Day tomfoolery amongst us. The most I've seen all day are silly FB statuses that NO ONE is falling for:

Michael was offered a job teaching at a private school in NC... He's probably going to take it.

Morgan is moving to LA! WOOOO!!!!

Duncan was just informed that he's on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize this year!! OMG

John joined the Peace Corps and will be in Somalia for the next two years. Sorry if I didn't tell you in person, but I didn't have time to tell everyone individually before I ship out next week.

But where's the fun? Are we really entrenched in our electronic lives that we can't take a moment away from our computers to actually get some pranks going? In hopes of inspiring a little April Fool's Day cheer, here are some of my favorite hoaxes in history (courtesy of The Museum of Hoaxes):

The Left-Handed Whopper
1998: Burger King published a full page advertisement in USA Today announcing the introduction of a new item to their menu: a "Left-Handed Whopper" specially designed for the 32 million left-handed Americans. According to the advertisement, the new whopper included the same ingredients as the original Whopper (lettuce, tomato, hamburger patty, etc.), but all the condiments were rotated 180 degrees for the benefit of their left-handed customers. The following day Burger King issued a follow-up release revealing that although the Left-Handed Whopper was a hoax, thousands of customers had gone into restaurants to request the new sandwich. Simultaneously, according to the press release, "many others requested their own 'right handed' version."

Nessie Is Dead
1972: On March 31 1972, a team of zoologists from Yorkshire's Flamingo Park Zoo, who were at Loch Ness searching for proof of Nessie's existence, found a mysterious carcass floating in the Loch. Initial reports claimed it weighed a ton and a half and was 15 ½ feet long. The zoologists placed the body in a van and began to transport it back to the zoo. However, the police chased down their truck and stopped it under a 1933 act of Parliament prohibiting the removal of "unidentified creatures" from Loch Ness. The body was then taken to nearby Dunfermline for examination. The discovery of the carcass received worldwide media attention. The British press dubbed it "Son of Nessie." But upon examination, Edinburgh scientists identified the creature as a bull elephant seal from the South Atlantic. The next day John Shields, Flamingo Park's education officer, confessed he had been responsible for the body. The bull elephant seal had died the week before at Dudley Zoo. He had shaved off its whiskers, padded its cheeks with stones, and kept it frozen for a week, before dumping it in the Loch and then phoning in a tip to make sure his colleagues found it. He had meant to play an April Fool's prank on his colleagues, but admitted the joke got out of hand when the police chased down their van.

The New Value of Pi
1998: The April 1998 issue of the New Mexicans for Science and Reason newsletter contained an article claiming that the Alabama state legislature had voted to change the value of the mathematical constant pi from 3.14159 to the 'Biblical value' of 3.0. Soon the article made its way onto the internet, and then it rapidly spread around the world, forwarded by email. It only became apparent how far the article had spread when the Alabama legislature began receiving hundreds of calls from people protesting the legislation. The original article, which was intended as a parody of legislative attempts to circumscribe the teaching of evolution, was written by physicist Mark Boslough.

The Taco Liberty Bell
1996: The Taco Bell Corporation announced it had bought the Liberty Bell and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell. Hundreds of outraged citizens called the National Historic Park in Philadelphia where the bell was housed to express their anger. Their nerves were only calmed when Taco Bell revealed, a few hours later, that it was all a practical joke. The best line of the day came when White House press secretary Mike McCurry was asked about the sale. Thinking on his feet, he responded that the Lincoln Memorial had also been sold. It would now be known, he said, as the Ford Lincoln Mercury Memorial.

So come on peeps, let's keep this wonderful tradition going! Oh, and I was going to take this opportunity to announce that I am, in fact, pregnant. But... I don't think anyone will believe me now.

Oh well, there's always tomorrow.

Fool Us Once...

Here at Justin Plus One, Austin and I are hardly fools. We are Gods among men who wouldn't fall for a trick concocted by God and played on us by Jesus himself.

I have to be honest, in the past few years I have been disappointed by the lack of April fooling. Fooling, it seems, has fallen out of favor among my friends and loved ones. Where are the jokes? The oh shit moments? I would have at least expected an ex hook up to call and tell me that I should "probably go get something checked out..."

But no! Nothing!

Luckily for us, the world of nerds and dorks better known as the Internet (read: Austin and I are super cool, and not nerds at all), has picked up the slack and given us some delicious April Fools pranks.

So this year, instead of being incessantly pranked and taunted to the point of snot and tears, I went out into the Internets and went SEARCHING for the pranks. I found quite a few good ones, and here they are:

Qualcomm, digital cell phone makers extraordinaire tell us about the future of mobile phone technology with a very Napoleon Dynamite-ish twist:


And then there's YouTube's brand new video layout, where they discovered that turning the entire site upside down creates a better viewing experience.

See shirtless Davey Wavey in Zero-G with his video in the YouTube format

(YouTube even gives you instructions on how to best view their videos).

And then there's the annual Google April Fool's prank. Two years ago it was Google Paper Mail. Last year it was the email timestamp pre-dater.

And this year it's the Gmail Autopilot.

And, not to be outdone, this morning Broadway's discount ticket service, TM Insider got in on the gag with an email marketing prank (thanks to Paul for the link):

Did anyone else get some good pranks today? Please to share!

xoJR

Mad About You (If You're a Madras)

Okay, Austin, I totally agree with you on your last post and the proper, classy naming of drinks.

Personally, I am a huge fan of my (and Mr. Drunk's) favorite drink: the Madras.

Mostly because it is a VERY sexy and festive name for what is, essentially, vodka with cranberry and orange juice. Also, because it speaks to the magic the combination makes. Vodka mixed with cranberry earns the very unoriginal name of Vodka Cranberry (or as Plus One Austin points out, the stuffy, unexciting, let's go tee off at 9AM, ey wot? name of Cape Cod). A vodka and orange juice, meanwhile, gets you a workman's tool (order THAT with caution at a gay bar, too.)

But, when the screwdriver and vodka cranberry are combined, much like all those annoying little ring wearing kids come together, a Captain Planet of alcoholic proportions is created and we are all that much classier, and more exciting, as we sip our Madras.

And, for some reason, when I hear madras, I think of rich people drinking and smoking long cigarettes on a balcony over looking Mardi Gras. No idea where that branding connection came from, but power to the folks that named it.

Sure it's also the name of a hideous pattern for pants, but I don't want to talk about that.

What I DO want to talk about is the strategic brilliance of a madras during a recession. Sure, you may be one classy bitch who only orders Grey Goose or Ciroc and drinks it out of the head of a baby seal wrapped in gold leaf, but boys like me need to save their pennies. Doing so requires the imbibing of the infamous WELL LIQUOR. Which can also be called poison, if you're alive enough to produce a 2-syllable word from your numb mouth.

Anyway, a Madras is the ultimate answer to well vodka (if you're drinking well something else, you're shit out of luck). Essentially the acidity of the orange juice cuts into the kick of the Popov (or Uncle Zeb's Bathtub Vodky) and the cranberry throws on a sweet finish to the acid bath.

As a note, the Madras is also an excellent open door for someone who's next to you at the bar because they can pretend to mishear you as ordering a "mattress" and then offer you theirs (whether you accept or not may very well depend on how many mattresses you've consumed that evening).

I also learned, however, that my sexy madras has an alter-ego. A stout bartender at the fabulous (read: not at all fabulous, the opposite, to the hundredth power) Astoria gay bar, the Albatross, told me that the drink is ALSO known as a cranberry toad.

Which sounds like a polite way of referring to herpes.

So don't order that at the bar, unless you're trying to get the guy next to you AWAY from you.

Pinkies out, boys...

Whatever happened to the sophistication that used to accompany enjoying a cocktail? Justin's esteemed essay on the effects to his person of extreme alcohol consumption got me thinking about this topic.

Obviously, when we go out, we just want the libation that will get us to Mr. Drunk phase as soon as possible for as cheap as possible. But what about just enjoying an alcoholic beverage? Actually appreciating the variations in different types of whiskeys and gins? Why should liquor be treated any less than drinking wine?

Even the names of different drinks have been "dumbed down" to an almost barbaric way of just calling it what it is. For example, the real name of a rum and coke with a lime is a Cuba Libre (because it was apparently created during the liberation of Cuba from Spain during the Spanish-American War). If you order Captain Morgan and diet coke, try calling for a Skinny Pirate (although, use that order with caution if at a gay bar).

How about in the vodka family? Why don't we order Greyhounds any more when we want our favorite alcohol mixed with grapefruit? There's even a name for it if you want salt on the rim--Salty Dog (although, I will admit I thought that was a sexual act for a long time). Many of us like to consume Cape Cods, but in this one instance, I'll forgive you if you'd rather call it a vodka cranberry.

So I guess my point is, next time you're out at your favorite bar or club, try calling your favorite drink by it proper name. Suddenly, you'll find yourself not drinking a cocktail, but sipping a highball instead.

Next, perhaps we should discuss the why the two names for liquor mixtures have obvious references to the male genitalia...

Dr. Justin and Mr. Drunk

In his last post, Plus One Austin outed me and my near-hot-mess self via a text exchange last night that we had while I was drunk and reveling at Musical Mondays at Splash. So I suppose I should just continue with the outing by giving you the full story about me:

My name is Justin and I am one AMAZING drunk.

Some people get offensive when they're drunk. Others get sick. Still others sit in a corner and cry. Some do a jig. I just become a that-much-more fantastic fellow (albeit one with very, very poor grammar and syntax.)

I have come to describe this dichotomy between sober and drunk me as Dr. Justin and Mr. Drunk. Because they really are two different people. Just like how Plus One Alum Adam Lehman has a drunken alter-ego named Clancy Pendergast, I have my own alter ego, and he's an interesting fellow.

First: the benefits. He's one funny motherfucker! He's also always smiling, rather ballsy, and completely fearless.

But then there are some interesting aspects of his character. A lot of people will send regrettable text messages or make shameful drunk dials. They then wake up the next morning, hung over, and page through their sent messages, perpetually shaking their heads.

Dr. Justin doesn't ever have the chance to do this for one reason: Mr. Drunk has a habit of completely purging his sent messages folder (and sometimes his inbox, too) on his phone prior to passing out. This often leads to a lot of funny moments The Next Morning when I have texts from friends answering questions I don't remember asking and WTF-ing stories I don't remember telling.

And speaking of passing out, I've recently discovered another interesting habit of Mr . Drunk. He really likes sleeping on the hard wood floor of my studio apartment. He's done it twice now, despite the fact that a perfectly comfortable queen size bed is not ten feet from where he lays his drunken head down.

This does, however, work as a fantastic warning. When I awake with a strong-feeling back and notice that I'm right next to my door, I know that my cell phone (which Mr. Drunk ALWAYS remembers to plug in... on the shelf... right next to MY BED... before turning around and going to bed on the hallway floor) will be FILLED with award winning texts from friends and foes alike.

Perhaps I should be scared of Mr. Drunk... but he's been getting the normally square and only slightly funny Dr. Justin into a lot of interesting adventures. I'm actually sorta excited to find out more about him.

Maybe he sings Confrontation before he goes to sleep?



Bet he does it better than the Hoff does, too.



::shudder::

xoJR

Texting... It's just like being there...

I recently joined the iMovement and got an iPhone, and it is a brilliant piece of work. I'm sure most of the readers have one or know someone with one, so I'm not going to hark on the mesmerizing features and applications of this marvelous invention. The fact is, I have an iPhone and I'm not afraid to say that I'm better than people who don't. ;-)

However, I must say that one of my favorite aspects of the iPhone is the texting interface. When all my old phones displayed one message at a time, the iPhone actually saves your entire text conversation with one person in the same window, sort of like a chat window in AIM or GChat.

And because of this feature, I can relive the texting moment I had with Justin as I was missing out on one our favorite evenings, Musical Mondays at Splash. (You may also want to note my use of correct grammar, spelling and punctuation and Justin's total disregard of it.) And I quote:

J: You should come [to Musical Mondays]! Tyler (name changed to protect the innocent) misses you! lol
A: I know. He's so in love with me.
J:hahaha yo twinkykiller
A: That should be my new nickname! Twinky Killer!
J: might get you arrested lol
A: Nah. The "killer" part is obviously a euphemism. Or a metophor... Not sure which one...
J: onomatopoeia? lol
A: I'm surprised that you know how to spell that. No, I think an onomatopoeia would be "Twink Boooooiinng!!"
J: hahahahahaha yessss

And this is why we're friends.

Workin' for the man every night and day...

Gods, Justin, how you cut to the core of me. You're last post about pursuing the hippie life just brought up a topic that I've been thinking about a lot lately, particularly the part about taking away my job.

As many J+1 readers probably don't know, I work a corporate job for 40+ hours a week. The reason they don't know is because it's not an important part of my life... and even as I type that I have to ask myself why I spend so much of my time on something I ultimately don't consider my passion. To make money? To pay the bills? To feel secure?

I come from a background of various dabbled and creative pursuits--short film making, acting, painting, directing, writing, sexual nirvana, etc... But somewhere down the road, I decided to settle for jobs that were "normal" jobs. At first, I told myself that having secure jobs would allow me the money and the freedom to pursue other aspects of my life that I really enjoyed. However, as you settle into these types of jobs, you realize that the time and energy you have to spend in these other pursuits gets smaller and smaller, all the way to the (seeming) point of no return.

I had a "Come to Jesus" moment last week when one my coworkers who shares my fanatical enthusiasm for musical theatre told me about her experience with this job. "I told myself that I could do this job for one, maybe two years," she said, "and I could really work hard on my writing. But here I am, seven years later."

At this point, she grabbed my face in her aging hands and looked into my eyes. "You're young, Austin. This is the time of your life where you should be making plans and setting down that path to your ultimate goal. Don't do what I did."

I just stared back and couldn't say anything. I thought these moments only happened in movies. I went home that night with that image of her looking into my eyes stuck in my thoughts. What is my plan? How am I going to get there? Am I supposed to quit my job?

This is the contemplative state I am currently in. So I guess it's good to have J+1 to get the chance to type it all out. And to end this melodramatic moment, I give you this highly appropriate song. Enjoy, lovies. ;-)

Hair Scare

In his last post, Plus One Austin Helms spoke of how he'd be one of the dancing hippies making merry in the green of Central Park in the musical Hair.

The video that came to my mind is one that they play at my favorite weekly party - Musical Mondays at Splash.

It's from the movie of Hair, and it goes something like-a this-a:



And, indeed, I can see how Austin might be one of those guys. I mean, look at his hair! Just tie some juniper berry branches and tulips up in those locks and he's 90% of the way there. Now all we have to do is take away his job, not let him bathe for a few days, and give him some porcini mushrooms and tell him they're magical...

Any way, I wish I could say that I, too, would be one of these carefree stoner lover-not-fighters. Oh to pretend I'd be content laying around all day in Central Park watching The Fuzz on their pretty dancing ponies.

Alas, not true. I would be the L-7 SQUAAAAARE twinky boy who wonders in in his suit halfway through the clip. People at Musical Mondays often laugh at that man's face.

"What's he thinking!?" they scream over their cosmos.

Well, I don't answer, but I know what he's thinking, because it's what I'm thinking.

Who are these filthy freaks?

Why don't they have jobs?

Oh god is that an ORGY? But they're covered in mud! Can't they shower first!?

What the fuck is Aquarius? Is that a new restaurant down in meatpacking?

Yes, I am a bit of a stiff suit that way, but I just wouldn't be able to go ahead and abide by the hippie lifestyle. I like having a job. Showering. Being uptight. Buying stuff. Sure, I can dig the "free love" orgies, but only if the twenty others bathed in the past 12 or so hours.

Oh, and facial hair. GOD do I not go for facial hair. And it seems like hippies and goatees or big ass mustaches are intrinsically linked.

Why is this? Maybe it's backlash. My parents were HUGE hippies. My mom wore the flower dresses and pranced through meadows in Queens as a child, her beatnik boyfriends and lovers chasing after her, painting her, writing songs for her, writing her love poems.

And then there was my father - in a high school yearbook full of smiling suited stiffs (you know, like the guy in the vid that I would be), one may flip through page after page of smart looking haircuts, nicely pressed jackets and ties, bright learning-hungry eyes... and come upon good ole Jay, wearing just a pair of overalls (which were clearly too restrictive, as he let one strap down), his hair in a wild lion's mane-style fro, his eyes practically closed, his jaw slack and grinning.

Yes, maybe it is a backlash after all.

Recession? More like ReSEXsion!

Plus One Austin's hello post got me thinking about sex. Which usually makes me happy. But today, it actually made me frowny face.

We are in the midst of terrible economic times. Sure, the lines at Best Buy and filled tables at Per Se seem to speak to the contrary, but if you look to your friends and loved ones, you will see lost jobs, cut hours, garnished salaries (garnished celery!? no!!) and all sorts of uber-depressing signs of our times.

But, until now, I've been very very lucky to avoid the sword of God-Damnacles dangling over the heads of Americans everywhere.

This all changed this past weekend.

Let's call him Kevin. We met online and had discussed meeting up. He was a smart cookie from a good school, with a great body. Plus he loved Arrested Development! (Note: if you ever want to marry me, have Will Arnett perform his pennies from heaven trick and I'm ALL YOURS).

So Kevin and I had promptly planned to meet up and spend some sweaty time together (marathon training! manual field labor! standing in those old timey metal tubes women used to lose weight in the olden days!) but I took ill, and therefore he couldn't come by.

Just this morning I shot him an IM saying that I was available this week and so we could get together for some hot fun (sunbathing! hot coal spa treatments! volcano jumping!) and he said

"Well, there's a slight challenge we've been presented with."

A challenge? What!? Had he suddenly gotten a boyfriend? Did he turn straight? Was he dead and contacting me from beyond the grave?

Turns out that, a few weeks ago, the science lab he was working in let him go because they lost their grant money. (Nevermind the fact that his ass-stupid boss didn't realize Big Daddy Obama is sendin mucho dinero his way soon enough.)

"Okay?" I said, "And so?"

"My parents made me come home, they don't want to pay for me to live unemployed in the most expensive city in the world."

My heart (and something else) dropped. What!? He went home!? Why would they make him do that!? Why did I have to be sick last week!?

But I rallied. So what was the worst that could happen? They moved him back to New Jersey or Connecticut or Long Island? So he'd have to take a train, and we'd still be able to have some Fun Times (Chutes and Ladders! Hopscotch! Scavenger Hunts!)

"Okay, that's fine, where is home?"

"Georgia."

If you heard some terrible noise this morning, and you live in the tri-state area, that was me screaming.

And now, finally, after all of this time, the recession has negatively affected me. It just shows you on how many levels something this dastardly can go. Jobs and homes are just the begining.

Hey, Obama! How about a Cockblock Bailout? All I need is plane fare.

I am high on you-know-what...

Last night, I went to finally see Hair on Broadway. I saw it this past summer in Central Park (four times!), and I loved it! So naturally, I was a little apprehensive about see it in it's new indoor location at the Al Hirchfield Theater. However, it was just as amazing as it was in the Park! I really feel connected to the feeling of spiritual and physical freedom that the musical evokes.

I've often thought of what I would have been like if I was in my late teens/early 20s during the tumultuous times of late 60s. If I had been in Mississippi (where I grew up), I think I would have turned out relatively the same. However, if I had grown up in NYC. I truly feel like I would be one of those hippies scaring tourists in Central Park. I'd be a drug-using, peace-slinging, oversexed flower child.

Now if I had been that age in the 80s, forget about it. I would have done the same sort of drugs and sex as my 1968-alternate self, but the 80s version of myself would have been a little too extreme. I can just see myself lying limp in a sequined suit, blood dripping out of my nose, and a doomsday STD running through my veins.

So for now, I'd stick to my hippie status in the 60s. I think the only thing that keeps me from being that now is just all of the health-related information we know about drugs and unprotected sex now. I guess back then, ignorance really was bliss...