The DC

Vajayjay Found His Passport

2007-10-27T16:00:00.001-04:00

Our Canadian lost his passport yesterday after six cocktails at the J.R.'s (we're showing him the sights, of course). After an aborted (and expensive) recovery mission last night, we returned to the scene to find, in the sewer grate, no less, Canada's passport. Can anyone pull a few strings to get him on his return flight to Seattle?

NPR's Ari Shapiro has totally been giving me the sex eye.

2007-10-12T14:06:00.000-04:00

Here in DC, you often run into marginally famous people. There's George Stephanopoulos, who frequents Teaism and the Washington Sports Club. There's Christoper Hitchens, who a friend tells me was spotted one morning drinking coffee and Frangelica in front of his house while his wife brought their car around to pick him up. Andrew Sullivan (ick!) goes to my gym. Then there's Bob Mould, of course. Throw in some ex-members of Fugazi and Barney Frank and you have DC's celebrity scene. (A woman who works with Dallas did see Nicole Ritchie and the singer of Good Charlotte on M Street in Georgetown once, though.)

Lately, I've been seeing a lot of another DC non-celebrity: NPR Justice Correspondent (?) Ari Shapiro. He's pictured above. I think he wants me.

Yes, Ari, I saw you checking me out while pretending to be on your Blackberry that one afternoon I ran into you in the Hart elevators. And, yeah, I noticed you did the gay "wait three seconds and turn around" thing the other day when I saw you walking your bike up 14th. I was flattered but I don't think your husband would have appreciated it very much. (Note: If anyone wants to see pictures from Ari Shapiro's gay wedding in California, I know someone who found the album online somewhere.)

I think Ari must think I'm a Jew. I say that because the last time a reasonably attractive guy was checking me out it was an Israeli guy who was eyeing me across the table at Bar Rouge. He told me he wanted to nail what he thought was my Jewish ass like he nailed the ass of his superior officer when he was in the Israeli embassy. This guy (we'll call him Izzy, mostly because I forgot his name) was rooming with my friend Michael and working at AIPAC but had to leave the country because he made fun of Dick Cheney on CNN. I am not making this up. Izzy and I never worked out. It all ended with a bizarre series of incidents that involved warm vodka, Michael passing out on my roof, and a missing Palestinian flag.

So, I'm not Jewish, Ari, but you can just say hello next time.

Humpty Dumpty is Back Together Again

2007-09-21T21:35:00.000-04:00

Well folks, I'm still alive. And today, at around 1:30 this afternoon, I finally pieced my life back together.

That's when I spoke with a lovely woman named Karen. She's from the Hertz counter in Portland (Maine) where I apparently left my murse. So my auxiliary wallet, iPod and house keys are on their way home, courtesy of FedEx. On Monday I'll be complete.

But let me tell you about my Tuesday.

You last heard from me on Monday, when I was headed home to die. Before picking up any kitchen utensils, however, I checked my VM. Fucking phone rang several times before kicking over to VM. That bastard had charged the battery!

Some quick sleuthing with a lovely Verizon customer rep uncovered several calls beginning at 8 p.m., 20 minutes after leaving the airport on the B30. If he was using my phone, perhaps he'd consider returning my camera equipment. A heated missive from Parker's phone elicited the following:

yea we was at bwi and found it at the bus stop. It was sitting there for like 30 minutes.i didn't know who thhe owner was so i took it. i was going to sell it buut i said i will wait and see if the owner will contact me and i see u did so .wat are u offering. [sic]

We went back-and-forth for an hour. I offered $500 cash as a reward, no questions asked. He countered with $1000 and a threat to pawn if I didn't match his demands. Deal. We agreed to meet at 10 a.m. the following morning at the same place he found my Domke bag. I plotted every bank within a three-mile radius of the airport.

Meanwhile, I'm shitting my pants. Is this dude gonna shoot me? Will he take me for a ride, demand the money, stab me and roll me out of the car? I needed help.

With former housemate and deecee-er Madam at my side, we soldiered up to BWI at 7 a.m. An incredulous Airport Police officer listened to my story [some dude wants 1000 bux for the return of my lost bag and he's meeting me in two hours]. He allowed me inside where I briefed a uniformed officer, presented a transcript of our txt conversation from the night before and completed a witness statement. Madam waited outside.

A plainclothes detective joined us and suggested I send a txt to my pen pal to make sure he planned on showing up. Then we waited. At 10:30 he had the courtesy to say he was running late . . . 11:15.

At 10:45, the detective parked himself on a bench in the international departures lobby. I walked out 10 minutes later. Good thing Baltimore is no international gateway.

I'm nearly pissing my pants at this point. In the lobby I stake out my neighbors: three flyers on benches, some maintenance workers in one corner and several people waiting outside for the light rail. No Domke in sight.

Parked near the exit, in view of the bus shelter, I leaned up against the window railing and nervously waited. Shuttle busses whizzed by. Every loitering bus rider elicited a suspicious stare. No one carried my Domke.

And then a buzz. "I'll be there in 5."

"I'm in a black hoodie," I replied.

Looking out the window, I noticed a man stepping off the Howard County 17 bus carrying what looked like my Domke. He looked up and down the driveway, plopped the bag on the shelter bench, covered it with a jacket and sat down next to it. Was that it? I couldn't be sure. But should I walk out and meet him?

When I turned for a clue from the detective, I noticed a big, light skinned, thuggish looking boy walking straight towards me.

"Black hoodie?" he asked after staring blankly at me and leaning up against the window railing.

"Yeah, that's me." I said.

"You really should be more careful with your stuff. And you better be glad it was me that took it, cuz no one else would be here today to give it back."

"I know," I said, glancing off to the side, hearing the nervousness in my voice. "I was having a rough day and I just wanted to get home."

He paused before responding. "I'll go get your bag."

With that he left the lobby, crossed the shuttle bus lane and picked up his friend's bag—what I had assumed earlier was my Domke.

As soon as he emerged from the doorway vestibule, I stuttered "yup . . . yeah, that's my bag." And with that, his face froze and it took me a second to hear the urgent demands to move out of the way coming from behind me. I turned to look and the detective had drawn his weapon, demanded my new friend put his hands in the air and face the wall. I could barely watch as the cuffs came out. He looked at me out of the sides of his eyes.

"You called the cops on me for theft? You called the cops on me for THEFT?"

A pat down revealed 12 dime bags of pot, my phone (which they made me call to verify), a Panera Bread pay stub and a Maryland Fire and Rescue Institute ID card.

I stayed quiet as uniformed officers flooded the scene. A quick description of the bus stop boy went out over the airwaves. Officers on bike, segway, cruiser and foot reported in: he was nowhere to be found. I heard on the radio they called MTA to stop the light rail for a search, SS style.

Needless to say, when I inventoried my Domke several items were missing. My Lumix point and shoot, a camera I have bought twice, was missing. As were several lens caps and my memory card wallet. The pictures on the 20D (the wedding photos) were gone. Shit.

In interrogation, my pen pal confessed that he decided to keep a few things for himself. And that somewhere in Howard County, buried in a box, I'd find the rest of my belongings. I don't think it helped his case that I surrendered the images he took with my cameraphone. He was very fond of his pot stash.

Later, I learned the detective and his colleagues took a field trip, armed with a warrant, and discovered more weed, the rest of my possessions and even more mary jane at bus stop boy's house. They made two arrests. I got everything back. The airport police lieutenant was very pleased. Everybody's happy.

But while I'm sitting here waiting for a call from the producers of COPS, a few things still bother me.

Did I just ruin someone's life?

If he was on a narrow path, did I just knock him off-course for good? He had a job, he was training to be a fireman, and at 20 years old, has a long, long life ahead of him.

And if I did ruin his life, should I be fearful for mine? Am I gonna have to watch over my shoulder every time I exit a building? Or think twice about flying from BWI?

All I can say is that I'm grateful to the personnel at the airport, who didn't dismiss my predicament as something too trivial to handle. They were professional, attentive and genuinely interested in seeing my valuables returned.

And after this episode, if you ever see me walking around with gadgets glued to my hands, you'll know exactly why.

Bob Mould Watch

2007-09-21T21:33:00.000-04:00

I just saw Bob Mould walking east on P Street. He was walking slowly and stiffly. Maybe he hurt his back at the gym? He also seemed to be wearing an old-school OP t-shirt. Word . . .

Phillies 7, Homophobia 6

2007-09-21T21:17:00.001-04:00

Dallas was so busy with his new iPhone last night that he forgot to write about the Phillies coming back last night to beat the Nationals and come within 1.5 games of first place in the NL East. In coming back, the Phillies also dealt a blow to at least one drunk old homophobic fan.

Explanation: Dallas and I were originally sitting in some seats in center field with a view of Aaron Rowand's ass. We had to leave those seats, however, because they were remote, the beer dudes rarely came, and we were right in front of large group of flatulent young Jews. So we decided to sit in a more crowded area in the 500 level just above home plate. Sitting behind us was a seriously drunk old man who had something to say about every play. And right around the time we got there, the Phllies were starting their big run that got them the lead. At one point I guess the old man figured out that Dallas and I were queens because he started mixing in some silly anti-gay shit in between his anti-Philly shit. My favorite, just as Chase Utley was coming up to bat (Dallas named his iPhone after Chase Utley, by the way):

"I guess it's not cheese steaks, it's tube steaks."

Scary, but fucking hilarious. If you're going to be a homophobic loser, you might as well be clever, I guess. Maybe Nationals fans (all 12-13 or so of them) are questioning their manhood because of the French heritage of their team.

Tied 6-6

2007-09-20T21:37:00.000-04:00

Parker and I are at yet another Phillies game . . . one of the last to play at RFK Stadium. Too bad we just discovered the margarita bar and Phillies center fielder Aaron Rowand on this trip.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale . . .

2007-09-17T15:59:00.000-04:00

Parker and I are back from Maine. We spent the weekend at his best friend's wedding. A beautiful event . . . Maine in September is crisp, the chowder hot and the coastline a sparking clear blue-green.

But that was during the daytime.

Packed in a house with other Delaware geeks, we were pretty tame by day: a few day hikes here, lots of trashy magazine reading, bocce ball in the afternoon. But once the sun dipped below the treeline a darker side eventually emerged.

The Delaware house, quaintly named the Blueberry Lodge, hosted parties three nights in a row. Friday I woke up and was OK. Saturday I woke up and was OK. Sunday I woke up and was not OK. I managed to gather my things (although not all of them), make it to the car, hook myself into the seatbelt and politely ask the driver to pull over after five minutes so I could puke. Round 1.

We stopped at McDonald's for brunch. That one came up on I-95 about two hours later. A Big'N'Tasty keeps its flavor even in reverse. Round 2.

We enjoyed a bit of crappy airport food where I tried to keep down a bowl of clam chowder. That one came up shortly after take off, and, since I was in the window seat, I had to wait for the pilot to turn off the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign before I could dispose of my "lunch." Round 3.

At BWI we just missed a B30 to Greenbelt. In my haste to board after waiting 40 minutes, I forgot to grab my camera bag (contents' value: $4000). Round 4 was an emotional KO. So I'm about to go home and slit my throat. Great weekend huh?

It takes a village to take care of Parker when he's drinking whiskey . . . and Boone's Farm . . . and Miller Lite . . . and vodka . . . and whatever

2007-09-14T22:29:00.000-04:00

Parker and I are celebrating with the soon-to-be nuptials and their friends. As usual, the Delaware house has become a den of sinful indulgence. And the funny childhood stories attract an endless stream of fable seekers. As SB put it when asked about our party tactics: "Yeah, we rage."

The wedding is tomorrow afternoon, more TK.

The nerve!

2007-09-09T03:21:00.000-04:00

Dallas just came downstairs to take a break from the pot-smoking, I guess. He was hugging me and being all cute and such. But then I realized that he was doing that so that I would go to bed so that my angry meat-eating friend could come into my apartment to crash without losing face. No. He will need to lose face if he wants to sleep in my place tonight.

PJ Harvey is still on. She got my back . . .

"As you savor the flavor of murder . . . "

2007-09-09T02:39:00.000-04:00

So . . . I just got into a ferocious argument with a good friend of mine about whether or not it's morally OK to eat meat. Not a good thing to do on a Saturday night. But I'm entitled to my opinion. Especially in my own apartment. I would rather that people not eat Whole Foods Organic Salami in my home. Isn't that a valid opinion to hold??? Don't I have the legal right to deny people the right to chew, digest, and shit out a pig (or whatever salami is made of) in the place where I live? I think I do.

Anyway, I am sick and tired of being mocked and derided for my music, my politics, my diet. This sounds like a juvenile thing for a 30-year-old man to say. And it would sound especially silly if I were the type of person who routinely preached on high about how much better my likes and beliefs were. I am not that kind of person. But when pressed, I'll stand my ground. I owe that to myself at this point.

The people offended tonight (Dallas included) are currently on the roof smoking pot. I'm on my own listening to Rid of Me by PJ Harvey. All of the friends I had from the Rid of Me era are people who would never give me the kind of shit I got tonight. You can never go home again, I guess.

A Real Update

2007-09-07T23:41:00.000-04:00

Dallas is running a 5k tomorrow. I'm sitting at home with nothing to so waiting for guests from New York to arrive. They're driving through Aberdeen, MD as I write this so I have some time to write an actual post and give all (ha! all . . .) of you a break from the bad Spanish and the margarita pictures a actually write a real update. Oh, where to begin . . .

Well, at about 30 1/2, my body is completely falling apart. Just before Dallas and I went away on our trip out west, I managed to sprain both of my wrists in a pathetic incline bench mishap. Now my gay body dysmorphic disorder is making me contemplate daily the bright side of slitting said wrists. I haven't been able to really do my workouts for about a month and I'm getting skinny and fat at the same, I feel. In addition, I've been visited by various other maladies:

1) Whenever I get up from bed or from sitting or lying down for an extended period of time, my right ankle is weak and achy. Sometimes it gives out if I put my weight down on it. Sometimes the pain migrates to my foot and my Achilles. The doctor I went to told me he has no idea what the problem is but it sounds like arthritis to him.

2) Last weekend, my back hurt for no reason at all. It's definitely not because of something I did at the gym (see above).

3) I rarely get carded at the Whole Foods anymore when I buy wine.

4) I drank a half a bottle of wine and a glass of whiskey the other night and woke up with a mild hangover. I can count on one hand the number of hangovers I had in my 20s.

5) I fell asleep on the couch last night at 11:30 while football was on.

6) A friend of mine posted some pictures from a party the other day and the haircut I was experimenting with over August made me look like an albino Lionel Richie.

Dallas is having a much better time lately. He was quite popular with the rice queens in the Pacific Northwest. Earlier this week, he was kinda stalked at Halo by some dude from California. And then last night the owner of a restaurant we went to jumped out of his seat and ran to introduce himself to Dallas. I was ignored. I feel like we live on a chart and I'm falling from my peak while he's cresting.

Ricky is a whore. He had filthy sex all weekend recently with a 22-year-old Puerto Rican boy from Indianapolis who has a 19-year-old boyfriend. They actually engaged in sexual congress on the floor just feet from the very stool I'm writing on now. Ricky is in Chicago right now at some gay law thing and the Puerto Rican followed him there. Dallas has been texting with Ricky and tells me that Ricky's hotel is right next door to the Puerto Rican's boyfriend's school. The Puerto Rican is sleeping on the hotel floor. Good times . . .

With that, I'll go. More later.

Back in the Dela

2007-09-01T22:57:00.001-04:00

Parker and I are in Delaware and it just happens to be the first weekend after classes started. Newark is crawling with hot young boys with nothing to do. Oh to be young and underage.

2007-08-18T03:21:00.000-04:00

I have never been this awake and sober at this hour before. This picture is of a bracelet Ricky found on the street outside a gay bar. It has a bejeweled flip-flop on it.

2007-08-12T17:55:00.000-04:00

Mas margaritas en un aeropuerto! Que Sabroso!

Worried

2007-08-11T00:57:00.000-04:00

Parker and I are worried that Washington State will be closer than anyone has forecast. Ron Paul has staff on every street corner in the gayborhood, at 8 p.m. . . . on a Friday night. And then we see this graffitied on the wall.

2007-08-06T15:09:00.001-04:00

This is why Portland is the best.

2007-08-05T17:34:00.000-04:00

Parker's drinking a brunch special with champagne AND tequila. Portland better watch out . . .

We totally almost died last night . . .

2007-08-05T16:03:00.000-04:00

We made it to the restaurant last night. It was good. But then we went to some bars in downtown Portland. Fine. The problem came when we made the decision in a cab not to go back to our hotel, but to go to a place called "Joqs." I shit you not. We bought a drink and quickly decided that, since the average age at the place was about 45, we would call a cab again and go home. But then, while Dallas was in the bathroom, some guy who was sitting by himself started talking to me. He was from California . . . he was visiting his mother . . . his girlfriend had just gone off with some guy . . . he was planning on sleeping on the street that night because his mother didn't want him in the house . . . he would suck our cocks for $30 . . . WTF!?

So Dallas and I tried to leave quickly. We decided to walk since we were pretty close (we thought) but then the $30 cocksucker followed us out! He was actually a good conversationalist and had grown up in Portland so he was a welcome distraction . . . until he casually showed Dallas the knife he keeps on him. I quickly decided that we should go to the 7-11. I figured I could either get some money there that the cocksucker would take in lieu of cocksucking payment, or I could buy some beer to buy him off. The beer worked. Dallas told the dude to pick out what he wanted. He got some Steel Reserve and a six pack of some stupid Pacific Northwest bullshit (they don't drink Yuengling Lager here, apparently).

The cocksucker still walked with us for a few blocks. I made sure I carried all of the beer (Dallas and I bought some too) in case I needed to hit him over the head with it. I thought I might need to at some point but then the dude got the point and headed off, with his beer, to find his "girlfriend. " We went off to drink the PBR tall boys we bought at the 7-11 for ourselves. All was well, until we got a little lost. We got back, though, and now Dallas is massively hungovger. He's passed out on the Thriftlodge Portland's lovely African-print comforter as I write this.

2007-08-05T00:21:00.001-04:00

They told us at the indie bar that the restaurant we want is down here. Do we dare go?

FW: What's the deal PDX?

2007-08-04T21:37:00.000-04:00

Dallas and I are on a week-long trip to the Pacific Northwest. In Portland right now. Having a drink at some place that's playing Natalie Cole videos. Anyway, the condom machines in the bathroom only sell these . . . the form-fitting kind. What? Do all the gays in Portland have tiny cocks?

2007-07-30T00:15:00.000-04:00

Mi vida es bueno. Whiskey on el Amtrak. Que bueno . . .

Shoe Verdict

2007-07-29T18:40:00.000-04:00

Brooklynites have decreed: They like our DC shoes.

We're At It Again

2007-07-29T16:21:00.001-04:00

Parker and I headed north this weekend to escape DC's death grip. Debauchery TK. But Ricky informs us that he invited some boys over last night and we've apparently made a liquor profit. This should happen more often.

2007-07-28T19:10:00.000-04:00

At a bar in Brookln & they are OBSESSED with Dogfish Head . . . which is made in Delaware.

New York New York

2007-07-28T02:31:00.000-04:00

It took us 6 hours to get here . . . Dallas and I are in the city this weekend to see Sonic Youth in some park in Brooklyn.

Jesu Christo!

2007-07-22T20:01:00.000-04:00

Brunch started at noon. The sun is setting and we're . . . um . . . still drinking.

2007-07-21T15:41:00.000-04:00

You can find this NASCAR crock pot in lovely Leesburg, Virginia.

Muy amable!

2007-07-21T13:21:00.000-04:00

Estoy en mi restaurante favorito . . . Don Pablo's en Sterling. Mi margarita es muy bueno!

No More Logan Taverns

2007-07-20T22:21:00.000-04:00

Earlier this week, I read with horror (not really . . . with great displeasure I guess) a line at the end of the Post food section's review of Logan Tavern's new location in Columbia Heights in which the writer informs us that said restaurant's owner is threatening to open a new location in Mt. Vernon Square. Please don't, sir.

My main problem with Logan Tavern is that it could be good. It just doesn't try. The food is basically just a fancified version of T.G.I. Friday's fare, but stacked vertically to please the gay yuppie eye. Also, their vegetarian options are nothing short of insulting. The Post reviewer stated that the Columbia Heights Logan Tavern "offers something for everyone," referencing the vegetable linguine as something that would please vegetarians. I had that linguine. It was just a watery mess with parsley and some random vegetables that were probably just the scraps from the side dishes they served to the carnivores. Once, at the Logan location, I ordered something called a "Greek pie" and was served two tortillas with feta cheese, spinach, and nonsense between them. There was also the time when I ordered a cauliflower side from the vegetarian menu and found it loaded with Canadian bacon.

The non-Logan Tavern parts of the Logan Tavern empire are no better. I've never been to Grillfish but it looks like it sucks and nobody goes to that side of Dupont Circle anymore anyway. Merkado has tasty margaritas, I'll admit, but the brunch is sad (overcooked scrambled eggs on your huevos rancheros anyone?) and Dallas and I went in there once to get drinks and nachos and was told—at 4:00 p.m., mind you—that the kitchen was out of nachos that night.

The point of this post is that DC needs to do better than Logan Tavern. There is only so much space for restaurants in the city and only so many liquor licenses to go around. One more Logan Tavern taking up space is too much. If I wanted bad food, I would go to T.G.I. Fridays. At least there the bartenders so don't give a shit that they'll sell you a fish-bowl-sized glass of top shelf liquor for $7.95.

Sun

2007-07-15T22:55:00.001-04:00

You can't see it well from this picture, but Ricky came back from the beach with some weird sun spot things. He read somewhere that he could get rid of them by rubbing Selsun Blue all over his body.

Gayhoboth

2007-07-14T15:06:00.001-04:00

Grotto's serves big beers . . . There are so many gays here, Ricky and I were calling it Logan East.

Here for the Fucking Weekend

2007-07-13T20:21:00.001-04:00

Parker, Ricky and I are in Delaware for the weekend. We'll offer a full report (or updates if you're lucky) on our return. Until then pray we don't come back with something nasty.

A Bloody Sunday

2007-07-10T15:43:00.000-04:00

Let me set the scene: I enter my apartment, highly intoxicated after the Be Bad party at Be Bar. I peer into my bathroom (or as Parker calls it, the public bathroom) and I see Dallas nursing the head wounds of a naked man with a ripped body. Let's call him Mr. B (for blood). After Dallas finished washing the blood off of Mr. B's naked (and did I say hot?) body, the peroxide came out along with the Neosporin and a wad of my cotton pads. Dallas put some pads on Mr. B's main wound and wrapped one of our brown towels around him (which, as an aside, are filled with bleach marks from my acne medication). How do we know Mr. B? Apparently he's friends with one of Parker's friends Ike (not his real name).

Ike saw Mr. B outside of Be Bar earlier that night and felt a little tingle in his pants (or maybe it was a big tingle, sorry, never seen it). At that point, Mr. B had not yet been dowsed in his own blood. The details aren't clear to me because I was still in the bar, but I will attempt to relay to you what I've heard. Apparently Mr. B and Parker started talking, at which point they both explained to each other that they had reputations for being rough-housers when they are drunk. Now I can't vouch for Mr. B, but I do know Parker can be a bit rambunctious when he's had a few. Let's just say I've been violently mock-fucked by him on multiple drunken occasions. Well, Mr. B decides to prove his alcoholic manhood and suddenly attempts to tackle Parker. Parker fell to the ground (apparently landing in a grassy area). Mr. B wasn't so lucky. His head slammed against the concrete and the bleeding ensued.

Meanwhile, I was inside Be Bar talking to the last of a number of guys that night, none of whom I was attracted to enough to take home, even with my drunken goggles on. This last guy had a shaved head with blond hair, and I thought he looked halfway decent. He definitely made it known he wanted to come home with me. I told him I was probably too drunk to function (an excuse I often use when I'm not that attracted to a person and I don't feel like contracting an STD that night . . . believe me, no matter how drunk I am I can get it up). He said he was too drunk to function too, and that we could just hook up in the morning when we woke up. I thought to myself for a second and then politely said "no thanks" and walked away. I figured if I only thought he was semi-attractive after about 10 stoli-vanilla and diets, there's no telling how ugly he would be in the morning. When I walked outside to get Dallas and Parker and walk home, I met Mr. B, who at that point looked like he had been shot in the face point blank.

We really weren't quite sure what to do with Mr. B. It was about 3 in the morning and we weren't sure if he needed to go to the hospital or not. In the end, a decision was made to take Mr. B back to our place and clean him up. Parker had ripped his shirt off to apply pressure to the wound, and we made our way through the ghetto back to our fabulous (but often warm) apartment. Ike, who seemed to get a little excited when Parker ripped Mr. B's shirt off, came with us.

You've already heard what happened in the bathroom when we got home. One of my good friends ended up coming home with us too so he could pass out on my futon (and not drive home drunk like he usually does). He's a great friend, but I was moderately upset that I wouldn't be able to jack off that night. At one point I went into the bathroom where Mr. B was getting cleaned up and I saw Ike squirt some of my toothpaste in his mouth, seemingly preparing himself to get his rocks off once Mr. B's bleeding stopped. Dallas, ever the provider, cleaner, and housewife, blew up the air mattress while Mr. B sat on the couch dipping in and out of consciousness. The blood was coming through the bandages. I thought for a hot second what must have crossed all of our minds at some point that night: shouldn't we take him to the hospital? But then the alcohol got to me and I passed out. As I slept, I'm assuming Ike hooked up for the second time on an air mattress on our living room floor.

Mr. B looked a lot better in the morning. The blood had crusted over his face and had stained the pillow case, but at least he woke up, right? He seemed embarrassed by his unsightly mug, but we weren't looking at that part of his body anyway. Parker and Dallas lent him a shirt and he left, jumping in a taxi to go to the hospital. We found out later he needed 15 stitches and had suffered a minor concussion.

In the end, I suppose everything worked out. Mr. B didn't die. Parker, Dallas and I got to see a hot, naked body (albeit a bloody one). Ike got something out if it, I'm sure. I guess the only downside to the whole episode was the fact that Mr. B didn't have insurance (and had to get 15 stitches). Oh, and Dallas used all of my cotton pads, so I couldn't apply my acne medication that afternoon. Nonetheless, although last Sunday was pretty typical (see my previous post), I'm hoping this one is atypical.

11th Street Flasher Strikes Again

2007-07-06T07:54:00.000-04:00

I'm on my way to a vision exam and I think I need it ... unless what I saw was real.

Spotted this morning on 13th between I and H Streets. He had his shirt over his head and his dick (at full salute) popping out the crotch of his jeans. And wildly proclaiming to passersby his yawlp. He was quite the talk of the 80 bus.

UPDATE: My doctor said my eyes (and glasses) were fine. I guess I really did see it.

Who thinks this will work out?

2007-07-03T15:57:00.001-04:00

So I got this e-mail yesterday our friend Scott:

a friendster friend of mine, [C] wants to meet [Ricky]. [C] is a delightful semi-closeted homo who loves hours of weightlifing daily and being a kinda scary jock type. i think he even tries to fuck women every now and then. he's a brash, sometimes funny racist dutifully hiding his shame with a razor thin veneer of self esteem given to him by mild career success and large biceps. thoughts?

Ricky has dated some losers in the past, but this could be too much. He appears to be gainfully employed, though. I talked to Ricky about this guy and learned that he has apparently been sending Ricky Friendster messages for a little while. He wants to hang out this football season and watch games. (???) Ricky thinks he could get some free onion rings out of it. I think he's likely to get raped.

A Typical Sunday

2007-07-02T16:11:00.000-04:00

So yesterday involved a Gaysian-dominated housewarming party, booze, a trip to a trashy chain restaurant in the Confederacy, Target, more booze, and bad Sunday night television. I was in one of those slap-happy moods, where I would laugh so hard at things that I almost cried. I will attempt to convey these moments to you in this blog post — hopefully they are not “you had to be there” moments.

We started out the day at a housewarming party in Virginia. As we were walking up to the apartment building, a woman walked by in a sun dress. She may have been on a walk of shame, I'm not sure. But Parker turned to me as she walked by and said, “Bitch looks like shit.” Commence laughing fit #1. I kept repeating the saying all day, and I may have to add it to my daily vocabulary.

Attendees at the housewarming party were overwhelmingly Asian. At one point the new condo-owner was talking to Parker about a white guy he used to date. Parker said he didn't realize our friend ever dated anyone other than Asians. Our friend replied, “Well, sometimes people make mistakes.” I had never seen so many gay Asians in one place before … I have to admit I was quite entertained as I watched everyone interact through sips of my mimosa. One of them had green hair and showed off a shiny new pedicure with some flip-flops. One of the housewarming presents was a framed picture of the host shirtless at Gay Days in Orlando (dude looked hot in the pic).

Next we headed to Bennigan's for some tastiness (if you detect sarcasm … good. Our host, who had some crazy dread-locks, took us to our table and said, “This OK wit choo?” When we replied it was fine, he said, “Y'all enjoy y'alls meals.” Our server's name was Angel. We ordered fried mushrooms and a bunch of other fried shit (see pic in post below). At one point Dallas heard a server in the kitchen yell, “Just give me the fucking popcorn shrimp … Damn.” Commence laughing fit #2. I think if I were the cook, I would have thrown a bunch of frozen popcorn shrimp in a basket and given it to the server. I'm not sure who has it harder, the servers who have to deal with the customers, or the cooks who have to deal with the servers who take their anger out on the cooks. Needless to say, Bennigan's was all I wanted it to be and more.

We decided since we were in the area that we would make a Target run. Target runs are very entertaining, especially when Parker is drunk. He attempts throughout the trip to put things in the basket, and Dallas constantly takes things out and puts them back on shelves where they don't belong. One such instance occurred in the bath section, where Parker wanted to buy those furry toilet seat covers for the top of the toilet seat. Dallas warned that it would be difficult to clean, and the only benefit would be that if someone wanted to jack off in the bathroom, they would have a comfortable place to sit. As we did not want to encourage this activity in our bathroom (not to mention the dingleberrys that would inevitably lodge themselves in the cushion), Dallas took it out of the cart. If you see a toilet seat cover in the DVD section, chances are Parker and Dallas are not far away.

Tired from our shopping, eating and partying, we headed home. Since it was sunny out, I decided to catch some rays on our roof deck. After 30 minutes of sunbathing with Dallas, Parker came up with some tasty martinis, and here we go again folks. Before I was halfway through my first martini, there was another one waiting for me. The evening continued in our apartment, where we watched some trashy TV (including one of the Chucky movies). Then some of us made it to our beds to pass out, while others needed to be carried. I peered out in the living room and saw remnants of our debauchery strewn this way and that, all of us too tired to clean. I noticed one of the Jesus candles was still lit, so I blew it out and went to bed myself … dreaming of what it would have been like to jack off while sitting on a cushy toilet seat cover (just kidding people … gosh).

Anyway, I thought I'd give you guys a glimpse of a typical Sunday … hope it wasn't too boring.

"Keep the food just give me the money . . ."

2007-07-01T13:53:00.001-04:00

You don't really want to mess with us today.

Money to Burn

2007-07-01T02:44:00.000-04:00

This night has opened up my eyes . . .

Be Bar Esta Noche

2007-07-01T01:59:00.001-04:00

I don't know exactly how it happened, but our trip to Be Bar netted a Parker with glitter all over his face. You fill in the rest.

Boys, Boys, Boys . . .

2007-07-01T00:49:00.001-04:00

Parker and I are at Boywatch at Be Bar. The "lifeguards" used a little too much bronzer.

NIMBY: I don't need to make copies at 3 a.m.

2007-06-30T21:51:00.000-04:00

That blue sign says: KINKOS COMING SOON.

This is what you choose to open on a street surrounded by rich gays and high-priced condos? It's right about up there with the PNC bank branch right next door.

What I do need is:

1) another bar

2) some place to buy decent stuff;

3) or just a Uniqlo.

Sightings and Surprise Guest

2007-06-24T15:23:00.000-04:00

First: Ben Bernanke does his own grocery shopping (with his wife) at Whole Foods P Street. In his arms: Peace cereal and other breakfast grains.

Second: I received a call in the frozen foods aisle from a Tennessee cousin.

I have no idea where we can meet. From what I remember of family visits, he only eats beans & wieners. So picky is he, that his parents would travel with extra cans, just in case he threw a hissyfit.

Hopefully we can just do drinks, and not worry about food.

UPDATE: Drinks it was (a mojito, no less). And he actually thanked me for taking him to a Thai restaurant in Nashville (way back when) and forcing him to eat something other than beans & wieners. He says he eats sushi now! Hooray for reformed picky eaters.

"Carrie" by Europe is a fucking good song.

2007-06-24T01:54:00.000-04:00

This is the most sober I have been at 1:30 am on a weekend night in . . . years? Dallas and I are home after a late-night walk around the "city" and he's making some Asian crap in the kitchen while I write this. We made pizza tonight. It was tasty.

Filling in the blanks . . . We've been doing a lot of text posts with no explanation of what we're up to. Here's an update:

1) Ricky's mom and brother were here recently. The brother wound up staying here for a week and a half. One Sunday, I had to spend hours getting them both wasted so they would come out to each other. I eventually had to announce to both of them that the other was gay. The brother had never admitted to anyone that he was gay even though it should be obvious to anyone. He and Ricky then spent the rest of the time he was here not talking to each other. Dallas and I and our friends had to introduce him to the big gay city. I came out of the bathroom late Tuesday night this past week and heard our friend Andrew telling him how to blow a guy who's uncut.

2) The. Beach. Sucks. I haven't been to Rehoboth this summer yet but I think I won't make it there. Whenever I've gone in the past, I've been amazed at how much the place is just another version of DC. If you go to Results or Duplex on a Thursday night, you can bet you'll see the same people at the Delaware beaches the next night . . . after a five-hour drive. If I want to hang out with DC gays, I'll get a job at the RNC. I had so much fun in Philly last weekend that I think I'll make Philly my beach this summer. The Phillies are just a couple games out of first place . . .

3) In just a few days, I will be at a general admission Morrissey show for the first time. I'm planning on meeting the man and having him sign my body so I can get it tatooed.

Enough for now.

Phillies 6, Tigers 3

2007-06-16T22:07:00.001-04:00

The farther north you go, the hotter the boys are.

First Inning

2007-06-16T18:15:00.001-04:00

Parker and I made it to South Philly for an evening game against the Tigers. Our seats are near something called the "High & Inside" pub (hehe).

More Margaritas

2007-06-16T17:13:00.000-04:00

Some cat at a party in Philly last night told us our blog needs to be more scandalous. So coming up, more tequila, more scandal and more frequent posts.

Parker is MAD

2007-06-02T18:59:00.000-04:00

We're on our way back from Guatemala, gittin' drunk at the Houston airport. See that in the background? That's Papsito's. Make sure you stop by when you transfer. The Margaritas are better than the food.

The Guatemalan authorities confiscated Parker's Jesus candle. I guess they really do need all the missionaries we saw on our flights in and out. What a heathen country to throw out Jesus like so much trash.

Speaking of heathens, Continental Airlines is at the top of the list. There was nothing vegetarian on our flight outta Guate Guate … not even some crackers.

2007-05-26T20:11:00.001-04:00

Parker and I are on our way to Guatemala for a week. Pray for us and our salvation. We've had such a long stint at Papasito's in the Houston airport that we're not sure now if they'll let us on the plane. Boarding now.

Rejected by the Gays

2007-05-25T22:23:00.001-04:00

Dallas and I went to karaoke at Playbill again last night at the insistence of a good friend of ours. We weren't there for an hour when gay DC drama went down.

Our friend was at the bar with a co-worker and this co-worker apparently has a lot of gay friends who also do the Playbill karaoke on a regular basis. Well, these guys show up and they are tragic. All shorts and flip-flops and bellies and bad facial hair. One of them actually professed to be a Beatles fan. Yick . . . It's 2007!

Anyway, these guys were behaving strangely. And they were clearly half in the bag. The Beatles fan was the best of all of them. He came over and drank with us and was smart and witty despite his antiquated taste in music. He even had the balls to trash Morrissey and the Smiths in my presence, which I respect him for, but whatever . . .

At one point, we noticed that Beatles Boy's friends were not coming over to talk to us and were standing in a circle whispering and not drinking. Then, all of a sudden, they announced to our friend's co-worker that they were leaving and physically forced Beatles Boy to go with them. Our friend's co-worker found out later that they left because our friend wasn't talking to them and they "don't like the gays." What the fuck! These were some of the gayest dudes I've seen in some time. And Dallas and I haven't been at a gay bar other than the occasional off-hours martini at Halo for months.

To show you how pathetic these guys were, let me tell what the fattest of them did with his Sunday this past weekend, according to a very reliable source:

Dude got drunk at brunch. Fine. Then he went with friends to the Mexican place on 17th to drink margaritas. Great! But it gets worse . . . After drinking a pitcher or more of margaritas himself he took a cab two blocks to some calzone place at 18th and U and buys two calzones, one of which he ate at the counter with his hands while texting four ex-boyfriends to see if they would come to his place for sex. Then he walked home with his calzone and passed out. He woke up in bed with his calzone and only his calzone.

Who's the pathetic gay now, fatty?

Don't Get Your Rocks Off on 13th Street

2007-05-23T23:54:00.000-04:00

Parker and I are making last minute preparations for a weeklong trip to Guatemala. He's been reading consular reports and fretting over the airport carjacking epidemic. Perhaps I should draft a letter to Continental to revise their flight schedules cuz we're landing at 9 p.m. Ahem. Meanwhile I've been trying to figure out what beer we're supposed to order. Una cerveza por favor!

We neglected the blog this weekend, and missed a crucial observation. But, hurrah! It happened again tonight. Apparently, Metro Police is serious about their "prostutition free zones." And, as evidence, we can point to the five arrests we witnessed on Saturday and tonight. In fact, the lights are flashing right now on a bust. Dude was just gettin' gas, making conversation.

Here's how it goes down.

Bitch gets outta a Chrysler 300C parked (illegally) in a bus stop zone. She must be miked, because she struts her shit until some poor fool pulls over and "asks for directions." A blip of the siren and an unmarked car blocks any exit and a CY-UTE Chinese boy gets all manly and starts yelling "Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!"

It's kinda hot.

But then it's all plastic cuff ties. Quick interrogation. Thorough search thru car, trunk, and pockets. And then it's off in the paddy wagon.

Not hot.

Nevermind the entrapment issue — of course that's the wrong part. But it's the fact that hot, BMW-driving, ex-frat boys are going to jail. This is injustice! She wasn't even that hot.

I liked it when we had girls on our block:

1) Lo-fi entertainment all night long.

2) Safety. Their bike-riding pimps don't want no trouble. And that's the way I like my street.

3) What's wrong with a little neighborhood color? And I don't mean from the gang tags.

I say bring em back. FUCK the cops (especially the cutie cop).

Admission is the First Step

2007-05-06T01:07:00.000-04:00

Parker decided we were ubrane enough to investigate the claim (by people in cities larger than ours) that we belong to a generation "lobotomized by vodka."

So we're having a gin martini party.

Third martini in, Parker has finally admitted "I tend toward the dramatic."

Tally so far:

1. Boodles ***
2. Hendrick's ****1/2
3. Junipero ****

There I Went Again

2007-05-04T20:54:00.000-04:00

Dallas and I were in New Castle, Delaware last Saturday to celebrate our lovely and talented friend Linda's 30th birthday. And now there is apparently a video of me singing a karaoke version of that old Whitesnake chestnut "Here I Go Again" between shots of Jameson. Never again. To the Whitesnake and the Jameson. That was the most ill-behaved I have been in quite some time. You just can't get that unaccountably drunk in New Castle without some bad shit going down. For real.

Anyway, the way back. Whenever Dallas and I drive back from Delaware, we usually turns off of New York Avenue at Florida and takes P through Eckington and Shaw all the way over to Logan Circle. We've been doing that ever since we started thinking about buying a place and realized everything west of the Giant is way out of our price range. Dallas likes to look at the houses out there and always says "Baby, look at our new neighborhood!" It's cute, yeah, but sad. Nobody will come visit us in Shaw. And people in Shaw drink a lot of Icehouse beer. You see an empty Icehouse can on every block over there. There are real people in Shaw, though. They sit on their stoops at night. I don't want to ruin their neighborhood with my organic vegetables and my whiteness.

Moving. Moving?

2007-04-26T21:14:00.000-04:00

Today was supposed to be a joyous day.

At work, I moved into a new office. This was supposed to be a good thing but, unsurprisingly, it has proven quite disappointing indeed. I thought a new office would mean new things, especially a new desk. I've been working on the Hill for going on seven years now and have always had crappy hand-me-down desks with stains, nicks, etc. I was always jealous of colleagues with the shiny dark-wood two-sided desks that could fit a computer on one side and a TV and phone on the other. That kind of desk would look great with the brand new Delaware-colored gold walls and blue carpets I chose for the place. But, alas, I was given a craptastic old school desk and a useless side computer table that can't even accomodate my computer. The moving guys also lost half of my junk. The papers associated with all of the things I'm currently working on are missing, unfortunately. So I have no idea what to do tomorrow at "work."

Oh, the fridge we inherited in the new office, while clean, smells. It smells bad.

Second disappointment: I also learned today that I will likely never be able to buy property in this town. There's no law against my owning property in DC, mind you, it's just that I don't think it would be wise to accept a loan that would require a $7,000+ monthly mortgage payment. There are other options, but I don't think Dallas and I can (or should) squeeze into a one-bedroom together. We also shouldn't be moving too far from our current location. If I need to live way out in Petworth or Columbia Heights or that horrifying area by the Wendys on New York Avenue in order to buy a place, I might as well buy in Delaware. That way I could live out my long-held dream of working in a suburban New Castle County grocery store. I'm sure I could get more and better stuff in Delaware on $7.00 an hour than I could in this shithole on what I make "working" in the Senate.

Dear Washington Nationals: Go Back to Canada

2007-04-20T16:08:00.000-04:00

Dallas and I made our way to RFK Wednesday night to see the awful former Montreal Expos play my (admittedly awful … for now) Philadelphia Phillies. The Phillies lost the game in extra innings but the sports fans of the Washington area lost my respect.

We were sitting in the 200s somewhere. They were good seats that Dallas was able to snag from work. Well, we were surrounded by Phillies fans. Surrounded. And I would guess that the crowd there was at least one-third Phillies fans. It was sad. I felt bad for the Expos. There was the drunk drunk drunk loud girls behind us who kept calling all the Phllies bums and was waving a huge Phillies flag whenever the stadium cameras came her way. There were the dudes a few rows down on the right who was wearing a Brian Westbrook jersey and started an E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles! cheer whenever he stood up to get a beer or go to the bathroom. When the "Go back to Canada" chants started towards the end of the game the only defense of their team that the "Nationals" fans could muster was this from a fat, non-threatening, middle-aged dude with a very baggy sweatshirt: "Can't you think of a better joke than that?"

Please. If the Expos were playing in Philly and their fans were acting the way our fans were acting Wednesday night, people would wind up hospitalized. And, yes, I am proud of that. Very.

But back to the Expos. They stink. They made us lose our strip clubs. They have really bad food at their stadium. I say we send them back to Canada where they came from.

P.S. — In addition to the Expos and their fans, I was also disappointed with a guy there who Dallas works with. He claimed to be a Phillies fan but was horrified by the antics of the drunk girl behind us and didn't understand why anyone would be doing an Eagles cheer at RFK in April. He also tried (and he was lucky he tried this when I was in a relatively good mood) to correct my pronunciation of Eagles. We all know it's Iggles. Dude kept saying Eggles like it's something we force ourselves to do rather than something that comes out naturally. I hate him.

A note on the previous post . . .

2007-04-19T13:24:00.000-04:00

I just wanted to make a couple clarifications with respect to the last post:

1) Neither Jim McGreevey nor Courtney Gains were actually at the Playbill Cafe last Thursday, just some dudes who looked like them. (It is exciting to know, however, that the former Malachai will be in the remake of Halloween that's coming out this year. A little disappointing to know that Rob Zombie is involved, though.)

2) There was in fact a black girl at the bar singing Journey. You just can't see her in the picture Dallas took. I think she was doing that song about the girl on the midnight train and the guy born and raised in a place called "South Detroit."

I think the Playbill is great. I plan to go there more often. There were actual women (including lesbians!) and ethnic minorities there so it was quite a change of pace from the gay bars down the street. When we left last week, I threetened to sing Bruce Springsteen the next time I attended (which could be tonight) but I doubt I'll follow through on that.

2007-04-12T23:54:00.001-04:00

Parker wants everyone to know that we're at Playbill's karaoke night and Jim McGreevey and Malachai from "Children of the Corn" have both made an appearance. There's also a black girl singing Journey.

Easter Brunch Disaster

2007-04-08T21:01:00.000-04:00

Two friends of ours, Ricky's law school friend, and our old roommate Madam came over Sunday for Easter brunch. I think we were supposed to eat at 11:00 but wound up eating closer to 3:00. I don't think we were supposed to drink six bottles of champagne.

We also weren't supposed to set brunch on fire, but we did. Our friend AM had some sort of tart/meringue thing in the broiler, for some reason, and left it in too long. People were noticing the burny smell for a good 10 minutes before AM opened the oven to find dessert in flames. It got so bad that it also set part of the baked egg thing we were making on fire too. AM ate the scorched part of the eggs.

Another disaster is in the offing. Ricky is plans to have his birthday party on the roof of our building sometime in May and is threatening to play his favorite hits by the likes of Mariah Carey and the Pussycat Dolls.

A note to my friends. You know who you are.

2007-04-08T01:10:00.000-04:00

It's been a week since my birthday party. I have a couple things I want to ask of the people who pretend to like me:

1) Do. Not. Ever. Buy me a SoCo and lime shot. Just don't.

2) Do not allow me to sing the Eagles fight song in public unless the Eagles are playing. Singing it in a bar while drinking seems fun at the time but, when we do it, people think we're crazy. Especially outside of Philadelphia. Let's take a break until August, at least.

All for now.

Old People

2007-03-26T20:27:00.000-04:00

In honor of Parker’s big 3-0, I’ve decided to compile a list of things that bother me about old people (a term I am using very loosely, as you will see).

Old people do weird things in the locker room. Today at the gym, an old man was sitting bear ass on the benches, taking his sweet time changing. He decided to put everything else on before his underwear. He put his socks on, then his shirt – then he sat around for a bit – then he finally decided to put on his tightie whities. When I used to go to the gym in Virginia, old men would wait in the sauna, which was right in front of the door, for people they wanted to see naked come into the locker room. When hot guys came in, they would get out of the sauna and pretend to change right next to them . . . kinda creepy, eh?

Old people often think they have you pegged from the get-go. They also attempt to impart wisdom from experience on you. These pseudo sages often say things like “trust me” and “when I was your age” before a majority of the sentences that come out of their mouths. For instance, one of my friends has this new boyfriend who thinks he knows everything. While he’s only 39, he’s elevated himself to sage status already. For some reason the conversation got around to coming out to family. I told him I wasn’t out to my parents yet, and he said something to the effect of “Oh honey, trust me, they knew when you were five years old.” Now that’s definitely something I would expect as a joke from a friend (to be honest, it sounds like something Parker would tell me, or Karen from Will & Grace for that matter). It sort of offended me, however, that this old man thought he had me figured out. He wasn't joking, however. He was completely serious, and he doesn’t know my family or me, damnit!

Some old people attempt to look and act like they are teenagers. This past weekend I was at Cobalt and I met a 30-something guy who was wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch button-down, the type you would see on 16-year-olds who use fake IDs to get into the 18-and-up gay club. And yes, just as a disclaimer before you go through my wardrobe, I do have one of these shirts in my closet from my twink days (which Parker would probably argue I haven't graduated from yet). I just thought this guy looked kind of ridiculous in the shirt with several buttons undone. It didn’t help that he also tried to give me life advice that I didn’t find very accurate. I told him I thought it would be fun to move to California. He said that’s where he’s from, the San Diego area specifically. I said I would love to move out there. He said something along the lines of “Oh honey, trust me, you won’t find a job in San Diego.” I thought to myself, you don’t know me or my career potential, yet you’re pegging me right off the bat. Is a pattern developing here?

Old gays have some sort of involuntary reflex built in where they grab younger guys’ tits. This past weekend I was at JRs (yes, I know, I get around on the weekends, JRs has some nice new wood floors by the way) for a friend’s 33rd birthday party. When I got there, he was grabbing all over me like he always does. I don’t mind it from him since I know him. But when I went to the bar to get a drink some random oldie just reached out and grabbed my pecs. I’m not sure if he was just following my friend’s lead or if he does this to a lot of guys, but it was sort of weird. I was pretty intoxicated, however, so I probably enjoyed it.

I think the old cliché “getting older is a state of mind” is wrong. Getting older is a state of action, tragic action at that. So Parker, as long as you don’t grope random guys’ titties, wear Abercrombie and Fitch, transform into a know-it-all and put your socks on before your underwear in the gym, you’ll never be old in my book.

Puking on Bums

2007-03-26T12:48:00.000-04:00

My former roommate (I'll call him AJ) was involved in one of the funniest attempted robberies I think I've ever heard about. After getting drunk at some bar, he wandered home to his place on U Street this past weekend. Before he stumbled into his apartment building, a man emerged from a bus stop shelter and asked him for a dollar. When AJ told the man he didn't have any cash, the man pulled out a knife and said "show me your wallet, I know you have cash." AJ — being highly intoxicated and just a little scared — proceeded to throw up on the man's hand. AJ then turned and ran away. The robber, who was probably grossed out by the puke that was on his hands, did not pursue.

Is there a moral to this story? Maybe highly intoxicated people have an advantage during muggings — just hit the release button. Does anyone else think this would make a great climax for a 30-minute sitcom episode?

2007-03-24T19:41:00.000-04:00

Ok so I was in Richmond all day and Parker demanded I meet him at the Fox & Hounds when I returned to the city. I got there, realized he'd had four bloody marys from brunch (and two vodka sodas at the Fox) and followed him to Jacks's, where he bailed once his friends started eating meat at dinner. So now we're walking home after an impulse buy at Dunkin Donuts, a visit to the porn shop, and incessant pleas to call his sister in Delaware just to say "hi."

Turning Point

2007-03-22T21:58:00.000-04:00

Since Thursday night is the beginning of the weekend (vote-a-rama notwithstanding), I guess this is the beginning of the last weekend of my 20s. I turn 30 next Saturday. I was thinking of writing a post tonight detailing some of highlights of my 20s but the highlights seems to blur together. Some of them are also quite sad, like the time the Brysons and I stole a life-sized picture of Morrissey from some dude's house. Or that time after the double-header Modest Mouse show in Philly when I fell asleep at my friend Karl's house with my knee touching this guy Dylan who I had a massive crush on. (Full disclosure: Dylan is fat like butter now and, last time I saw him, he was wearing an ugly suit and suspenders.)

There was also that time I was still living at my parents' and drove home drunk from a party in Newark (Delaware, fuckers) while listening to "I Won't Share You" by the Smiths on repeat. When I got home I wrote lines from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" all over my bedroom wall. One other time, I may or may not have made out with a guy at Swarthmore College just because he was wearing a tight vintage Eagles t-shirt. Good times . . .

During the opening days of my 30s, I intend to officially disenfranchise myself by moving to the District in order to take advantage of its overly-generous first-time home buyer benefits. I may also also end my months-long boycott of DC gay bars. It'll be interesting to see what an awful gay bar looks like through an old man's eyes.

Philly people need to respond to their fucking text messages.

2007-03-18T02:44:00.002-04:00

I hate DC. That's quite clear to anyone who reads this shitty blog. But people in this town respond to texts much more quickly than people in 'da Illy. There are many, many, many Philly issues I need to discuss sooner rather than later. Do these people who aren't responding to their texts know that the Iggles just signed a white wide receiver? Do they know that my 30th is in two weeks and that my boy BK and I just reached an agreement on when to have our birthday parties? Do people know that the new Modest Mouse record is apparently horrifically bad?

Hot Barely Legal Anal Teen Action

2007-03-08T18:22:00.000-05:00

About a month or so ago, I let a friend hanging out at our apartment use my computer (and eventually my credit card) to indulge her new obsession with anime porn through a three-dollar trial membership at some scary-looking web site. The incident was funny at the time but now fails to amuse me. Every time I open my Yahoo e-mail account now, I'm confronted with e-mails asking me to look at pictures of Asian girls, blond girls, teen girls, and all manner of girls getting fucked in the ass. That's all they want, these girls, to get fucked in the ass. The only e-mail I've seen that hasn't fit in is category is the one this morning about two "bi guys" who are apparently preparing to fuck a blond Russian woman.

I know spam is nothing new but I honestly never got any before and am alarmed that Yahoo now seems to think I actually want to see some of this stuff. (I might actually want to see the bi guys, but I digress . . .) The 20-30 porn messages I used to delete from my spam inbox a couple weeks ago are now creeping into my main inbox and all of the e-mails I get regularly from various music, food and other lists I signed myself onto are now winding up in my spam inbox. I feel like I'm transforming without my knowing it into some sort of straight, woman-hating anal sex fiend whose only real interest is to watch young girls be defiled.

To the three or four of you reading this, I'm sorry for all the profanity in this post. Hope you weren't offended. In case you were, I'll close with this pleasant little nugget: I saw CNN's Dana Bash in the Senate cafeteria yesterday. She is very short. I rushed out of there once I saw her so as to avoid having to actually see her eat.

Speaking of the Senate cafeteria, I really want to throw a grenade into the smoking lounge some day. You smell awful, people.

NEWSFLASH: Parker hates the gays, but is still fabulous.

2007-03-04T01:02:00.000-05:00

Parker's new crusade against gaylife-DC got off to a solid start this weekend when we took dinner at Guapo's (after an aborted attempt to secure a table at Cactus Cantina) with Ricky and friends EW and AJ. When our gaylines (waistlines for the gays . . . I'm starting a new word here) started screaming bloody murder at us, we decided it would be nice if we went Helix to soak up a few PBRs and assorted fancy drinks. While the large crowd of loitering basketball fans (we heard visiting teams like the vibe at Rouge and Helix) certainly helped,the crusade received a significant boost from the the green-panted-sunglass-wearing-worse-than-tie-dyed-hawaiian-shirted dude and his Gaysian and lady friends (photo unavailable).

But when fairweather crusaders decided enough was enough, Parker allowed one stop at Halo before ending the day's hostilities. He threatened to slit his throat, but at least he found a way to rest his warring feet.

MoBlogging attempt No. 2

2007-03-03T00:19:00.001-05:00

I just tried to make out with Parker (we're still at Larry's) and...i spilled my drink on him. Way to go Dallas.

MoBlogging attempt No. 1

2007-03-02T23:42:00.001-05:00

Parker and I are spending Friday night at Larry's Lounge. Yes, not a usual joint for us.

I made the comment to Parker during a segment on CNN about the torndos in Alabama: There are cute boys in 'Bama. All they know is football and weightlifting. Like you!

I'm not dead . . .

2007-03-02T12:38:00.000-05:00

. . . just in law school, which is pretty close.

Law school takes away many things I love: blogging, my six-pack, the ability to have a meaningful relationship, going to 80s night at Cobalt on Tuesdays, TV, normalcy, and, well, a life.

So why continue, you may ask? My eyes remain on the six-figure prize, and I do enjoy the work, just not the load.

I've also been getting involved in the Lambda group at school. We are trying to organize a networking reception for gays, but I feel as though we are in over our head. I am slowly realizing how conservative my law school is.

Just the other day in my civil procedure class, we were discussing whether lawyers, when selecting juries, should be able to discriminate based on gender. One pro-discrimination student justified his stance by saying women have hormonal issues that affect them negatively. Basically, his argument was that lawyers should be able to kick a woman off a potential jury during jury selection simply because she may have a period during the trial that could affect her decision-making. WOW.

Needless to say, any gays that do exist at this school don't like to make it known, which means they won't attend a networking reception for gays.

This all may sound pretty boring, but there isn't much else going on in my life at this moment than school. I hope to post more, but really the only reason I am posting now is because my property class is incredibly boring and my professor sucks ass.

Can someone kill me?

I need a new pen.

2007-03-02T11:51:00.000-05:00

So we all know that Parker has issues with locker room modesty. While I won't deny there's a problem at my gym as well, this morning indicated that some folks have no problem shirking any claim of modest behavior.

Case in point: This morning while using a hairdryer, I noticed another sports club patron sneaking glimpses through two mirrors. He was in his early 40s, well muscled, lean, fairly hung and black. I know he is well hung because after he disrobbed, he stayed naked and made sure I had a clear view of his package—while still sneaking glimpses at me. He finally scooped up a towell, gym shoes, and nothing else and made his way to the showers. Remember, dear readers, he hasn't actually been to the gym floor yet, he just got there. On his way, over the din of the hairdryer, he said "hi" and something else. Still completely nude.

So I finished my hairdrying and went to my locker where he followed me a moment later to frantically begin searching through his bag. "Oh no," he said before looking straight at me, still nude. "Do you have a pen?"

"Um, uh," I stuttered before relenting with an offer of my favorite gel clicker pen.

"Oh, you don't mind giving it up?"

No I replied.

"I can pay you for it."

No thanks, I said again.

"Yeah," he laughed. "I just thought I'd offer!" And off he went with my pen to the showers.

Dear readers, for what reason would a nude black gay man need a pen and gym shoes in the shower (or sauna)?

If this is your shit, you have some explaining to do.

2007-02-23T10:42:00.000-05:00

Dallas and I went to the Black Cat last weekend with Ricky's boyfriend for a DJ night called "Crap: Bad Music. On Purpose." It was great getting out without having to go to a gay bar. More on that later, maybe. But when it was time to go, it became clear to me that some idiot with a hideous green hooded H&M coat decided to swap his for mine, which is also green, also hooded but decidedly not hideous (despite the blood stain). The hideous coat left for me came complete with faux military insignia, a bizarre scarf with an equally bizarre matching hat, and huge brown gloves. All items are pictured above but to grasp the true hideousness of the ensemble you must see it in person.

I know a lot of drinking went down at the Black Cat that night but there's no excuse for the owner of the hideousness to have mistaken my coat for his. Whoever is responsible for this nonsense, you need rehab, dude. You also need to contact me to swap coats. Don't be a asshole.

Leave

2007-02-17T21:00:00.000-05:00

To the dude in my neighborhood with the beige Explorer with the "DC BEAR" tags and the "I support the troops." magnet: Leave. I don't like you. Let's get together over drinks and find an apartment for you closer to the Eagle.

Blood, Part II

2007-02-12T16:54:00.000-05:00

Parker and I decided that if we were gonna freeze our butts off in DC this weekend, we might as well do it in a real city and quickly galloped up to our New York outpost at 119th Street. I say galloped because Rent-A-Shit-Car didn't have my usual fave the Caliber, and I was stuck cruising around in traffic with a nice smokey-blue Stang.

But arrive we did and quickly embarked on the usual routine of bar, boy cruise, cry-at-at-the-sad-state-of-DC-gay-bars, drink, pass-out, repeat. We added shopping Saturday and Parker convinced Madam (you remember him right?) to join us for drinks.

Incident No. 1:
Madam decided it would be a good idea to mock-fuck Parker in a residential hallway. Of course I paused the moment before Madam dropped him on the floor with a head-throbbing thud because Parker told him to stop. Nothing unusual here.

Incident No. 2:
After a Russian dinner, a carafe of currant-infused vodka and a round of horseradish vodka for the road, we continued our tour of Soviet culture at Eastern Bloc. There I proceeded to obliterate myself. But more importantly, Parker — due to another provocation from Madam — either A) knocked his eyebrow on a car surface or B) knocked his eyebrow on the pavement. After a hasty departure we miraculously hailed a cab, hiked 123 blocks uptown and still managed to pull over on the FDR for a puke break (for me ... twice) while still keeping Parker's brains inside his head (thanks to our hosts).

In any case, Neosporin has worked wonders and Parker set out this morning to get more band-aids. Why are we out of band-aids? Madam's last visit. Oh is he dearly missed.

Blood

2007-01-30T17:04:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty certain that our Iranian neighbors from across the hall were hosting an Ashura party Sunday afternoon.

I'm pretty certain that the strange cut I got on my left pinky at Fox & Hounds Friday night will lead to amputation in short order.

I'm pretty certain that I will go to Hell on my day of reckoning for the ill will, poorly-conceived jokes and—more and more often—violence I visit upon my fellow man.

That is all.

Sad Stories from Delaware #5

2007-01-26T13:07:00.000-05:00

My mother forgot my birthday.

Again.

She called at 6 p.m. and started her voice mail with "I forgot," which is better than the last time she forgot (on my 25th) when she called to talk about an ex-girlfriend. A gentle reminder at the end of the phone call promted another "I forgot" exclamation. My dad blamed it on the President's recent visit.

News

2007-01-09T17:24:00.000-05:00

While using a men's bathroom in the Dirksen Senate Office Building earlier today, I had the distinct pleasure to hear Michael Bloomberg shout and whine for what seemed liked an eternity to an Obama-sized group of reporters waiting for him near an elevator. Apparently, everyone in the world—from Al Qaida to every single man, woman and child in the United States who has made the unfortunate decision not to live in the five boroughs—is bent on visiting death and destruction on the fine people of New York City. My disillusionment with DC made me temporarily forget why I hate New Yorkers. Thank you, Mayor Bloomberg, for reminding me.

In other news, I survived New Year's. I was alarmed when I woke up on New Year's Day next to Dallas in a bed in a lesbian's home in New Jersey. No, I was not kidnapped. We were just hanging out with Ricky's lovely and charming new beau from Philly. His mother lives in Voorhees, New Jersey and gave us use of her place for the night while she was away so we could avoid all the drunk people in Philly from . . . uh . . . New Jersey . . .

Bob Mould Watch

2007-01-05T23:43:00.000-05:00

Bob Mould was working out at Results on U Street Thursday night. He seemed winded and was lingering around the magazines and the back extension machine.

I just played a Bob Mould song at our place and Ricky did not seem excited. Nobody else in the room knew who he was. Sad . . .

"I think they like liquor. They had some for breakfast."

2006-12-29T16:19:00.000-05:00

I haven't yet posted about our Christmas adventures in Delaware. Dallas and I went up there a week ago and spent a couple days with my parents before Dallas had to fly down to Tampa to see his parents. A number of Wawa egg salad sandwiches were consumed. Many old friends were seen. Gallons of beer were quaffed during the Eagles Christmas win over the Cowboys. Nothing too scandalous or exciting went down.

The title of this post is a quote from my mother to my sister last Saturday afternoon. Dallas and I were on our way to my sister's house after a stop at the Costco liquor store to replenish our stocks here in DC. My mother was apparently surprised that we would want to drink mimosas with breakfast that morning and had no idea why anyone would want to buy hard liquor at a store. She was also surprised that I was unwilling to eat that Parmesan cheese that comes out of a green can. I officially learned over the weekend that I make no sense to her.

The highlight of our trip by far was the car we rented, some kind of big-small hipster SUVish thing that Dallas has been trying to get for a while now. I don't know what it was or what's so special about it but I was elated to learn that it had a Diet Coke hatch in the glove box. There was some kinda . . . thing in there that holds cans and keeps them cold while the car is driving. Best. Invention. Ever. Dallas and I enjoyed about ten icy cold Diet Cokes while driving to and from and around Delaware over the holiday weekend. Good times . . . just don't use the thing to store beer, right?

I'm about to leave work early for the third time this week to get ready to head up to Philly for New Year's. We're apparently hanging out at Ricky's boyfriend's lesbian mother's house in Voorhees, New Jersey. What would my mother think of that?

Bob Mould Watch

2006-12-27T11:11:00.000-05:00

I keep forgetting to mention that Dallas and I saw Bob Mould at Thai Tanic on 14th the weekend before Christmas. It was Friday the 15th, I believe. He was sitting in the back by the kitchen. He was on the left in the seat in the corner at a table packed with gay men.

Fox & Hounds, RIP

2006-12-15T16:14:00.000-05:00

I suppose it was bound to happen. No, Fox & Hounds is not closing down. I wish it were, though. No Fox & Hounds would be better than the Fox & Hounds I went to last night. This Fox & Hounds has replaced it's awesome juke box with one of those bar-killing Internet juke boxes. And this isn't even the kind of juke box they have at the Big Hunt and other places where you can play any song you want. This is one of those juke boxes that only has certain songs on it. And the songs available last night at what was my Fox & Hounds were baaaaaad. Really bad. I'm talking Barenaked Ladies bad. That's what was on when I came in, thanks to Jennifer Nikolaeff from the International Center for Language Studies. (I tried to hate Jennifer because of her muscial taste but I wound up kind of liking her. She gave me her card and invited me to her party this weekend even though I put a bunch of money in the juke box and paid to have the only ten decent songs in the damn thing played before her selections. Hi Jennifer!)

There were a lot of Jennifers out last night playing a lot of truly dreadful music. I'd noticed the Jennifer-to-cool-people ratio had been worsening in recent months. I guess some of the Jennifers started complaining about the lack of disposable music and management had to do something about it. What's next? Will they start cleaning the bathrooms?

I'm alright with change. Sometimes. But now two good bars in DC - first Townhouse and now the Fox - have made themselves less worthy of visiting.

Happy Delaware Day!

2006-12-07T20:22:00.000-05:00

Today is the State of Delaware's 219th birthday - the anniversary of the day in 1787 when we signed the Constitution and became The First State. I celebrated Delaware Day last year with friends and vodka. I'm celebrating it this year with some trail mix and a Diet Coke waiting around at work for stuff to happen . . . at almost 9:00 at night.

Senator DeWine is on the Senate floor right now for the second or third night in a row reading loooooong stories about each and every person from Ohio who's been killed in Iraq. I'm all about honoring the sacrifices of our men and women in uniform, blah, blah, blah. This just appears to me to be some sort of self punishment on Mr. DeWine's part for being such a LOSER. We should make all of the Republicans who lost re-election last month come down to the floor and at least read the names of everyone who died in Iraq on their watch.

Bob Mould Watch

2006-11-21T12:37:00.000-05:00

Bob Mould was at the P Street Whole Foods last night. I assume he was stocking up for Thanksgiving as he appeared to be buying multiple bags of salad mix.

Seeing Bob Mould reminded me that I almost went to the most recent Blowoff but was scared off again by the big hairy guy on the flyer and by the prospect of seeing Andrew Sullivan. There was also the GW law party on the sixth floor of our building, Many of the the gay men at the party followed us up to our roof and then down to our apartment to steal our liqour. I apparently hit one young man in the face when he called the music in my iTunes "crap" and then had to physically remove on extraordinarily ugly guy who was twitching and muttering. Good times.

It's Never Sunny in Philadelphia

2006-11-20T14:14:00.000-05:00

Ricky has a new little friend from Philadelphia he's been seeing a lot of for the past month or so. He wasn't down this weekend but did report to us that he witnessed a brutal stabbing somewhere in the Gayborhood sometime late Saturday. It seems that a girl just got out of her car and stabbed some guy five times with a letter opener. I assume this gentleman is no longer with us and that a number of other Philadelphians will be following him to the grave this week due to self-inflicted wounds thanks to the bloody mess the Eagles left on the field yesterday after their 31-13 loss to a 2-7 team from the Confederacy that I don't think even existed ten years ago.

Donovan McNabb is gone for the season and likely most of next season - if not forever - and the incompetent fools who coach and play for the Eagles have what is probably the toughest schedule in the league for the rest of the season. As someone who has used the Eagles as a substitute for adulthood, church, friends and family over the past six years or so, this is devastating. Last year's bad season could be written off as a fluke, a hangover from the Terrell Owens drama and the Super Bowl loss the winter before. This sure-to-be-worse season is too much to handle. McNabb will likely never really be back. The Super Bowl hopes are over indefinitely. I'm not sure that I can be an Eagles fan anymore. It hurts too much.

Which leaves me with . . . a job I don't care for, laundry, a dwindling list of people willing to hang out with me and a couch with a growing number of mysterious stains.

The job. Yeah, the Democrats won back the House and Senate. I was happy but not as happy as Dallas made me sound in his last post. Whatever happiness I did have faded pretty quickly when I realized I had to go to work the next morning to do the same crap I was working on the day before with the added bonus of my third hangover of the decade.

With the prospect of moving to the bigger majority office with the full-size fridge the only thing I have to look forward too now, I guess I have plenty of time to figure out what adults are supposed to do to fill up their lives as they approach 30.

Victory Nap

2006-11-08T11:53:00.000-05:00

This morning Parker, still drunk with joy, was absolutely glowing when he woke up and turned on the TV. Like most of the city, we were still recovering from last night's election festivities that started at the HRC's Capital City Brewing Co. party and ended several cab rides later at our homebase Fox & Hounds (note to HRC: next election, please make sure the vege options include more than artichoke dip).

Meanwhile, the night included a $500 bar tab and a very spunky waiter (waitress?) at the Fox. We closed both Cap City and the Fox and Parker barged into Ricky's room at 2:30 (he was studying) to announce the news like a town crier. And this morning Parker realized his phone was missing.

Is election night our Academy Awards?

Pure Class

2006-11-05T18:03:00.000-05:00

It's been hard to miss the classy upgrades being made on 14th Street between N and Rhode Island recently.

You know, no city can be a real city with a gay bathhouse and all of the diseases and cheating boyfriends and husbands that go with them. I'm pleased, then, that the Crew Club is finally finished with it's new fancy lobby. All that frosted glass, all that faux exposed duct work, that big fancy TV on the wall . . . the idea of having sex with a 35-year-old closet case from Waldorf County has never been more appealing. And keep in mind that the new 14th has not yet resulted in the closing of the Popeye's. You can still get your sex on at the Crew Club and have fried chicken and red beans and rice afterwards.

The new Crew Club is great, but my favorite part of the classiest block on 14th Street is the refurbished Titan-Dakota Cowgirl entertainment/bad food complex. Let's start with Dakota Cowgirl. Who can blame whoever owns the place for trashing everything that had anything to do with the tragedy that was Hamburger Mary's? But do we need pitchers of cosmos? Do we need a painting of Mt. Rushmore with Madonna, Cher, Barbra Streisand and Bette Midler in place of the presidents??? Oh, yes . . .

Titan. It's now called Ramrod. They have a page in MW and the Blade this weekend advertising their new name and specials. The highlight of the ad is the Ramrod logo: the word "Ramrod" in a militaryesque font pierced by a big long steel rod. I assume the rod is supposed to be evocative of a cock and the piercing evocative of . . . what goes on at the Crew Club. I also like the fact that, on Saturdays, Ramrod has a "Blackout Party" from 5 PM on. I assume this means that the lights are all out and people are groping each other. The MW/Blade ad invites readers to attend this event and "Get Shafted." All drinks are 2 for 1, FYI.

Who wants to go to Ramrod with me?

Whiskey 1, Halloween 0

2006-11-02T16:56:00.000-05:00

Whiskey ruined my Halloween this year. ALL they drink in Thailand is whiskey, mostly Johnnie Walker. There's little to no vodka and no decent wine at most places. Dallas and I are usually vodka drinkers but we tried out the whiskey thing while we were away. Whiskey and soda worked out at the Bangkok bars so we made what I admit now was probably a bad decision to buy as much duty-free Johnnie Walker as we could at airport on the way home.

About a week ago, I was looking forward to Halloween. Then Ricky brought about a million and a half strange people to our place last Saturday THREE HOURS before the party we were invited to even started. So there was a lot of sitting around. Whiskey was consumed. By the time it was time to leave, we had killed about a bottle of Johnnie Walker. By the time Dallas and I left the party about three hours later, we had gotten into a huge whiskey-fueled and very public fight over a drunken young man at the party who was showing me great attention while also attempting to show me the gifts his father gave him. So Dallas freaked out over the slut and made our relationship look like daytime television in front of all of Adams Morgan.

Needless to say, I was in no mood for whiskey or merriment once Halloween night itself came around. Being in a long-term relationship and then living with the guy is hard enough without Johnnie Walker.

ThaiMuscle.net

2006-10-27T22:25:00.000-04:00

Dallas and I are sitting at home tonight watching Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter. We're still slightly jet-lagged and trying desperately to catch up on laundry and unpacking from our trip to Thailand. We got back Monday morning and both went to
"work" on Tuesday. Well, I'm sure Dallas had real work to do . . .

Anyway, we just saw Ricky and his little friend off in their Britney and Kevin costumes so I thought now would be a good time for a first installment of the story of our trip. Because I'm awful, I thought I would start by talking about Dallas's hot cousin Nut (I kid you not. That is apparently his name).

Nut is 22, I think. He was among the relatives who came to greet us at Bangkok's stupid new airport. He hardly spoke English but, since Dallas's aunt made me sit in the front of the car with him on the long ride to our hotel, he took it upon himself to ask me if I wanted to see "the Bangkok nightlife." Nut was hot. He looked like a younger version of Dallas (without the Tennessee father) if Dallas lived in a blazing hot city and had the time to go to the gym twice a day, four times a week. Nut was hot.

When Dallas and I finally arrived at our hotel, we met up with a friend of ours from DC named Peter who now lives in Thailand for some reason. Peter is Thai and informed us that no straight Thai man would have a physique like Nut's unless he was gay. To Dallas's extreme horror, I immediately developed a crush on Nut that would last the remainder of our trip.

No, I didn't put the moves on Nut. What I did do is consult with other Thai gays about the body thing. They all confirmed that Thai boys do not get all American buff unless they fuck other Thai boys. I also had Dallas engage in some espionage for me. He eventually found a picture on Nut's phone of a shirtless Thai man (it could have been Nut himself) posing with sunglasses and an amazingly sculpted torso. With this knowledge in hand, I asked Nut's sister if I could use their computer to check my e-mail two weeks later when we were waiting at their house to go back to the airport for our flight home. I looked at the history on their browser and saw that someone had been looking at a site called ThaiMuscle.net. Exictedly, I followed the link hoping it was a porn site and learned that . . . it wasn't. It was some stupid site about how to lift weights and shit. It's not written in English but I wouldn't be surprised if it were some Thai version of Men's Health with a bunch of articles about how to fuck chicks. Sigh . . . We do know that Nut is sexually active, though. Dallas found condoms in his bedroom when he was getting changed in there.

The rest of our trip wasn't filled with such disappointment. Check in later.

Dispatch from Hanoi

2006-10-18T13:45:00.000-04:00

Parker and I have a whole list of posts about our trip to Southeast Asia, but we thought this one warranted an emergency report.

We just ended our second evening in a row at a bar called GC BAR, which Lonely Planet characterizes as a "gay-friendly" bar. So, because all of the other "gay" places in Hanoi have disappeared (Apparently, bars in Vietnam that become known as "gay" often have problems with their licenses and other paperwork and get closed down pretty quickly.) since the last time Lonely Planet published their Vietnam guide, we went there a few times. While the clientele was certainly lacking in the gay department, we did get a kick out of the jukebox selection of "Back Dat Ass Up" last night and the Havana Club rum in stock at the bar. Tonight's attendance was much better since a whole crew of kids from the Air France flight appeared to have just arrived for a weekend of debauchery.

In any case, we stayed later than usual and left the bar at 12:30, only to note the dark, empty streets and absence of motorbikes honking their way through the old French part of town where we're staying. So when we arrived at our little hotel on My May Street, we walked right past it's shuttered door. "Knock on the gate" motioned the Internet cafe owner a few doors down. And knock we did, which resulted in a slow rising motorized gate and bright flashlight in our face. Inside two door attendants had bedded down for the night (and one was quite cute in his boxers and wife beater, but I'm the one who likes Asians) and he bade us goodnight and good riddance as we disappeared into the elevator shaft.

Who knew Hanoi had a curfew?

We're not dead. We're in Thailand.

2006-10-14T13:07:00.000-04:00

In case anyone was wondering, we haven't forgotten about the blog. Dallas dragged me to his homeland and we've been here for a week. We'll be back in a week with lots of stories . . . hopefully none about getting malaria or being shot by the Thai police.

Does Sgt. Brett Parson actually do anything?

2006-10-04T13:59:00.000-04:00

Sgt. Brett Parson, head of the Metropolitan Police Department's Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit seems like a nice man. I'm sure he is a nice man. He's everywhere and he always seems to be in a good mood.

I'm going to set aside any debate about whether we actually need a Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit. I'm sure they do great things in their headquarters in newly-straight Dupont Circle, things that those hets on the rest of the police force must be too dumb and ignorant to do on their own. However, it appears to me - based on evidence I've seen in recent days - that Sgt. Brett Parson, at least, may be a little bored.

First, there was the news a little while ago that Sgt. Brett Parson basically single-handedly shut down Wet in its closing days because one of that fine establishment's nude dancers was allegedly mock fucking a patron. “Simulating anal intercourse on a stage — that's just over the top,” Parson told the Washington Blade in defense of his actions. Speak for yourself, buddy. Isn't that why people go to places like Wet? For the simulated anal intercourse? Parson was unsure, the Blade reported, what law the dancer and the customer had broken.

Then, there was this past weekend. Dallas and I were mysteriously invited to a fancy gay party on the roof of our fancy gay building. (Don't ask how two alcoholic twits got caught up in all this fancy.) There was music, a bar with a bartender pouring tliquorour, a huge table of food and a young Latina passing hors d'oeuvres. Who showed up an hour or so after we did? Sgt. Brett Parson, seen by all in attendance stuffing his face with shrimp and cupcakes and loudly demanding any kind of water other than the Perrier that was on offer. Now, Sgt. Brett Parson is certainly entitled to a social life, but he was on duty that night, or at least he appeared to be showing up with the uniform, gun and badge and everything.

Finally, this morning. I had to drop off some dry cleaning on my way to work so I was walking on P towards the Dupont metro rather than my normal route down 14th to the bus stop. When I walked past the Whole Foods (maybe the Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit should move there?) I saw a police car stopped in front of the main door. Who got in? Sgt. Brett Parson, wearing what appeared to be gym clothing and carrying coffee and a bag that I pray contained at least several doughnuts.

We're watching you, Sgt. Brett Parson.

Photo by Flickr user dbking.

Stalking the Capitol Police

2006-10-02T16:07:00.000-04:00

Now that Congress has decided once again to stop doing its job for a few months, I have plenty of time I can use for one of my favorite activities: stalking the hot Capitol Police officer who's usually stationed by the vending machines on the ground floor of the Hart building near the garage.

Stalking might be a stretch. I'm not driving by the dude's house or leaving messages on his voice mail or anything. I just walk by him a lot and stare. I've also managed, after many Diet Coke runs, to learn his first and last name and memorize (roughly) his schedule.

I'm not going to say my Capital Police officer's name. I will say, however, that he is tall (about 6'2'') with a dark complexion. He appears to have about a 28'' waist and has taken care (unlike most of his colleagues) to get a uniform that actually fits him. That makes it easier to notice that he has huge arms, a nice chest and broad shoulders. He also has a slight, yet hot, hunched-over look to him. If he were on Manhunt, he would probably tell you he had a "swimmers" build.

I like how my Capitol Police officer is as bored with his job as me. He's always chewing gum and drinking gallons of water out of an old Gatorade bottle. He's also always talking on the phone with someone or fucking around with the other young (but never as hot) Capitol Police guys. The other day, I overheard him on the phone professing that he didn't think TO really tried to kill himself and that he didn't run yesterday and felt fat.

The tight uniform . . . That comment about feeling fat . . . Is my Capitol Police officer gay? Alas, he is not. I had some hope that he was on the right team about a month or so ago when a co-worker and I saw him talking to some ugly fag-hag-looking chick with big thighs. But then I found out he has the hots for some busty blonde little number who I work with. A shame, I know, but I'm sure Dallas is happy.

Photo by Flickr user coombskj.

Bob Mould Watch

2006-09-23T23:08:00.000-04:00

Bob Mould is always at Halo. He was there again this past Thursday. Halo is apparently the place to go to see punk icons.

Foreign Lands and the Inability to Concentrate

2006-09-20T10:25:00.000-04:00

I found myself sitting around a fire pit drinking a Michelob Light in backwoods Georgia this past weekend. Five hours prior to my campfire experience, my mom wed a man with one of the thickest southern accents around those parts. As I sat around the fire with my high school friends, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in a foreign land. It’s really amazing how much I’ve changed since high school, and there’s nothing like a trip back to your roots to make you realize that. One of my friends (early 20s) had a six-month-old boy. Her husband physically abused her last week so she moved back in with her parents and is in the process of getting a divorce. Another friend (early 20s) married, gave birth and divorced all in the same year (she’s living with her parents too). Neither of those two women was around the fire. But the three women who were (all early 20s) all talked about their marriages, kids and divorces too. One of them had been married twice, and we were actually in her first ex-husband’s back yard.

Oh, marriage is sacred by the way . . . OK, enough about Gawgia.

When the reality sinks in that you just committed to paying $120,000 over the course of three years to make your life a living hell, blogging isn’t exactly your top priority. But now that I am resigned to the fact that I can’t go to 80s night on Tuesdays at Cobalt anymore, I feel I am in a place to finally start blogging again.

Much has happened between my last blog and my fireside chat, but I won’t bore you with the details (even though some are quite scandalous and dramatic). Law school is in full swing, and it has been extremely hard to concentrate. With one of my friends who has no job and another who works three nights a week at a bar, you can imagine the difficulty I’m having getting my mind where it needs to be.

Wow . . . my posts are getting boring . . . Let’s see . . . I really enjoy living with Parker and Dallas . . . I haven’t had sex in over a month . . . my head is swimming with the details of cases. That’s all she wrote folks.

Thai Rak Kiss My White Ass

2006-09-19T16:20:00.000-04:00

Dallas is half Thai. He finally convinced me to go with him to Thailand to visit his family and see where the strange parts of him came from. You know, the weird fork usage, the affinity for false idols . . .

Anyway, as all within earshot of a radio or television know by now, things are a little fucked up in Thailand right now. The prime minister is here and not really the prime minister anymore. There are tanks in the streets, the constitution is suspended and the country (or at least Bangkok) is under martial law. We're supposed to leave in about two weeks. I have doubts that will happen now but Dallas is still going ahead with the hotel reservations, out of hope that they'll have some sort of martial law sale or something, I guess.

I never wanted to go to Thailand, despite years of begging on Dallas's party. The aggressive trannies, the undrinkable water and the roving packs of wild dogs I've been reading about in the Lonely Planet guide didn't help. But Dallas had started the search last night for a place where I could watch Eagles games so I was feeling a bit more at ease and a little more excited, especially after seeing actual pictures of Bangkok and some other towns rather than reading or hearing about how dirty and awful they were. Oh well . . .

Silver lining: The prime minster's party had been enforcing strict new closing times for bars and clubs. I assume that went out the window with the constitution?

Be Bar is Not Bringing Sexy Back

2006-09-14T15:58:00.000-04:00

I've written about Be Bar on here before. I was initially happy when I heard a new bar would be opening up at 9th and N, a mere four blocks from our den of iniquity. My happiness waned when I read some bullshit about the bar selling "candy-flavored" martinis and spinning Top 40 against a "modern meets baroque." Despite the horrific writing and general goofiness on the place's web site, I got over it and actually enjoyed myself the first couple of times I went, even during the opening weekend when they ran out of vodka(?). I actually thought I would make it one of my regular places, especially since Halo, Fox & Hounds and some other places are way too crowded all the time. That won't happen. Here's why:

1) The cover. I don't mind paying a cover sometimes, but not at places on 9th street and not on weeknights. It is insane to steal $5 from me on a Tuesday night just for the pleasure of buying expensive drinks and listening to cheesy DJs.

2) I don't want to be murdered. On a recent Saturday, the door guy at Be Bar took a short break from robbing his patrons of $5 bills to inform me as I was leaving that a lot of people have been robbed again that night in the area around the bar. He advised me to walk with a group or take a cab. So now, every time I go to Be Bar, I need to set aside $11.50 - $5 for the door and $6.50 (at least) for the cab?

3) The help. Yes, some of the bartenders at Be Bar are enjoyable to look at. I just wish some of them would use those fancy pecs and triceps to make my drink a little faster. The lines at the bar on opening weekend were four deep (and, again, vodka free). I heard a rumor that the Be Bar management made a conscious decision not to hire anyone who had bartending experience. That was a mistake. I guess "pretty and dumb" was the only qualification they were looking for?

4) VIPs? Be Bar apparently has some sort of complicated program in place whereby you can pay them money (on top of the $5, the cab fare and the drinks?) to get a card which allows you to skip the line and, once inside, drink with all the other suckers in some sort of special room they have upstairs. Please. First, Be Bar - the gunfire and the young woman asking you if you're looking for a good time should be a reminder - is located on 9th Street. Second, this city is full of people who think they're VIPs but are decidedly not and should not be encouraged to think otherwise. This is only a good idea if free blow jobs and champagne are involved.

5) No matter how many times they get played at bars, house versions/remixes of perfectly good songs like the Depeche Mode one I heard at Be Bar the other night are intolerable and must be stopped. I know Be Bar has an indie rock night that I should probably check out before I complain too much but I'm just not going to dodge gunfire, hookers and VIP queens to go to a place that's just the same as all of the other tired bars in this town.

So, to those in charge over there at Be Bar: get to work, fellas. And while you're at it, lose the antlers and the dead animal skins. They're offensive.

Adrian Fenty for Mayor

2006-09-08T10:35:00.000-04:00

I'm sure nobody cares, but Dallas, Ricky and I have decided to endorse Adrian Fenty for DC mayor. Why? Because we see all of the things Linda Cropp and her crew hate about him as positives. We like that he's young. We like that he had nothing to do with DC government during the Barry years. We like that he's willing to work hard.

None of us live in Ward 4 but all we hear about him is that he always goes out of his way to help constituents with problems big and small. And, based on what we've heard from him, he would never confine his goals as the city's leader to what a lobbyist, or his staff or Congress tells him is possible. This is a very fucked up, very racially divided city. Adrian Fenty is likely the only candidate with the ability and the energy to work aggressively on behalf of everyone who lives here.

A lot of very smart people we know will be voting for Marie Johns next week. Ms. Johns would not be a bad choice. While we're uncomfortable with the idea of someone with only a business background taking over the mayor's office, she seems like a nice, smart lady with some good ideas. The reality is, however, that Marie Johns is not going to win. Every vote cast for Marie Johns, then, is - in our view - a vote cast for the worst candidate out there - Linda Cropp.

Linda Cropp CAN NOT become our next mayor. This woman has been involved in DC government for over 26 years. She served on the school board, including as chairman. Does anyone have anything positive to say about the DC schools? Is there anything Linda Cropp did to pull them out of the toilet? Linda Cropp also served as a City Council member and as Council Chair, including a stint during the bad years during which she did absolutely nothing that we're aware of to prevent the DC government from going into financial receivership. Things have turned around in recent years, but does Linda Cropp deserve as much credit as anyone else who was involved in the recovery.

The worst thing Linda Cropp brings to this election is her behavior during the debate on the Nationals' stadium and, ultimately, her support for a taxpayer-financed stadium in Southeast. She waffled for weeks coming out for the stadium. She was for it before she was against it . . . and then for it again . . . and then kinda against it . . . and then maybe for it for real??? Regardless, the damn thing got approved on her watch and it was within her power stop it. Now a neighborhood has been razed, businesses have been shut down and DC taxpayers are on the hook for an unnecessary monstrosity that will be used mostly by rich ballplayers and Nationals fans from Virginia.

Don't get me started on Linda Cropp's attendance at this ridiculous rally.

Linda Cropp's career has been about just getting bills passed and trying to broker compromise. Good things, I guess, but this city does not need a mayor who thinks as small as she does.

Adrian Fenty for Mayor. If for no other reason, he's the only one running who we'd be willing to sleep with.

One More Time

2006-09-05T09:50:00.000-04:00

Summer is over now, I guess and it's back to work for me. No more pretending to work. My fall began with soaking wet clothing. It's raining again here.

This is hopefully the last time I'll need be at this job for another fall and another election year. Six years is enough. I'm just hoping that the next few months are quiet and let me get done what I need to get done to get out of here by the end of the year.

This summer was full of shame and a fistful of personal lows. For the next few months, I just plan on keeping my head down, watching football and avoiding unnecessary trips to gay bars.

Tequila Madness

2006-08-24T12:08:00.000-04:00

When Dallas and I were away recently, we discovered Pink Taco's Zapata Margarita. It was so good we had to make a special trip back to the restaurant to try it again. Anyway, we bought some tequila this past weekend and set out Tuesday night with some help from our friends Andrew and Sarah to recreate it. The first pitcher was alright. It had all the ingredients from the Zapata but tasted like an average margarita from an average Mexican restaurant. The second batch was great, I think because we substituted the sour mix for some Williams-Sonoma key lime juice we had laying around. The third pitcher was alright. By the fourth, we were running low on tequila so Andrew substituted a healthy splash of Ketel One. We were also out of limes so used lemons instead. The thing tasted more like that lemon squeeze drink they have at Duplex Diner.

All told, the four of us drank a bottle of tequila, a bottle of triple sec, and good portion of a bottle of vodka and a few beers - all on a "school night," all in the space of a couple hours. Not a good idea. I came to work at 10:00 still a bit drunk and stayed that way well into the afternoon. A serious problem but, again, this is recess and nothing is really expected of me around here these days. Plus, that long-lasting tequila encouraged a bout of stalking over lunch when my friend Kenneth and I followed a kinda-cute, kinda-John-Kerry-looking guy who was having lunch with his mom at that Greek restaurant on the House side. We lost him while we were pretending to get ice cream while he was brings moms into the House gift shop. I'm a little disappointed in myself because my friends from back home in Delaware used to be able to find where our crushes lived and drive by their houses at key times to catch a glimpse of them washing their car or helping carry in the groceries or something.

Does anyone know when it's appropriate to start wearing corduroy?

Recess Observations

2006-08-22T16:21:00.000-04:00

As those of you in DC right now know, this town is dead. Nothing happens here in August. Congress is gone. The tourists are gone. On weekends, most people are in Delaware. I've had a lot more time on my hands at work and at home to catch up on some things. I've also had a lot of time to waste, especially at work. If you start the day reading the Philadelphia Eagles blogs, you aren't going to get much done the rest of the day unless you have a deadline looming. Anyway, there are some things I've noticed during all the time I have on my hands:

1) During my web-browsing time, I often find my way to Craigslst to check in on what the maniacs are up to. It seems that, with the DC economy on pause, a lot of the gays are apparently trying to do the sex with each other in their offices. Eww. I can only assume that these people are from Virginia or some other similarly uncivilized part of the country. Decent Americans meet at the bar or the gym and have their anonymous sex in their apartments. Or the women's bathroom at Cobalt. Unless you're old and/or ugly, there are no exceptions.

2) Linda Cropp is desperate. I have never been a fan of this woman, especially since she showed up at that stupid rally in Logan Circle in support of all those Maryland residents who want to park illegally. Now she has all these ads up on CNN and during Oprah attacking Adrian Fenty. The one I just saw actually had an actor in it doing a borderline-offensive Fenty impersonation. Because I vote in Delaware, I haven't been following the DC mayoral race as closely as some of you out there. However, I have been living here for 5-plus years now and know that the last thing this city needs is the kind of passive, consensus-based leadership that Linda Cropp represents. With the exception of the homophobic Vincent Orange, I think just about any of the other major candidates would make a better Mayor than Linda Cropp. I have my doubts about Adrian Fenty and I admit I know little about Marie Johns but I urge all of my friends who vote in DC to pull the lever for anyone but Cropp.

3) Eating disorders are apparently the hippest right now. When I walk into my office at 10, 10:30 these days, I turn on re-runs of Martha Stewart's show followed by re-runs of The View. On the Martha show, she usually has some famous actress or some other useless person cook with her or do arts and crafts or something while she interviews them. None - none! - of the women on the show (they are so similar I lose track of who they are) ever eat any of the food when it's offered to them. Some of them hold it in the vicinity of their mouths until the commercial break comes to avoid looking rude. Others just plain refuse. The worst was Jessica Alba today. She helped Martha make some tasty-looking apple turnovers. When they were done, Martha asked "Do you dare eat one?" She said "Sure!" and picked one up. Just as the commercial was coming on, she took the tiniest of bites of the corner, avoiding the filling.

Then there's that ridiculous Elizabeth Hasselback on The View. They always have food on that show. She always just flatly refuses everything. They had some other blonde ditzo on yesterday and she and Hasselback were actually bonding over the other blonde's recent 18-day fast. Girls, just eat. This goes for our new roommate Ricky, too. He eats only cottage cheese, rice cakes and peanut butter.

I've wasted enough time on this today. I'm sure there'll be more to come whether you want it or not . . .

I must be hitting my peak?

2006-08-17T15:36:00.000-04:00

Over the past week, two prime specimens of trollish gay oldness have taken time out of their creep days to put a little sunshine in my day. First, there was the waaay drunk gentleman at Halo Saturday night who was offering me some of his Heinekin while repeatedly informing me that I was "hot," "handsome," "fucking hot," and "fucking handsome" for the whole 15 minutes it took for the bartender to find out that they didn't have my missing ID and debit card (more on that one later, possibly). Then there was the Jewish-Santa Claus-looking dude at the gym last night who thought I needed to know that I was a "very handsome guy."

One of two things is happening here:

1) I've reached the perfect "boy toy" age. I'm just past the point where I'm attractive to guys in their 20s but at my peak as far as old men go. In the coming years, I'll experience increasing bitchiness from 20-somethings and a proliferation of unwanted advances from people who could be me father.

2) I look easy.

I don't want to hear about what anyone out there thinks which of the above is the answer. I think the attention might come from the fact that it is finally August recess and Dallas and I just got back from a week away. I guess I look . . . happy or something?

Broken Glasses

2006-08-02T23:17:00.000-04:00

Dallas and I just had some people over last night. It was our first chance to break out the new cheap wine glasses we bought from Target the other day. It seems like we've gone to Target or Ikea or some other such place once a month or so to get replacement glasses for the ones our drunk friends break. I always tell myself that, next time, I'll get nice glasses. But even in the waning days of my 20s, I find that I'm just as immature, and unsettled and incapable of keeping anything nice as I was when I was 28, 27, 26, 25, 24 . . . . The only difference now is that I don't overdraw on my checking account as much.

I'm feeling like my life is the last page of The Great Gatsby these days. I guess my "one fine morning" is the first time I wake up on a Friday as a genuine adult without a hangover, with a job I like, in an apartment I own, on a couch that doesn't have stains from the last party? In the meantime, I eat, I drink, I go to the gym, I work more than people are supposed to, I do laundry, I break glasses, all the while promising myself I'll start figuring out what I want to with myself when I grow up sometime tomorrow, or the next day. I'm thinking more and more I should make my "green light" and "orgastic future" the DC going away party I throw for myself rather than attend grudgingly for someone else.