Adele’s younger sister just went off to college and, following in her older sister’s footsteps, joined a sorority. She’s the healthy, normal shaped one on the left, standing next to the thigh-gapped, mantis-armed anorexic on the right. Do you think any of the girls will address her eating disorder within the first quarter? Or will they let it go until the third quarter when they finally have to say something because either A.) she collapsed at the Beta Theta BBQ after one Jell-O shot or B) they’re tired of someone always stealing the box of Lucky Charms from the pantry.
      I’d love to do my college experience over again, only this time as an out and proud gay man.
      I fantasized what it’d be like to start a Kickstarter campaign that’d raise enough money for me to go back to college (UCLA, 4 yrs x $33,000 = a whopping 133 grand), only this time as an out and proud man, and I’d blog about the experience. It’d be the classic tale of old man trying to get a second chance at the one regret he had in life, one of those Jerri Blank “Though the faces have changed, the hassles are just the same” types of thing. I’d promise to post 5 days a week, at least a picture and story each day, and a vlog once a week. I’d start in the dorms, where my roommate Andy, a strict Christian Asian who knelt in bed each night to pray, ends up moving out because he was offended not by the rainbow flag hanging above my bed, but that I used his computer to look up gay porn while mine was in the shop getting repaired for viruses. His replacement, an Australian named Bryan, who loves being barefoot, never has bed sheets, and often wakes up with twigs in his hair, would encourage me to rush with him the following quarter. I’d join a frat, hoping to be the token gay, but find out that Levii (“It’s two i’s, not one”) was also vying for that title. We’d hate each other, as gays often do, but luckily for me, Levii disappears randomly after the Preference Party and is never seen again. Rumor has it someone cut the brake lines to his Fiat and he drove off a cliff in Malibu Canyon. I’d be head of the decorating committee, and eventually fall in love with Todd, the closeted social chair, who finally kisses me in the alley behind the Kappa Kappa Gamma house. We’d secretly date for a week, before he fucks Alvin, the captain of the rugby team. They immediately go public and become THE gay couple on campus. Jealous and bitter, I start dating one of the editors of the campus paper, whom I don’t even like, especially after he asked me what makes me happy and scoffed when I replied, ”Seeing changing tables in men’s bathrooms.” I date him anyways, but mostly so I can use him for his connections— he’s friends with guys at the media center who loan me the camera and boom mic so I can re-make Positive K’s “I’ve Got A Man,” an obvious attempt to make Todd jealous. I replace the lead female with myself. In bright orange cut-offs, I sassily sing, “I got a question to ask you troop. Are you a chef, ‘cause you keep feedin’ me soup.” The video gains popularity thanks to a column in the paper, written by my so-called boyfriend, that questions white, gay males cultural appropriation of black women. Everyone ends up ditching me and as a way to start my sophomore year fresh, I switch my major from Comp. Lit. to Women’s Studies. 

     Adele’s younger sister just went off to college and, following in her older sister’s footsteps, joined a sorority. She’s the healthy, normal shaped one on the left, standing next to the thigh-gapped, mantis-armed anorexic on the right. Do you think any of the girls will address her eating disorder within the first quarter? Or will they let it go until the third quarter when they finally have to say something because either A.) she collapsed at the Beta Theta BBQ after one Jell-O shot or B) they’re tired of someone always stealing the box of Lucky Charms from the pantry.

      I’d love to do my college experience over again, only this time as an out and proud gay man.

      I fantasized what it’d be like to start a Kickstarter campaign that’d raise enough money for me to go back to college (UCLA, 4 yrs x $33,000 = a whopping 133 grand), only this time as an out and proud man, and I’d blog about the experience. It’d be the classic tale of old man trying to get a second chance at the one regret he had in life, one of those Jerri Blank “Though the faces have changed, the hassles are just the same” types of thing. I’d promise to post 5 days a week, at least a picture and story each day, and a vlog once a week. I’d start in the dorms, where my roommate Andy, a strict Christian Asian who knelt in bed each night to pray, ends up moving out because he was offended not by the rainbow flag hanging above my bed, but that I used his computer to look up gay porn while mine was in the shop getting repaired for viruses. His replacement, an Australian named Bryan, who loves being barefoot, never has bed sheets, and often wakes up with twigs in his hair, would encourage me to rush with him the following quarter. I’d join a frat, hoping to be the token gay, but find out that Levii (“It’s two i’s, not one”) was also vying for that title. We’d hate each other, as gays often do, but luckily for me, Levii disappears randomly after the Preference Party and is never seen again. Rumor has it someone cut the brake lines to his Fiat and he drove off a cliff in Malibu Canyon. I’d be head of the decorating committee, and eventually fall in love with Todd, the closeted social chair, who finally kisses me in the alley behind the Kappa Kappa Gamma house. We’d secretly date for a week, before he fucks Alvin, the captain of the rugby team. They immediately go public and become THE gay couple on campus. Jealous and bitter, I start dating one of the editors of the campus paper, whom I don’t even like, especially after he asked me what makes me happy and scoffed when I replied, ”Seeing changing tables in men’s bathrooms.” I date him anyways, but mostly so I can use him for his connections— he’s friends with guys at the media center who loan me the camera and boom mic so I can re-make Positive K’s “I’ve Got A Man,” an obvious attempt to make Todd jealous. I replace the lead female with myself. In bright orange cut-offs, I sassily sing, “I got a question to ask you troop. Are you a chef, ‘cause you keep feedin’ me soup.” The video gains popularity thanks to a column in the paper, written by my so-called boyfriend, that questions white, gay males cultural appropriation of black women. Everyone ends up ditching me and as a way to start my sophomore year fresh, I switch my major from Comp. Lit. to Women’s Studies. 



     Last night The Georgian stayed over, as he normally does on Mondays. My apartment feels like a sauna right now because of the heat wave, so he stripped down to his undies and I wore swim trunks. He wanted to walk around naked, as he’s allowed to at Kurt’s house, which I know drives poor Kurt crazy (he told me the other day Kurt lunged at his penis and with desperation in his voice said, “Please!”), but I wouldn’t allow it.
      “We’re friends and all,” I said. “But at the end of the day, I’m still a queer and having your balls dangle in front of me wouldn’t be a good idea. Especially right now.”
      It seems as though all I’ve been blogging about is babies and blow jobs, which is a very risky combination. So to avoid any confusion, and keep me out of trouble, I’ve decided to stop blogging about…babies.
     I was talking to Chanel about how much of a pervert I’ve been and she said, “You just need to get laid. Get it out of your system.” 
     I go through this cycle every six months or so. With the sixth month approaching, and Tunisia’s repression still fresh on my skin, I’m about due. Oh, by the way, after The Georgian finished his bottle of whiskey, he took off his undies and passed out on the couch. He lay there spread eagle, hairy balls sagging deep from the heat.  I fought hard, but had to take a few pictures, then, don’t hold this against me, leaned in to take a whiff of his hole. Jazz has questioned whether or not I secretly like The Georgian, which I don’t, but I definitely fantasize about his hairy pelvic pounding against my gouch. This is where I’m at right now.

     Last night The Georgian stayed over, as he normally does on Mondays. My apartment feels like a sauna right now because of the heat wave, so he stripped down to his undies and I wore swim trunks. He wanted to walk around naked, as he’s allowed to at Kurt’s house, which I know drives poor Kurt crazy (he told me the other day Kurt lunged at his penis and with desperation in his voice said, “Please!”), but I wouldn’t allow it.

      “We’re friends and all,” I said. “But at the end of the day, I’m still a queer and having your balls dangle in front of me wouldn’t be a good idea. Especially right now.”

      It seems as though all I’ve been blogging about is babies and blow jobs, which is a very risky combination. So to avoid any confusion, and keep me out of trouble, I’ve decided to stop blogging about…babies.

     I was talking to Chanel about how much of a pervert I’ve been and she said, “You just need to get laid. Get it out of your system.” 

     I go through this cycle every six months or so. With the sixth month approaching, and Tunisia’s repression still fresh on my skin, I’m about due. Oh, by the way, after The Georgian finished his bottle of whiskey, he took off his undies and passed out on the couch. He lay there spread eagle, hairy balls sagging deep from the heat.  I fought hard, but had to take a few pictures, then, don’t hold this against me, leaned in to take a whiff of his hole. Jazz has questioned whether or not I secretly like The Georgian, which I don’t, but I definitely fantasize about his hairy pelvic pounding against my gouch. This is where I’m at right now.


Salty the Chauffeur

      “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” I exclaimed after finally getting ahold of Baloney. “I’ve been calling you all weekend. I wanted to hear what you thought about Mom’s accident.”

      Mom was in another car accident. She and Uncle Stan were driving up the island to attend my nephew’s 1st birthday party, when Stan reached in the glove compartment to show her something and BAM! A three-car accident. Nobody in Mom’s car was hurt, including Salty, the completely blind 12 year-old Black Lab that Stan recently adopted as a companion while his cancer kicks into high gear.

     “Eh,” Baloney said. “To be honest, I’m over it.”

     “What?!”

     It’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s just frustrated. 

     “First off, she shouldn’t be driving,” he said, which she hasn’t really done since the Dairy Queen incident. “And I’ve told her NOT to ride in cars with her brothers.”

     Uncle Stan has been known to let road-rage get the best of him, and Uncle J is senile and thick-necked, so instead of looking over his shoulder when he reverses, he just closes his eyes and gooses it.

      “Shit,” Baloney said irritatedly.  ”The next thing you know Salty the blind dog is going to be driving her around.”

      Now that’s an image. Standing on the sidewalk, minding your business, when out of nowhere Mom and Salty, him behind the wheel wearing thick, black glasses, zoom by. Leaves blow everywhere as Enya blasts from the window and the two head the wrong way up an off ramp.


     I was at a party the other night when Mitch, the left-handed straight guy who knows I wanna blow him so he’s always bumming cigs off me, tried to show me a video of the Apparently Kid. I hate watching videos during parties, not on your cell phone and especially never on your tablet. So I told him to text me the link, which he did and I watched it the next morning. It was adorable, but shortly after I found myself texting Mitch, trying to convince him to send a dick pic. I’m a monster right now, I get it, but he was this close to doing it after I told him I’d treat him to a burger. So anyway, Ellen had this kid on her show and it was precious! Especially at the 2:10 mark when Ellen asks him, “What if I told you we had a dinosaur here, today?” This kid and his grandpa are the human versions of Russell and Carl from Up. I think I’m gonna send this link to Mitch right now, actually.




     Sweet D told me that one of the underground ways gays communicate in Tunisia is through Grindr. So after years of avoiding the app, and with the assistance of Z’s sister who desperately wanted me to kiss a Tunisian boy after hearing how disspaointed I was with the gay scene, I downloaded it. The nearest boy was two hours away. The sister said, “I will take you there.” It was midnight and I had to wake up early for my flight the next day, bedsides, I didn’t want my last night there to be away from D. 
      “No,” I said laughing. “But it’s nice to know there are gays here.” 
      His sister went on to tell me how male prostitution has been happening in the south of Tunisia for decades. Wealthy, older men from around Europe, mostly England, travel south where young locals spot the monocle and in return flash their golden sand dollar.
      I was supposed to delete Grindr once I landed in L.A., but two things happened:
It’s too damn entertaining. 
 I haven’t been this horny since the Bush administration. Ever since Africa, I’ve been having glitter fits on the regular. I haven’t hooked up with anyone, yet, but it’s nice to know that there is the possibility 164 feet away. My horniness has reached new levels and I’ve been breaking my rules. The other day, after he saw me checking out his bulge as he put on his chef coat, one of the cholos at Job #2 said, “Gimme your number, and I’ll send you a pic.” I tried to fight it, but I cracked and wrote my number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Later that night, I received a dick pick. It was pretty.  

     Sweet D told me that one of the underground ways gays communicate in Tunisia is through Grindr. So after years of avoiding the app, and with the assistance of Z’s sister who desperately wanted me to kiss a Tunisian boy after hearing how disspaointed I was with the gay scene, I downloaded it. The nearest boy was two hours away. The sister said, “I will take you there.” It was midnight and I had to wake up early for my flight the next day, bedsides, I didn’t want my last night there to be away from D.

      “No,” I said laughing. “But it’s nice to know there are gays here.”

      His sister went on to tell me how male prostitution has been happening in the south of Tunisia for decades. Wealthy, older men from around Europe, mostly England, travel south where young locals spot the monocle and in return flash their golden sand dollar.

      I was supposed to delete Grindr once I landed in L.A., but two things happened:

  1. It’s too damn entertaining.
  2.  I haven’t been this horny since the Bush administration. Ever since Africa, I’ve been having glitter fits on the regular. I haven’t hooked up with anyone, yet, but it’s nice to know that there is the possibility 164 feet away. My horniness has reached new levels and I’ve been breaking my rules. The other day, after he saw me checking out his bulge as he put on his chef coat, one of the cholos at Job #2 said, “Gimme your number, and I’ll send you a pic.” I tried to fight it, but I cracked and wrote my number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Later that night, I received a dick pick. It was pretty.  

     When I got back from Tunisia, I was ahead of the game financially. I had already taken care of rent as well as all the bills for the month. I was excited to build my savings. Unfortunately, as life has it, shit happened and it was in the form of a big, black Panther.

     My poor baby is officially 20 years old. In car years, you should have shot that sonnabitch years ago, but not me. I love him too much and will ride with him until one of us dies (which will probably be together when the back tire explodes while I’m blowing passed the exit at 85 mph). 

      The brakes started squeaking. Not just when I pushed on them, but also randomly while driving. Nothing is more embarrassing than taking the corners in a parking garage and the squeal is so deafeningly loud that children cover their ears. I’d just have my hand out the window and give them a thumbs up.  So I took it to a mechanic. They didn’t have brakes for an “old car” so they had to order them and I returned the next day.  While the car was up on hydraulics, I went next door and did some shopping. Chips were on sale, two for one. Since I had some extra time, I stopped in at a Mexican restaurant for an afternoon margarita. Just as I was paying the bill, the power went off. Apparently, the power went off on the entire block, including the mechanic’s. My car was stuck on hydraulics, and the shop was closing at 7, so I had to leave it there overnight. I grabbed my groceries and walked to the bus stop. It was a sweaty ride.

       I finally got my car, and had to take it to a smog check center so that I could renew my tabs. I went to two different checkpoints and they both denied me because my car was too old. The 24 year-old with oil stained fingernails said, “Were not certified to check classic cars.” My panther was a classic? Well, thank you. But fuck, who can do it? He suggested another guy down the street. When I got there, the guy checked my car and said, “It’s gonna fail. Your check engine light is on. You have to get that fixed first.”

      “But it’s always on,” I said. “It’s a classic.”

      He looked at me like I was a fool.

       “Gotta get that taken care of first,” he said. “Then come back.”

      More money! Ahhhhh! Luckily, someone told me that there are tricks to get the light off. So I checked YouTube and am gonna give it a try. I can’t afford to get a new engine just to get the light off so that I can pass my smog test just to get the tabs. Maybe I’m just too poor to get a new car? No, it’s love. I love my baby.