Saturday, December 8, 2012

Ain't this what you came for? (Rap Remix)


Don't you wish you came more? (Boy), what you're playing for? Come on let me kiss that. I know you miss that. What's wrong? Let me fix that.

Twist that.

I hit you with the best stroke, freestyle and the breast stroke til you're blowing "cigarette" smoke and now the bed's broke. So what we gon' do now? Fuck it: Round 2 now. Work it out, then we cool down.

Baby, tonight's the night I let you know. Baby, tonight's the night we lose control.
Baby, tonight you need that. Tonight believe that tonight I'll be the best you ever had.
I don't wanna brag, but I'll be the best you ever had.

Listen. You ain't even gotta text me: knowing you and me got that mental telepathy. Meet me up at the spot. I'll be sending over the chauffer. Rich ni**a('s) bread stay poppin' up like a toaster.** Nobody comes close to me and you together. Step under my umbrella. We'll make it through any weather except when I make it storm. Sex in the greatest form. Hibernate under my body and yep I keep it warm. And (in a?) chinchilla (he) knows I beat it up like the Thrilla in Manila flying my private jet to villas in Anguilla then throw you on a grill that's 'cause 7 days a week you're my five course meal for real.

Actual biology aside, I think that John and I would make beautiful children. I just searched his age and found out I'm 4 years older (and an inch shorter) than he is. I'd better get started on this baby-making thing. Besides him, there are a few other sexy things I like about this video:

Luda's mirrored Martin Margielas - I fondled them in Barneys. Christmas is coming, y'all. And Christmas is about getting gifts. So I wear a size 9. I'm just fuckin' sayin. If you can't find those, I really like these, too. There are currently 222 followers on this blog. That means that if everyone puts (calculating - carry the 42...) $100 each on it, I can get them. Don't worry. I'll say thank you. "Thank you."*

John's face superimposed over hers is another lovely video feature. It's a clever way of suggesting they're fucking.

The blast of fire right before the second verse is cool. It's representative of what the video director knew we were going to be feeling in our pants and shirts (if you have titties. I don't know. Do titties get hot or warm? I mean, I know they get cold. Who cares? People with titties I guess.)

Seeing him in a suit is also very sexy. ZZ Top said it best, but it's not just the girls who are crazy for a well-dressed dude. Sartorially, Pitbull nails it every time, too. His slim fit pants show off that fat Cuban dick perfectly. If you don't believe me, check that shit out at 3:14. Sorry, John. Cover your ears. I'm just fantasizing, boo. I would not fuck him...I am a fucking LIAR right now. But don't sleep on style. It does go a long way. I've been known to wear a blazer to do laundry. I know. It's a little much, but you know how we do. I've been romantically interested in guys I just couldn't be seen with. Obviously, that's not love, but come on. Three syllables: Bri-o-ni. I get a little precum every time I say it. Hoodies, sweats and baseball caps er'day only work if you are a) my weed dealer, in which case, you already know I'm calling you this week; or b) you're John Legend, in which case I'm just gon' go 'head and say don't wear any clothes. Ever again. Otherwise, you must at least look commercial if not editorial. If that doesn't make any sense to you, I'm really ashamed :)

I'm also in love with whoever this chick is in the video. I forgot I was gay for like half a second. But just a half. That's hardly enough time to replace a dick with a titty+ in my mouth. So, whew. It's all good. Her wrist tatts are sexy. As you know, I have two. It's such a delicate area to get done. Both of mine were done in ten minutes total. I'm not saying I'm a baby, but I was very glad when those shits were colored in. Plus, I think tattoos invite kisses. Wrist kissing is hot ;) Ass kissing, on the other cheek, requires a bit more prep work. Hopefully :-|

The backgrounds throughout are suh-weet, but I especially enjoy their use in the second verse. If you're finding it hard to hear them, here's a trick. Place the plug almost all the way in the jack of your device (that means your computer, phone or mp3 player. I am not talking about your asshole. Feel free to put the earphone plug up your ass, but you will not hear what I'm talking about unless, of course, the computer, phone or mp3 player is up your ass, too. If you've got all that going on, you don't need to listen to this song. You're already the best you've ever had.) If you put the plug in the jack just wrong enough, the lead vocals are barely audible and all the backing instrumentation and supporting voices are pulled to the front. Ta da!

My last favorite thing about the song is John's vocalization of "best" at 3:23. It's such a small effect, but I go all the way in on shit like this. I'll replay that 1.5 seconds 70 times. It's his signature vocal styling that, to the untrained ear sounds like he's straining and cracking. Such is not the case. He's only singing an A, which is well within his range. That's just what the music makes his voice do :) He also rounds his notes with soft palate manipulation and the perfect amount of vibrato accented at the ends of his phrases. Wait. I have one more favorite - his riff at 3:43. I'm not going to say anything disrespectful, but he looks like he could be sitting down onto something right there. Now that I said it, you see it too, right?

Enough of this talk and this video. I've vowed not to jerk off til next Sunday, since I'm filming two scenes with BlackBreeders in NYC on the 16th. Thankfully, I'm a little heavier than I was for the last shoot. My goal until then is to gain an additional 5 pounds and make it a solid 150.

*Totally kidding, guys. It's $101 each ;)
**I did not know this.
+Clearly the word of the day. I think this word is funny as balls. Actually, balls aren't funny. And they're sensitive as hell. So don't laugh at them. (Even though they do look weird sometimes.)

Saturday, December 1, 2012

MID-stream cEASE(D) fire


Is there anyone who
Ever remembers changing their mind from
The paint on a sign?
Is there anyone who really recalls
Ever breaking rank at all
For something someone yelled real loud one time?

Everyone believes
In how they think it ought to be
Everyone believes
And they're not going easily

Belief is a beautiful armor
But makes for the heaviest sword
Like punching underwater
You never can hit who you're trying for

Some need the exhibition
And some have to know they tried
It's the chemical weapon
For the war that's raging on inside

Everyone believes
From emptiness to everything
Everyone believes
And no one's going quietly

We're never gonna win the world
We're never gonna stop the war
We're never gonna beat this
If belief is what we're fighting for

What puts a hundred thousand (people) in the sand
Belief can
What puts the folded flag inside his mother's hand
Belief can

Last song I listened to 
Last book I bought
Last website I visited ;)

Reebok in silver, purple and yellow with white trim on back. 


Friday, November 16, 2012

Storytellers


When I first decided to take this journey as a professional performer, I had no idea about the psychology of acting or my job as a storyteller. I hadn't read Uta Hagen, Stanislavsky or anybody else. Still, haven't actually. I just wanted to sing. Now I've come to see the developmental arc or just plain old story in all art be it photography, painting, choreography, modeling, et cetera.

In addition to storytelling as a profession, I've been thinking a lot about the stories we tell ourselves everyday. Like "everything is all right," when it isn't. I don't think it's always that we're lying to ourselves as much as we genuinely don't know how to recognize the signs. Pain is a warning that something's wrong. But "pain" doesn't always hit you over the head right away. Over the last few months I've had my run in with depression. Despite the obvious (to others) weight loss, barely controlled crying fits (that I kept largely to myself), lack of enthusiasm (more than usual) and feelings of loneliness (even though I see my very close friends often and even live with one), I didn't pick up on the signs. In retrospect, I was absolutely depressed. And because I internalize everything, nobody could help me. I was near tears in my doctor's office Monday answering questions about whether I'd had a flu shot. (I had not.) After a discussion about my diet and just a general conversation about my concerns since my last visit, he said, "Why don't we get you some help?"

Help can be a tough thing to ask for, but we all need it. It's not for "other people;" it's for all people. But, dear reader, none of this is a major cause for concern. Nothing can be gummy bears and sunbeams every day. I accept this heartily. Still, there's the regular into-every-life-some-rain-must-fall shit and then there's I-don't-care-if-I-eat-or-live-because-what's-the-point...-oh-yeah-fuck-my-life stuff. That last one will make you go, "Um, I think we better call somebody."



So what did I do? I looked under the hood at what was really going on. My work is one sore spot. I realized that I don't have more success because I haven't really sacrificed anything. I haven't AT ALL spent the time honing and sweating and giving everything I've got to my craft. I'm terrible at time management and I'm lazy as fuck, but not where bullshit is concerned. Case in point: the number of profiles, sites and various social media I'd registered with online over the years surprised me. Including this blog, I was OVER thirty. Thirty. WTF? And I can think of about two offhand that I forgot to put on that list. The story I'd been telling myself was that I could continue to peruse these sites all day, jerk off and crunch up all the towels (okay that's kinda funny) and still receive any real advancement or recognition for my work. In what world? No seriously. Where because I'd be all over that shit like Petraeus on Jill Kelley's man arms.

So yeah. I listed all the sites so I could a) see them clearly and b) have something to strike through as I deleted them. And you know what? It's working. How can there be room in my life for the things I want (and need) when I'm constantly shoving in so much of what I don't want (or need). I watched a clip of a Prince interview this week. He said he didn't really listen to a lot of other peoples' music because he "makes it." Of course that makes sense. Oprah doesn't spend all day watching TV. She's on the shit. Le sigh (That's French for "Exhale, bitch.)

Ever try to shit out a planet?* That's what being an artist is like. Planets are just big old bunches of rocks that pull their shit together to eventually form a mass large enough to have a gravitational force strong enough to make other shit spin around it. Okay, this Oprah metaphor is getting old, but you get me, right? The constant energy it takes to always be out working to get people to notice who we are and what it is we do and why you should come out makes one exhaustipated. No. Just because you grow it does not mean anybody's coming. It takes a lot. AND it takes a lot to make sure that whatever it is people are coming to see isn't busted so they'll come back. I stopped even telling friends I'm doing anything. If other people aren't talking about it yet, then it's not hot enough. Back to the rehearsal room. Gah! But that's the work. AND I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHIT! :)) A few months back I sat at the piano and hammered through a tune (poorly), but it felt wonderful to be thinking about inversions while I sang along in the studio room. There needs to be more of that.

So I'm more focused and I feel better. I'm eating more and crying less. Though some crying is cathartic. I've been a bastard; I need to keep the heart from icing over again. At this rate, my ego will be back in no time and I'll be wearing shades for breakfast. I'm back with the band on a regular rehearsal schedule and I've already accepted work on the theatre's next production. I'm not all Mother Teresa and shit, though. (The woman did not keep a stylist.) I'm still keeping a few online profiles. A FEW! Not to mention the fact that I hardly need to look for new blood. My phone is full. But seriously. When my head totally clears, some lucky little dude (not 100 dudes) is going to have a very sore asshole ;-) I don't know this guy, btw. He gave me his number and I forgot to save it before I deleted my account :-(

There's also been the issue of just getting older. Latest revelation: At my current age, my mother had already been a parent to me for 16 years. I can't imagine having a 16 year old right now. Yet, my mom did. I remember thinking how much larger than life my parents seemed to me then and how much, dare I say, older. But now that I'm their age (then), I don't feel all that diminished really, except my knees creak every single goddamn time I get up. Wtf? Am I...old? Like, for realz? When the fuck did this shit happen? I blame my performance in A Chorus Line last year. Never had any knee creaking prior.


We all want to stay young and remember things "as they were," but getting older isn't all bad. I'm not ready to move into the Marigold Hotel, but I'm really okay with not being 20 anymore. I've been living in the moment long enough. It's time to actually plan some of this time I have left. Time. Is. Running. Out. On. Everything. And. Everyone. I want to have a husband and some children. Yeah, I guess I want a family ;-)

I was floored by Rihanna's admission of still being so in love with Chris Brown her stomach drops when he walks in a room. I want to have that with someone. Recently, a friend finally returned my text to say that he'd been off the radar because he had a bf. I've thought about this guy a lot over the years. He lives in the next town over from me. I've even imagined our kids. (Shut up.) But here's the thing: You have to tell people how you feel. Surprisingly, I wasn't sad in the least when I heard that news. I rejoice in the happiness of others, especially when I love them. That and I just don't have it in me to cry over a man anymore. Sneakers? Definitely. The fact is, we all get our time up at the mic. If I'm not at the mic, it's not my time. So how do I feel? I feel that I need to turn the page and start writing a new chapter. I'm happy to do that. And yes. You read that correctly.

I'm happy :)

*An example

Recognize anyone?


video


Now?

What About Now?
                                                                             

Thursday, October 11, 2012

I'm At A Payphone Trying to Call Home

All of my change I spent on you. Where have the times gone? Baby, it's all wrong. Where are the plans we made for...two?

I know it's hard to remember the people we used to be. It's even harder to picture that you're not here next to me. You say it's too late to make it, but is it too late to try? In our time that you wasted, all of our bridges burned down.

I've wasted my nights; you turned out the lights. Now, I'm paralyzed, still stuck in that time when we called it love. But even the sun sets in Paradise.

If Happy Ever After did exist, I would still be holding you like this.

All those fairytales are full of shit: One more fucking (love) song...I'll be sick!

You turned your back on tomorrow 'cause you forgot yesterday. I gave you my love to borrow, but you just gave it away. You can't expect me to be fine. I don't expect you to care. I know I've said it before, but ALL of our bridges burned down.

Now I'm at a payphone...


I'm: Contracted form of I am
A: Part of speech, indefinite article; opposite of Eddie Izzard
Slut: Like you don't know

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Adrenaline Junkie - Revisionist's Remix

I remember majoring in music, sweating my ass off in class, praying "please don't call on me. Please don't call on me. Please don't...Oh, the relative minor of c# major? Um...g double flat natural?" I hated the adrenaline that was always in my system due to worrying about the material. That same adrenaline, caused for much better reasons, is a performer's best friend. It's an incredible rush. No matter how many times I do it, I want to do it more and more until there's nothing else left in the universe. I truly love feeling every bit of that energy directed toward the stage. It's really palpable.

There's a moment at the very top of Celine Dion's Taking Chances DVD when the intro music has swelled to the very top of the progression and the entire band is sustaining that energetic chord and then...She is revealed on a platform (crossing myself). The. Crowd. Goes. Wild. We all ate that shit up. I was in the audience for the taping of it here in Boston. I get to rewind that moment where she centers herself and decides to put on a show. Without that centering breath (which usually happens backstage), the heart beats too fast; you're too excited; you can't hear the music over the blood pumping in your ears; and you're jittery and not in control of your body. In a case like that, the show's over before it starts. A fellow NYC actor friend claims he booed a performer 6 notes into her song. On the other side of the spectrum, Trevin got seven (notes that is).

As singers and actors we learn the muscle memory to immediately get in the emotional space to make the magic happen at our command. (Don't know what I mean by magic? Search for Gladys Knight singing Memory [the correct title of the song not Memories] on DWTS, as well as Felicity Huffman's post-surgical scene where she has an emotional meltdown in Transamerica. The fucking Pacific was drier than my eyes in both instances.) Learning to go in reverse, however, and actually deactivate the stage persona, work in another mode and dial it the fuck back in order to get other shit done is another matter entirely. "Not to put too fine a point on it," but the emotional strain that comes from rubber-banding between those two extremes at the drop of a hat is yet another issue.

I'm currently working on living in the middle. I'm either on (effervescent) or off (a cunt), but there's a wonderful halfway point where most normal people live. Wait. I think I may have just figured something out. (I never ever claim to be normal; that's too subjective a word.) It's also hard to find validation in an industry where your value is based on how known you are. So if you're not Usher, you're nobody. Get ready, Self Esteem. Here comes the barbed wire. There are days when I get so depressed about the whole thing, the only thing that'll bring me out of it is an entire pint of Willie Nelson's CoUNTrY Peach Cobbler ice cream and some really good ear-pulling, soul-staring, neck-biting, lip-sucking, sweat-drenching, musk-inducing, creampie-making, accidentally-slobbering-on-the-person-under-you sex, with a generous mix of I Love You's sprinkled throughout. (Please.)

So yes the industry is tough, but when we're taken care of, it can be glorious. As of last year at least, Christina Aguilera earned $225,000 an hour (which more than likely means per episode and not per hour worked) for The Voice, while the other coaches pulled in $75,000. My personal best was several thousand dollars (personally negotiated, thank you very much; but don't ask me what I do with my money because I have no fucking idea) on top of airfare, car service and hotel (Mandalay Bay in Vegas; Gaylord National Resort in National Harbor, MD; and Atlantic Club Casino in Atlantic City), plus all meals, including room service. I know: not the big leagues, but I was completely stoked. Not only did I learn a valuable lesson about negotiating (just ASK - I'm worth it), I was just happy to receive it all because a) that doesn't happen to me everyday yet, b) I worked for it and c) there's always enough negativity and silliness in the world to find your ass later on no matter where you are. So enjoy every nanosecond of whatever feeds you.

Case in point: people who contribute almost nothing to something, but want everything and don't know anything. And regardless of socioeconomic background, color or creed, these ni**as are everywhere. To them, I say...



I want to re-film this scene, but recast myself as the teacher and Aaron Taylor-Johnson as the pupil. His real life girlfriend is about twice his age. So it'd be like he's robbing the cradle with me.

Does this count as legitimate rape?

Okay. I know I need to chilluminati.

A big band version of this song needs to happen. (Come on, Berklee.) Loved loved LOVED Pushing Daisies, btw. You should come over, smoke with me and some of my friends and watch this shit. Iss goood.

I didn't watch the debate. All that shit's been decided. I'm voting a second term for Obie. While I'm in the voting spirit, my penis nominated this video president of Chelsea, NYC. It's straight, but when have we gays cared about that when it's come to large packages? Exactly. Oh yeah. Here comes the new vice-prez now.

Have fun and be careful, everybody.

Historical Fact: Before the advent of bricks, the Great Ball of China, which can be seen from the top of my neighbor's house, was constructed of old socks, recycled scraps of yarn and Pamela Anderson's old hair by a race of giant kitties. And I'm preeetty sure that's true because...

Present Fact: I'm high as balls right now.

Future Fact: I will probably be showing my balls at the underwear party Saturday night. Oops. It's priiivaaate.

Pluperfect Fact: That shit was like that when I got here.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Textual Healing


I found the note you slipped in my gym locker. You wrote:

We should talk fuck

So I'm calling...



Privoy
Visionaire
Video
Good girl gone really bad

MUSIC TO FUCK TO:

Marz. Does this song kinda make you happy/sad, too?

Drake. I'd love to remake this video.

The Foreign Exchange. Kick off your "blues" (jeans).

Brandy. Do this. Please.

Semisonic. How many times did I drive back and forth between Durham, NC and DC with this album?

Polly Jean. I think you said, "I'm still dripping." 

Bird and the Bee. I fucking LOVE this version. Thank you, Montreal 2010.

BT. Nearly anything by him, but especially this song. I want to get blazed and fuck to this song played FULL BLAST inside one of those padded, centrifugal force rides at the fair.

Lifehouse. Yeah, I know. The relationship is kinda over if your ass is playing this, but still a bang worthy tune.

Jazmine Sullivan. I love this bitch's voice so much, I'd give her all kinds of dick for singing to me.

Michael Bolton. An obvious choice, but he does the shit justice.

'Ye. Don't let me get in MY (erogenous) zone, nikka.

Stereophonics. I would have gotten it on to this song in college...as well as now. Besides, I'm in love with Kelly Jones. I seem to love short, non-American-born, shit-starters.

No Doubt. This song reminds me of Instagram Sex - end of summer/beginning of fall, smoothed-out edges, diffuse lighting and billowy sheers up to the windows.

Joe. This Delicious Muthafucker is one of my favorite balladeers. This is the melody you play for your dude when he gets home at 7p from a long day at the office. He walks in wearing his suit jacket hooked over one finger, trousers fitting tight over that fat ass. You meet him at the door, kiss him on the lips, take his free hand and walk him over to the piano where two glasses of something good are sitting. Now sit your ass down and play this nice and slow.

Enrique Iglesias: This song is gangsta. Just puts it right out there. Love. It.

Soundcloud Artist: I'd like to film a different sex scene for each track.

Il Divo: GOD I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG! Carlos is my favorite hands down: face, curly hair, unbuttoned sexiness, voice. Jesus, that voice is so thick and powerful...I'm a little embarrassed to say this (so I'll do it online in front of the whole world [yeah, cause the whole world is reading this fucking blog - not]), but I would for real put the pussy on Carlos faster than he could say "injunction." Goddamn. With all that said, the only time I've ever screamed out "I want to have your babies" at a concert was seeing Jason Mraz. No lie. I did. C'mon now. You know I did.

I'll Big Spoon you during our nap, Jayce.


Guilty PleasureSquidbillies
Guilty Fact: I still have the musky smell of young, juicy Latin ass on my face from hours ago.
Guilty Confession: I love the smell of young, juicy Latin ass on my face from hours ago ;)

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Oooh Baby I Like it R-A-W

Raw food, raw passion, raw talent, raw emotion: Some of the most basic things in life are best with as few additives as possible. Some, but not all. As far as raw food is concerned, that one comes with an asterisk for me. I'm all about raw veggies, especially when they're blended into beet, carrot, apple and cucumber ginger juice. Trident Booksellers on Newbury Street is one of my favorite places to grab one of those, but I shut it down when it comes to raw meat. That makes sushi about a 50% experience for me. I just eat the avocado rolls and whatever else is veggie. But eel? Raw eel?!?!?! Absolutely not. The best I can do is a medium rare burger from an excellent kitchen. That's delicious. Steak tartare, however, is a hell no.

Raw passion is another easy one. Whether it makes you money or not, it's about drive and the relentless pursuit of something. I just finished reading a recent article on Ted Turner in The Hollywood Reporter. I'd say that passion pretty much sums up his entire life. It's hard to create something like, oh I don't know, the cable industry as we know it without an incredible amount of passionate mania. Other passionate manics (PM'S) are Oprah, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, the Obamas, Mozart...Carol Channing. Look, whatever. Libra that I am, I see the benefits and drawbacks to that type of success. "Great. So I definitively created the information superhighway and I have 90 katrillion US dollars in the bank. Fine. Where's my bowl of greens, copy of Bob and Silent Jay and my nap?" Problem is, people who are that passionate and successful rarely nap. And that's racist. Black people love to nap. There's a band dedicated to rapping about napping: the Nappy Roots. Maybe you've heard of them. I don't know. Too soon? I can't be funny and fire up the bowl. Wait. Yes I can. (Thank you, President Obama. And I will be voting for you again.)

Raw talent is another. Anybody who's listened to Aretha Franklin sing Sky Lark in her early days or even watched Katharine McPhee's audition tape knows how raw talent sounds. Anyone who's seen Blake Griffin or A-Rod do their thing knows raw cuteness...talent. Talent! I'm saying raw here as opposed to the result of years and years of refinement that eventually must come to ensure the bigger deals, bigger venues and bigger audiences, of course. But one has to have the talent to even get to that level. Just to know that Jay Z has always been able to create lyrics, never write them down and yet remember them is nothing short of astounding. I can see doing that shit when You've Arrived. It's your world; that studio becomes home. It can be more comfortable in there than in public sometimes. But even in the very beginning, while having no experience in the studio, no experience with label execs and no experience with that kind of pressure, he must've had nerves of steel. Then again, he wasn't running from drug dealers and gang members like he had been. So yeah. Piece of cake. (This moment has been brought to you by Perspective.)

Raw emotion is another, but I don't think most people, myself included, really want to have too many of these moments. They come with an asterisk because they sound hard and, I don't know, unfiltered. Filtering can be a very good thing. Case in point, your brother calls and says, "Me and Katie are pregnant!" Bothersome on a few different levels, right? I mean, do you correct his misguided syntax (it's Katie and I)? Do you ask the obvious question: "how the hell are you both pregnant when only one of you has ovaries?" (I understand "we're pregnant" on a theoretical level, but still...) Or do you just get right to saying, "whoop-de-damn-doo. You stuck your dick in her, busted a nut, now you're both going to probably be really poor, aggravated, poor, sleep-deprived and poor for the next 30 years. Congrats, assholes." (Pluralizing the noun in this example is grammatically correct because, even though you're just speaking to your brother, it's true that both of them wear the Ass Hat title.) The answer? This is a trick question. You are not allowed to say any of those things. Nope. Nuh uh. Shut it. Your only possible response is "ohmygodthat'swonderfulnews!" But perhaps I'm being just a skosh too cynical.

No, that really wasn't an example of raw emotion. But I do remember being a senior in college when my actor boyfriend told me over the phone that he was moving to New York the next semester. Keep in mind we were sort of fighting, and longing for each other, and hurting each other, and wanting to fuck each other, and still being in love with each other, and still having to see each other in class every damned day...too much! So we were in the middle of that kind of situation when he called and gave me the news one night. I still can't think of that moment without my eyes welling up (like now). I don't even like that guy anymore and I've seen him within the last few years. He told me he had to hang up because his other boyfriend (longer story) had just gotten home. I hung up, laid on the floor next to my bed and wept like I hadn't in maybe 10 years. Up until that point, I guess I never really felt like I had anything to cry about. Yes, life was hardly all good, but it was still worth living. It was good enough, right? Things worked out enough of the time, right?

All of a sudden, I just didn't know anymore. North Carolina is Left Behindsville in contrast to NYC in terms of performing opportunities. To be fair, I had my share of chances to step up and be in his life in a major way. I just didn't know how to at the time. So it was what it had to be. It's almost funny to describe this in retrospect because I feel like I'm casting Kenneth Branaugh and Idris Elba in the East Boston High production of Catcher in the Rye. The height of pretension. Stipulated. Nevertheless, I cried so intensely I felt drunk. Have you ever cried like that? I was psychically, emotionally and physically exhausted. My abs felt like I'd gone a round in the ring; so did my head. But I think the worst part of all was the emptiness I felt. At. That. Very. Instant.

In a flicker, I saw the dozens of wintry days and nights we'd spent in his two-seater, listening to music, driving somewhere to just be together somewhere else. I saw the time I fucked him in a tiny piano room on our college campus (NC Central) where I was supposed to be practicing. Unfortunately, I also remember how ill-prepared he'd always be to bottom. Fucking ALWAYS! Anal sex was a rare part of our short relationship, anyway. I saw the hundreds of times I kissed him, the places I kissed him, what color his hair was that particular day (blue, green, yellow or all three). I heard and felt the countless times I told him I loved him, hearing him say it back and knowing that nothing could EVER make me happier. I also saw how we always seemed to be walking away from each other in one way or another. Again, was never going to work. Yadda yadda yadda.

I called him back and begged to see him that night. It was his time with the other guy, but I had to. The clock never stops. We don't get a second chance at making this moment. If it was over, it needed to happen face to face so we could both have closure: face-to-face closure, not over-the-phone closure. It stirred up a little shit at home, but the boyfriend eventually relented. We met in a parking lot somewhere just to get it over with. Yeah. It hurt, but you know what? I got my closure. And I never looked back. There haven't been too many of those moments in my life, but their echos still sting. So yeah. I think I know a little something about raw emotion and why I'll take mine filtered. I suspect that my literary partner in (rhyme) prose knows a thing or three about it, too.

Music served up R-A-W
Blog with Enough Juice to Last All Week
This dude is hot and funny. Again, he's my current porn inspiration.
The (Not-So-Raw) Politics Now do they both come in Magnum, or...
Cream pie a la mode
Worn out "pussy"
                                        

Friday, August 24, 2012

Gay Pride in Montreal...Remixed and Remastered (Again.2)



Friday, a friend and I headed to Montreal for gay pride. We go at least once a year, but this was our first gay pride there. We'd been planning it for several weeks. The entire drive up, I began to get more and more excited about all the places we'd go and the things we'd do. I even remember saying on the way up how much I was expecting from the trip. I think my friend was surprised by my admission. For much of our relationship, I've held most of my feelings very close to my chest. It's just something I learned growing up and it's taken a long time to grow out of that. That's a story for another time but, suffice it to say, I was excited. What did we do when we got there: nothing associated with gay pride. What the...seriously. It's actually funny. I'm not disappointed at all really. We walked around during the day eating way too much fucking poutine. (Potatoes, cheese and meat covered in gravy? Uh, YES. I grew up in the south. I don't say no to gravy.) In the evening, we'd sit in the hotel room, smoke weed and listen to Kim Burrell go melodically in-fucking-sane herehere and here. I've been a fan of her gospel jazz since her first CD. I also got to see her Boston last month. I'm glad somebody videotaped it. I think I passed out when she riffed UP :)

That was a long way to drive to miss all of the DJs and events, but it wasn't all for naught. I met a few handsome men. One in particular was a super cute, salt and pepper haired, baby-faced beauty. One look in those blue-green eyes and I was very glad I agreed to meet. It looked like we weren't going to be able to, but he had been pleasantly persistant; I'm so glad he was. I also took notice (very good notice actually) of those hard pecs underneath that polo. My chest definitely does NOT sit up like that. Given our lack of time and suitable space to get acquainted, he took me to the only place he could: a secured storage unit inside a public parking garage. No details here, folks. I will say two things, though: 1) His ass was beautiful and 2) he was an amazing kisser. *Insert huge ass-eating grin here, here, here and definitely all up in here.*

Later when I met back up with my friend, he took one look at me and said, "You've got dirt all over your back and on the back of your head. Where the hell were you?"About an hour later at lunch, he looked across the table and told me I had something on my neck. (Yeah.) I couldn't seem to wipe it off. So he reached over and did it. You know, that's what a great friend will do: tell you when there's toilet paper stuck to your shoe, something hanging out of your nose, tell you when to "leave his sorry ass 'cuz he ain't no good anyway, gurl" and yes, even remove an opal necklace your clavicle. Good. Mother. Fucking. Times.

Don't watch this shit while high. Nobody warned my ass. So I'm warning you.

Milf banged by god. I said it.

I vote for this guy...with my dick :-D

My birthday is in two months. See what you can do about this.

Inspiration: The porn actor James Deen will be starring as a lead with Lindsay Lohan in The Canyons. Yeah, I probably won't watch it either. He's a funny guy with a sexy, very well-written blog of his own.

Friday, August 10, 2012

DILFBERT


FADE IN

INT. GAY CLUB - NIGHT

The camera follows a COUPLE and their friend, MYLES (all in their 30's) as they wend their way through the crowd and eventually find a spot to drink and talk. They're soon joined by another, slightly older COUPLE and their twinky companion, THE KID, who happens to be celebrating his 21st birthday that evening. Following a round of introductions and awkward conversation, THE KID turns to MYLES and hands him a marker and removes his own shirt.

THE KID
I want you to write on me. 

MYLES
Seriously? Like what?

THE KID
Anything you want. (wink)

With a slight eye roll, but grinning, MYLES writes "why am I writing this???" on THE KID's chest. Others take the opportunity to pen much more sexual things across THE KID's chest, back and torso. As the evening progresses, the other COUPLES wander off and leave MYLES and THE KID to talk alone. 

MYLES
This is kind of hilarious, but why do I feel like we're third wheels?

THE KID
Because we are. 
(grinning)
That's not so bad, right?

MYLES
I guess not. (long awkward pause)

MYLES and THE KID (simultaneously)
So...

MYLES
Sorry. Go on. 

THE KID
You should come back to my place.

MYLES
Aren't you crashing on LARRY and what's-his-name DAN's couch tonight? How is that supposed to work exactly? 

THE KID
I am staying with them tonight, but I'm not sleeping on the couch. They have a spare bedroom I always use when I'm in town. 

MYLES
Look, kid. I'm flattered, but I'm just here to hang with my friends. I'm sure you're a lot of fun, but I think I'm a little too old for you.

THE KID
(unfazed, steps into MYLES, speaks directly into his neck; lips barely grazing the skin)
Thank you, but I think I know what my type is. And
(bumping their crotches)
I think you're just the right age to handle this allll night. Tell me I'm wrong.

MYLES
You know; I've been down this road. I think I'm all set. Happy birthday, though, kid. 
(pats him on the shoulder as he walks past)
I'm going to find the other guys and say goodnight. 

THE KID catches up to MYLES in the stairwell.

THE KID
Hey, man. I think you're hot, handsome, whatever and just want to get to know you. If not tonight, then some other time. Can we start over?
(extends his hand)
I'm George. 



Not long in the tooth, just long

Young and full of, well, a LOT of guys' cum

23 year old creampie

And a MAN shall lead them

"I feel younger as I'm getting older..."

Seven Years: Amount of time it's been since I had a boyfriend.
Seven Minutes: Amount of time that's passed since I finished dinner.
Seven PoundsAmount of weight I hope to gain :-)



Thursday, July 26, 2012

New Favorite Sneakers - Rainy Day Remix



They're beat up but, like most high-quality luxury items (from cars to ass, I guess), these Paul Smiths still look fucking cute as hell. I added the spikes. Speaking of things that improve with getting beat down, broken in and/or aged...

Fruit of the Vine

Cured* Meats (*Play on words, you say? Hmm. Maybe just a little *grin*)

Cheese

Black Pussy. I meant Leather Goods...(and black pussy).


Sunday, July 22, 2012

I Threw A Wish In A Well

Don't ask me; I'll never tell. I looked at you as it fell and now you're in my way. I trade my soul for a wish, pennies and dimes for a kiss (I'm a cheap slut). I wasn't looking for this, but now you're in my way. Your stare was holding, ripped jeans: skin was showing. Hot night: wind was blowing. Where do you think you're going, baby? Hey (!) I just met you and this is crazy, but here's my number. So call me maybe. It's hard to look right at you, baby, but here's my number. So call me maybe...And all the other boys will try to chase me (naturally), but here's my number. So call me maybe.



You took your time with the call. I took no time with the fall. You gave me nothing at all, but still you're in my way. I beg and borrow and steal at first sight and it's real. I didn't know I would feel, but now you're in my way. Your stare was holding, ripped jean: skin was showing. Hot night: wind was blowing. Where do you think you're going, baby? Hey (!) I just met you and this is (like totally) CRAZY, but here's my number. So call me maybe. It's hard to look right at you, baby, but here's my number. So call me maybe...And all the other boys will try to chase me (no pressure, but you better get on this like NOW), but here's my number. So call me...maybe?

Before you came into my life I missed you so bad and you should know that. (SO not stalking you or anything.)

CMM...

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Naked Love - Exquisite Corpse Slow-Dub


You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadnesss. They can scream and shout that they've been sold out, but it paid for the cloud we're dancing on. Circles and triangles and now we're hanging out with your new (boy)friend. Since (Hay zoos) came into my (w)ife. I have been bound by the shackles of love and I don't mind if I die tied up. When you hold me, I'm alive. HABIA un tipo igualito a mi. Excuse me if I'm sounding crazy: I'm not myself tonight*. The world goes 'round and 'round.

Ba da DA da ba da da da DA da.

Bitch, PLEASE! It's not what I didn't feel; it's what I didn't show. Nothing new. Just a quiet crisis I'm going through. Something inside me has changed and I think I might be start(ing) over. Forever we will stay like a



Favorite Janet Live Performance
Favorite Janet Video Concept. This video is everything. And yes, it's really done in long take.
Favorite Janet Make-Up

*This chick is HOLLERING before 9 in the morning. Good evening!

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Great Gay Performances

This month, I'm back with the original band with which I cowrote Are You the One. The tune is by the same composer who wrote Apathy and Little Known Distractions. All the songs presented on my SoundCloud page are demos. In other words, none of them have been professionally mixed, mastered, or recorded on high end professional equipment. Trust me; it matters. And in some cases, you're listening to first drafts. I'm happy to report that we're taking two tunes to a professional studio to rerecord by the end of the month (neither of which are public or can be made public until they're finished). I was looking over the lyrics for one of the songs today and it has the word "her" in the line. I emailed the composer, who is also a professional friend, and told him we'll need to change that. The new line won't have to read "him," but I'm not singing a romantic song about a woman.

As an actor, I've relented to playing straight. It's my job to be all kinds of people. I now see the joy (and challenge) of that. I also had the beginnings of a major subconscious heart change when I watched Season One Episode Two of the DL Chronicles. If you haven't already, watch it and tell me what you think. There was so much unexpected passion in that sex scene, I was just staring at the screen afterward. "Robert" is actually straight in real life. I thought, if he can play the other side so convincingly, then I can, too. Still, he wasn't forced to play that role. There's no lack of material from the straight perspective.

Also, when I'm singing, I'm not anyone else. I'm telling my own story from perspective numero uno. Yes, I get flak about my choice to change lyrics, but fuck the naysayers. It's homophobic to challenge me about my refusal to indulge hetero normative ideals. No one would criticize Jay-Z for covering a female song and changing the pronouns to "her." Why should I be? I'm in this head space because I just saw Cheyenne Jackson's latest video. I don't have any problems with it at all. He's beautiful to look at and can sing the leaves off the trees. (I WILL be covering this song.) He could be in the video singing to a tube of toothpaste and I wouldn't care. But his choices are his and mine are mine. Granted, I can't say for a fact that I wouldn't change my tune if the options were "make a straight video or no video." I might just make a straight video and bitch about it to the end of the time (and bitch about it I would...all the way to the bank.)

A similar situation occurred during the making of Interview with the Vampire. Remember that? Tom Cruise refused to play the gay scenes that were originally in the book. It was reported that Brad Pitt was fine with the characters as written. Anne Rice was furious, but it was either remove the obvious gay element or lose Tom as part of the project. Say what you will but, as bull-headed as I am (I have Taurus rising), I probably would've made the decision. Tom is huge, even though he is a Scientologist. (Why does scientology have nothing to do with science?)

Speaking of gay performances, you're invited to come out tomorrow to Club Oberon to meet me and the cast of an upcoming theatrical soap opera from 2p-5p. I'm keeping it realz and playing a gay character. It's non Eq (for all you theatre snobs), but it's fun and hilariously written and acted. If you want to see me in an Equity performance, you'll have to wait until the fall when I'm in Anne of Green Gables. In the meanwhile, tickets for Sunday's event are $30-$75.

Cheyenne Jackson's Latest Video and Song. Bought it!
More gay music. I couldn't get the player to work for the performances. Maybe you can. I hope it's good stuff. I didn't get to hear yet :-(
Favorite Cazwell Video
Kim Burrell isn't gay, but she will be in Boston tomorrow with others as part of a free gospel fest. Will I be there after the Oberon engagement? YES! Will she be singing this song? NO! But I listen to this rendition e'ryday.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

The F.A.M.E.: Reflections - (re)Abridged



Entertainment is like a mirror; there really are (at least) two people. You standing there and you looking back at you. Which is real? Which would you like to be real? It's all a matter of perception really. And like a mirror, depending on which direction the sun (attention) is shining, it can reflect beautifully or burn the shit out of you.

I'm constantly fascinated with the cult of personality*, living inside the entertainment bubble and why people are famous in the first place. (*For some reason, Jerry Hall always comes to mind when I think of the term. Yes, I'm showing my age.)

What is fame, anyway? On some level, I think it means people get to (feel they) know you before they meet you. Problematic? Possibly. Based on those very loose parameters, for better or worse, thanks to blogs like this and other social media, increasingly more of us are achieving some level of "fame" with incredible ease. Major recording companies use amateur video blogs as a legitimate means to scour talent. Major news agencies now look to twitter as a source of really knowing what's happening on the front lines. Yes. Times they are a-changin'.

Speaking of fame, a few weeks back while high (uh yah i know: not a surprise), I fantasized about David Arquette. Why? Because I was high. That's my answer for almost everything, B.T. dubs. Anyway, I always thought David was cute. But I really love him now that he's a little older, grayer and fuller. He looks like a crazy ass stoner. So of course I've got wood for the dude. The fantasy the other night started well enough, but it quickly devolved into me worrying about having our relationship inevitably discovered and dragged into the tabloids. No. Bueno. (Drug-induced paranoia. Again: uh yah.) But you know how it always goes when humans try to mate with gods. It never bodes well for the mortal. We've seen this story all the way down from Zeus and Danae to Ralph Fiennes and that Qantas stewardess. Both women were, shall we say, fired like Brunnhilde. Mmmmmm HMMMP! The media always finds out about celebrity scandals. I saw it all flash before my eyes: I'd be tracked down and confronted by a porch and sidewalk full of reporters and cameras when I opened my door. I know exactly how the headline would read and, trust me. It wouldn't be flattering.

If people feel they pre know you, they also feel welcome to pre judge. It's been brought to my attention how public and open I appear to be living with this blog. I'm an attention junky. I admit that's true at times. I'm an entertainer. Shocked? It's a fine line, but there IS one. I'm careful about outing people here (whether they're gay or not). Also, what I write here is such a small part of my life, but I get to decide what info is released. If I were under the microscopic scrutiny or reflected in the mirror of a Hollywood scandal, there's no way I'd be able to control professional journalists finding out EVERYTHING about me. There's no wonder people want to be anonymous. Still we go ever towards the light (Carol Ann) of stardom. What is it with us? We're a world of exhibitionists and voyeurs every one of us. And I couldn't be more pleased :-)

Black Spark seems to have discovered a quite tantalizing middle ground. It's almost like watching a music video, which is an art form that still wields a lot of power. When I see celebrities' videos, movies, international concerts and interviews, beauty and clothing campaigns, I just have to take a moment and think "what that must cost to be EVERYWHERE." Glad that's not me. Then I get random texts from friends and others saying "Hey. Hope you're well. Just saw your (dick, face, ass, video, whatever) on (some random ass blog, tumblr, etc). Did you know about this?" Actually, not always. I was quite surprised to be told that the infamous multiple loads video is still floating around the blogosphere (not mine). I completely wasted the energy deleting the video from Xtube :-) I don't even have a copy of that one anymore. Oh well. Hopefully, I'll look back on all this in 60 years (days?) and say, "I had it going on then."

More Anonymous

Not So Anonymous

Eponymous


Friday, June 22, 2012

I Love the Way You Lie...

Next to me. Forehead against the back of your head. Soft baby curls all gone. Greedily inhaling the defiantly cute bristles. Lips touching the back of your silky smooth neck. Breath lightly moistening your nape. Your furry little ass warming my thighs under the covers. Ice cold air blowing over us. Heat index steady and humid without. Stealing kisses from your warm neck in quick succession. (One. Two. Three. Four.) Careful not to wake you. I want to eat you alive. You know this. My arm so tight around you my fingertips rest sleepily in your armpit. My hard dick flick-tapping a sticky Morse code on your ass: "Let me in. Let me..." (Five. Six. Seven. Eight.) I want to fill you with milk. My milk. Decorate your insides with Pure Unadulterated ME (Number 9) just because I want to. I groan the thought that DalĂ­ was right:

I want to consume you.


Instinctually, you want to allow yourself to be. Consumed, that is. We both know. It's why you tease me. (Because you can.) It's why I let you. You and I still in this dance. After. All. This. Time. Descendant of Dionysus and progeny of Pan that I am, I have no inhibitions claiming my rightful place among such illustrious Pagan heritage. I'll wait for my proper invitation, should that ever come. Despite my leaking tribute and sweaty ripeness, neither hedonistic reveler nor goat god will I be tonight. I've taken the form of mere mortal just to hold you. (Because I can.) I like our dance.


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Strict MACHINE - Version 9:11

I'm usually one of the last to know about a LOT of things, especially music videos. I'm the lone nerd standing with my ear phones enthusiastically rocking some tune from 9 years ago yelling "OMG this song is fucking AWESOME!" Yeah. I'm still doing that. Exhibit A: this song. The video is definitely perfect for the stoned, which was exactly my state when I first saw it. I haven't been this moved by a bass line since Mirwais' Disco Science. (Remember when it was in the Victoria's Secret commercials?)

Bet you can't guess the first thing to really grab my attention in Strict Machine. Nope. You're gross. It was the Siberian Husky-headed men. (Maybe you did get it right.) In addition to the why of the head choice, I wanted to know who the choreographer was. (The SONG has its own wikipage.) I love that choreographers not only design dance moves; they also create and direct motion in general. In the video, these dogs represent domesticated (suited: provider) danger (shirtless: fuck monkey). Huskies can rip your throat out sure, but aren't they just our pets, too? Kinda like having a Doberman or being friends with Nene Leakes: It's all fun and games and "ooh look at me. I'm living on the edge; I'm a bad ass. Whooo!" That is, until you get your ass eaten alive by one (or, realistically, both). The result? A pretty good time by my account ;-)

Speaking of music, I recorded with these guys a few years ago. I don't know what happened to the track I recorded. It could've been terrible, but I'd love to hear what they did to it. This group is the reason I went to Rise for the first time. I know my readers come from all over and do lots of different things. If any of you are into music production, engineering, promotion, writing, etc PLEASE contact me to work.

Naked Music (with a side of Spanish uncut sausage)

Sunday, May 20, 2012

I Met Fucking JAMES MORRISON Today!

He was just walking around State Street where Borders used to be: no security at all. He didn't even appear to be with anyone. I saw him walk into the 7/11 on the opposite side of the street and I was literally standing there thinking "wtf do I do?" I wouldn't necessarily characterize myself as shy, but I do not roll up on people. But I got it together, thought "here goes" and crossed Washington. By the time I got to the door, he was making his purchase and I just said, "I love your work." He smiled and shook my hand. "Enjoy Boston" and I walked out the door. I think he knows how much I love him. And yes, fucking JAMES MORRISON  is short, too. We were eye to eye. I'm done. I can't even think of a porn site to link today!

The fucking JAMES MORRISON Official Site

My favorite fucking JAMES MORRISON video
No, this is my favorite fucking JAMES MORRISON video.
AND fucking JAMES MORRISON is British.