Uh Huh. Hmm. E-E-E-F-E-C-G Hmm-mmm-mmm.

I-I-I-I've been through some things please don't hold that against me. Can't nobody love you like I'm gonna love you. Even though I-I-I still can feel a sting. No need to second-guess me.

See I-I-I-I-I-I don't mind you putting up a little bit of fight. It's all right, but why run from what's gon' hold you tight through any complications, baby. Maybe we can start tonight.

Hey! I saw the dirty looks you gave me. Don't care what your ex do... And if you dare (DON'T DARE) send me straight to voicemail. Babe, I'm just gon' text you. Hope it ain't no issue. I've just got to let you know: NO ONE'S GON' LOVE YOU. (Period, bitch.)

I put that on every thang!

But if you should go down that same road you've been before. You're in reverse. Your pain rehearsed. Just brace yourself for the blow. Don't you know that you could JUST let it go?

Don't you know that I'm making you this promise clutching on a rosary!

Because We're Gonna Die Jung

Living in the fast lane. See ya when ya crash, babe.

Ah, mortality truly breeds psychotherapy.

In addition to the both of us being born in '75, I feel a great deal of connection with Carl. What's 100 years among friends? He was a free-thinker unafraid to question, yet embraced religion, which requires blind faith. Then again, the single most compelling scene in Life of Pi  involves the line, "Thank you Vishnu for introducing me to Christ." An interesting life is a life marked by all kinds of experiences. I was raised Christian (have since disavowed religion), am drawn to the serenity of buddhism yet value the teachings of Marx. I get that Marxism is a sociopolitical ideology rather than a spiritual path, but I think that makes it all the more applicable.

I'm feeling very "Is That All There Is" about life in general these days. It's cool. It's just that we've all been doing the same shit and having the same issues since before Jesus. "Abraham begat Isaac; Isaac begat Jacob; Jacob begat Judas; and Judas became a very popular hit for Lady Gaga." So on and so on and so on...Even though humanity's tech advancements over the past 1,000 years are undeniably AWESOME, our basic need for society with all of its highly dramatic ordinariness is exactly the same. The incongruity of smart phones and bustles is of no consequence. Society ain't changed! Shakespeare isn't popular for his thematic originality; his works are renowned for reminding us that, once again, ain't shit changed.

With that in mind, there are a few historical figures, in addition to Carl J. and Jesus, with whom I'd love to have a year-long hedonistic, cannabis-fueled, philosophical brunch to discuss EVERYTHING from how exactly silk gets from the worm to a $3,000 sweater to bareback anal orgasms. Siddhartha, Picasso, Duke Ellington, Vermeer (Why so dark, bitch? I love it, though ~ Kisses), Gore Vidal, Mozart and Prince (what happens when you meet a Reincarnation of yourself?), B. Marley (presumably big dick AND weed?), Bayard Rustin and Rudolf Nuryev (hoes).

What type of personalities would they all have? What would their twitter hash tags be? Or their Radical Faerie names? Jesus strikes me as a Middle Eastern, gluten-free, vegan DJ type who'd never bring anything but BO to potluck, but would eat up all your damn hummus and corn chips and smoke up all your shit. (Damn. I'm a lot like Jesus. My mother will be proud to finally hear this.) Jesus' ass would keep getting invited though because he'd be ripped from all that skateboarding, hung to his thigh and conveniently "live and let live" in his views on sexuality. #lunchmilk(ing).

Shut up, Luke Bryan. (Sorry. Watching Ellen.)

I also imagine Gandhi to be the flamboyant perv friend who's always getting misquoted. What he probably said was "you've got to be the dick you want to receive in this world." Truer words, brother. Truer words.

I watched Idiocracy yet again this morning. If, after the movie, you've still got a little hope left for the future, please read Super Sad True Love Story: A Novel. That'll knock it right outta ya. We're all gonna die and not necessarily young, or even Jung for that matter. But it's gonna happen. Before it does, though, we'll have ever higher tech gadgets that make us exponentially dumber. But hey, at least we'll all be pretty, young and biologically engineered for eternal perfection with a libido that gets stronger with age. I guess I can live with that. What could possibly go wrong? (Logan's Run, Gattaca, The Third Reich, Brazil the movie!)

Still, there's the bright side. I remember the product tagline, "you can't add more years to your life, but you can add more life to your years." Perfect. I am comforted by this. It's all going to end some day, somehow, no matter what. So let's enjoy this shit. I don't mind the idea of extending my life an extra 50 or 100 years beyond expectancy, but not at the expense of looking...old! I only want this if I can actually be 150 and still look 35. But getting older just to have more and longer-lasting health problems? Pass. I'm a firm believer that a healthy sex life is an important part of staying young. I know. Surprise. Or to put it a simpler way: Fucking is the best way to stay fuckable. I mentioned it here way back, but my sexual connection with the energy worker in Montreal CHANGED MY LIFE! Not to pop my own sexual collar, but (((POP))) sometimes even the shaman has to go for a tune up. Two words: Bubble. Butt. Two more words: All. Night. "New world needs spi-ri-tu-a-li-ty that will last. I've seen the future..." And I nutted in it.

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Boy, you'll be the death of me. You're my James Dean. You make me feel like I'm seventeen. Drive too fast; smoke too much. But that don't mean a thing 'cuz I'm addicted to the rush. And I'd rather die young than live my life without you.
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Scene Partners: An Unholy Trinity

This is real. I live off the blue line.

Um...

I'm performing here March 23rd. 

o ( + >

He realized that she was new to love, naive in every way. Every school boy's* fantasy she was. That's why he had to wait. If he poured his "heart" into a...glass and offered it like wine, she could drink and be back in time for the Morning Papers. 

They could take a walk down the oceanside. They could wish on every wave. They could find a carousel and ride or kiss in every cave. They could contemplate the entire universe or just one star. Just how far was a walk for the Morning Papers?

Why is age more than a number when it comes to love? Should we ask the ones who speculate when they don't know what it's made of? Should we ask the moon light on your face or the rain drops in your hair? Or should we ask the man who wrote it there in the Morning Papers?

*

Will the Real Planets Please Stand...Uh Rotate?

Not so fast, Pluto. Apparently, the International Astronautical Union isn't that different from the entertainment industry: In today, auf wiedersehen later today. Or, in your case Plutes, almost 80 years later, but oh well. For the last several weeks I've been taking a self-guided crash course in planets vs stars. As to the why of doing this, all I can say is that should the process of thermonuclear fusion and/or the function of a Hertzsprung-Russell diagram randomly fall into conversation, I'll at least be able to contribute a tiny fraction to the discussion. You know, like we do. My stream of consciousness took me from Hollywood ---> star (vs) planet...Wait a minute. Why isn't Pluto a planet anymore? -->Wikipedia! Naturally. It turns out that back in blah blah blah dwarf planets, satellites, asteroids rah rah rah there are now 3 major qualifications for a planet to be called a planet. And they are (drum roll please):

Is in orbit around the sun - I can dig that. Apple products continue to be the sun around which I (r)evolve. My iPhone is so beat up and sharded to death, I had someone ask me recently how do I not cut myself on the screen? It's been like this for some time, but it's getting worse (because I dropped it again). So I have to replace it sooner rather than later. But as soon as I saw the Samsung super mega phone with the 12 ft screen, I had a major case of screenus envy. But then the iPhone came out with a slightly lengthened retina display...Ugh! I hate this. It's like picking out eyewear. It takes me forever to find shades/glasses that look great. Once I do, that's it. I wear them until I lose them. But you know what? As much as I favor, say, the Verizon DNA model, I'm probably just going to get another iPhone. There's just something about the shape and feel of it that's so damned sexy. Even the box. The store. I cannot...No, I will not live without sexy products, dammit! This is America. So what if I can't send an email, watch a video, take a picture and edit a commercial all at the same time like some of the other smartphones claim they can? Who needs to do that? I'll just buy an iPad for that.

Has sufficient mass to assume* hydrostatic equilibrium (a nearly round shape) -

*You know what they say about assumptions: They jiggle when you smack 'em.

Yep. That's my ass. Despite showing it off, I LOVE having a dick and being a man. I also like communicating with other dick-havers. We have an understanding. I'm talking about more than physiology. I'm back to worshipping the notion of confidence, leadership and power. You don't have to be a man or even be masculine to exemplify these things, but it means you're an active decision maker. An equal. On the other hand, I find overly feminine energy and pussy-having issues to be way too aggravating. Example: the scene in Knocked Up when Paul Rudd's wife discovers he lied about being somewhere when he really went to the movies alone to watch Spiderman. She starts crying and says "I like Spiderman...You're mean." Hilarious to watch because it's so true and equally annoying because it's so true. A penis-having way of handling it would've been, okay. Well-played. You got me. I'll just be grabbing one of those personal nights as well. Why didn't I think of that shit? Done. Pass the snacks. There is no crying in baseball or relationships (aka controlling others - JUST KIDDING)!!! Please. For god's sake. Don't get me wrong. I care deeply about things and I'll give you the shirt off my back (if you have the right coordinating pieces). I don't lack feeling or emotional intelligence. It's just that, well, Effie, we all gots pain, girl. And even beyond that, I truly try to tell people the truth. I've been asked my opinion on everything from other friends' original songs, new haircuts, too small dresses, etc. My policy: Don't ask and don't ask.

On a side note, I'm surprised nobody caught the hidden sentence in last month's entry. What? You think that period was just sitting way over from the rest of the sentence because it had the flu? To illustrate how ridiculous I am about this blog, I spent way too much time matching the background of the page with the hidden letters. They can only be seen by highlighting. Yep. Way too much time on my hands.

Has cleared the neighborhood around its orbit -  I was having some difficulty with this concept until the term "gravitational dominance" popped up. I don't know about clearing my neighborhood, but I can damn sure clear a packed ass bowl and not even cough. Smoking of which, I feel like Jim Carey in 23.

Current Stage Script

Where the hell was I going?

Aaand the .0 is stipulated...on "The Joint". Riiight.

NOT smokeablez...(?)

Okay, those last ones are dried apricots. But they are the perfect follow-up to 420. And of course, the follow-up to even that are mucho philosophical digressions. Last weekend, I was asked whether, in the eternal, biggest picture possible, grand scheme of things, would I choose light or darkness. See, that's the wrong question for me. I'm more Shinto about all this shit: It's about the balance. Nevertheless, my answer was simply, "whichever one gives me the dick." I know we're back to this, but having a cock lets you be able to do all sorts of cool stuff ;)

My deck right at dawn, January 2013.

Yes, I piss with serif. BLAM!

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((this space intentionally filled))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))




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"We gon' take it to the moon, take it to the stars. How many people you know can take it this far? I'm supercharged. I'm 'bout to take this whole thing to Mars. Now we gon' take it to the moon, take it to the stars. You don't know what we've been through to take it this far. So many stars. We're 'bout to take this thing to Mars."
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Knock knock.
Who's there?
You know what they say about black holes?
You Know What They Say About Black Holes who?
You know what they say about black holes? They're really pink inside :-|

========================================================================
I'd probably add one more requirement to the classification of planets. They can never give up. (Warning: Get your tissues BEFORE you watch this. All I had handy was my T shirt sleeve.)

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.)

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. 

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?

Now?

What About Now?
                                                                             

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

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.

White Noise

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 Pleasure: Squidbillies
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 ;)

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"
                                        

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 here, here 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.

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 Pounds: Amount of weight I hope to gain :-)

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).

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...

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!