Rolling Stone(d): Sticky Fingers

Iconic

Have you ever met people who aren't used to being told "no?" They're insufferable. Have you ever met people who aren't used to being told "yes?" They're insufferable. Life hangs in the balance. For the good of the universe, I try to keep my black ass in balance because I am a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) when my scales are off. When I have reached the point where I don't give a fuck, everybody's gettin' cussed out: old people, the wheelchair-bound, kids, my parents, a boss...e-ve-ry-bo-TEE. Since I know that, I stay sweet. (If you even try to refute me on how sweet I am, I'll fucking cut you!)

But seriously, I have been a little grumpy the past 24 hours. Sure, I turn 38 today, but I have no issues with that. I'm spending next week in Vegas with a friend and am definitely in high spirits about the trip. I'm getting it all the way in. I think I've been grumpy because I need a serious deep dicking, like no bullshit. From a hot dude please and thank you. I'm balancing out my sex life and TRYING to be more of a bottom, but very few dudes are really buying it. I mean, what do I have to do? Scream from the rooftop: I LIKE TO FUCKING GET FUCKED TOO! HELLO!!!

I was chatting with a super hot Spaniard yesterday. Unfortunately, I had to shut him down because 2. he listed being a bottom in his profile and 1. I already told you I had an attitude yesterday (because I needed to fuck! Yes, I cut my nose off to spite my face. Being an ass kept me from getting ass.) When I told him why I wasn't interested, he said "I like to flip, too." Yeah, right. There was not a dick pic anywhere. I know exactly how that shit would've gone down. He'd have gotten fucked (very well and I do say so), gotten his nutt and "flipped" right the hell out the bed. (Damn I should've fucked him.) Nope! I've been waaay on down that road too many times. The only ones getting this dick right now are the ones who are looking for ass first. (Unless he's mad sexy, then I'll just pound him.)

I shouldn't get so riled up about this whole top/bottom thing. I'm really starting to be a baby about this. After all, I LOVE ASS. Trying to prevent my head from whipping around to look at a phat booty walking by is like trying to sneeze with my eyes open. It's just not happening. Still, my main issue with total bottoms is the idea of them doing all the receiving and none of the giving. It's just not fair! (Stomping off to my room with pigtails flying.)

Umm, I kinda really don't know why I went off on that tangent. Now I feel bad :-/ I should smoke.

You are not alone, Wheat Thins. You are not alone.

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If it weren't for your maturity none of this would've happened.

If you weren't so wise beyond your years I would've been able to control myself.

If it weren't for my attention you wouldn't have been successful.
If it weren't for me you would never have amounted to very much.

This could be messy*, but you don't seem to mind. Don't go telling everybody and (just) overlook this supposed crime.

We'll fast forward to a few years later: No one knows except the both of us. I have honored your request for silence and you've washed your hands clean of this.

You're essentially an employee and I like you having to depend on me. You're a kind of protege and one day you'll say you learned all you know from me. I know you depend on me like a young thing would to a guardian. I know you sexualize me like a young thing would and I think I like it...

What part of our history's reinvented and Under Rug Swept?
What part of your memory is selective and tends to forget? What? With this distance? It seems so obvious.

Just make sure you don't tell on me, especially to members of your family. We best keep this to ourselves and not tell any members of our inner posse. I wish I could tell the world 'cuz you're such a pretty thing when you're done-up properly. I might want to marry you one day, if you watch that weight and you keep your firm body. (((SLAP)))

Hand *not* clean

*Not so much messy as squelchy. I believe that's the hottest sound in sex. Period.

Hi. Bruce Wayne.

Man of Mystery?

Your favorite hero might say a lot about you. Does he fly in from the sky and is born of another planet, or is he simply the seemingly random person you just met online who gives you a couch to sleep on? Or is your hero even male? I wasn't into superheroes growing up, but I do like Batman. He doesn't have superpowers and he isn't an extraterrestrial. He just has great tech gadgets, style and lots of money. Essentially 007 in tights. But as with any great crusader, there's the inevitable underlying darkness that compels and precedes the do-gooding. And, naturally, vigilante slappings (usually against perceived evil) ensue.

My smokey ass Bat/Fap Cave

I'm not so into heros. I think they're ultimately about having someone else fix your life and do all the things you don't have the patience or balls to do. Nobody's stopping you from standing up and making a citizen's arrest. No one's going to stop you from getting a citizen's ass whuppin' either. But hey, you can step up. I do, however, find the love interests of heros to be compelling. Vicky Vail, Lois Lane, Mary Magdalene. If you really want to know how super a man is, don't read the Twitter feeds. Just ask the one who's sucking his dick. I've created so many script ideas over the years and, in almost every single case, I've written myself as the love interest. Besides the inevitable fact that romantic interests always get kidnapped and usually end up dead, it's nice to feel wanted :)

Another facet of being a hero is having to hide all the damn time. I don't mind having an alter ego/stage name, but I don't want a secret identity. I'd want people to know to whom to address all the thank you cards, presents and personal porn videos. And presents. As this very transparent blog will attest, I'm not very good at hiding myself. I like to let it all hang out.

Not. Shy.

I'm also no good at being nice to ungrateful motherfuckers. If I save your ass from a burning building or rescue you from the possibility of a real ass beating, I bet' not neva have to pay for another beer in your presence again. Ever. Period. And would it kill you to name all your children after me? Would it? I really don't think that's asking for much. Additionally, ixnay on being a martyr, which is oftentimes a huge part of being The Savior. Things would've been very different if I'd been Christ at the Inter-Dimensional Quik-E Mart:

"Sup, dude? Yeah just this watermelon Slushee and these Macaroni and Nacho-Cheesier Curly Fried Pork Blasts. What, bro? Can you repeat that? I'm high as shit right now. Oh yeah. Sure. I'll be charitable and make a one-time contribution to the Save the Human Race-a-Thon. All right. You say that's two dollars and I GOTTA DO WHAT? Uh-hell no. Good luck with salvation, bitches. I'm out." Sluuurp

No one can deny that martyrdom does make for a great story, though. Joan of Arc. (Those bangs have gone down in herstory. But still nope. You're not setting my ass on fire. Not even for a bunch of musky, erect, I meant enraged townsmen.) Martin Luther King, Jr. (Nuh uh. He could've just said, "Look. Y'all ni**as need to chill. And stop aggravating all these white people!") Vladimir Putin. (Oh wait. He's still alive and he's still an asshole.)

So maybe I wouldn't care to be a superhero. Super rich would be nice, though. I'd love to have someone clean up my apartment after all my friends leave. Because as of right now, I am cleaning up after me and all my friends. I swear they all must share a secret checklist that clearly includes, but is damn sure not limited to, the dirtying of every dish and towel in sight; the wearing of my clothes ("Yo, can I borrow a pair of shorts to chill in? It's hot in here." Yeah it's summer, ni**a. I live on the second floor and you come here all the time. You already know it's hot. sigh Here."); the drinking of every beer and drop of liquor in the house (I've taken tequila shots before 11a in my kitchen a few times); the ordering of food and not paying for it; and the smoking of all my damn weed!!! On second thought, I don't need anybody else to clean up after these knuckleheads. These are exactly the people and situations that make me happiest and give my life the most meaning. I haven't saved anybody's kitten from a tree today (yet). But I feel pretty incredible because I've got amazing friends. And I think that's what it's all really about.

I'm singing here September 21st ten minutes past 4:20.

Miss Manners Says:
Don't talk with your ass full. It's rude.

Pay-Per-View During the Rapture

Caution: New geetarist ahead

For all my MENSA striving and studying, I am still so incredibly ridiculous. I was sitting on the couch smoking last week just thinking of how the tips of my fingers had been sore-slash-numb the past several days. So strange, right? (Yeah, when you don't think about it.) Few people know this about me, but I immediately go to that place. I thought, "oh I've got fingertip cancer. I knew this shit was gonna happen. Oh well. Better get that looked at Monday," (riiiiiiiiiiip the bowl). Then it dawned on me. Stupid, you've been practicing on metal-ass-strings. You don't have cancer yet.

Speaking of doom and gloom mentality run amok, I've got to give it up for the recent slew of end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it story lines everywhere - After Earth (LOVED), World War Z, The Purge, another season of Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta - It's like Hollywood went en masse to get tarot readings and they all pulled the Tower card. Should there actually be a Rapture, I am most certainly going to still be down here* hanging out with the rest of you who are reading this blog. I'm just kidding. (I'm not going to be hanging out with you.)

But if some of us are left behind, can we still get take-out? Will weed be legal everywhere then? Will there still be cable? Internet? Don't worry if these thoughts have never crossed your mind. You have to be pretty damn high to wonder about this shit. In all seriousness, I don't believe in that whole cataclysmic, Final Battle/Armageddon situation. The only Final Battles I care about are on The Voice. And when they got rid of Judith Hill, I said "fuck 'em." Judith Hill? JUDITH HILL?!?!?! Three things about her blind audition: opening pose and hair (okay four things - I died); Usher and Adam's almost immediate, synchronicitous turn (she barely got the whole line out); and the fact that she made Usher stand up and scream.

Personal Fun Fact: Sometimes I laugh uncontrollably after I cum. Is that weird? This video sent me over the edge after several orgasmless days with my parents in North Carolina! Not only is there NOTHING like watching and receiving good oral, the top looks like someone I probably blow...know. I meant know!

*What? They were both 20 and 21. They're legal.

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Uh oh! Overflow, population, common group, but it'll do. Save yourself; serve yourself. World serves its own needs. LISTEN to your heart bleed. Tell me with the Rapture and the reverent in the right...right. You: vitriolic/patriotic. Slam? (((Fight!!!))) Bright light.

Feeling. Pretty. Psyched.

It's the...

(Transmission Lost)

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LABELED FOR YOUR INCONVENIENCE

Not rice, bitches

Label Whore

Sexual Labels

Gay for pay, straight but will suck a dick if it's Tuesday and I haven't had my coffee yet (which is essentially gay for pay) and don't even get me started on women. A hasbean is a woman who used to be a lesbian. Look. In the immortal words of Nene Leakes, "I get it." (Random.) But there is a point where it becomes delusional and unhealthy to call a bowl a fork. I love that these types of people don't let anybody tell them who they are or what they should be doing within their self-described orientations, but come on. You're getting pounded on the regular by trannies who finish on your face, bro. Maybe you're a little gay. That's all I'm saying.

But is it really anyone else's business how we label? De jure sexuality v de facto. (Anybody care to ring up Morocco on this one?) Straight bottoms (pegging), anal-averse gay men (weird), enharmonic chords (F# / G flat), the platypus (#$%*). Yep. You already guessed it. These things exist solely to fuck with and confuse the shit out of us. But I do understand not wanting to skee-doodle down the Hershey Super Highway sometimes, though. It's a lot of work preparing for anal sex. It takes a village to clean an asshole. (Feel free to use that one.) Not everybody understands that shit, which is why I'm giving this ass a break.

Whoa! When did my ass get so hairy?  

Okay. Break's over. Come get it.

If the end truly is near

This is all I want to hear

And speaking of singing, check out me and my band June 21st in (the Republic of) Cambridge at Cantab Lounge at 9p. We're on first, so bring it*.

*Including, but not limited to: weed, hoes, boots, chips, candy corn. You know, the good shit. 

Looking 4 Myself? (Brotherly Love Edit)

Philadelphia, PA

Montreal, CA

Boston, MA

Durham, NC

Limerick, ME

Walking with my head down, counting every step. Hoping that the next one brings me closer to the man I was. (Be)cause I was way better. Maybe it's because we were together. I said I'm looking for myself and I still can't find me...Who am I? Someone remind me. All my life I'm searching. Somehow I ran right into you.

Escaping on a tightrope trying not to fall. If I don't keep my balance, I know I will lose it all. I should have known better. It's all my fault that we're not together. 

I was on a journey trying to figure out who I really was. Then I realized that, when you're not here, half of me is gone. So in order for me to find me, I had to FIND YOU (see below). And you know? I got a funny feeling that you won't know who you are unless you find me. It's like you look in the mirror and you see the person that you truly love.

Contentment

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Let's not forget. For all the colorful characters met and experiences endured, neither Dorothy nor Alice really went anywhere. Still they each got exactly where they needed to be. Moral of the story: It's the same journey over and over and, like, you're already there (kinda). Until we stop looking for answers in others and waiting for them (whoever "them" is) to give us permission to BE WHO WE REALLY ARE (see above), we'll never get it right.

Thank god. I really need to believe that true happiness isn't outside myself. I hate to say it, but I just don't see much hope on the dating horizon. It's not that I don't want to be completely swept off my feet. Holy shit I totally fucking do. I'm a romantic. I'm even looking forward to an eventual relationship. But it takes at least two other people for that.

And in order to actually get in a relationship, there's a lot of silliness to wade through. A friend recently told me he was in Cali when another guy walked up, tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "top or bottom?" Really? What about, "Hello. Are you a top or bottom?" Maybe I'm too old fashioned. I know I show my dick and butthole all over the net, but I'm still a gentleman ;-) And even though I fuck on the first date, I still want to be wined, dined and sixty-eighted: You do me and I'll owe you one. Pardon. Sixty-eaten. (Yeah. It's late.)

The other month, I agreed to let a new FWB spend a night. A little before 11:30p, he went to the corner store... and came back three hours later.  I thought he was fucking dead! No. Seriously. He'd left his phone on my sofa. So I couldn't exactly call him. After about 40 minutes, I went out to check the stores and didn't find him. What could I do? When he finally came back, I didn't even say anything. I was just glad he was okay. I simply showed him what was left of all the (cold) food I'd ordered for us, left him in the living room and went back to bed. The next day, we had a really (really) good fuck and I silently called it done.

Over the following weeks, he blew my phone up until I finally just said, look dude. There's no need for you to continue hitting me up. There was just no way I was going to be bothered with anybody that inconsiderate. That's what I get, though. The reason he even went to the store in the first place was to replace a cord on the video game he brought over for us to play :-/

Beautiful
Imperfect
Life

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 :-|

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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 ;)