Sunday, August 28, 2005

Chips Off The Old Block

I haven't posted in a week because my parents and baby sisters were in town. I got rid of them this morning, though I last saw them last night.

Of my two sisters, L. is the filthy, perverted, partying, sexed-up provocateur; J. is the sensitive, thoughtful baby of the family. L., of course, is the one that people always say is a little version of me, or a variant on the topic: "she's like you with tits," or "oh my GOD, she's the female you," "you two are SIBLINGS!," etc.

So I always expect L. to make crude suggestions as to what our waiter or waitress is probably like in the sack, or to start a joke/discussion about who in D.C. our mom will have to fuck for crack. Of the two sisters, she's the one who always wants to compare the numbers of threesomes she's had versus how many I've had, and of course she'll tell me if they were MMF or MFF. The first day of my sisters' vacation here, L. announced, "I'm starting to realize that I'm really a bit of a masochist. I like playing the sub."

All week, the two of them would walk around the 18th St. strip (which to them, good Minnesotans, probably looked like Vegas, as I've mentioned in a previous post) and L. had guys say the nastiest-slash-strangest shit to her. "Girl, I gots to axe you a question. Can I use your hair as a weapon? I ain't gonna hurt nobody. I just wants to use your hair as a weapon." J. would get annoyed at L.'s crude, unabashed, Samantha-Jonesness.

I had the two of them over playing pool and drinking at my house and L. was bragging to the roomies about her antics: what drugs she's done, whom she's fucked, etc. Baby J. told my roommates, "With siblings like these, how can I compete? I'm really a party animal in other settings, but around the two of them I clam up and look like a real prude. But I'm not." I kind-of believed her a little bit, but not really. Then, on their last night in town, I tucked our parents into bed at the hotel (the Hilton at Connecticut and Columbia... my dad seems to have some morbid fetish with the place since Reagan was shot there... it's a little disturbing), and took my sisters to a house party on 20th and Columbia, a block and a half away. It just was so perfect that my lady friend's boyfriend was having a house party right by their hotel, their last night in town. Especially because they are both underage. L. will be 20 in three months; J. was SIXTEEN only three weeks ago. So I thought L. could be in her natural environment and J. could get a peek at grown-up parties.

At my house before the party, I introduced the girls to single-malt scotch. Neither had tried it before, and eventually J. had to have hers mixed with hot chocolate to get it down. Frankly, I have a bit of a gag reflex with the single-malt myself. I got the girls to the party and realized that J. had a grey sweatshirt on. Not very sexy or twentysomething. I looked at her and saw a little kid. We entered the party and J. said, "boy, it's hot in here," and unzipped her sweatshirt to reveal a tight black top with spaghetti straps and very nice cleavage. I also noticed that her haircut made her look older than a high-school student. Kind of like a graduate student.

Myself, I was getting drunk on Jim Beam and Coke, and J. was doing nicely herself. She had no problem consuming at a moderate pace, enough to get a little drunk but not enough to get sick or make an ass of herself. I was talking to my friends; L. was talking to my friends, who noticed what a chip off the old block she is. But J. was the impressive one. God damn if that bitch didn't WORK the party. In five days of being in D.C., she had learned that living on a letter-street in NW DC is more impressive than living in two-syllable country, but that living on a three-syllable street means you are way out there. So when the different 28-to-35-year-old J.D.s and Ph.D.s at the party would hit on her, she'd find out where they lived as a litmus test for their coolness. "Hmm, you live on Cathedral? Ca-The-Dral? Is that way out there?? Gosh, that sounds like it's out in Tenleytown or something." [Him: no, I swear it's in Woodley Park! It's by Monroe and Quebec! Cathedral's not in the letter system!" Her: oh, fine, never mind, hee hee] There were a number of poor saps whose career paths, lifestyles, and neighborhoods she subtly questioned. J. never got cunty; she would just sip on her bourbon and ask questions that were generally innocuous but threw men off-guard. She'd giggle enough to get them to keep talking, but hit them with hardballs that they didn't normally get asked. The men drooled; the women were taken by her charm and poise and made a point of telling me how classy my baby sister was and how much they enjoyed talking to her. People were accurately guessing L.'s age at 19, but asking J. which bars she liked best in the neighborhood.

Finally, around 1 A.M., another group of friends called and invited me to an after-party from the party they were at. So I told the girls to say their goodbyes and I'd walk them back towards the hotel. J. told one 30-year-old that she was flying home in the morning. He asked her if she'd been in D.C. for business or leisure, and she replied, "oh, college search."

I've rarely seen an erection through a pair of khakis decrease at such a rapid speed.

Monday, August 22, 2005

I Got Schooled On 'Bourgie'

A friend of a friend was in town this weekend, and he is hip to the lingo that kids use these days. We'll call him "Huggy Bear," which I guess is a reference to I'm Gonna Git You Sucka, which is one of the only Wayans Brothers movies I haven't seen. Huggy Bear schooled me on my use of bourgie (my new favorite ghetto-fabulous word).

"Bourgie" doesn't exactly mean bourgeois; it means desperately trying to be bourgeois in the most ghetto way, and it's always an insult. I kind of had it half-right - I've been using it to condemn people who actually are bourgeois.

Here's the funny part: I am bourgeois. It's the whole angelheadedhipster thing. The name isn't the most apt for my blog; focus group feedback has suggested it's obscure, sounds excessively effeminate, and is similar in name to a couple existing blogs. But the name attempts to convey, in a self-effacing manner, my inner conflict between the world of privilege and the world of keepin' it ruuuuuhl. (I've always assumed Ginsberg's angelheaded hipsters were pretty suburban boys who became junkies but still looked too cute to be slummin' it on the street corner... someone correct me if I'm wrong).

So I got to thinking... we LOVE to hate our own social class. African-American rappers, coming out of the hood (or pretending to, but in either case, attempting to be a voice for the hood), mock their own social class. How dare you try to act like you didn't grow up poor! How dare you attempt upward social mobility. You are poor and will never be classy! So fucking bourgie.

Then there's me. My parents grew up poor and made it to the bourgeoisie through higher education and hard work. In a way, they tried to raise us with the best of both classes. We also had fatter and leaner times throughout my childhood. There were the years when we vacationed in Hawaii annually; the years when dad drove a brand-new Audi (claim to fame: exact model, year, and color as Ferris Bueller's dad's car - no, not Cameron's dad's, Ferris's)... then there were the years where we did back-to-school shopping at K-Mart and I got teased mercilessly for it. So in general, I have some class issues. But nonetheless, I went to a bourgeois high school, grew up on a lake (and had a sailboat for a few years), etc. And I like to mercilessly mock the bourgeoisie. How dare you try to act real! You've never had to worry about anything in your boring, bland life. You are rich and can't be cool.

So I've been using "bourgie" to mock my own class, the bourgeoisie, whereas it's supposed to be used to mock the underprivileged people who desperately want to leave their own self-loathing class and join my self-loathing class. To all, I say this: The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. On your side, that's because you're growing cannabis. On my side of the fence - WHAT??? you can see over it???? This is unacceptable. I'm building a bigger fence. But thanks for noticing.... my landscaper has upped the potassium and lowered the phosphate levels lately and it looks lovely. Can't let the poodle out though, or she'll die from the toxins. Hey, speaking of cannabis, I'm going sailing this weekend and my friends and I could use a little of your grass...

Huggy Bear, if you're out there, thanks for a great weekend, and for linguistic clarification.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Some Patrons Are Nicer Than Others

How is it that some bars/coffeeshops/diners/restaurants/public restrooms (kidding on that last one) have the nicest customers and some have the biggest assholes?

This week, I went out with friends to Cobalt on Tuesday night and Chaos on Wednesday night.

Cobalt and Chaos are located a couple blocks apart on the same strip (17th St. NW), have similar-sounding names and similar-priced drinks. Cobalt has a non-smoking lounge on the main level and a dance club upstairs; Chaos is just a dance club but there are loungey areas on both sides of the dance floor. Both attract young gay men. Cobalt looks a little more upscale, but still, the clubs appear to be peers in a lot of ways. However: the crowd at Cobalt tends to be snooty and the crowd at Chaos is really friendly.

Every time I go to Chaos, I make new friends and/or meet someone new of reasonably good caliber that I end up dating.

Every tenth time I go to Cobalt, I have a one-night-stand that is semi-regrettable. The other nine times I either dance with people who don't excite me enough to date OR go home with; or I just talk/dance with friends and leave; or become acquaintances with scene-sters whom I'll never be friends with.

So why does everybody I know seem to prefer Cobalt? Frankly, I've never been gay enough to like house music. I much prefer to dance to real dance music (pop, hip/hop, etc.) than shit made by computers. I guess my gay-ness manifests itself through hot, steamy, man-on-man action as opposed to crappy electro-techno-Eurotrash music. So what's the allure of going to a snobby bar with bad music? I don't think the people are prettier at Cobalt; I'm snobby enough as is, to think about 2-3 guys max in any bar are hot, and I tend to find 2 to 3 hot guys in either place, with the exception of Cobalt on my birthday, when there were zero bangable guys anywhere. Granted, Cobalt has hot bartenders, but I'd guess about half of them are straight, and all of them are completely egotistical regardless of their orientation and totally un-fuckable due to their narcissism.

I've noticed similar trends at coffeeshops: Cosi customers are snobby assholes; Starbucks folks are in the middle; and the hippies who go to mom-and-pop shops are really nice.

I think the common trend here is related neither to age or to money: it's the ability of an establishment to create a snobby, assholey, environment versus a friendly and cool one. All coffee shops charge $3 for coffee in order to stay in business, so it's not like people of varying SES go to different coffee shops on the price of the coffee alone. It's possible that there are class differences between people who frequent different shops based on the snobbiness factor, but I can't tell. It seems like a personality thing more than anything. Is it that certain establishments hire nice employees, and this draws the nice customers? And how does a place attract total assholes? Hire good-looking-but-stupid assholes to serve drinks and mean people start coming in droves? It just baffles me that two bars on the same street can sell the same booze for the same price to people of the same attractiveness, and have a totally different climate on friendliness.

How does this happen?

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

My Blogroll & Fond Memories of Years of Blog Reading

Hey Readers (are we up to about six now?),

I don't know how many of you are regular readers of blogs, versus those who just come here to see how I'll use the words fuck, cunt, and cocksucker today. So for those of you who don't read a lot of blogs, I'd like to direct your attention to my blogroll, under "About Me" on the right side of the page.

Right now I've got links to five blogs that are favorites of mine and are somewhat relevant to this blog:

The Washington Monthly was the first blog that I read regularly, back in 2001 when it was called Calpundit. At the time, the blogosphere was a pretty pathetic place. I had been used to creepy personal web pages, which ALWAYS were forums for losers to share way too much information about themselves. You'd be surfing the internet and someone would have some kind of fan site for a book series or a musician, and then you'd end up clicking through to some creepy page full of pictures of their ugliness, their ugly S.O., their ugly pets, and a description of their neuroses and life in mom's basement. Then, there was Andrew Sullivan, a psycho gay Catholic Republican from old family money, who was a ticking time bomb of weirdness, fascism, and self-loathing. On top of being a gay Republican ("my financial greed and xenophobia are more important than the collective freedoms of my people"), he's an HIV-positive man who has been caught having anonymous unprotected sex off of internet websites, selfishly spreading the disease that has devastated the gay community ("my need to feel dick-on-rectum contact during sex is more important than the lives of the people I'm having sex with"). Yeah, what a winner. So he had this website that was like a journal of his own crazy bullshit. I didn't understand that [blogging] was a new format on the internet, and I mentally placed it in the category of "creepy personal webpages: they get updated now."

It's been a few years now since I started reading blogs, so my memory isn't perfect as to when I realized the blog format wasn't an accident. Nor do I remember what blogs I was reading when back in college. My general recollection is that Calpundit/The Washington Monthly was the first blog that I really looked forward to reading daily. It's generally a political blog, but Kevin Drum, who writes it, has an armchair interest in economics and has some great posts debunking conservative lies about economic trends. One of the best (and worst) parts about The Washington Monthly is that its readership, for the most part, is extremely well-read and seems to consist largely of 40-to-55-year-old J.D.'s and Ph.D.'s, who have excellent comments to make, but are also a pain in the ass to argue with. I used to post comments there 3 or 4 years ago, but I quit because I found others on there too argumentative. Nonetheless, it's still a great site if you like daily political musings.

The Rude Pundit is right up my alley. He's as crude as I ever get, consistently, serving up daily expletive-filled rants against the Right. I think the Rude Pundit and I went to the same school of potty humor because we seem to share the same voice and opinions.

Exceptional Mediocrity is my favorite local blog. It's written by Kia, a recent U-Md.-College Park graduate and self-professed fag hag. Kia offers up reviews of the newest downloadable music, pictures of the hottest new male models, and rants about being young and frustrated in the DC metro area. I actually met her once, and recognized her from her site. If I were savvy, I would have e-mailed her and asked if she wanted to link up to each other... but I just added her anyway. Maybe I'll get around to e-mailing her some time and seeing if she wants to link to me.

McSweeney's Internet Tendency is an online thingy that I can't quite describe. McSweeney's is a quarterly "alternative" literary journal published by Dave Eggers - best known for his Pulitzer Prize-winning memoirs, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and for not being able to produce anything else, since it's the story of his life that is heartbreaking (he didn't make it up), and the genius of his storytelling style probably would only work once. Anyway, it's a great book and Dave was smart enough to move into editing and publishing other people's stuff. My favorite part of McSweeney's Internet Tendency are the reader-submitted lists; for this reason, I link directly to the lists page and not to the home page.

The DC Male's Perspective is another local blog. Seth is a cute straight guy that I know and his blog generally focuses on being a post-college-age single guy dating girls. Like me, Seth is also a new blogger in a blog-saturated world. So go show him some lovin'.

I'll be adding to the blogroll as time progresses... some will be blogs of friends of mine, which I won't talk up too much only because I truly wish to remain anonymous; others will be new blogs I've discovered along the way and mutual back-scratches with fellow bloggers where we like each others' work. Happy reading!

The Best Video Game Of All Time

What was the best video game of all time?

No, it's not an open-ended question. It's either the original Metroid or the original Legend of Zelda. No other game can compare to these two. The real question is which of the two is the best video game ever, and which is the second best ever.

I sympathize with fans of earlier games, like Q*Bert and Donkey Kong - truly amazing, seminal games among the top ten of all time. And certainly, recent games like Grand Theft Auto 3 are right up there with them. But it's still clear what the two greatest games of all time are, and they both came out in 1986 for the Nin-frickin-tendo.

Vote for Metroid or the Legend of Zelda in the comments - which is #1 and which is #2? You're free to vote for other games too, but it will just expose your ignorance.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Down The Rabbit Hole: A Birthday Saga Of Epic Proportions

I awoke at 11 AM on Saturday morning wearing my jeans, a sure sign that I had been wrecked the night before. I went next door to the bathroom, whipped out my meaty tool and started to urinate. Flowing from my pecker was piss of the deepest, richest amber color that would have looked so ungodly good sloshing into glasses in a beer commercial. I made sure to take my time shaking my member before tucking it back in my jeans and noticed that it was maybe 5% larger than before due to the shaking. Yes, I had truly had had an awesome time on my birthday.

Sitting around my house on Friday afternoon, my 26th birthday, I realized that I had planned a party for Saturday night but had neglected to make plans for my birthday night. Fortunately, my two best friends in Maryland and the person who's feeding one of them the sausage announced that they were taking me out to our favorite Mexican dive at 8:30.

At some point between 4 and 6 PM (this part is a tad hazy) I realized it was time for the mopeyness to end, and I remembered that my old roommate, Jimbo, had passed along some magical fungi that his friend had given him and he had never used. We were cleaning out the freezer at our old apartment and he handed me a Ziploc bag of shrooms. They had been sitting in the drawer of my nightstand for about six weeks. I started thinking, "should I call around and find someone to trip with me?" This train of thought lasted about 15 seconds till I just ate the whole damn bag of shrooms.

Tripping is like psychotherapy if you know how to do it. My perspective on the psychedelic drugs is that (1) yes, they make you psychotic for a few hours and help you understand the schizophrenic; but more importantly (2) they help you think out everything that's been on your mind. If I may be permitted to sound like a total dope fiend for a minute, let me proseletyze for the beauty of doing drugs:

When you trip, all the unconscious thoughts that you push to the back of your mind come out in full force, right into your internal monologue. All your unspeakable fears and dreams suddenly have words associated with them. The confusion and disorientation from being out of your mind on chemicals is balanced by the absolute mental clarity that your thoughts achieve. It's beautiful. I had this whole conversation with myself for several hours, including the entire time I was at dinner having an out-loud discussion with my three friends. Therapist Me and Patient Me just kept talking, reasoning out the pros and cons of aging and analyzing all my fears. Frankly, they are too numerous and too neurotic to get into here, but I verbalized all these unspoken worries that were on my mind and it was such a relief to get them out so I could debunk them. I was just starting to come down (mediated as it were by the sangria I was sipping like Kool-Aid for the three hours we were dining) when the waitstaff brought out ice cream and sang Happy Birthday to me. They had taken a large purple sombrero off the wall and placed it on my head so my friends could commemmorate the occasion with their camera phones. I can't wait to see what I look like eating ice cream in a sombrero while tripping balls.

Saying good bye to my friends, I went home and met up with Julia, and we walked towards the Adams Morgan strip. On the way, I saw a perfectly good - if "perfectly good" means dirt-caked and disgusting - carnival-sized stuffed rendition of Patrick the Starfish from SpongeBob SquarePants. Of course I picked him up and carried him to Adams Morgan, where all folks old and young shouted "Patrick!" and some Bar Whore-looking girls took a picture of me and Julia with our undersea friend. I danced with Patrick for awhile at Chief Ike's Mambo Room before abandoning him on top of the Ms. Pac Man machine. The Columbia girls were at Chief Ike's and I danced with them while their boyfriends bought me birthday drinks. Things were going very well. Eventually, we all split up and I decided the best course of action was to walk home, smoke a bowl, and head to Cobalt to look for hotties on the dance floor. I missed an ex who was leaving as I was arriving - apparently for a booty call. He must have either settled for fugly, lied outright, or taken home the last hottie (fucker) because it just was not a pretty crowd that night. Being totally whacked out of my mind on my three of my four favorite drugs (sorry, caffeine!), and seeing no one imminently fuckable, it seemed like the best birthday present to myself to dance with guys I had no intention of hooking up with. So, Gary and Javier, if you're out there, I'd like to apologize. Frankly, I'd hope that you noticed that despite my hot dance moves, my mind had checked out for the night. It gave the keys to my pecs, which decided that they'd like my T-shirt off so they could see the crowd better. But in case you weren't looking at my vacant, bloodshot eyes - I'm sorry for being such a cocktease.

I made it home in one piece, though apparently John did look into my eyes and I guess I can thank dance clubs for not being well-lit. Being well-lit myself, I excused myself to the first-floor powder room to vomit for a few minutes. Apparently I went upstairs to bed at some point, but I really don't have a lot of memories of the time between my praying to the porcelain god and waking up with a bladder full of rich, dark, birthday-flavored urine.

Friday, August 12, 2005

It's My Berfday

I quit my semi-closeted nicotine abuse today.

I have, from time to time since my virtual divorce 15 months ago, smoked cigarettes here and there. Most of the time it's been occasional bumming one or two cigarettes at a bar, but there have been a couple periods where I lost my voice for a couple days. OK, that's probably happened 6 times in the last 15 months. Even if I only smoke about a pack in three days (7 cigs a day), that's enough to make me lose my voice and remind me not to smoke. My body doesn't want me smoking.

I'm more of an nicotine abuser than a nicotine addict. I know that if I'm stressed out & pissed off, a cigarette will make me feel much better. I know if I'm wasted that a cigarette will taste so good and make my head feel fantastic. So although I haven't really been at the point of addiction to cigarettes, I've had to "quit" from time to time because I know I can't do this to my body, despite the amazing psychotropic effects of nicotine. That's why I quit for spring break, only to start again three weeks later from school stress; I quit at the end of the semester but then started when I was dating a smoker; quit again after that relationship but started again when in Minneapolis because my best friend there smokes; quit again in DC but started up again when I had a scare that an ex might have had HIV; quit after knowing all was OK (I was never really in danger); and started up again when I had to help a friend with a train wreck of a move and would have killed somebody had I not been able to smoke.

So I quit again for my birthday, because I don't want to do this. I don't ever want to become a real smoker; I don't want to spend the money or have my car, hands, and breath smell like an ashtray. Because I've never been a "real" smoker in the daily necessity way, I've had a hard time taking quitting seriously. And because smoking serves an immediate need, It's always made more sense to me to just do it when I want to. But this can't go on. I just can't smoke, period.

My smoker friend back home is trying to quit. My smoker friend in DC had better be supportive of me. But the problem is that it's a two-way street. For as much as my two smoker friends peer pressure me to smoke (which they do), I also have a tendency to want to smoke with them. So that's tough too.

Anyway, I quit for my birthday because I owe it to myself. But it's hard when I know that a cigarette would lift my mood at the moment. And it's hard to not justify a 2-3 cig/day habit that will make me less pissed off when I know that "real" smokers are smoking 10-20 cigs/day. And it's hard to "quit" when no one (including myself) considers me a "real" smoker. But this has to happen for real. I smoked occasionally when I was single in college for a little under a year and quit for an LTR. This time I've been smoking for a little over a year and it's time to quit for me. I've "quit" twenty times this year and it's time to actually quit. I mean it. But I'm still pissed off.

What a way to spend your birthday.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

A Conversation I Had Last Week

J: there needs to be a word for people like [our friend] Nicole, who went to Smith, loves the Indigo Girls and Whole Foods, can box better than a man, and just overall exhibits lesbian chic despite being heterosexual and happily married to a man.

Me: Oh, you mean like a female equivalent to the term metrosexual?

J: Yeah. We gotta come up with a word for it.

Me: Lesbiain't?

Monday, August 08, 2005

Calling All Tokens, Calling All Tokens

The roommate search is over. We found a fun, preppy young guy to move into the attic on September 1st. He's starting grad school at Howard, two stops down the metro from here. What strikes me as mildly amusing is that, after our White hetero able-bodied goy male roommate moves out, and the new guy moves in, our house will be composed of a gay, a Jew, a Black, and a woman. Or, as I've started to call us, The Democratic Party.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

How NOT to Describe Yourself

I'm sorry that I had to help a friend move today.

I'm sorry, because I missed a bunch of people coming over to look at roommate John's attic room. Apparently one person stood out in particular. He was a somewhat overweight baseball fan in a garish orange shirt. Apparently the guy was somewhat funny, but at some point he ended up just talking to my metrosexual roomie Alex for a minute. He said, "um, I should probably tell you something."

....

"I'm a fucking homo."

"I know it's funny and all, because I'm a Redskins fan, [blah, blah, blah]..."

Alex says that he thanked him for disclosing and told him it wouldn't be a problem. But still, the questions remain for all of us. How out is he? Would someone who was actually out disclose in such a way? Is he a loose cannon full of issues? I can say that it's not a lot of fun coming out to people. In fact, after nearly ten years of having to come out to co-workers, classmates, roommates, etc., I can say that I'm pretty much fatigued from the whole thing. In fact, re: this last move, I mentioned it ["it" meaning my predilection to sodomize young men] after a week or two, because John and I were discussing the military's DADT policy. As he had no idea I was gay, I realized that I might not have sent the signals strong enough around the house. Thus, I felt the need to un-enthusiastically mention it to my other roommates ["for the record, yeah, I'm gay"], who responded with a resounding "we know!"

But, um, yeah... I've never been compelled to refer to myself as "a fucking homo." What the hell does that mean, anyway? I understand that it's supposed to be humorous, but who (gay, straight, bi, whatever) is going to respond well to that? How does that make coming out less awkward???

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Perspective

When I first moved to DC from Minneapolis, the stretch of 18th St. NW between U St. and Columbia Road, commonly known as "The Adams Morgan Bars," seemed to stretch on for miles, like a strange combination of Bourbon Street, The Strip in Vegas, and Times Square. So many exciting bars and crazy people and things to see. It was like its own world to explore.

Jesus Fucking Christ. How fucking straight-off-the-farm *was* I?

Thursday, August 04, 2005

(boorz-ee´) -adj.

It was a source of pride to me as an incoming college freshman that I knew the meanings of the words bourgeois (boorz'hwä) and bourgeoisie (boorz'hwäz-ee´); which was an adjective and which was a noun; and when to use them. I'd always cringe, as visibly as possible, when people would say boor-gee-oyz or boor-geez, or refer to a class of people as "the bourgeois" or say "that's so bourgeoisie." Christ, couldn't these people learn one or two French words other than derriere? They're in common enough usage among the American bourgeoisie (which, Wikipedia tells me, prefers to be called "the citizenry").

You can understand, then, a few months back, when I started hearing people say "boozhee" instead of "boohz-wah," how I instantly branded them idiots in my mind. How could these people - all college educated, and many with postgraduate degrees - say such an ignorant thing? Well, the more I heard people use it, the more I realized that our culture had finally given in and modified the term to be more pronouncable. Still, though, I resisted using it myself. It sounded so Ebonic, or at least Yankeecentric. Had America become completely Freedom-Fried? I hate ballet as much as the next American, but if people started calling it "Anorexics in spandex breaking their toebones to the beat of Tchaikovsky," I'd resist that too. You know I just would.

But eventually I relaxed my snobbery a tad. I actually LIKE saying boozhee at least as much as I like saying bourgeois. So what the hell. Language evolves, which reading Chaucer (OK, I don't actually read Chaucer, let's be honest) reminds me is a good thing. My only questions for you, the miniscule readership of the blog, are thus:

1. How does one spell our li'l neologism? Booshie? Boozhee? Boogie? I think there's a DJ and/or electronic music group out there called Boogie Solitaire. Are they boozhee like bourgeois? Or *actually* the disco-related word "boogie" that has been uncool since 1979? I myself am a fan of bourgee, because it hints to the reader that it hails from bourgeois, and it allows for better Googling. But let me know in the comments how one's supposed to spell it.

2. Seriously, you can be straight with me: How behind the times am I? Have people been saying bourgee for years and I just realized it? Or am I correct in thinking that its usage has spiked in the last six months?

I can't believe I'm actually posting on my blog about this. I'm so fucking boorgee.

I Could Have Taken Over The World

What my stoned ass is thinking about at the moment:

I was reminiscing about my days as an angry un-closeted teenager. I was a fiesty little guy and would pick fights with hetero people about LGBT issues. Any old, conservative, Republican, Christian Minnesotan that I'd come across, I'd breathe fire up their ass about homophobia. I even (and this is embarrassing), at the all-night post-graduation party at my high school, recorded a clip for the 10th-year-reunion video about what I'd be doing in 10 years, and I said I'd probably be living in New York in an unfurnished apartment, wearing black and shooting a lot of heroin, or else I'll have won the legal fight for gay marriage but still not have been successful enough to be married. This, mind you, was in 1997 when no one anywhere was even talking about gay marriage. I was an out-there kid. Out as bisexual at 15, out as gay at 16, out in angryville by the time I graduated high school.

In college I dated a lot of guys and I eventually settled down with one. Across the dating years (17-20) and the relationship years (20-24), I mellowed out a lot. All my anger at my rich-ass little suburb full of WASPy, homophobic (and racist) jerks faded in college because pretty much everyone I knew were gay-friendly straights. My anger at straight society faded as my then-partner and I got welcomed to all sorts of events, from office parties to family holidays, to academic functions (I started grad school three years ago).

The last year-and-a-half of my life has been really fucking awesome. I've been single/dating and grad school turned around from miserable to tolerable, which was like a 3000% improvement. But the point is, I'm living a content life and happy that I'll have some kind of job of some sort when I get the letters Ph.D. associated with my name, no matter what I decide to do. Still, though, cannabis and I can't help but think:

If I had known I was going to be gay when I was 3 years old, I could have taken over the world.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Comments Section Fixed

Hello Dear Readers,

(and there must be at least 2 or 3 of you at this point)...

I fixed the comments section so that anyone can comment. In the extreme cases (e.g. un-funny mean-spirited racism/misogyny/religious intolerance, etc.) I might have to delete someone's comment, but in the name of free speech, pretty much everything is within limits. So feel free to comment!

The Angel Headed Hipster's alter ego also requests that you not use his actual name in the comments, for the primary reason that he doesn't want people to Google his name and get this site. It's not like my identity is a big secret; I just want to be able to provide you all with filth and not have it show up when people look for my name. Fair enough?

The Friend Date

I have a lot of lady friends. If I were boning them, I'd be a pimp, but I'm not boning them. We go to dinner, talk about life, split the bill, maybe head home and watch a movie, have a nice long goodbye, and they take off, leaving me to take out my contacts and go to bed. All in all it's a nice experience, but I wonder if it's nicer for them than for me. The straight/bi ones, at least, get a date with a person of the "right" gender and I don't.

When I lived in Minneapolis, I had the converse experience: I knew a lot of straight guys whom I'd go grab some pizza with, maybe a beer or two, split the bill, catch a movie or watch one at home, say goodnight. A nice weeknight Man Date. (Props to the NYT for coining the term "Man Date").

Most of the time I don't feel used by my hetero lady dates. I love hanging out with friends. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I should feel cheated, like I'm giving away a date and not getting anything in return. But then I think about my man dates, and I realize that it's not about the sex or romance. If I get food with a straight guy and watch a movie, I don't feel gratified romantically. It's not like I'm pining after them... we are hanging out because we are friends who want to hang out.

A good case in point is Peter, an old friend with whom I have lost touch. No one ever called him Peter; we called him Sexy Pete, That Guy From The Fridge. He went to high school with a buddy of mine, whom I worked with while in high school, and in college, my buddy had a picture of him on the fridge (among pictures of other friends). Everyone that came over (at least the straight girls & gay guys) commented on how totally fucking hot Peter was. I think it was my friend Paul who gave him the actual moniker "SPTGFTF."

SPTGFTF and I would go clothes shopping sometimes, maybe sit down to dinner at an Italian restaurant, head somewhere for coffee afterwards or go used-CD shopping, and I'd drop him off at home. And although he was totally bone-able, looks-wise, it was never like I was delusional that we'd fall in love and get married. He was hotter than a lot of my other friends, but spending time with him wasn't necessarily better (or worse) than with un-hot friends. The enjoyment I got was the enjoyment that he got - spending time with a friend.

Now, granted, there are exceptions to all this: I have had one or two ladies (mostly in the teen years) who actually might have been crushing on me, and for whom the friend date may have had different expectations. And I had a straight guy friend in college whom I really liked way too much. By the time he and I hooked up, years later, the thrill had gone for me. Dude missed his window, but in a strange way managed to justify the year I wasted longing for him. All in all, it was satisfying that he wasn't *that* straight. But I wonder if there are any female friends of mine from the past who kept hoping that I would pull the same move on them. God knows there's some sense of gratification there.

But for the most part - the friend date isn't about anyone's gender or sexuality (unlike, say, the dynamics of multiple people living together, as noted previously). Granted, if there's a lesbian involved, there's probably caffeine; if there's a straight OR gay guy, alcohol must come into play to justify the occasion and to ease the "date" aspect of the friend date; and if there is a straight girl involved you might just end up watching a romantic comedy. But the important part of the friend date is spending time with a friend. And frankly, (assuming you're at least getting a little action once in a while), the fact that you *aren't* going to take your clothes off and do the horizontal mambo is pretty relaxing. Have that extra bite of pasta, even if you feel a little full. Don't obsess if sitting comfortably on the sofa to watch TV is going to mess up your hair. Don't worry about whether your pubes are trimmed too much or too little or what message your underwear sends about you as a person. Enjoy the friend and enjoy the friend date.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Betrayed by my knowledge of Mermaid Avenue

I started this blog on a whim. Granted, I've been ranting, raving, and offending people since I could open my mouth as a toddler - and I'd been told in the past to start my own blog - but I finally just decided to do it. Having to pick a name on the spot should have been daunting, but the Allen Ginsburg quote "angelheaded hipster" from his signature poem, "Howl," jumped out at me. Recent events dictated this quote.

I was doing a weeknight (Tuesday, IIRC) tour of Mt. Pleasant, U Street, and Columbia Heights bars while catching up with an ex. He's a Guinness snob, as I used to be in college, and the good things about bars within walking distance of my place is that they serve Schlitz for $2 and Guinness for $6, so however you want to spend the money you don't have, they'll accomodate. Anyway (I say this word a lot because I get sidetracked a lot), at some point when we were dating, dude was confused because I exude this preppy, clean-cut Midwest image, yet say things that would make Caligula blush (props to my boy Morrissey in the closet). He also thought I had a bizarrely diverse selection going on my iPod (I thought everyone liked to hear Wilson Pickett between Hank Williams and The New Pornographers) for someone who wore non-threadbare shirts. Apparently I don't completely fit the image people have of urban snobs. I told him that I was a "total hipster in high school and college" but that I had mellowed out and changed my ways, and I didn't hate corporate America like I used to.

However, on Tuesday Guinness night, my inner self was exposed. Ex-dude and I sauntered into an establishment on U Street whose CD player was playing some strange folksy love song to Ingrid Bergman (the femme fatale from "The Maltese Falcon," not to be confused with Scandinavian artsy film auteur Ingmar Bergman, who was a guy). Him: "what the HELL is this music?" Me: "well, you see, Woody Guthrie had this degenerative disease and couldn't play guitar for the last 30 years of his life and wrote a bunch of songs he never recorded, and his daughter eventually decided to make money off of them by having an *English* folk singer, Billy Bragg, team up with an *American* roots-rock band, Wilco, to make these two records of his songs...." Him: "and you tell me you're no longer an urban hipster?" So, yeah. I have accepted the fact that I am an angelheaded hipster - looking downright Republican on the outside but full of Guinness suds and ethnic food on the inside.

"Dude, you're like Behind The Music for this shit!"

No Bitches n' Hoes

I moved into the group house I live in off of Craig's List, the site with the best rep for matching dirty hipsters with dirty homes. I found a place with two guys staying, where a guy and a girl were moving out and they needed two people to replace them. Myself and a girl moved in. We'll call her "Julia," since that's her real name.

The other day, roommate John announced that he is moving out. (Found a place a block away for $190/mo!) Point is, we gotta find a new roommate. In my mind, I was assuming/hoping we'd find a fun metrosexual/hipster type straight guy to move in. I would settle for a low-maintenance hipsterdyke or a gay guy that I am not attracted to but has hot friends. But primarily.... I hoped we'd get the lowest-maintenance category of person available, which is the urban straight guy. He has a lot of hair styling products, but he still forgets his socks in the crack of the sofa and never buys Glade Plug-Ins.

Some in the fields of *cough cough* anthropology, sociology, critical theory, gender studies, etc. would be terribly offended at my classifying people by biological sex and presumed essential, dichotomous, immutable sexual orientation - and then attempting to infer non-sexual aspects of their life based on these categories. These people can suck my dick, because they have never lived in an apartment with three heterosexual women. To quote the movie Anchorman, "don't get me wrong... I LOOOOOOOVE the ladies..." but I spent about 4 months of my freshman year of college living with three straight girls (two of whom occasionally pretended to be bisexual). After about four lunar cycles, I promised to never again live in a household that was "synched," unless synchronization meant we had wireless internet to allow beating off to internet porn from any room in the house.

You can imagine my delight when I came home today to find the guys sitting on the couches and Julia bouncing up and down in the living room doorway, sucking on a fudgesicle, screaming "NO BITCHES N' HOES! That's what our Craig's List ad needs to say!" Apparently, there are some straight women out there who understand me completely. It's a fun house to live in.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Finally joined the blogging game

After years of being a devoted blog reader, I've decided to finally start my own blog. And after years of being a devoted blog reader, I've also decided what I will and won't do. Here's the gist of it: I will post as often as I can. I will make this blog as safe-for-work as a blog written by a trashy, perverted provacateur can be. I will keep you laughing. I will not talk about people you don't know unless I explain them. The focus will be on rants, raves, and psychoanalysis of those around us. This blog will be personal to the point of being interesting, but not so self-absorbed as to be boring. You will like this blog. You will read this blog. Nonetheless, this blog will not suck your dick or wash your dirty dishes.