It's a gas gas gas

I went to Gasparilla on Saturday. Gasparilla is a Tampa tradition that celebrates its founding, or something. I don’t really know the deal with the holiday; don’t much care, neither. Anyway, it’s kind of like Mardi Gras, except less tits and with more of a pirate flavor. I went, not because I had some overwhelming desire to, but because a friend at work offered me passes to the reserve seating, and since he was IN the parade, I kind of felt compelled to go. Plus, it did offer a fine opportunity for people watching.

I took my friend John with me. Try to imagine the two of us, neither one much for crowds and he far less than me, in a swarm of people all jockeying to catch poorly fabricated plastic beads (sorry, Indonesian children: it’s just how I feel). We did have much entertainment from the crowd, though.

There was the crew of lesbians down in front. Unattractive lesbians. I would say the one was reading a nine on the Mullet-o-meter. She was a penis and a fishing hat away from being in Deliverance. Then they started Frenching. And, no, I am not saying they began to eat snails and surrender at the first opportunity: actual tongue-swallowing was going on. It was quite disgusting, and not because it was lesbians, but because it was unattractive lesbians. And also because they weren’t hot guys.

I mustn’t forget to mention the gawp-toothed inbred mouth-breather that sprung up next to the lesbians like a mushroom on midnight soil. He was quite something. You know the faces that make up the candlestick/vase illusions? The ones with the impossible chins that curve upward to meet the severely mashed down nose? Yeah, that was about his profile. The piece de resistance, however, had to be the mole that perched like a fat leech (in color and shape, no less) on his left cheek. It was sort of like a train wreck: you just couldn’t look away, but you really, really wanted to.

However, the truly ugly people were those fuckheads who encouraged their children to whip beads at the people in the parade. They started off by just aiming at the cops and the security guards, but apparently the black students in the marching bands were worth more points. I will not forget the fat white bastard who cheerfully clapped his red-headed punk-ass bitch of a son on the shoulder when he finally managed to peg one. Fortunately, karma does exist: the little bitch got clipped on the ear himself by a big set of beads. I could hear the impact from where I was. It wasn’t everything he deserved, but I can read his future: it all balances out in the end.

Antisepsis

I don't even know if that is a word. It kind of came to me today. There was a point with it, something like about an old woman, and white tile floors, and a feeling. Yes, there was a feeling involved. Cold medication is fun.

So sick!

My throat hurts. Not from that, you bitches: I have tonsillitis or something. The lymph nodes in my neck feel as tight and hard as ball bearings. I can’t yawn or swallow without feeling like someone is jamming a sharpened pencil into the back of my throat. I have considered calling the doctor, but will wait until tomorrow before I make that decision. Besides, it’s already too late to call him today.

I, object

So I went to a bear meeting. Before your mind snaps from trying to imagine me frolicking in a woodland setting, allow me to explain: it’s not real bears. Rather, it is gay men who are hirsute and not slaves to the body fascism which permeates our culture, especially gay culture: they’re fat. I went because, well, gay, hairy, and not gym rat pretty much forces you to go. Also, I kind of like them. I mean, sure: skinny guys can be cute but I also likes me a man with a little junk in his trunk. In fact… well, let’s not tell that story right now. Let’s leave it at I had to learn the hard way that the expression “more cushion for the pushin’” is more than just a crude rhyme, it’s actually VERY sound advice. I mean, after five hours, you come away with the expectation of crotch bruises.
Anyway, I was easily one of the hottest guys at the bear meeting. Given my prior description of the participants (gay, hairy, fat) this may come as absolutely no surprise to you. It may also sound like an Ed Asner look-a-like convention, but it’s your mental image, not mine. This blazingly obvious hotness was new and exciting to me: never before in my conscious knowledge have so many men obviously objectified me. They kept coming over to touch me, stealing glances, trying to take my clothes off, partially succeeding… I’ll finish there.
I did actually meet some very nice guys, a couple of whom actually weren’t old enough to be my biological father or grandfather. Even more exciting, the absolutely hottest guy (to me) in the room was checking ME out, and furthermore, came over to feel ME up. I KNOW! So, while I am conscious of the fact that it is wrong to objectify people, and while I am sure that I will eventually grow tired of the constant attention to my appearance instead of my dazzling personality and razor-sharp wit, I’M PRETTY! I’M A SEXY BITCH! I HAVE SIZZLE IN MY SAUCEPAN, BABY! I would write more, but I have to go brush my hair a hundred times. My chest hair.

Fritzee Freeze

I am having minor technical difficulties: my new computer has decided to make angry noises and refuse contact with the outside world. Right now, I am using my old stalwart (well, not stalwart so much as decided-to-tank-out-when-the-new-girl-showed-up-but-has-since-reformed-thanks-to-a-partial-lobotomy). The only problem with the present situation is that my typing feng shui is completely cocked up: the keyboard is all crunked over on top of the other one and I have to use (behold my ultimate horror) a regular mouse. However, bunny fans should rest assured that I will be back to my usual slacking for no good reason in short order: technical support is making a house call tomorrow. Sometimes geeks are hot, right? I'm going to wear my kimono just in case.

Snip Snip

Okay, I need to rave (as opposed to ranting, my usual ouevre) for a moment. I LOVE the Scissor Sisters. Actually, I really may be in love with two of them (Babydaddy and Del Marquis; plus, they are homos!), one is okay, one is a woman, and the straight guy is just not appealing to me (for once). But I digress. They rock. Now, I am not advocating digital piracy, but everyone should go and listen to their music right now. No, I'll wait. Finished? Good. My favorite tracks are... well, fuck I really just love them all. I mean, yes, I do rock out a little harder to "Take Your Mama", "Music is the Victim", and "Filthy/Gorgeous", but how can you not when they feature lyrics like "Gonna take your mama out all night/Yeah, we'll show her what it's all about/We'll get her jacked up on some cheap champagne" and "I left my bag in Pasadena/where all them girls was doin' Tina" and "And the people that you meet/Want to open you up like Christmas." Sigh. If only I could convince Babydaddy and Del Marquis to get involved with me in some crazy three-way marriage...

I kissed a boy

Well, not a boy: it was not a Michael Jackson moment for me. My first kiss of the New Year came from a gay man (just on the cheek, although now I think I could’ve gotten more if I had asked for it). This was a nice change of pace for me, since my first kiss of the New Year usually comes from my mother. Instead of going to mom and dad’s house, like I always do, and hating every moment of it, like I always do, I skittered down to Miami to spend the New Year with my friends. I did it because I needed some change in my life, and I realized that if I wanted it, I had to make it happen. Now, change and I have a historically rocky relationship. I like things the way they are, even when I am a miserable blob of self-loathing, because it is familiar and, well, comfortable (comfortable in the sense of being able to predict what is going to happen, not in the sense of “Yay! I love being a miserable blob of self-loathing!”). But while it may have been familiar and comfortable, it was not making me happy. And I have already spent too much of my life being unhappy. So, I was like “fuck it!” I made my choice. My gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, anxious diarrhea inducing choice. And you know what? It was okay. Maybe next year, I’ll ask for a little Mr. French.

Ho Ho Hurl

Just before the holidays (oh wait, I must specify lest the Evangelicals protest by not spending their Jesus bucks on my site… HAHAHAHA!), I met my friend Kym at Borders. We met in the children’s section because I hadn’t met my yearly quota of homosexual recruitment. No wait, I mean, she was looking for some gifts for her nieces. Yeah, that’s it. So, being a children’s librarian extraordinaire, I was making some suggestions about possible gifts for her nieces. While we were looking, we started to hear whimpering coming from the little stage in the children’s area. A little girl was laying across the stage, making various noises of discomfort and drumming her heels on the ground. Kym, herself a parent, wondered whether we should go over and intervene. I, as an educator, pointed out that her parents were nowhere to be seen and that they would resent any attempts to offer succor because it would highlight their apparent lack of care. Besides, it looked more to me like a tantrum than a problem. The girl rendered our discussion academic by issuing forth a three-foot plume of vomit. After moving to the other side of the children’s section, Kym and I resumed our discussion, although this time we debated over what was more nauseating: the smell of the vomit or the brain-etching scent of the cleanser.