One of my homosexual friends is having a homosexual celebration for what homosexuals refer to as “Pride”.
This homosexual festivity is not limited to homosexuals but also friends and family of homosexuals, or generally people who are just “with it”. This is how I was honoured with an invitation. Deep down, I know homosexuals and their nefarious plotting to homosexualize me. But I’m too clever for their rouse.
Since George is in Toronto, coincidentally or not, for “Pride”, I am delighted to extend the invitation to the lot of you. It would be great to have a cluster of fellow “Breeders” (this is what the homosexuals refer to us as) to join in on this celebration, and very importantly shield each other from acts of attempted homosexualization.
Now, given the circumstances, as a group should we feel marginalized, prejudiced against, or otherwise make too feel the evil eye of discrimination, we have the option to depart and go hang out in our designated “straight”bourhood, were frumpy sweat pants, talk sports, have messy hair and not worry how tight our pecs, abs or buttocks look.
New Yorkish was a little ray of sunshine in my otherwise dank dark pit of solitary despair. I miss your elequence with language, your razor-sharp, downtown kinda wit. Your were hip without even trying. That's the best kind of hip, Remy. Where have you gone? Why have you gone? Are you secretly chained to a Gawker media laptop, kowtowing before the ruthless Mistress Denton into service journalism from some bloated behemoth multi-national spreading your wit and your hipness like Marmite spread to thinly on a mammoth, never ending pretoated slap of Melba? Or have you been dispatched to one of the Gawker media titles as Oscar night, toilet exit, editorial seat filler? You have even gone absent from New York Magazine's occasional freelance. Where are you, Remy? Where are you?
Oh. There you are. From Denton to Roshan. From Lucifer to Mammon. Welcome back, Remy. Welcome home.
¶ posted by earnest @ Saturday, June 18, 2005 | |
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
The consumer insight that launched a zillion hedge-clippers
Phillips Bodygroom for Men capitalizes on the longer dick insight to men's pubic trimming. Personally, I love how it's deliberately addressed to straight men. God knows, insinuating that a man secretly fears having a short dick while potentially harbouring taboo desires to cornhole and/or be cornholed by another guy would just be too alienating. While nearly half of British men have had a go at trimming the trunk grass, apparently 37% of American men have had a homosexual experience. Who's your dandy?
¶ posted by earnest @ Wednesday, June 15, 2005 | |
Patience vs Dead Tomorrow: a fork in the fucking frustrating road
I am conflicted. There is much hubris on the internet on two warring factors:
- Patience and the value of "mature" perseverence.
- Live to today because you could be dead tomorrow.
I hate waiting. I am no party to waiting in line nor in pecking order. Live hard and live fast. Because you going to be dead someday. Yet it is childish and rash to expect everything. And worse, everything now.
An it seems I have been waiting for too long. I am no longer the spring chicken of my youth. And the years have told me do not wait for good things to happen. Making them happen for yourself is the only way to get where you want to go. Yet the work is not so simple. Gatekeepers and politics abound and I have learned a very hard lesson in the need to incessant politicking. Image control and goodwill panhandling is a terrible must in todays catty bitchfest of a corporate lifestyle. Even non corporate. Bureacracy is not the exclusive mainstay of mega corporations. That said, it is best policy to treat everyone around you like some gigantic lipstick-wearing ass-kissing festival. People are goddamn emotional. Petty. Vindicative. It seems goodness and virtue are lost. Pulling favours is the bitter cynical modus operandi. Does that sound bitter? It does. I am.
Here is a quiet confession. I have been breaking my back clawing my way through a lifestyle that I no longer see as an end. And it fucking freaks me out. What am I so disillusioned? Is it because I have been made to feel a fool by holding fast to values of loyalty, perseverance and commitment? By doing so and finding the result meaningless and seemingly deliberately held at distance, why run the marathon? Am I wimping out? or am I just realizing, too late, that I do not want to even finish that line?