Snowmaggedon, Imma Gettin It

So it was snowmageddon, or snowpocalypse, weekend this weekend. I didn't do anything particularly stupid, so there's not much to blog about. I did fall down Dr. Awesome's Webster stairs, though.



Webster stairs being servant's stairs. I can't help but think that this fall would have been a little less painful if there'd been a grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs, like in the show, to take the brunt of my tumbling body. I mean really. Also, if a large greek man with a sweet 'stache had been there to comfort me after my tumble, I can't help but think that things would have been a bit better. Where is my Mr. Papadopoulos, I ask you?

Other than that, I made it through Snowface Off: Face Your Snow Off weekend relatively unscathed.

Looking for Snowmageddon 2, the Reckoning tomorrow night though. I'll make sure to do something stupid just so I have a decent blog entry.

Just in Case You Forgot

Flash Gordon is an under-appreciated cinematic masterpiece. It's also got a kickass soundtrack:



I really have to become a supervillian, just so I have an excuse to menacingly say "eearrrrth" the way homeslice does in the beginning of this video. I just may start doing it randomly anyway.

Also, at the end he totally says, "You looney bird, they need you on the ground." The fuck Flash? Seems to me the most effective arena for a beardo bird warrior dood would be in the sky man.

Walk on the Gay Side

You can trace almost every epically retarded decision I've ever made back to one thing: vagina. If I'm doing something stupid, I can almost guarantee there's a girl involved somehow.

It was a girl's fault that I walked around looking like a gay dood for two weeks. Now, I'm not the most manly of men to begin with. I'm pretty sure I'd fall on the twink side of the spectrum if I were actually gay. A bear I am not. Add to that the fact that I love clothes and can chat about trends and designers, and it's pretty easy to see why I've had my fair share of attention from the boys. I'm comfortable enough in my sexuality to be flattered...hell I even take it as a compliment. I'd rather a gay guy think I'm on his team because I'm dressed well than be some clueless lout stomping around in horrible dad jeans and bad sweaters. But, having said all that, I'm also a proud member of team breeder. Which is why pretty much everyone was confused for the two weeks after I got my eyebrows waxed.

You see, perfectly manicured eyebrows are one of the key indicators that will start firing off blips on the gaydar. I didn't realize it myself until my own brows were trimmed into perfect stripes. Pay attention to it, though. It's one of those things that once you finally see, you can't stop seeing.

Of course, none of this was my idea. The girl I was seeing at the time insisted on the procedure. She dragged me into a nail salon and had a good laugh as I squirmed under the wax, trying not to let on how excruciating it was. She, at least, had the common decency to pay for it. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad, if she didn't live in the gayborhood. Walking back to her place, pretty much every guy we passed gave me the nod and scowled at her.

My eyebrows eventually returned to a hetero-level of bushiness before I started exploring my secret leather daddy fantasies. I'm not gonna lie and say I'll never have another cosmetic procedure (I mean seriously, have you had a chemical peel? They make your skin look like a baby's ass). But, I'm definitely gonna steer clear of eyebrow grooming in the future.

Compounding Anxiety

If you've known me for, like, five minutes, you probably know that I'm totally unsatisfied professionally. You probably also know that I recently sent out a shitload of grad school apps. You may further know that I'm now freaking out waiting for those answers to roll in.

I don't know if it's because my fucking head felt like it was going to explode tonight, but I've decided to allay that anxiety by, well, compounding it. I dug out the old Writer's Market and started digging through literary magazines that accept "experimental" work. I'm told this is what my stuff would fall under. Tonight, I submitted online what, I think, is my best work to about five publications. I'll submit to about five more tomorrow night and so on until I'm through every market that might take my work. Then I'll plow through the publications that only take hard copy manuscripts. Then, I'm gonna go through again, submitting my second best work, until I know, one way or another if I'm wasting my time.

Here's to sore throat induced freak outs!

An Open Letter to the Parents of Philadelphia

Dear Parents of Philadelphia,

You all have lost your damn minds. I'm talking, of course, about strollers here. These things are out of control. I saw one the other day with a full suspension, cup holders and upholstery made of fine corinthian leather. I understand the keeping up with the Joneses arms race that your life becomes when you finally give up and decide to start repeating all the mistakes your parents made - even though you've been swearing since you're 12 that you won't. And oh yeah, just in case you were wondering, when we aren't masturbating while crying or cruising the internet for people to bone at 3 a.m., all us single, childless people are having a good laugh at you.

I also understand that you need a sturdier stroller for the city. The streets of Philadelphia are not smooth, as we all know. Heaven forbid little Caden or Dyylan spill his $9 raw, organic milk smoothie while you skirt from Whole Foods over to Anthropologie to buy a sexy little outfit in a vain attempt to jumpstart the old sex life. Why bother, when you know you're gonna pass out in it anyway? Also, I'm pretty sure monied white folks are off the names that aren't really names now that poor white people have picked up on it. I think y'all are back on classic names at the moment; so substitute Caden and Dyylan with Thomas or Nathaniel.

The two people who read this estimable blog are probably wondering why a guy who is, let's face it, the male version of a cat lady would give a flying fuck about such a thing. Well, the thing is, I have to walk these sidewalks and I often run on them. There is nothing more frustrating than running the few blocks to the river trail and getting locked in behind some asshole who's stroller takes up the entire fucking block. These people think that because there's "precious cargo" aboard their push-powered hummer prams that they don't have to yield to pedestrians in the slightest. Nope, they are free to go about their day blocking up the entire sidewalk with their retarded indulgence. Seriously, you'll never get caught up behind one of these rickety bitches:

That kid looks just as happy as any third-generation trustafarian rolling about in a $900 stroller with anti-lock brakes and satellite radio. Myself, and everyone I know, were pushed around in these things in the late seventies. We came out just fine. Yeah, just fine.

Quickly Now

I logged into twitter today for the first time in a couple months. I've been a spotty tweeter, at best. But I've been having some seriously awesome thoughts lately that the world, the world in this case being the 80 people who follow me, needs to see in 140 character bursts. Upon logging in, I realized something: real people aren't tweeting anymore. The whole thing is a clusterfuck of blogs and news services, celebrities and douchebag "new media" marketing types.

So I logged out, and will probably delete my account soon. I just don't see the point anymore, especially since I'm dicking around with this blog for at least the next 11 days or so.

Oh yeah, I logged on originally to post the following: It's a bummer that sour patch kids and swedish fish don't come in a king size

I can't help but feel that twitter missing that tweet is almost the internet equivalent of the burning of the library at Alexandria. Almost.