i kNoW wHAt yOu DiD laSt sEAsOn...

...Nothing -- which is exactly how the universe intended it.

The undeniably beautiful and seemingly always perky Jennifer Love Hewitt is absolutely determined to make a return to television, though apparently, one flop at a time.

Her latest attempt, sadly sans the breasts, can be seen in the soon to be cancelled CBS drama, Ghost Whisperer, where she stars as a young woman cursed with the ability to communicate with dead people in order to help them cross over to the other side.

Think a way hotter John Edward. Like, WAY hotter.

Now, those who know me well can vouch for it when I proclaim I love Love, always have and always will...I'm perhaps the only guy in America who actually appreciates and defends her acting ability. I hereby submit into evidence my copy of Confessions Of A Sociopathic Social Climber. Um, hellllo? "I barely have enough time to keep a journal let alone breast feed an orphan!"

But after an entire hour of watching her unsuccessfully struggle with the poorly written dialogue, and a flawed and fated for failure concept we've seen many times over, it doesn't take a guy with six senses to figure out this show won't materialize into anything of value, other than a development mistake that'll haunt the network's Friday night time-slot for the rest of the season.

Sucks for me, too. I finally just apologized to everyone I made sit through Time Of Your Life.

Boyfriend Or Blemish? That Is The Question...

I stare at him, his swollen, enlarged head thrust out before me, practically oozing, begging for release. Wet lips pursed ever so slightly, my hands fumble for just the right position. Neck craned, cheeks puffed out. My breathing slows, I swallow hard and pray, pray there won't be too much of a mess to clean up.

I haven't done this in a while...But this zit must be destroyed.

"Everyone does it," she says, eying her own imperfections in my mirror, despite my devout declaration there are none to be found. "It's just a matter of when you let him see you doing it."

Like porn, I offer up for example.

She turns on flamboyant heel, a frustrated professor schooled in but one subject: Men. "No, showing him your dirty porn collection can only bring you closer together," she instructs. "But pimples...there's no way to make a creamy pustule sexy."

And that got me thinking. Surely there comes a time in every relationship when the delicate matter of "personal bodily functions" rises to the surface. Discussing, or rather, experiencing these moments together -- the first belch, the first fart, the first time you catch him wearing girl's panties -- somehow, couples manage to survive. Made stronger even, I hear, when both of you can be in the bathroom at the same time and only one is going number two.

But when is it a good time to discuss bad skin?

Do you cancel a first date because your forehead looks like the coat rack at Nobu, or should you confront the issue blackhead-on and inform him you'll be coming to bed donning a crusty peroxide face mask from now until you're both 40?

The issue at hand is not nearly as superficial as just wanting clear skin, for you or your mate. Our problem lies far more deep-rooted than that. Obviously, it would be ideal to live in Nicole Kidman's porcelain exterior morning, noon and night.

But for those of us not biblically blessed with such seemingly natural beauty, there exists a system of regimented behavior patterns, habitual rituals of cleansing, detoxing and purifying the face, the exposure of which could send our newly established relationships from "too hot" to "so not" in a matter of seconds.

The question then, is it possible to have a blemish AND a boyfriend?

You see, recently I was making out with this guy whose flawless skin made my heart ache, literally. And when our sweaty saliva swapping session ceased, I told him I had to kick him out, not because it was our first date, not because I didn't like him, and certainly not because I wanted to avoid waking up the next morning wrapped in my sheets, in his arms. Far from it.

He had to exit because I had to exfoliate.

I chose not to explain that evening, though it quickly became apparent something was amiss. I was hiding a secret, and he was determined to uncover it.

"Do you snore, like, horrible train-wrecked kind of snoring?"

I looked at him, unsure how to respond. The truth is yes, I do snore, but that's not why these had remained sleepovers for one.

"Leg Thrasher?"

"Sleepwalker?"

"Have you killed your boyfriends while they slept at your side?"

He ran through the possible excuses, each one sounding more reasonable than the next. All, surprisingly, less embarrassing than the truth.

"Do you fart in your sleep? Is that why I can't stay over?"

It was the fifth date, the fifth night we spent together. And as I watched him roll over and reach for his shoes, as if his line of questioning was merely a rehearsed routine to carry us to the good byes, I realized he had given up on expecting an answer.

And that's when it hit me. This guy would risk getting kicked in the groin, stabbed through the neck and suffocate on my flatulence, all just to lie next to me until morning. I pulled him back onto the bed, and told him to wait there while I disappeared from the room.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror I took a moment to eye my products. Face wash, too normal. Tea Tree Oil, invisible to sight, yes, but overbearing to smell. Oxy, Clearasil, Noxzema. Globs of white goo plastered across my face, mountains forming in sporadic areas, a crazed connect-the-dots puzzle only a dermatologist would appreciate.

Then examining my masterpiece, I wondered if this suicide mission was worth it. I mean, would it really be so bad to just have him think I fart wildly in my sleep?

I must have stood there contemplating this for a while, long enough for the peroxide to begin to dry, when I heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"I'm taking off. I'll call you tomorrow."

It was now or never, to be or not to be alone for the rest of my life. And so I stretched for a moment, took one final look at my creation and kicked open the door, stepping out into the light, my cracked white face exposed for his final judgment.

"I'm here. I'm queer. And I have pimples!"

The next morning I rolled over to find, buried in my pillows, his perfect face, now bleached haphazardly with smeared remnants from my melange of zit creams.

After that night, I shuffled my facial routine from time to time, risking a break-out to avoid the break-up I had always feared.

Sadly, things did cool for us a few weeks later, though I'm utterly thankful to say it was not as a direct result of my own exposure. Actually, it was something that he did which pushed me to want out of the relationship:

He swallowed his floss.

Sick, right?

Stars Get Naked To Help Hurricane Relief

And the biggest star of them all is of no exception.

Star Jones, E! TV's Red Carpet hostess with the most-ass, donated the $3000 Marc Bauer gown she adorned at this years Emmy Awards to the Clothes Off Our Back Foundation, a charity which auctions off outfits worn by celebrities at award shows and movie premieres, delivering the proceeds to those in need.

This year the organization has chosen to lend their financial assistance to the relief efforts for victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Rather than bidding for the dress, however, the Red Cross announced they will use it as a tarp to cover the areas still flooded by the storm, and to provide shelter for the thousands left homeless in the hurricane's devastating wake.

In a related story, Star Jones ate this dog.

Great Exhortations

I sit here now, a patient, impatiently waiting for the impending news, the who's, the what's, the when's and the why's, and my eyes, my eyes, they wander warily down to my feet, to their defeat, as each toe attempts a wiggle on it's own, alone, my ten little piggys trapped under the tether of a leather, weathered and worn, like my soul.

You see I've been in this seat before, starring down at this floor, at these shoes, canvassing for clues that could creep me closer to completing the repeating mystery, my history, that historical, rhetorical, metaphorical obsession with love.

And that's about the time I hear my name. So I gather up my belongings, replace the curled, unread magazine to the top of the heap and follow down the longest of hallways, this weaving woman in white, a revision of the vision of some guardian angel I've seen many times before.

In my dreams, perhaps. No, on the side of a bus, in an advertisement hocking low cal cream cheese to the masses with fat asses. That's right, I know your precious secret. Your hypocritical oath, indeed. I too can't believe it's not -- but before I can utter, mutter or stutter she butters me up a sweet, smooth smile, and I step into her chamber, despite the clearly present danger, and assume my role as her daughter for the slaughter.

The doctor will be in shortly, she seethes. Take a seat.

Great, more waiting.

I eye my options, a plastic step-stool shoved into the corner, paying penance for being so damn uncomfortable no doubt, or the parchment bathed butchers block bellowing out before me. Clearly this is the end I was intended to meet. And so, like a flesh covered flank of fillet mignon I flay myself out to the sound of what used to be a flawlessly smooth surface, now wrinkled, crinkled and ruined under my shifting weight.

And here I wait. Wait to be seen, wait to be heard. Wait for a fate whose arrival will burn every last hope with every new desire for a freshly filled future barring, of course, brimstone and fire. Liar. She said he'd be here shortly.

Short. That's me. As I eye the scale, then my pale, frail reflection in the mirror. Who is this guy? And when did he stop being the man I wish to pretend to want to try to be? Me? Yeah, I'm still here. Still queer. But you don't have to get used to it. Shit, I never did.

Knock knock, like he needs to ask.

I find his hardened face particularly telling. Compelling, this sudden swelling in my chest, at best, the sweat beaded forehead, the desert in my throat. Was this really all she ever wrote? Was this my last call, my life's line of credit, indebted, overdrawn with a ravenous red reaper out for collection?

Did you use protection?

Like he needs to ask.

Like I can remember.

What's up, Doc? Is that ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee all folks? Or do I get a second shot, a lyrical last dance, another chance to romance and recall the memories, fuckin' vodka reeking memories, in the corners of my eyes, these lies, these lives, their wives.

Oh yes, the way we were.

Allergies, he says. Tis' the season.

Nothing more could be less. And nothing less is ever more depleting. Then excreting my appreciations for both his time and expertise, I tease, can I still turn my head and cough?

Ease off, it's just an expression. Some half-assed imitation, a celebration of temptation, yet his half-hard hesitation gives pause to trepidation and in that moment of speculation, when anticipation weds reservation, I smile in desperation and let it slip, this, my greatest exhortation.

I'll see you in six months then...

...when we'll dance another day, and die just a little bit in between.

Potty Time, Excellent!

Some things never change. Even when you're the most powerful man in the world, surrounded by a room full of equally important world leaders, prime-ministers, princes and presidents alike, you still have to ask for a Hallway Pass to use the shitter.

Cut to the UN World Summit, where the heated topic of discussion was terrorism and international security. And as issues of a waning war and progress for peace began to churn, President Bush found the need to drop a bomb of a different nature.

Caught by an AP photographer with an amazing zoom lens, Bush scribbled a note to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, sheepishly announcing, "I think I may need a bathroom break? Is this possible?"


Perhaps the most telling aspect in this developing story is his wavering position to potty. He isn't even sure he HAS to go. He just thinks it. Then again, this is the same man who sat dumbfounded for seven minutes in a classroom reading "My Pet Goat" when the nation was "under attack."

Rumors of brewing trouble within his Cabinet quickly began circulating when Condi returned Bush's note with one of her own:

"I told you to go before we left the House!"

Let's just hope Bush wipes his Tush better than he balances a budget.

Puttin My Mouth Where The Weiner Is

Well the polls are closed, and the votes are in and unfortunately my first choice in the Democratic Mayoral Primary, Anthony Weiner, came in a conceding second. Perhaps I'm just a day too late and a few hollers short to make good use of a semi-public endorsement for any one candidate, so instead I'll make a semi-political plea:

Though he has chosen graciously to step aside and let Who-The-Fuck-Is-Freddie-Ferrer take the lead nomination for the party, and thus the fall in what will most likely be a slaughter-house victory for the Bloomberg camp in November, I can only hope that this bruised and beaten Weiner doesn't shrink into limp obscurity, broken and abandoned, never to be heard from again.

Can you say John Kerry?

Unlike the other three mayoral contesters, the Congressman still has a job to return to now that his part in the race is complete. And with 30% of the New York pool of Democrats standing behind him, I hope he continues to serve out his term fighting for those of us who tossed him our support over the past few weeks. His journey, from placing dead-last in the polls to almost-tied for the win, is an inspiration and true pledge of political purpose.

We may not have our Oscar Mayor Weiner, but we've had our fun with puns. And when all is said and done, isn't that the best use of a Weiner in the end?

Hit That Baby One More Time...

SO THIS JUST IN: Britney Spears was out till 5AM, took a bunch of drugs, passed out cold on a metal table and threw her legs up wide in the air surrounded by a bunch of strange men.


Coincidentally she also had a C-section later that night. And by the looks of it, not a minute too soon.

Those who still cared the Pop Princess was alive breathed a sigh of relief when Baby Brit, whose name is rumored to be Preston Michael Sean Christian Spears Federline (I'm not making this up people!) made his healthy entrance into the world, weighing in at only 6 pounds, 11 ounces.

Doctors at the UCLA hospital are still baffled by what accounted for the other 340 pounds, though they are investigating a strange discovery left behind in the parking lot where Britney's water supposedly broke.



In a related story, the Religious Right, hearing the news of Britney's breeding, took the baby's birth as an opportunity to teach wayward children of the dangers in having unprotected sex, and to resist the lure of Satan's slimy serpent.




They also reminded young girls that they can, in fact, get pregnant from kissing.




This will be the first baby for Britney (shocking, I know), and the third for Father Federline...that we know of.

Freaky Frodo Fancies Figure's Fanny

Fabulous.

The definitive moment in my romantic life has at long last arrived: proof that Elijah Wood likes the ladies. Well, at least cardboard cutouts of them...


I've heard of pubic lice, but pubic...hobbits? Just goes to show you these days you never know where a painted woman's been.

FEMA Director Resigns, Bakes Cookies

Okay so he may or may not have baked cookies, but Mike Brown of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the government arm responsible for the rescue and relief efforts in New Orleans and parts of Mississippi, did step down from his position as Director today, citing the importance in avoiding "further distraction from the ongoing mission of FEMA."

That is, the mission to ignore poor, black Americans pleading for food and assistance in ever worsening conditions.

Falling under fire over his qualifications and history in dealing with emergency management, and specifically his muddled response to the immediate needs down south after the destruction and social devastation left behind in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Brown is but another victim of what I now call "The Fall Out Factor."

There's something familiar about someone being praised and paraded around town by the President, who for the record proclaimed days earlier, "Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job," now finding himself without said job, without any political purpose, and frankly, without a friend in Washington to lean on.

Well, maybe just a few, say, former Secretary of State Colin Powell, former Attorney General John Ashcroft and former Commerce Secretary Donald Evans. Not to mention former Agriculture Secretary Ann Veneman, Education Secretary Rod Paige, Energy Secretary Spencer Abraham, and most recently NASA Deputy Administrator Frederick Gregory.

It seems many majestic men and women initially appointed and publicly applauded by President Bush have fallen to the same fevered fate, choosing to leave his Cabinet mid-sentence rather than serving out their terms under his, what is it called now, rein?

Apparently the only person near the White House unable to admit fault and step aside to let someone more competent take control is the head honcho himself.

No surprises there.

What with a botched war in Iraq, a social security system in scraps, a country divided now more than ever and shared criticism for his part, or lack thereof, in the disaster relief down south, it's no wonder a recent CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll shows a 54% disapproval rating for the games this grown man chooses to play.

Some of that criticism speaks to the speed at which the government responded to those left behind after the storm, predominately of poor, African American communities. When asked about the racial divide and it's role in the issue, Bush pointed out, "The storm didn't discriminate, and neither will the recovery effort."

I, for one, believe him. I mean, clearly it was easier to save the white people; they don't blend in with the muddy water. At least that's what I expect the next press release to reveal.

But if idle racism wasn't to blame for the horrifically bungled operation, what was? Incompetence? Now there's a novel admission.

In any case, my advice to the next chump who finds himself wading knee deep in Brown's big old shoes: watch your back, and the floor, for when it falls out beneath you, and it will - it always does - there's very little left in which to seek comfort.

Well, there's always the freshly baked cookies...

Big A Votes Nay To Be Gay In LA

Yay. Just when you thought it was safe to walk down the aisle, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger terminated all hopes for gay couples in the state of CA when he vowed to veto a bill that would legalize same-sex marriages in the state.

The legislation, passed overwhelmingly by the state Senate, would have been the first to allow for equal representation and finite recognition of gay marriages, beyond just civil unions or domestic partnerships. Citing a conflict with the voter-approved Proposition 22, which forbade the state of CA from reinterpreting the definition of marriage to include those of the same sex, good old Arnie claimed, "We cannot have a system where the people vote and then the Legislature derails that vote." Well, he didn't actually say that; his press secretary did. Turns out the Governor had a hard time pronouncing the word "Legislature."

You would think in a state where retired porn stars ran for the gubernatorial position, the radical idea of legal reform wouldn't have threatened the CA governor as it did. Then again, with the onset of the infectious right-wing setting in across the country, it shouldn't have surprised anyone that a call for equality would be met with political and social dissent.

It should be noted when Proposition 22 went out to registered voters for approval, it was accompanied by Propositions 21 and 23, which, respectively, legalized the union between liposuction and botox, and banned carbs from everything including oxygen.

Alas, our nation's Girliest Man decided to follow through with the systematic neglect for equal rights for all it's citizens, "out of respect for the will of the people." Ironically it is Proposition 24 which calls for a ban on any state representative who sounds like a drunken Neanderthal when speaking publicly.

What remains to be seen now is how this recent decision will affect future relationships between the Governor and the LGBT communities. Critics were quick to call attention to his hypocrisy, urging what many have called a gay-friendly state administration to reconsider their current stance on the issue.

"I'll Be Back-lashed!" (It works when you say it like a German idiot).

You see, when Schwarzenegger starts whining about how unfair the laws are keeping former foreigners like himself out of the White House, I hope he remembers the "will of the people," that is, those who made laws years ago without any regard for equality, change or progression in society. Maybe then he'll understand what real civil leadership is about -- taking action, making a difference and standing behind your convictions, in or in the face of slipping approval ratings.

Wait, that's not how our government works. Silly me, I forget sometimes this isn't Canada.

Anyone wishing to email thoughts, concerns or hopes for a better tomorrow to Arnie and Company can do so by using the following: governor@governor.ca.gov. Don't expect a response, though; he's very busy licking George Bush's ass-crack.

Yeah, I went there.

Alicia Slip-erstone: A Special Report

So I know there are far more important things to focus on in the world right now: The thousands of displaced starving southerners, war-torn Iraq, the Democratic Mayoral Primary, hell, even the fact we didn't get to watch more of Andy Roddick's sweat-stained shirt rise high above the rim of his mesh-clinging waistline at the U.S. Open...Yes, there's sobering news all around us these days. But desperate times demand desperate pleasures. And heeding the call was the one and only Alicia Silverstone, who cluelessly performed a mitzvah of mayhem when she slipped and fell on the red carpet at the GQ Man Of The Year Awards party in London.

Let's just call it a wardrobe malfunction and pay no attention to the trail of empty wine bottles left behind in her wake.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't usually enjoy pointing and laughing at someone else's tragically public misfortune, especially when that someone is as sweet and blonde as the former Batgirl. But I just can't shake the notion that there's something almost cathartic in reveling in the thought that even a babe-a-licious bombshell can blunder so bombastically. Yeah yeah, I know we all put our pants on one leg at time, even the wealthy and well-known. But it isn't every day we fall flat on our faces with a sea of photogs poised to preserve the memory for all the world to Cher-ish.

And for that, a generous thank-you to the PETA Princess.

Alicia, your random rises and feverish falls at our feet have served as more than just fodder for freelance bloggers from here to Istanbul; they've become a much needed pressure-valve in what can only be described as intense and uncertain times. And at the very least, you now stand as a role model for each of us, especially those down south who have recently taken a tumble of a far more severe nature.

You see, if Alicia can pull herself up by her lacey ankle bootstraps and face the world again with a crooked, squinty-eyed smile, then hell, isn't there hope for the rest of us?

I know you're thinking it, and I wouldn't feel right not saying it, but can I? Should I? Okay, here it goes. Wait for it: As if.

By the way, if a picture is worth a thousand words, here's 4000 more. For more details on (and the original pictures of) the Alicia Sliperstone Experience: 2005, click here.

Consider these the Before, During and After shots:



"Do you prefer 'fashion victim' or 'ensembly challenged'?"

I happen to think she looks hot. But I totally crush her anyway so maybe I'm not the best judge here.



"Oh My God, I love Josh!"

You can actually see the very moment her ankle gives out and folds under the pressure of her drunken weight.



"I felt impotent and out of control."

'Nuff said.



"Anything you can do to draw attention to your mouth is good."

Ummm yeah, Cher, I don't think that's the kind of attention you want right now.

By the way, why is no one helping her up?

What-Ev!

Because Of The Wonderful Things He Does

So it's election time again. No no, not THAT election. We have, let's see, $18 Billion more dollars to waste on war, 1500 more service men and women to send to the slaughter, carry the decaying deficit, destroy the social security system, add two more homophobic right wing judges to the court, nuke a rain forest, prolong the cure for cancer...yeah, that's about two and half more years with that son of a Bush.

I'm referring, of course, to a more local hellstorm. It's time to elect, or perhaps reelect NYC's next mayor. Now I don't like to choose favorites, and I certainly won't tell you who to vote for, unless we're talking the final five on the next American Idol competition. I just figure any little bit of information I can gather, I'll put out there.

So this morning, as I climbed the stairs of my Manhattan bound subway stop, I was greeted by the very tired-looking, baby-faced blue-eyed beauty, Gifford Miller. If you haven't had a chance to stand in front of him personally, let me tell you, those eyes are so bright they could burn holes through titanium cinder blocks. Small hands, though. Not that it means anything; I'm just saying.

Anyway, I walked up to the man, who shook my extended hand gently, and asked him point blank, "Where do you stand on gay marriage?" Without hesitation he placed his hand on my arm, all fraternity-like and said, "I'm for it, and have been since 1995." Apparently when he was only 12 he was fighting for the gay vote. (He isn't really 22 but with the right amount of botox and a few nights sleep he could pass for a ragged 28).

I don't know if the slogan is pre-packaged but it's kinda catchy. "Have Been Since 1995." As if he was anything else before then. As if any of us were. I can see his pride flag now: "Gifford Miller: Friend Of Friends Of Dorothy, est. 1995."

Regardless, I thanked him for his time and wished him the best of luck -- to which he smiled goofy and declared with a gesture halfway between a thumbs-up and the finger, "You're my luck!"

Whatever that means.

Having met three of the four Democratic hopefuls in person, I can say he's definitely the sexiest of the bunch. But we shouldn't vote for a mayor based solely on his or her looks. I mean, we're not that superficial, are we? Clearly what's most important here is what he'll bring to this fabulous town, you know, like his ideas and his policies. His time, his money and his...oh fuck it...he's hot. And at least I can pronounce his last name without giggling like a little school girl.

I mean, we already have a Big Bad Bush in Washington. Do we really want a Weiner as Wizard of our Oz too? I know it's a goyishly gay city but come on...

Second Chances Suck

The first time you broke my heart, shame on me. I should have seen all the signs.

The second time you broke my heart, fuck you.

Says White House: Let Them Eat Spam

While the rest of the country turns to the south with sympathetic eyes, some of Washington's finest are showing their unrelenting support in our country's continuing time of crisis by joining in on a celebration of all that's still good in the world: over-priced Broadway musicals.

Yes, apparently watching the onslaught of news reports, meeting with representatives from various charity organizations and assisting with the much-needed rescue efforts in New Orleans fell fourth on the list for National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, who took in a Wednesday night performance of the much loved Spamalot.

Not that I expect her to strap on galoshes and wade through rising fecal matter looking for those who didn't survive the storm, but on the eve of what many are now calling the worst tragedy to befall our country since 9/11, you'd think laughing her ass off with overly-fed tourists from the midwest could wait a few months. You know, at least until we're finished with all the rapes, lootings and race riots now brewing faster than the winds of Katrina down under.

I guess there are worse ways of spending $101.00. I mean, it's not like she flew around a sea of starving refugees in an empty aircraft burning more fuel than an entire city of SUVs put together, you know, in the name of a heart-felt photo-op.

Tragedy Strikes, Southern Style

With the absolute devastation and destruction left behind from Hurricane Katrina, President Bush, Con Edison and the City of New York has pledged an oath to work around the clock to restore power to the millions of homes remaining in the storm ravished city of New Orleans and parts of Mississippi.

Though it may take several years to rebuild what was destroyed in just one day, the hope is to have electricity running normally in time for the October 28th Dinner And A Movie premiere of Twister on TBS.

"I have to go...We've got cows!"

No seriously, they still have it on the schedule.

My prayers with the millions affected. And that's not a joke.

"Rufus Says Chuck, Chuck Says Kathy, Kathy Says Rufus..."

And all I'm saying is What The Fuck?!!!

If you missed the 2005 VMAs last week you may not know what I'm talking about. So here's what went down: R&B renegade R. Kelly came out of the closet, and took a huge dump on stage, lyrically speaking, of course. Had to clarify, what with the history of our bad boy's boudoir behavior.

But seriously, what has been called the first ever musical saga, "Trapped In The Closet" is a twelve part song series about infidelity, the lies and deceit running rampant in the lives of two young, black couples. Desperate Housewives in the ghetto, if you will.

Kelly took the MTV spotlight, and like a miked schizophrenic on speed, played all three, or was it four, maybe five - fuck if I know - characters in the drama, which included, get this, a gay preacher! This one sleeps with that one, who cheats on this one with that one, who's been sleeping with this one who used to cheat on that one and then a gun shot, a lot of incongruous screaming back and forth and enough relationship reversals to give Jude Law a run for his money.

The poorly lip-synced performance ends with a heated kiss between the two men, a lingering silence, and then the big crowd pleaser, "I'm sorry Chuck, I'm going back to my wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife."

Oh no he didn't. Wait, yup, he did.

They always do.

But that's another blog all together.

What struck me as odd about the whole hip-hop hoopla is that we finally have a popular song, rather a popular SERIES of songs, all billboard favorites of both men and women, straight and gay, and it took a thirty-eight year old black man with twenty-one counts of child pornography to lift the veil and expose the inner workings of what most would consider some pretty heavy issues. Even if you can't follow any of them through the lyrics. And trust me, you can't.

Then again you won't have to wait too long to get the visual because R. Kelly just confirmed he's working on a stage version of the 15 chapter operetta, casting actors to play all the roles and writing the music to link them all lyrically.

Maybe in that version the gay dude wins. Then again, it's still very much hip and very much hopping to be homophobic in the rap industry. So whether it works out between Chuck and Rufus, Rufus and Kathy, Kathy and Chuck or any other complex combination therein remains to be seen.

Let's just hope they all get tested and play safe. Oh wow. Maybe that's the real message to his music. Maybe he's aiming to start a social-sexual dialogue. Get you talking, asking questions. Maybe we're supposed to stop and wonder if the guy or girl we're freakin with at the club is doing the exact same thing...

Nah. It's about dirty, adulterous sex and naked, bisexual men hiding in closets holding onto their thrusting, polished Glocks for dear life.

Yeah, that's what R. Kelly's about.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This...

...'Course my mother was a narcoleptic alcoholic with irregular bowel movements and a penchant for burning homeless children with lit cigarettes so I wouldn't always go by what she said.

Gay-Z: The Homosexual Hommie Everyone's Not Talking About?

Figure skating's got Rudy Galindo. Independent Hollywood's got Rupert Everett. Daytime TV's got Ellen. And Broadway's got...well pick one. Yes, it seems these days every facet of the entertainment industry's bursting with openly gay contenders. Men, women, hell even puppets are riding in on the pink wave of what was once taboo, now just a dime a diva. But in our continuously crossing-over kind of culture, one cannot help but wonder if there will ever be a spotlight big enough for a Notorious F.A.G.?

Now you know I don't like to gossip. Much. But if you haven't been clued in to the recent goings-on in the rap world, let me catch ya up to date. Eminem just dropped out of his world tour, checked into a drug clinic for a sleeping pill addiction, but thankfully not before dropping trou' ala Marky Mark and flaunting his humidifying hip-hop heiny in what promises to be one wickedly wild new music video. Yum. Oh, and I think Lil' Kim is still in jail. Yeah, so that's about all I can pass on myself.

For more up-to-the-minute news of the blazin' persuasion you'll have to tune in to Hot 97, the Wendy Williams Experience -- everything you ever wanted to know about R&B, Whitney & Bobbby Brown, and how she lost fifteen pounds on L.A. Weightloss. It's here where I first heard the chatter about the multi-platinum Billboard artist who sat down recently with a journalist to write Confessions Of A Gay Rapper, his anonymous coming out story, if one can technically "come out" anonymously.

I read what is still left on the web about the piece. To summarize, this world-famous rap star from Brooklyn has managed to keep everyone in the public fooled, including his naive girlfriend who doesn't have a clue how much gay ass he and his, umm, black friends, pass around on and off the tour bus. Everything from group hotel orgies to what sounds close to an almost monogamous love affair are graphically covered in Confessions. He concludes with, "Yo, I believe that a man is made for a woman and a woman is made for a man, but only a man knows what a man needs and feels. Only a man can satisfy another man."

I believe the expression I'm looking for here is "Tru Dat."

Now, it should be noted, the story was rumored to have first appeared in the Village Voice several months ago, but I have been unable to locate any reference to it or the author, "Jamal X," on their website. Wendy Williams, for her part, has since refused to discuss the story any further following an onslaught of frantic and furious phone calls, emails and faxes begging for more details.

Perhaps the backlash was felt even harder for Mr. X and his peeps. Perhaps those in the know informed the flamer he was fanning himself too close to the fire. Or perhaps this is simply the beginning for our homosexual homeboy. But with anti-gay sentiment laced in just about every other lyric, it's no wonder rap music is the final frontier for our clammy hand closeted friends.

Until Elton John and DMX celebrate four-twenty tea time by breaking bread, or crumpets as the Sir would call them, we'll have to keep on playing the six-degree guessing game to which most of Hollywood has become accustomed. No one's naming any names, but if we were to go simply off the obvious, I think Nelly's people should learn a thing or two from all those Prince-like maneuvers.

I won't lie. I do have my pick, though it may just be a case of really tortuous wishful thinking. Gay or straight, with an ass like that, he can melt in my mouth any time he wishes...

Tourists Say The Gayest Things

So I'm walking back from lunch today, trapped behind a trio of typecasted twits, outsiders from the other coast most likely, when the tiniest of the three yanks her barely-present mother towards Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, begging to go inside for a peek. Mother turns flamboyantly, lowers her oversized sunglasses in what could only be a perfectly choreographed maneuver, and without the slightest bit of hesitation declares, "if you want to see dead people made of plastic you can visit grandma in L.A."

Oh no she didn't! Yes, yes she did.

Dude, I Want Your Dell

Ben Curtis, who won't remember me in the slightest but whom I've met several times and worked with once at MTV, is hot. Recovered from all the hype surrounding his drug bust in the city, and finally shedding the image of Steven, the infamous You're-Getting-A-Dell Dude -- which by the way was the harder of the two reps to live down -- Ben's making a new name for himself, albeit slowly and under the cover of night.

What I find most fascinating, and perhaps fuels my burning attraction for Benji, is his relationship to the gay culture. Sure, when he first invaded the air waves we fell under the trance of his innocently adorable and sexually subdued stoner personae. Hell, I bit - hook line and sinker - as every computer I've owned since then has been, well, a Dell. After leaving Steve-O behind, he's ducked in and out of the shadows, finally popping up in the Off-Broadway sleeper, Joy, as a closeted gay man who flip flops from girls to boys (Think John Kerry in a gay bar...No wait, don't think that. Stop thinking that. Seriously, now you're just being gross).

I admit, haven't seen it. Even heard he's only got 12 or so lines. But as part of the cast, a collection of seven spicy male and female actors with whom the issues of sex, love and commitment are played out respectfully, Ben gets to step back into the limelight and answer to the press who will now inevitably hound him on his own sexuality. What I find most captivating here is his seemingly heartfelt response. "Being the son of a gay preacher man in Tennessee..." Yep, turns out Daddy Dude came out of the Curtis Closet while Ben was still in high school. And rumor has it so did his sister, who then returned to men (as we all do in the end).

But did the great gay gene skip over my new heart's flame?

He's not saying. And that's still fine by me. Graduating high school is hard enough. Try explaining to your prom date why she has to come inside to meet Friar Fagalla and the Luke, John or Michael to his...umm...Peter. I'll remind you, this was the south and in Ben's own words, in the south if you're not homophobic you're gay. For him to have come out of that experience alive, with all his teeth intact and still be willing to kiss another man on stage, I say no matter how often, or how well, he delivers dialogue, a standing ovation of the gayest kind is in order. That's three quick claps, a wipe of the left tear duct, overly dramatic grasp of the shirt in the vicinity of where the heart lies, and of course, a craned neck to check out his boyishly beautiful bottom when he bends to bow.

For the record, he never checked me out when we were together, and he does speak fondly of his ex-girlfriend with whom he was able to escape the public's sudden obsession with his poor man's Sean-Williams-Scottish-self. Though now self-proclaimed single, he says working through his confusion on stage and in his personal, professional and sexual life, he's walked into and away from this experience with even more questions, but the strength now to ask them and the courage to finally hear the answers.

My words, more or less, not his.

But regardless if he'll ever return my love, or calls, or even glances off-stage, I got a new found respect for the guy. I also got a new Dell Inspiron notebook. Look, he may never want to utter those infamously infectious words again...but, like the loyal love-bug I am, whatever his next command may be, I'll obey without question.

Here's to hoping it begins with "Will You Marry Me...Dude?"

Dove: Apparently It's What's For Dinner

In a daring and provocative move, marketing execs at Dove unveiled their new ad campaign focusing on "real women with real curves." The goal was to show the cause and effect relationship between the consumption of their products and what you'll look like posed awkwardly in cheap underwear.

When In Texas...

There's an old saying we used to throw around in the south that goes something like this: "You're only as good as the closest neighbor to your right." And in the case of our beloved George W. Bush, the proof of that is in the pent-up rage roaming right next door.

Yesterday, according to the Associated Press, police and Secret Service agents rushed to the house of Larry Mattlage, the pissed-off protest-hater who lives and works the farm adjacent to Prezzie's McLennan County ranch. After firing twice in the air with one of his many shotguns -- with which by the way, he claims he hunts doves -- Larry the Loser asserted, "I ain't threatening nobody and I ain't pointing a gun at nobody." 'Cept the doves, of course. You know, the international symbols of peace, justice and tranquility.

Larry wasn't arrested, however. I mean, his intent was only to disrupt the mindful, religious, candle-lit ceremony held by the 60-or-so anti-war protesters parked outside his home. Never would he attempt to wound, maim, or take innocent lives to the grave in the name of that good ol'Texan charm. No, he leaves that to his hot-headed bi-coastal neighbor back east.

Bush, by the way, had no comment. Neither do I, you see.

The Red Cross Needs Your Blood!!!

...Unless you're gay, or know someone who is.

That's the latest from our friendly neighborhood philanthropists.

Apparently there is a major blood shortage in the works. Thousands of people will die this year alone without a constant replenishment of the donor supply for fresh blood. That's why both the American Red Cross and the Give Life Organization set up blood drives all over this glorious country to collect pints of this, the most precious life force there is.

That's why I wanted to help. That's why I responded to the GiveLife.org's call for my blood. That's why I looked up my local donation site, why I rolled up my sleeve, why I bit my bottom lip and waited for the prick with the needle to do just that. That's why I was confused when I was told I could go, when I was sent away, without a Tickle-Me Elmo band-aide or shot glass of apple juice and a nilla wafer. That's when I found out they don't need my kind of blood.

You see, according to the Blood Donation Eligibility Guidelines provided by the Red Cross and company, there are certain types of people out there who are not eligible to donate even a droplet of their much-needed hemoglobin. Dead people, for instance. Drug addicts, prostitutes, animals, anyone from or near the Congo, and gays. These "types" of people, need not apply.

Why? Well, the official statement by the Red Cross states, "if you are a male who has had sexual contact with another male, even once, since 1977, you have done something that puts you at risk for becoming infected with HIV," and therefore are ineligible to help out. Lord help them when that feeble-minded fag wanders in and confesses the last cock he sucked was in 1976.

But seriously, did you know that by being a boy who likes boys you have actually DONE something that puts you at risk? Unlike all the girls who throw their legs up behind their heads when Vince Vaughn enters the club, or the dudes who bounce from one hole to the next like it's their prerogative, gay men, even clean, monogamous, HIV-negative gay men -- homos with hearts if you will -- all with recent test results in hand, they are subject to the ultimate rejection: Thanks, but no thanks.

The Red Cross performs all kinds of precautionary tests on the donated blood, mind you. They just figure they could save some time by eliminating the ultimate threat: gays, and people from Nigeria.

Now I'm not proposing a ban on all blood donation. Far from it. Donate if you can, if you're allowed. Be honest about who you are and what you've done. And please, be up front about your health status when applying to be a donor. Just do me a favor and ask them kindly, when they're filling up all their vials with all the life you have to give, why they so vilely and blatantly discriminate against an entire demographic wanting to offer theirs.

Perhaps the more times they have to answer, the less sense their explanations will make to them as well.

Oh, and for the record, here is a sample of other people ineligible to save lives:

* Anyone with "unexplained weight loss."
-- Lindsay Lohan please step left of the line.
* Anyone with "diarrhea that won't go away."
-- Those of you who ate at White Castle in the past year also please step left.
* Anyone who has or has had "piercings, electrolysis, or botox" and cannot prove the needles used were sterile.
-- That's all of NYU, college freshman across the country, every actor/actress in Hollywood and former hairy people.
* Anyone "pregnant must wait six weeks after giving birth."
-- So at least we know Britney's off the market for the time being.

And lastly...

* Anyone who has been "bitten by a human, if the bite marks actually broke skin."
-- Ummm, yeah. Ironically, if you've survived a nasty vampire attack you're still okay, so long as you don't celebrate by making out afterwards with your Albanian boyfriend. Go figure...

H-2-Woes: An Undercover Expose

Recently, I was cornered at the water cooler by THAT coworker of mine, the one whose name consistently eludes me until I remember the helpful memory trick we came up with -- Shut The Hell Up Dorris. I chivalrously motioned for her to fill her flimsy coned cup first, a move I shortly discovered would trap me in her presence all that much longer while she took her time collecting her thoughts.

What's-Her-Face then turned to me and confessed without invitation that her weekend had been horrible, that her sister's boyfriend from out of town stayed over and tracked dirt all over her brand new curtains. I became aware of her pausing, just long enough to allow me a chance to follow-up -- curtains??? -- but then I remembered I really didn't care.

That's when she exclaimed she had been awoken at three in the morning by the sound of what she believed to be two, maybe three, chainsaws and the gut-wrenching echoes of a neighbor screaming bloody murder.

Naturally I asked, "Was she really screaming 'Bloody Murder,' or was it just loud and scary?" Seriously-What's-Her-Face stared blankly at me for a while, caught off guard really, because as it turned out, no one had ever spoken TO her before. Sure, they smiled and nodded and pictured tiny lizards eating her head and choking on the layers of ill-shaded make-up caked upon her face in uneven levels - like man-made mesas that rubbed off when she double kissed your cheeks good bye. But no one had ever actually responded to something she had said.

The rumor was that during her employment interview she rattled on about how she collected miniature see-saws from e-bay, something about how her cat once swallowed one and almost died but her training as a certified public accountant gave her the skills to not only save his life but bake the perfect banana cream pie. They never actually said, "you're hired." It was more like she was passed off from Human Resources to the receptionist to the mailclerk and somehow made it to an empty cubicle where she moved in and set up shop, framed photos of the Siamese and see-saws abound.

The silence was eerie. We eyed one another, each waiting for the other to speak, but neither daring enough to do so. She just sipped her water, slowly, swallowing in large gurgles, matched only by the cooler rebalancing the oxygen in the tank.

I stood there in awe as I realized I had broken through. I had discovered the antidote. Both the battle and the war were mine for the winning. I almost reached up for a high-five but couldn't bare to break the silent barrier forged now between us. I was the champion. I was the man. I was the stuff legends were made of.

"They found her body sawed in half, her head shaved and painted green. Got the dog too. French poodle, it was. Just took off his legs and tail, split the body in three. They're still looking for his head."

I was an asshole.

I stood a while longer, thankful I had abandoned the quest for a high-five, but cursing myself for being thirsty all the time. At lunch I would buy a case of bottled water and bury it under my desk.

That was the last time she and I ever spoke. The next morning I found a news clipping from the local paper folded on my chair. The headline read, "Woman Murdered Sawed In Half." I read through the gory details trying not to picture the murder scene. The last line of the article had been highlighted in pink:

"A neighbor wishing to remain anonymous recalls literal cries of 'Bloody Murder.'"

Her harrowing tale was all everyone was talking about at the water cooler from that day forth. I didn't dare tell anyone I knew how to silence the beast. I'd just sit there at my desk with my luke warm Poland Springs watching them wipe discontinued Cover Girl off their cheeks, bracing themselves for support, wishing they could remember her name, or the names of the lizards wheezing as they crawled out of her nostrils and feverishly flung themselves to the floor in botched suicide attempts.

One day, Dear-God-What-Is-Your-Fucking-Name, one day...

Love At First Fight

What sucks the most about finding love is losing it. I know I should be thinking the better-to-have-had-than-never-had-at-all kind of thoughts, but in either case, I still end up all by myself. At least in the latter I wouldn't have to live with the memory of what his curly, pressed hair would look like in the morning, or how the inner part of his knee would taste after a sweaty make out session. No, I think it's always better to live in a constant state of apathetic ignorance. That is, not knowing you don't care and not caring about those you do not know, or never did.

I remember reading on his blog a discussion on the notion of finding a soulmate, an instant connection between two strange people, chemically, physically, mentally and perhaps emotionally charged to fit just so, that no other could capablely compare. I think it was the dark specks of brown in his eyes that warned me of this static. But, regardless, I allowed his energy to consume me. And now I'm stuck playing out the role of a Better-To-Have-Had for the rest of my life.

It's funny, when I think back to how little I knew then, and how great the distance between want and need would soon become. Somewhere along the line, I figured out if I shoved the one I longed for far enough away, the desire to be with him would deepen, the need to be near him narrow, and the want to wake up wearing his favorite t-shirt would consume me wholeheartedly. I would push him out and pass him off. I would reject, deject and object to any notion he could feel remotely similar. For when all was said and done, or unsaid, or undone, it felt that much better when he'd come back for more.

'Cept, he stopped coming. Then he stopped calling. Then I started crying. And comparing and contrasting, and complaining and computing how calculated and cold I could become before he realized our first fight was also our last.

How many times have you been in love they ask. How many times, indeed. I wonder if they mean with the same guy. Then, twice. Once when our mouths first parted, and again when he first departed.

I'm pretty sure you won't remember it like that. But I recall every detail. The last goofy smile. That last dumb laugh. The light patch of hair on your inner thighs, and your eyes, the way they would roll forward then back again when I ran my hands over it for the last time. I remember almost passing out, from all that breathing. Oh, that breathing. I might just miss that the most.

There's no real way to end this. No creative conclusion, no poignant proverb or simple simile, no meaty metaphor or double-meaning double entendre that captures just how lasting your effect has been. Translation: I love you, you fucked me up, and now it's impossible to become purely apathetic when I'm really just pathetic, painfully hooked still on a feeling from a fight that happened for just one of us, years ago when I was young and you more so, when we were scared, me mostly more so, when I was desperate and destined to derail the dance between your electrons and my neurons, your beads of sweat and my furrowed brow, your moving on and my never willing or able to do so...

But it's time, now. Now it's time. The CD's over, as is the moon's grip on the night sky and frankly, of you and of me, you and I both still don't know BLEEP. Look at that, a punitive pun. There may just be some hope for me after all.

You Complete Me...Sorta

It's estimated that seven out of ten Americans hate their jobs. Maybe you're one of them. Maybe you feel overworked and underappreciated. Maybe your boss doesn't like you or the guy you share a cubicle with orders in Mexican lunches more often than he cracks a window. Maybe you hate the drone lifestyle of a boring 9-5 or maybe you feel like for the chump change you take home at the end of the week you should at least be doing something you like. Well, if you are one of those seven out of ten Americans, maybe you should try getting over yourself.

You see, somewhere along the line, in this self-entitled culture that has become the United States Of AME-ME-MErica, we lost sight of what living life is really about. With the advent of popular media constantly reminding us of the dangers in settling for less, we've grown accustomed to honestly believing we deserve more, faster, better. More money. Faster cars. Better shoes. More time. Faster food. Better sex. More mates, faster fates and better dates with our now downloadable destinies. And perhaps some of us do, at some point in our lives, deserve just that. But to deserve is to earn, and to earn is to work for, and work takes sacrifice, dedication, sweat, tears, blood and above all else, honesty.

In an age where building up our children's self-esteem by encouraging their unyielding pursuit for happiness trumps the acceptance of admitting just how harsh, cruel, vindictive, disappointing and downright REAL reality can be, it's no wonder we have bred a cultural generation of despondent lost souls. One only look to Maslow's Hierarchy Of Needs to understand that when the basic need for food, shelter, attention, respect and love is granted, a child is free to move forward on the journey towards self-actualization.

That is, after all, what we're really after, is it not? To be actualized. To find fulfillment and oneness. To be, at day's end, complete.

Well guess what? You may not find that in the workplace. And your guidance counselors and college professors -- all of whom make their money on the promise their advice will pay off one day, that is after they've long been retired, or died -- misled you if that's what you think you're signing up for in the work force.

I know, I know, there are tons of people who are lucky enough to know exactly what they want to do with the rest of their lives and love doing it on a daily basis. I lived with a few actresses myself. I sincerely applaud, ironically, those daring enough to follow that wayward path, though in my experience, few actually find actualization. Remember that whole food, shelter, and what-not-needs bit. It's hard to feel complete as a soul when your next meal is dependent on the generous tip of the guy barely enjoying his own.

The point is to make peace with your situation. Accept that work is hard, that you may not find your purpose in the performance from day to day, but that the purpose of the job itself is to provide you with the money, and thus means, to attack the rest that life has to offer. How's this for new hierarchy? Go out tonight and eat a good dinner, rent a comfortable apartment, buy some new clothes, pay detailed attention to what you're friends are saying, respect your elders especially when they judge you, and learn to love the fact that when your children are your age, they'll bitch and complain about their jobs too.

Unless they tell you they wanna be in pictures. Best of luck to both of you, then.

Take Back The Night-cream

They say the end is near, marked by floods, famine, Britney Spears' Chaotic -- undeniable signs that the Apocalypse is fast approaching. Yet perhaps the most disturbing vision for our fateless future lies blatantly before us all, staring back daily at millions of Americans young and old. It's everywhere -- magazines, television, movie theaters and even subway rides to work. It's on the radio, it's on tops of city cabs. It's even made it here, onto our vast, impenetrable home turf, the Internet.

I don't want to scare you anymore than I already have, but it may just be lurking in the shadows of your home at this very moment, peeking through the cabinets, whispering softly it's weathered war cries. That's right, more than half of you are already victims, the rest will fall shortly there after. I'm talking about personal hygiene products...but these aren't your mother's maiden day moisturizers. These are for - gasp - STRAIGHT GUYS!!!

Let me be the first to say I have been washing my face and using aloe-enriched cream products since the eighth grade, which - for the record - is the REAL reason I never played high school sports. Sweat and skin serum do not a happy match make. Regardless, when I started using I knew two things as solid fact: A) When I'm 30, I'll look 20. When I'm 40, I'll look 30. And when I'm 50, I'll pretend to be 40, looking like I'm 30, dating someone 20 or thereabout. And B) I'm gay. Gay as the day is long and long like the distance between me and a woman's privates. That's really far, for those who don't know me. And also, really, really gay.

I'm comfortable with my admission, proud even. After all, it's part of the whole package is it not? That's why most of us signed on here. Consistently awesome wardrobes, pink sparkling wine coolers, and a monopoly on the facial care regiment. Umm, did I not get the memo? When did we suddenly sell that pink triangle locale on the game board to Corporate America, Inc.? And who acted as our negotiating agents, the Fab Five? Et tu Bru-gay?!!

The bottom line here -- it's funny coz I said bottom -- this madness must stop. Men are supposed to be men. That's why we like them. They sweat, they smell, they wipe their brows with their gym socks after the big game. (I only know this because someone once told me. Guys, pay no attention to the blinking red light in the locker room hamper). Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for personal improvement, physical growth, self-help, plastic surgery for those in need. But do we really want a world full of perfectly manicured male models fist fighting at the drug store for the last tube of cocoa butter spot treatment?

Ladies, gentlemen, think about it. Where will it stop? How will it all end? I've already heard some nasty rumors circulating of a national commercial campaign with Tony Danza nairing his armpits, reminding the world the burning toxic smell proves that it's working. Is this what we really need now? Isn't there enough violence on TV, people?

Do me a favor and just close your eyes. Picture a sea of the sexiest men alive -- I know it's hard, what with the thought of a hairless Tony Danza on the brain -- but try for me. Hundreds of hot guys standing arms length apart, shirts torn open, beads of sweat running down their stubbly cheeks, onto their dirty faded Levi's - Don't get me started on the Diesel-takeover - their deep, rough voices sending chills down your arched spine as they beckon you forth to join them in a bath of tongue kisses and neck rubs. Now tell me, how many of them looked like Ryan Seacrest?

My feather-boa friends, it's time we fight this fiercely (and yes, I finally mean that in the Michelle Pfieffer-Not Halle Berry kind of way). We must take back what is rightfully ours. Take back Neutrogena. Take back L'Oreal. Take back the face washes and anti-wrinkle eye pads. Take back the hair gel, take back the volumizer, take back the eyebrow tweezers and cuticle cleaners. The time has come for all us to unite as one, one people with one cause, to step out of the shadows, stand proud and shout loud, we're here, we're queer and we're taking back the nightcream.

And while we're at it, will someone please find the angry, terrorist queen responsible for the UPN's programming and serve him up one of our infamous victory drinks - a bubbly pink martini - one part gin, two parts nail polish.

Bottom's up boys. Oops, I said it again.

When Did Good Become Good Enough?

Sometime after our second date, while I sat there stoically watching him peel off the paper label from his yet to be opened Diet Peach Snapple, I had a flash of my soon to be realized future. Me, bent over the couch, the kitchen table, crawling on my hands and knees in the bedroom, sweating, panting, gasping for air as my hands grope and glide into some tiny crevice reaching for tiny shards of dejected paper he unwittingly pressed into tiny triangles from whatever soft drink he happened to be downing at that moment.

I tackled the check before his orgy of origami could turn it into an overpriced for undercooked swan. That was the last time I saw him, or paid $24 for an omelet.

When I was sixteen, I figured dating would be different. I'd meet a guy (yes, I knew and accepted it way back then), he'd approach me on a park bench, New York Times crossword puzzle in hand (yes, I was a nerd way back then too), tell me he knows this is awkward, he's never done this before -- his piercing blue eyes and two-day old stubble make me doubt that highly -- but would I happen to know a seven letter word for what's missing in both our lives? I'd smile, uncomfortably at first until I remembered in my fantasy I didn't have to wear braces, and then, with as much confidence as a scrawny sixteen year old boy can muster, I'd turn to him and say, "Jared" -- all my teenage fantasies involved a dark-haired scruffy-faced blue-eyed Jared -- "I think what you're looking for is Passion."

Passion. Lust. Craving. Urges. No. Passion. Love. Desire. Lust. Craving. Urges. Stop. What is passion? Why does it lead me on a lyrical journey to the base need to be naked and not alone? And why do I still sit on park benches hoping to be approached by shadows from what could have been my life if only I had been born on TV. I checked the real estate section a lot in high school. No one ever moved off the Creek.

And so ten years later, I'm walking down the street alone, cell phone in hand, scrolling through a list of names I can hardly remember. All my single friends are no longer single. All my boyfriends are no longer mine and the hook ups, the booty calls, the one night stands marked with an asterisk after their names...on the other line and will call me back.

This is what my mother meant when she said I have chosen a very lonely life. Her voice rumbles and tumbles in my head, the distorted realization setting in that there was actual truth behind her words. I may not have chosen to be gay, but I certainly have chosen a path of loneliness. What my mother couldn't have known then was that the linear genealogy of passion itself, when broken down to its smallest parts -- the lust, the craving, the urge to release and release and release again -- for gay men, or perhaps all men, starts with the simplest of needs, the easiest to meet, the hardest to deny and quite possibly an insatiable hunger for more.

But I'm starving for just that. More. MORE than the simplest of needs, MORE than the easy meet, MORE than what I've grown accustomed to, for better or worse, because of the mechanics of this user-friendly internet, the uncensored websites with bulletin boards and blogs and unlimited chat spaces with their unabashed webcams.

I am sorry that I shut out the good guys for the good looking ones. I just couldn't bring myself to settle for anything short of perfection. I mean, is it too much to ask that I meet a guy who doesn't chew his fingernails at dinner, calls his mother every night before bed or likes me too much too fast? Is it wrong that I judge how well he tips the waiter, how fast he drives his car, how often I catch him looking at me when I sleep? Can I not weigh in his ability to kiss or his willingness to do it in public? Am I really being a bitch for not wanting to spend the next forty years of my life stepping on sticky ringlets of paper he peeled from off the sides of a juice box? Just drink the damn Snapple and throw it out as it was given to you!

No, I'm not able to settle for that. I can walk a few more blocks by myself, scroll through a few more names, visit a few more websites, post a few more blogs, sit and wait on a few more park benches to be approached by the type of man who knows the answer to the question always on my mind: Is there someone really great out there for me, or has good truly become good enough?