Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I am a big fan of going to gay bars. After a long, hard night walking all over a big stage in my new show, Beautiful, I need to be able to watch a good drag queen lip-synch perfectly to “Piece of Me” and have a very large and very strong drink, so my favorite place to go is the local gay bar with my most special gays.
Most fag hags agree that the best times they’ve ever had were at gay bars, sharing precious moments with their fags, drinking lovely pink cocktails and dancing and laughing the night away.
Until it becomes “dick o’clock.” You know what time that is, don’t you? It is when all the gay men in the club simultaneously start looking for dick. It happens all at once, usually around midnight or 1 a.m., generally earlier on the West Coast.
I am not sure how it starts. It may be that sudden realization that you are out on a weeknight, which a lot of gay men and fag hags like to do, because—let’s face it—weekends are for straight people. Since it is a weeknight, you probably need to get home and get in bed at some decent hour if you even want to pretend to try to keep your job.
So that means you need to get some dick, and get some dick fast, because procuring dick isn’t necessarily easy or quick—and we all know if we don’t pick carefully, we will wind up with dick we don’t want. Which isn’t always that bad, because dick is like pizza—even when it’s bad, it is still kind of good, unless it’s soggy.
But anyway, finding dick, good or bad, is no simple affair; it is a process, a lengthy one (Hee-hee, get it? I said “lengthy”), which may take up to an hour if you are picky and aren’t overly aggressive about it. Then you have to take that dick home—which can take anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on where you live in relation to the bar and if you are driving or taking public transportation. I think we should all be finding ways to get dick on public transportation because not only will you be saving time, you’ll be leaving behind a smaller carbon footprint.
If you do end up driving, you would still have to get that dick into your home, offer it a drink or a joint or a bump or a line or a pill, which you should be careful about because this can take a long time and be an unwelcome distraction from the next step, which is when you work that dick. Which could take between two minutes and 90 minutes, depending on how good it is and whether or not you gave them a drink or a joint or a bump or a line or a pill, if you need to do it more than once, etc. Then get rid of that dick, which should be quick, because after all you are both gay men and probably both need to work the next day.
Even if you are fairly speedy about all these steps, you still may not be able to go to bed right away because if the dick is especially good or bad, you will need to call your fag hag -- remember us? The ones you left at the bar to get some dick? And we’ll be there to dish with you about everything that happened. And then after all that come down off your “dick high,” which will mean you may not even close your eyes until 6 a.m.
I think this is all too much for you. We fag hags care about you. We don’t want to see you burn your dick candle at both ends. We think you should stay at the gay bar and just hang out with us. But we are fag hags, and we will love you even if you have big, dark dick circles under your eyes because you left us to get dick the night before and didn’t get any sleep, because we are awesome like that.
Last weekend, Miss Cranky Pants found herself at her friendly neighborhood salon getting her little piggies all sexed up for summer. Sparkly and pink? Yes, please. Among the trashy magazines, the throat gripping smell of polisher remover and the low-grade roar of hairdryers, MCP spied an older man in a salon chair. He was as bald as an egg save for a muff of brown around the perimeter of his shining pate. Oh, and a handful of stringy strands just above his left ear. I couldn't help it. I tried not to stare. But, I failed.
He was regaling his poor stylist with the evils of artificial sweetener. He had sort of a honking, pedantic voice. He droned on like an autistic child and talked about how it's just deadly to eat fake sugar. No ma'am, you wouldn't ever catch him eating fake sugar. In fact, for him, it's just organic brown cane sugar, thank you very much. Anything else and you'd just about be asking for problems.
Apparently, his highly questionable style decision was not one of his current problems.
His poor stylist, choking on her giggles and making agreement-type sounds, was tasked with blowing out his fringe and carefully arranging his combover artfully over his pointy scalp. Oh, the humanity!
But, she soldiered on. She wielded her natural bristle round brush with all due gravity and curled under. Presumably to give his 'do some volume. She finished off with a smear of wax, firmly anchoring his combover down. No typhoon nor hurricane could disturb this baby. No ma'am, not at all. The only thing that was gonna get his goose in a gander was artificial sugar.
God, people are so weird.
PS: in the course of trying to find a suitable picture for this post, I ran into this little gem.
Wait--lemme quote the best line, "..the comb-over could, in a weird and not-altogether-serious sort of way, be seen as a sign of the kingdom of God. In the comb-over, we see a refusal to admit defeat, and the defiance of an evil world where men like us lose our hair. Rather than viewing it as a pathetic and unsightly act of desperation, perhaps the comb-over could be seen as one small act of protest - a proleptic signpost to that glorious eschatological day when there is enough hair to go around…"
Riiiiight...God loves you and therefore makes combovers possible. Nevermind about those poor children dying in Iraq...surely the grace of god is evident in combovers. Of course, I might argue that combovers might in fact be the work of satan, but...I'm not the one losing my hair, baldies.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Hookers are very now. Just ask our former governor. I have also recently been "hooked" (haha) on Showtime's series Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Maybe all girls have latent fantasies about being hookers. Maybe too many of us buy into the Madonna-Whore paradigm. Whatever.
So, this evening, I was out to dinner with my dear friend E. My friend E. is a self-proclaimed Charlotte who believes that her true love is out there and that her life will be fulfilled once she finds Mr. Right. It's a very sweet thought and I really do want to believe her. She got this dreamy look in her eyes over cocktails and told me her hopes for a man to love her. Awwww....
Imagine the irony then of post-dinner. We were on the corner of 57th and Lex, waiting for the light to change, when a young woman leaned herself out of a car window as it peeled around the corner and offered a business card to a well-dressed business man.
At first he reached for it. And then he became aware of us gaping at him. He withdrew his hand and demurred. Frankly, no one wants to be caught paying for it.
E. turned to me in horror, her wide Charlotte eyes all-shocked-like.
"What was that?"
"Ohmigod, it was a drive-by hooker!"
I'm not sure if she overheard me or if she was responding to E.'s wide-eyed stare, but our hooker on wheels yells out of the window, "You're gonna get slapped, bitch!"
E. and I looked at each other in surprise.
Was she talking to me? To E? Or potentially to the world that does not look upon the world's oldest profession kindly?
As for me, it wasn't the hooking that shocked me. It was the hooker to-go that really interested me.
Hats off to hookers on wheels. Speedy customer service, entrepreneurial and ready to bitch-slap anyone at a moment's notice. God bless 'em, today, tomorrow and forever.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
This post is not intended to be an indictment of all and sundried who decide to procreate. In fact, Miss Cranky Pants is even known to engage in cooing and baby-bouncing when the mood strikes. This post, however, is dedicated to parents of MCP's generation whose world has shrunken down to the size of a milk-splattered onesie.
Miss Cranky Pants used to know some very interesting, worldly folks. She ran with a sophisticated pack of multi-cultural, multi-lingual people who talked of culture, politics, movies and books. Over time, Miss Cranky Pants noticed that the people in her world started pairing off and disappearing. This is not unlike the scene in Never Ending Story where the world started to crumble from lack of imagination.
Her beloved friends began marrying, nesting etc. She has now noticed that her friends have started to produce issue, offspring, spawn...
What used to be discussions about European and American geo-politics has now devolved into discussions about baby's poopy schedules. They no longer go out, try new restaurants, travel to exotic foreign lands. The extent of their movie watching now involves animated figures. Their emails and blogs feature their drooling children and their latest exploits (Baby's first bong hit!) The expensive strollers, the bulky accoutrements, the baby voices...it's sort of like becoming Baby Mama Barbie with all the accessories.
Why must having children dictate The End of Everything Interesting? And to all the parents out there who are boring the rest of us with pictures of your children and their incredibly boring activities (Yeah, so your kid can walk. Guess what? So can most of us. Get over it.), know that nobody else finds your child as adorable/brilliant/fascinating/precious as you do, so please restrain yourself. Just like every generation thinks it invented sex, it seems that every parent thinks s/he created The Most Perfect Child. Well, there are 6 billion people on this planet so I guess parents of 5,999,999,999 are wrong.
So--kudos to my parents for hitting the jackpot!