Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Oh wait

So, I randomly ended up reading The Advocate in my doctor's waiting room...what The Advocate was doing in a stodgy midtown GP's office, I don't know...but here's a hilarious piece by Margaret Cho. Gay men and the women who love 'em. Dick o' clock, indeed.


Dick O'Clock
When out at the bars, Margaret Cho is every gay man’s best friend—that is, until last call.
By Margaret Cho

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.

Comb Overs




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.