The Weekly Walk With Me

Oscars Edition

Yes:

• Michael Strahan
• Sly Stallone
• Lady Gaga--that pantsuit ONLY.  Rape or no rape, everything else heaved me.
• Chris Rock
• Saoirse Ronan
• Leo for the win

No: 

• Common--this pains me.
• Kevin Hart
• That not very confident looking ribbon lady during The Weeknd's performance.
• Cate Blanchett--what in Disney Princess hell?
• The messy eyebrow trend
• Quincy Jones' "emotion lotion" comment.--I can't.
• Leo's speech--I get it.  He's all distinguished and serious like about his craft, with his yachting and supermodeling.  But I really wanted to see some drama here--a Sally Field style "You really like me!" or some uncontrollable crying. But not even a Taylor Swift surprise face.  He just sauntered on up and lectured me about climate change.  His Mom and his Work Boo (Kate Winslet) were the only ones going through things.

I don't understand what's happening:

• Rooney Mara--Please eat a sandwich.  An open faced one on white bread with mashed potatoes and gravy.  
• Whoopi Goldberg--I appreciate a lady who understands her best look and sticks with a signature style; but why do you insist on wearing the same Oscar dress year after year?
• Jared Leto
• Stacey Dash
• Olivia Munn--How do you keep getting invited to stuff?  What is it that you do?
• Dave Grohl--I love you, but what do you have to do with anything?
• Kate Capshaw--When did you start morphing into Betsey Johnson?

• That thank you scroll and those little factoid boxes.--First of all, no one knew the rules here.  Everyone still went on thanking everyone when they could've been lecturing me about racism and climate change.  And who could see this?  It was 6 point font at lightening speed.  Also, I wasn't expecting those little factoid boxes.  1) I couldn't really see them well enough to read, and 2) from what I gathered it was stuff all shallow people already know.  I'm gonna go with fail on this.  

And an Honorable Mention:

Sam Smith.  Yes to being Sam Smith.  No to that weird red tint you're going with these days.  Yes to the win.  No-ish to that speech.  Maybe you missed a Slim Fast last night and just weren't thinking clearly, or maybe you've never seen the Oscars ever.  But I can assure you, you are not the first openly gay man to do anything on that stage.  

When You Wake Up Sun Will Shine...

And so goes the countdown.  One year into your all-time favorite blog, one year to go to 40.  Today I am 39.

I don’t like the 9 so much.  Not because I’m afraid of what comes next, but because no one trusts a woman on a 9.  That’s always the year we hold on to.  I had no idea how old my grandmother was when she died.  And then Dad told me that she was 39 for six years.  I’m sure she would’ve been grateful for new math when her obituary was published.
It was when I turned 29 that I started lying up about my age.  I’d tell people I was 32 so no one would be suspicious of my 9.  And because they thought I’d crossed the threshold into 30, they all told me how gorgeous I was.  It’s an ingenious way to get unsolicited compliments, so I’ve stuck by that little self-esteem hack.  But no bullshit—today I am 39.

I come into this new year with a new job, a new car, new hair, two new permanent scars.  A new sleep wrinkle.  One less (almost) tattoo.  Countless new shoes.  New ticket stubs to add to my collection.  A few more books read.  I gained 15 pounds, so I lost 16.  (Take that slowing metabolism!)

I said hello.
I said goodbye for a little while.
I said goodbye forever.
I didn’t say anything at all.
Not really any different from any other year in the life.  But now I am one year less likely to make a baby without Downs Syndrome.  One year less likely to catch the eye of a sexual predator.  One year less likely to hold the attention of the kid at the record store.
But I still bruise my knees like a 10 year old girl.  Still walk around with the fear that someone’s gonna find out that I have no idea what I’m doing.  And stay forever thankful that eye rolling doesn’t cause fine lines.
I can’t help this feeling that I’m working toward something.  Like there is some goal out there to be reached.  I’m not coasting.  Things are changing.  Maybe for the better.  Or maybe some of the worst things to ever happen to me are coming—who knows?

I stay ready for anything.  Always have.  So bring it, 9.  I don't believe anything you say, and I'm not afraid of you.

No Matter How Many Records I Sell...

Someone’s Getting Old & Bitter (Spoiler Alert: It’s Me!):  Grammy Edition

 The Grammys gave me the blues last night. Because of all the tributes and in memoriams. And because of the general fucking suck of the whole affair. 

Here’s your half-hearted run down of all the ways the Grammys broke my heart. In no particular order.

The Tributes

Who puts these people together? These A & R people are out of control.  It’s a sad state of affairs when Demi Lovato and TYRESE got the crowd on their feet for Lionel Richie.   The only appropriate memorial was for B.B.King—P.S. how does Bonnie Raitt still look exactly like she did in 1989?  Speaking of…

The Hollywood Vampires—a close second to an appropriate homage, but I can’t really speak to that as I started seizing about three seconds into this.  But what I missed during my blackout was a deleted scene from Wayne’s World right?  Because none of those grown men were serious about that…right?  OK, Matt Sorum probably was.

It pains me to say, but I was not completely nauseated by Lady Gaga.  Giving her the Bowie tribute gave her the opportunity to do what she does best—completely plagiarize someone else.  And while I felt a little like I was watching a locally famous drag king try for his big chance, Gaga really did do it justice.

The Standing Ovations

Were the seats made of cheap fleece?  Why couldn’t everybody just sit the fuck down?  The only deserved standing O’s went to Kendrick Lamar and Alabama Shakes.

The Delusions of Grandeur

Justin Beiber’s performance with Diplo and Skrillex was introduced as a major Grammy moment.  All I saw were three turds floppin’ around like pasty, noodle-armed idiots.  No one is talking about that Grammy moment.  No one.

And Pitbull announced he was making history about half way through his performance.  If the history was made by Daddy Yankee time travelling to the sixties and joining the cast of Laugh-In, then mission accomplished.  Although it is nice to see he’s out of those white pants for the season.  Oh, and Sofia Vergara.  That is all.

The Actual Awards

Meghan Trainor—Best New Artist.  I’m not sure I have to say anything here.  Everybody already knows.  But I guess you showed us when you were speed bouncing for your life through that mid-tempo Richie number.  Do your thing Boo.

Honorable Mentions

Ellie Goulding’s new lips.

Common high as gas on the pre-show red carpet.

Verdin White.

Bouncy’s doily dress.

Tay Tay Swift’s complete lack of humility.

Gwen Stefani’s complete lack of shame.

And the highlight of my night, this text from a friend on the west coast:

The Weekly Walk With Me

Valentime's Edition

One of my many "why not?" life choices involved a not so short stint as a manager of an adult novelty store.  Valentine's, of course, was always the busiest time of year--especially 15 minutes before closing the night of.  So cuddle up with your lovey:

16 Things I Learned Slinging Sex Toys

1. Adult novelty stores always have THE best greeting cards.

2. Chocolate that looks like genitals never tastes good.  And dick shaped suckers will cut the shit out of your mouth.  Basically, don't eat food from a dildo store.

3. Every man in America thinks I know their wife.

4. Not one woman in America knows how to tie a corset.

5. You ain't gotta tell a gay man nothin' about nothin'.

6. Apparently lots of couples like to celebrate special occasions with first-time anal sex.  The folks at Anal-Eze should just change their name to Spread-em Jenny, It's Your Man's Birthday.

7. Most men don't know they have a penis.  They have dicks, cocks, members, rods, even 'things'. But look a man in they eye in the middle of a sex shop and say the word penis and see what kind of reaction you get.

8. No matter how small, or how butch, or what race they are, lesbians always go for the biggest, blackest, veiniest dongs.

9. So do straight men. (Buying for "a friend", of course.)

10. Pjur Eros Super Concentrated Lubricant.  (now called Pjur Man after some litigation from the original German manufacturers)  I whole-heartedly endorse this product! Though I've never used it for its intended purpose. I kept a bottle on hand for all sorts of emergencies.  I used it on my cuticles, I rubbed it on my legs when my skirts had static cling, I used it on squeaky doors.  I put it in my hair for shine and fly away control.  If you've ever complimented me on my amazing hair, chances are, there was lube in it...

11. Those acrylic stripper shoes are really very comfortable.

12. Never put a glass dildo in a freezer or microwave--especially if
it is flecked with 24 karat gold.

13. The people who buy plastic penis everything for bachelorette parties really are the worst human beings you've ever met.

14. Women will buy a vibrating anything--shower poofies, roses, bunnies, scorpions, puppies...If it pulses with a fervor greater than or equal to an Oral B, bitch is puttin' it in her panties.

15. Actual, real-deal BDSM gear is terrifying.  I'm not talking fuzzy handcuffs and 50 Shades of Bullshit--I'm talking electrocution kits, steel chastity belts, needle play.  Definitely not for the faint of heart or skinny wallet, and definitely kept behind the counter.

16. People will agree with anything when they are talking to a total stranger (perceived expert) about their bits and the things they put on/in them.  One of my co-workers and I used to challenge each other to use words like excrement and clitosaurus with customers.  And not one of them ever got the joke. They all squinted and nodded as if the information they were hearing was just as valuable as what they'd get at a physician's office.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love,

Dr. Lubehair Dildoslinger

Bandz a make her buss it, buss it...

Worst Date Ever: Chick Edition

 

A friend of mine—a text book lesbian stereotype who surrounded herself with exes and liked to recycle them when there were no other options—used to give me constant grief over never having a date, and never really wanting one.  She had a gaggle of friends who all thought I was the bee’s knees, but I steered clear.  Because:  a) she’d already slept with them all, and b) I mostly hate lesbians.

But needing a change and feeling like I should dip my toe into the incestuous Sapphic waters—if anything just for the story—I caved and let her set me up on a blind-ish date.

I’d seen this girl only briefly once.  I wasn’t immediately attracted to her, but that never stopped me from getting to know someone better.  She was also femme, which isn’t usually my first choice for anything other than recreational bedding.  But she was from New Zealand so I thought that might be of some interest.  Anyway, a few texts and phone calls happened, and by the time date night came around I was already bored.  I did the whole “let’s meet at happy hour on a weeknight” kinda thing so I didn’t have to put much effort into my look and could just roll up in my version of business casual.

 

We met at a Mexican restaurant.  I was ready for a gigantic salty margarita, but she ordered a Diet Coke so I followed her lead, even though I would have gouged her eyes out for a cocktail.  (I might be a dick but I do have dinner manners.)  I ordered a typical plate of Mexican cheese goo.  And she ordered one enchilada.  And then proceeded to tell me that she’d recently had lap band surgery—which if you’re not familiar is a weight loss surgery that involves tying off the stomach with a band.  There’s also some sort of balloon thing involved.  I know this because every detail was explained to me.  During DINNER.  A dinner of Mexican food.  Which always looks like someone already ate it.

She explained that she shouldn’t be drinking soda.  She explained that she couldn’t even eat and drink at the same time.  She explained she shouldn’t have spicy food, that even the one enchilada would be too much for her.   And then she told me that just a couple days before she’d had her balloon expanded.  Then she pulled up her shirt.  At the table.  To show me that you could see the “device” under her skin.  And for the next hour or so she went on about New Zealand, her ex-husband, her ex-girlfriend, her nursing scrubs.  But I couldn’t pay attention to any of that. I just stared down at her tiny nibbled enchilada.  I would’ve blown the first INS agent that walked in just to get out of there.

The night finally came to a merciful end.  I’m pretty sure I picked up the check as consolation for the ghosting she was about to experience.  She walked me to the corner and offered to walk me to my car.  I lied about where it was and made no attempt to pretend I cared if she made it to hers.  An awkward hug followed—I (obviously) avoided full body contact.  And as if all that wasn’t sign enough, I had to give her the side of my head when she moved in to kiss me.

 

A day or two of texts and voicemails followed—all unanswered, and I never heard the end of it from my friend.  Who, by the way, I hear is now dating my little Kiwi all these years later.  May their bands never tarnish…