JAKEY ON ...

On Douchebags (and breaking your nose)

2011-04-27T01:13:00.000-07:00

You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life. ~ W. Churchill Winston Churchill probably meant this quote about fighting wars and arguing with British aristocrats, but I think if he were alive today, he also would have used it about douchebags on party buses.

The party bus was for my lovely college friend Kristen and her friend Robbie. It was to be a mini-college reunion, and I had a great idea of taking the bus to Amy's apartment in St. Louis Park so that I could go to work the next day without any problems. I wore my awesome brown pseudo-velvet blazer and a Texas Longhorns cap so I wouldn't get my hair wet with from the light drizzle.

Unfortunately for my dumb ass, I got off on the wrong bus stop and waited for an extra hour before realizing I had a ways to go. The only blessing of this is that a boy drove by who I randomly knew from my two seconds as a film major. "You going to MOA?" he asked. I shook my head, but thought it was really sweet of him to offer a ride. He was with his girlfriend, but he always awkwardly flirted with me. Then I thought about him being really good at kissing. I mean, what?

I further proved my idiocy when I couldn't figure out how to use my bus transfer ticket and everyody gave me death stares. Maybe I should have eaten more than just a crappy chicken salad from the gas station. Regardless! The party bus would be FUN! I felt stupid on my later transfer as well, when I put in two expired transfer tickets before finding the right one. Public transportation is hard, you guys.

It was fun, although I didn't get there until 9:45, right when it was leaving. The girls were happy to see me but made fun of my Longhorns hat. "Why are you wearing that?" they asked. "You've never even been to Texas". "Because I am being a DUDELY DUDE," I explained, pointing to random guys on our bus who were wearing caps. Laura was sure to tie my shoes to make sure I wouldn't biff it. I quickly realized that the bus was very segregated. Me and my college girls were up front, and then all of Robbie's pals were in the back. Since we were going to be together all night, I decided to MINGLE. And I worked that bus that I was a new CEO at the boardroom meeting, getting to know all the subordinates. My favorites of the pretty girls were Betsy and Veronica, the latter of whom I planned on making out with if the night went my way.

Our first bar was Billy's on Grand, where I complained to the college girls that our bus was too segregated. "Because those girls are BITCHES," Laura explained to me. "They hate us. The apartment earlier was even worse." "High school is over," Hailie went on. "We're 24, 25 now. It should end." "I wonder if they were popular in high school," I pondered. "Like maybe that never goes away. You think you're always The Queen Bee." I mingled with the new girls for a bit anyway, as one of them bought me a tequila shot. "If I get naked, it's your fault," I told her.

When we got back on the bus, a girl named Megan told me that she thought her ex-boyfriend (across from us) might be gay. He started dancing with no rhythm at all. "If he dances like that, he's straight," I assured her. "No rhythm." Like TWO SECONDS later, the guy sits by me. "I hear you said I have no rhythm," he said, and that's when I got it, that these girls really were stuck in high school, Mean Girls behavior. What would have happened if I had told Megan I thought her ex-boyfriend WAS gay?

As the bus got back in motion and we headed toward Minneapolis, the tequila (and the vodka I had earlier imbibed) was running through my veins, and I decided to pole dance. The college girls cheered, and most of the guys thought it was funny. No harm, no foul.

Then the incident happened.

"Hey," a guy with a cagefighter shirt and baseball cap from the back of the bus piped up. "No one wants to see that shit. I don't want to see dudes dancing. Save that for the Fag Bus."

I stared at him. "Come here," I said with a smile. He refused. "COME HERE," I said. "I want you to say that to my face."
"I DON'T WANT TO SEE DUDES DANCING," he yelled. He wasn't budging.
"No, say the fag part to my face," I demanded. He wouldn't. I sat back down and chugged whatever vodka I had left remaining.
"Jakey, let it go," Laura said. "It's not even worth it."
"No, I have to say SOMETHING when the bus stops," I said. "It's gonna be really short, and I'm gonna be nice." I had a little speech prepared, and it was to be 15 seconds.

Maybe I should have let it go. But I realized that I was 24 years old (and people are guessing my age accurately now. The night before, at Lush Bar, a guy who was trying to be a psychic was like "You're 24, right? But maybe not. You're really small." Then it turned out he used to date the St. Olaf Gay who made me cry at that wedding. Tangent!). I wasn't bullied or harrassed the way a lot of gay kids were, but I've taken my fair share of being called a faggot. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. 24-year-old Jakey was going to do this for 14-year-old Jakey who was never confident enough to stick up for himself when the high-schoolers would say it as he walked by. He was going to do this for 19-year-old Jakey, who went to college in a small town and, in a strange reversal of how things should go, got harrassed about five times as much THERE as he did in middle and high school. This was for 22-year-old Jakey, who, when working at the North Minneapolis Walgreens when these guys would come in and be like "Hey, faggot, where's the candy at?" smiled at them and said "Aisle Five" while completely no-selling their slurs. I was going to be calm and direct and get it over with. I convinced the guys sitting by me to stand behind me while I told the guy off, because there was a slight chance of fisticuffs.

What I should have realized was that you can't reason with idiots. "Can I just say two things and then we'll go our own ways?" I started. Calm voice. Level. "Number One: I do not want to have sex with you. Number Two: It is 2011 and----" It was going to end with you don't get to call me a fag anymore. But then he piped up.

"You better not want to have sex with me," he said. "Or I'll kick your ass."

Then I popped off, my voice getting higher and screechier as I went.

"WOW, REALLY???" I yelled. "I WEIGH 120 POUNDS, DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU'RE GONNA BE FUCKING TOUGH IF YOU KICK MY ASS? GO AHEAD. DO IT. RIGHT HERE. HUH, GO 'HEAD. I SPENT ALL MY LIFE BEING CALLED A FAGGOT AND NOW IT IS 2011 AND YOU. DON'T. GET. TO. CALL. ME. THAT. YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW ME. YOU'RE PATHETIC!"

And I stormed off that party bus, with the girls behind me. I should have felt good about myself, yet I didn't. Yelling wouldn't solve anything. The guy was drunk. Would he even remember it? Everyone else on that bus had joined this century and knew you couldn't call me a fag. I just got really sad, and couldn't enjoy my time at whatever bar we were at. The Ugly Mug. I used the girls' bathroom. It really was like college.

I should have gone home, but I took the bus five blocks to The Saloon. I needed Gay World after all. I went to Danny, my favorite bartender, who makes drinks strong and is really dreamy. I spent a good half hour talking to a guy who was 46, and we discussed youth being wasted on the young. "You're still young," he said. "You're what, 24-25?" Why was everyone guessing my real age?? I so need to buy new Bare Minerals. We walked to the dance room, and I put my Texas Longhorns hat away and went on the whorebox, where I promptly made out with a muscular Russian dude.

Then, shortly after 2 A.M., when drinks stopped being served but you could still dance and whore on the whorebox, my shoelace became untied, and as I got off the whorebox, I fucking BIFFED it.

I have fallen down drunk just a few times. Like last month, when I went face-first into the Foozball table. Or the time at Stout when I biffed it on the way to the pizza parlor, and I was with all boys so nobody helped me up. Or the other time at Stout when, IMMEDIATELY ENTERING a basement party, I stumbled down the stairs. Or last year, when I biffed it on the ice *outside* of the Saloon and cut my chin open. It may be signs of a drinking problem. It may also be signs that I really need to start wearing slip-ons.

I didn't know how bad the fall was. I just heard the reaction, put my hand to my face, and saw the blood. I am a child when it comes to blood. I hate it. I think of death and slasher movies. I realized I was Drew Barrymore in "Whip It!" when her face is smashed open and she asks Eve "is it bad?" and Eve hilariously tries to convince her it's not.

Would this have happened at a "straight" club, I probably would have been shown the door, shuffled into a cab and sent to Hennepin County Medical Center. But this is a gay club, and if you have blonde hair, you will be looked out for.

I never knew his name. He looked to be about 20, with jet black hair and a slight build. He had beautiful olive skin and delicate features. "Come here," he said, and he sat me down at the bar. "I'm a nursing student." He got ice from the bartender. "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod," I remember crying. "Shhhh. You're okay. Let me see it." He sat there for a good ten minutes pushing the napkins against my face. "You don't have to do this," I assured him. "Shhhh. Stop talking." The gays leaving the bar walked by and grimaced. An hour ago, I was triumphant, in the glow of my Kurt Hummel moment. Now I was back on the D-list, and permanently there. It doesn't get worse than being "that guy who fell down and bled all over The Saloon". Nurse Student Boy kissed my cheek when the swelling went down.

Nurse Student Boy and I got a cab together. He lived in uptown, and I decided I would pay his cabfare. It was the least he could do. On the way there he started rubbing my arm. Then I realized he probably wanted to play board games with me. Seriously, dude? My face was broken. I was flattered, but also realized that your average man, gay or straight, just wants to have sex all. the. time. Potentially broken nose and swollen lips? No problem!

We dropped off Nurse Student Boy. I don't know if I will ever see him again. He will always have a special place in my heart. Then the cab inferred that he didn't think I was going to pay, and we sat in icy silence for the rest of the ride home. I gave a shitty tip.

I totally left the Texas Longhorns hat at the bar.

The next morning, I showed up to work with a Toy Story band-aid and my lips totally swollen. I am clearly the face of Nordstrom. It was a Saturday, meaning all the boys looked like models. "MY FACE!" I cried to Sina. "MY BEAUTIFUL FACE!" I told some customers I had a nose job, others I got in a fight, and one that I fell down while reading The Bible (my manager overheard that one and I got scolded. The Mall of America is *not* the comedy club). They let me leave early, and my mother took me to the emergency room. They're not sure if it's broken yet because they have to wait for the swelling to go down, but my mouth and teeth are fine and I didn't break any bones. Then they gave me a tetanus shot and I asked for a sucker. "We have freezie pops," the nurse offered. "YAYYY" I cried, and I WAS SO HAPPY TO GET MY FREEZIE POP. My mother rolled her eyes. "Are you eight?" she asked. Then I realized I have injured myself far more in my twenties than in my childhood.

I'm kind of a mess.

5 Things I Love This Week

2011-02-21T21:56:00.000-08:00

First of all, I must apologize for my lack of blogging. The book I'm working on is *ALMOST* done (I have all of one chapter left), and then I get to worry about selling it. And in the meantime, I will probably be joining the blogosphere more often.

For now, I want to share five things that I am obsessed with this week.

5 THINGS I LOVE THIS WEEK

1) Drew Droege as Chloe Sevigny

I came upon this discovery on the Facebook page owned by the author of Weston Silver). The first time I saw one of these videos I found them amusing, but didn't quite get the point. After you've seen a few of these minute-long videos of improvisational comedian Drew Droege lampooning Chloe Sevigny, the genius becomes apparent. Drew doesn't offer an impersonation but a character in itself: An actress/fashionista who is arrogant and esoteric, while blissfully unaware of being either. My personal favorite is "Comedy", in which Chloe attempts stand-up comedy after being seated next to Da Brat at a charity function, but they're all worth a view. An unfortunate side effect: You may want to start every sentence with "It's recently come to my attention..."

2) Buffalo Exchange

Buffalo Exchange is a consignment shop with locations all over the country, and I stumbled upon it last weekend with my friend Sina. Sina is competing in a beauty pageant this Sunday, and we spent an entire day trying to find dresses. On the way we stopped at this store uptown, where not only did I purchase my first ever piece of clothing with an H & M label on it (okay, Sina bought it for me with her store credit). I also tried on an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt and really wanted it despite being born in the '80s, but Sina assured me that I did not have the body type to be wearing a shirt with a "muscle fit".

The following Monday, I showed up with a bag full of items. They only purchased three of them (and letting go of that Burberry tee-shirt was devastating), but I appreciate that they're so picky about what they're willing to sell to their customers. The best part: On the way out I ran into someone who I haven't seen since high school, and he was one of the more interesting folks. Buffalo Exchange: It brings people together.

3) Jen Lancaster

In all honesty, I'm working on reading all of Jen Lancaster's books and just finished her second ("Bright Lights, Big Ass"), a memoir ruminating on life in the big city of Chicago. Jen Lancaster is, in some ways, the opposite of the Chloe Sevigny we saw above: She's narcisstic but she knows it, and the result is hilarious writing full of both self-deprecation and abrasive observations of others. As an aspiring writer, I especially appreciated it for its realism on the publishing industry: Jen gets her book deal, but is still temping for a year due to the glacial pace of the business (those advance checks take their time). By far the book's best section is when, after completing a rather menial task at one of her temping gigs, the boss compliments her. It's a tiny gesture, and yet Jen reflects on her years as a dot-com exec where her decisions made people millions of dollars, and she was never greeted with any sort of courtesy. It's a deep yet unsentimental passage in a book full of unapologetic bitchiness.

Sidebar: While Lancaster doesn't write about politics very much, she's a Republican and I love her for it. In the same week that my friend Julie told me she probably won't go to my comedy show on Thursday because "there'll be a bunch of Somalians there", it's refreshing to read a book by someone who a) voted for John McCain in '08 and b) takes the time to bemoan racial profiling post 9/11 during a rant about the city bus. Well-played, Jen Lancaster. You can read more of Jen's musings, book tour informaton, and reading suggestions at her website.

4) GQ

GQ: You cannot put Channing Tatum on your cover *and* have Josh Hutcherson in an additional pictorial without first prescribing me heart attack medication.

5) Chipheads Computer Repair Shop

If any of you are in the Minneapolis area and have a piece of shit computer that you should have replaced the first time you sent it to the computer hospital, I highly recommend Chipheads in Richfield and in St. Paul. My monitor totally biffed it last week, and guess who's almost done with a book yet hasn't backed anything up? This guy. Not only that, but I have a keyboard that isn't connected by a USB cable for the first time since 2008. You rock, Chipheads!

On "Catwoman"

2011-01-22T21:05:00.001-08:00

It has been announced that Anne Hathaway will be playing Selina Kyle/Catwoman in the upcoming Christopher Nolan sequel, slated for release in July 2012.

While I welcome this news, it makes me wonder what origin story the producers will choose. Very few Batman villains have been reidentified as much as Catwoman.

Last summer, I stumbled upon this unproduced "Catwoman" screenplay by Daniel Waters. It was slated to be a direct sequel to "Batman Returns" (remember that ridiculous open ending?), but Warner Brothers never produced it, and the world instead gave us Joel Schumacher's vision of technicolor and Batnipples.

In this script, Selina Kyle is an amnesiac, being taken in by her mother in the idyllic casino town of Oasisburg. She falls for two men -- one who loves her, and one who's trying to kill her, but she doesn't know who is who -- and as crime against women further escalates, she must realize that she is, indeed, the only Catwoman. It's chock full of sociopolitics, but visited in a way as dark and twisted as "Batman Returns" was.

On Where Life Is

2011-01-22T00:03:00.001-08:00

I moved out of my parents' house two weeks ago.

Two and a half years ago, I moved back after royally fucking up a year at Brooklyn College. My tail was between my legs yet I was somehow defiant. I was going to be here for six months, maximum. I was going to get my driver's license, pay off my credit cards, and move back to New York, and do it MY WAY, dammit.

I got my driver's license, but didn't get the actual car until almost a year later.

I signed up for a personal trainer for a year. So stupid financially, right? But I still have seven sessions left and I don't have love handles anymore. Yes, skinny people can have love handles.

Just as I had most of my credit cards paid off, hello Nordstrom Signature Visa! But I really only use it for cute clothes, and the occasional trips. Speaking of trips, oh the places I went! I went to Los Angeles, Orlando, Chicago and Vegas, all the while wondering how I had a full-time job and felt like I never had any money.

My current living situation happened unexpectedly, as all great things in life do. About three months ago, the power in my parents' house was out for an entire weekend. There was a snowstorm, and houses all over Minneapolis were intermittently without power. Unfortunately for my parents, our house was the only one within a three-block radius without power, so we were fairly low on Xcel's totem pole, who were busy working on entire neighborhoods living in a blackout.

During the first night, I called my brother out of boredom. He had been drinking, but wasn't at that obnoxious level of drunk that he gets later in the evening. He was one step before that, when he is a wise and sagacious drunk. The life that I had been living was once my brother's. While I was off in college, getting plastered every night and having emotional affairs with boys of questionable sexuality and amazing abdominal muscles, he was fighting with my parents about things like leaving underwear on the bathroom floor. When he finally moved out, my parents had four months of bliss before I showed up from Brooklyn. He moved to a house with a few other guys, and I perceived them as ballers, as Dane would be calling me every weekend home from the bar. Yes, Kim Kardashian totally made eye contact with him during her appearance at Aqua.

"I know you think you're gonna go to L.A. or New York," he said. "And maybe you will. But just, sign a month-to-month lease somewhere, live in a divey apartment, and just LIVE. You're miserable there. You have this whole complex in your head that you live with your parents and you're a loser, and you won't feel like one if you move out."
"But I don't have any money," I whined.
"No, you do," he scoffed. "How much do you make a month?"
I told him, and he was convinced. "You've been there for over two years and you don't have any money? That's embarrassing."
But I had my excuses ready! My initial credit card bills, followed by the additional credit card bills! My two speeding tickets! My hospital bill from the night in February I fell on my face outside of The Saloon and had to be stitched up at HCMC! My failed semester as a film student at Minneapolis Community and Technical College to the tune of $2,200!

The next night, my parents' house was STILL without power, so I took a shower at my friend Dana's house. Dana graduated from University of Wisconsin and lives with her parents. I still have one of her T-shirts. I slept that night at my friend Sina's apartment. Sina lives in a rather famous apartment building with a questionable reputation, but I felt safe there. She told me how much rent was and I thought I could easily afford it. Sure, it had its drawbacks. Parking is impossible in her neighborhood and I could never have people over, especially my friend Julie, who would run away at the sight of the first Somali person. But it was close to the light rail, and it would be fun living in the same apartment with Sina! I could come down to borrow a cup of sugar, only in our case it would probably be a fifth of vodka.

December came around. My mother and I fought all the time, but that's been our relationship for the past ten years. My father and I often get along, but we fought more that month than we have in our whole lives. It was the stupid things, really, like the fact that the living room doubles as his bedroom and I just want to watch my Jeopardy on DVR, dammit, or I'd be late for work because he was in the shower when I needed it, or that he had to park in the street because I did such a poor job parking in the driveway, or his drunkenly barging into my room without knocking asking if I had his phone charger. IT WAS 2 IN THE MORNING. I COULD HAVE BEEN WATCHING GAY PORN.

An acquaintance of mine was hosting a going away party the third weekend of December, as he was following his girlfriend to Colorado. He had a note on his invite that he was subleasing his room if anyone was interested. I wrote him about it, and we talked about it over at the party. Nothing came of it, and I told myself it was for the best. He lived with three "dudes", and maybe we just wouldn't gel together.

The last week of December, my aunt and uncle were staying with us for a week, much to the chagrin of my father. The boy messaged me that day saying the room was still mine if I wanted it. I debated in my head. Could I afford it? What would happen when the lease was over? Should I suck it up at my parents' house for a few more months, then convince Sina to follow her dreams to L.A., and take me with her as her #1 groupie?

I officially made my decision at dinner, when we were all discussing our eating habits, and why you should eat breakfast.

Jakey: "I usually eat really healthy when I'm at work, and then I just come home and eat everything."
Jakey's Aunt: "Because it's free."
Jakey: "...."
Jakey's Mother: "Well, I .... no ... he ... he doesn't eat breakfast in the morning, he never has TIME. He really only eats one meal a day. He ... you know, it's just ..."

Her effort to defend me was admirable, valiant even, but the message had been sent. Later that night, she agreed to give me a ride to the train station the next day so I wouldn't have to drive to the mall in the ice, and when morning came around, you would have thought I had asked her for a kidney. "But we're going to breakfast!!" she cried, and I realized that so long as I was under this roof, I was going to be the Spoiled Ungrateful Asshole Adult Son in the narrative of her life.

I am in a Dude House now. They aren't here a lot, and truth be told, I'm not either. I have, however had two different girls over in the past week, because I BE PIMPING. My roommates are actually cleaner than I am, which is just wrong. They don't even have sisters. Two weeks ago we watched the BCS Bowl and last week we watched the Golden Globes. They think Christina Aguilera looks better now with meat on her bones, and I found that to be uplifting.

Also, they are REALLY cute but that has nothing to do with the enjoyment of my new living situation. Really. Honest. Stop looking at me like that.

Fuck 2010

2011-01-02T23:10:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of Dodai Stewart's amazing "Fuck 2010" post on jezebel.com, here is my edition:

Fuck that it's been two and a half years and I'm still living at home with $200 in savings. Fuck that my relatives perceive me as the loser asshole adult son who can't do anything right. Fuck that, while my mother and I have managed to improve our relationship, I still have anger issues up the wazoo and she still has her days where she wins the gold medal in the Passive Aggressive Olympics. Fuck that all of my close friends have moved away. Fuck that I am still in a retail gig and can't get promoted because I am a screw-up and show up late, hung over, and sometimes still intoxicated despite the fact that my customers LOVE me, dammit. Fuck the St. Olaf Gays and their fag hags who sat next to me at a wedding and said "Retail is only acceptable between the ages of 16 and 20", because I'M RIGHT HERE, DAMMIT. Fuck that this was the year my father went from a fun drunk to kind of a mean one. Fuck that I refuse to date because I am a loser living at home, and therefore either have emotional affairs with men on the Internet who are probably really 60 years old and obese, awkward one-night-stands that end in tears, or ridiculous emotional affairs with straight guys who live in Wisconsin. Lastly, fuck the Minnesota weather, and being stranded at the Mall of America in a blizzard. Fuck that my wallet was stolen when it actually had money in it. Fuck that two weeks prior, the parking ramp was an ice rink and I hit two parked cars and a young woman (who is going to be okay, but it was still traumatizing for all involved, especially her).

Read more: http://jezebel.com/5721528/fuck-you-2010#ixzz19xCG1K6f

I feel better now, don't you?

On St. Olaf Gays

2010-11-27T22:11:00.000-08:00

I went to the wedding reception for my friend's mom. My friend went to St. Olaf for college so I hung out with the St. Olaf Gays when I wasn't awkwardly hanging out with kids who were in anywhere from seventh to tenth grade when I graduated high school and whose siblings I actually graduated with, and said siblings are now all engaged and have grown-up jobs and it is allegedly going to be okay. All night I had my usual existential crisis in my head -- I am Peter Pan and everyone else either stayed in college or actually graduated, Mommy Issues Mommy Issues Mommy Issues -- then quieted them with wine and convinced myself that such insecurities were all in my head.

After my sixth glass of wine, I was sitting at a table with the two St. Olaf gays and their gal pals. I was sort of a fifth wheel in that everyone at the table was conscious I was there and while they accepted my interjections, I still wasn't really part of the conversation. It was okay. I enjoy soaking things in. Then this happened as we were discussing the gay club experience (and they mentioned a gay club in Minneapolis that I have somehow NEVER heard of, WTF):

ST. OLAF GAY #1: I mean, I'm into older guys.
ST. OLAF GAY #2: They're more put together.
ST. OLAF GAY #1: So much drama otherwise.
ST. OLAF GAY #2: It's so immature.
ST. OLAF GAY #1: Or, like, they work retail.
ST. OLAF GAY #2 AND FAG HAGS: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
FAG HAG #1: Yeah, like retail is only acceptable when you're between 16 and 20. Otherwise ...
FAG HAG #2: Yeah!
ST. OLAF GAY #1: Ridiculous!
ST. OLAF GAY #2: Um, Nordstrom Rack is the exception.
JAKEY: I have to pee.

I tried to cavort with the 20 year olds but I was too sad and could no longer hide it. I met one of their mothers and tried to joke about being on my sixth wine glass. She did not laugh. Halfway through my two-mile walk home in the Minnesota tundra, I realized that her son that introduced us has been in rehab and I am a real winner.

On Getting Tagged in Nasty Porn PIctures on Facebook

2010-11-09T22:19:00.000-08:00

This is my sincere and humble apology to anybody who saw really gross pictures that I was tagged in. By gross, I mean GROSS. It happened not once not twice not three but FOUR times but I can now say with confidence that it won't happen again. I have since cut from my friends list people whose real identities I don't know, so now I am sure that I'm not friends with anybody who would think it would be really funny to tag me in pictures of pornography. And objectivity is everything, but this was porn that nobody needs to see. Really. If I was going to tag myself in such pictures I would have at least chosen something more aesthetically pleasing.

I take responsibility in accepting friend requests from people that I knew nothing about other than that we had one or two mutual friends. Maybe it was vanity, like "Ooooh! Friend number 1,223! You win a prize!" But I really don't think like that, at least on a conscious level. Last night I was tagged for a third time, received several text messages and wall posts in my e-mail, and promptly removed things as quickly as I could. I scoured my friends list and cut everybody that I didn'tk now. Turns out i missed one, because it happened again today while I was at work. I called a friend who bravely logged into my Facebook, and the pictures had since been removed, so thank you to that friend as well as the poor souls who reported the pictures. When I got home I went through my friends list AGAIN, repeating every single name to myself so if anything was unfamiliar they were removed. I also learned that I think I am friends with about 80 Ashleys, Megans, Chelseas and Johns.

Speaking of Facebook friends, last night I also added a real adult film star for shits and giggles and wrote to him about the irony that on the day I was tagged in porn pics I was friends with an actual porn star, and he wrote back "That's funny ... kinda." Then, because I am 13, I obsessed over it for five minutes. Wait, kinda?? Does that mean I'm annoying?? Does that mean it's not really funny?? Whatever, Austin Wilde! But I digress.

Then I started thinking about the mentality of someone who goes through with such a prank. FOUR times?? Really?? Get a life, my child. I was not the only person in a certain circle of friends who was 'hit' by this, and one of them was an 80-year-old woman, which I think is really awful and disgusting. 80-year-old women should worry about things like bingo and missing Larry King Live, not having pictures of them Facebook-tagged in gross gay porn.

I have since made a new photo album of rainbows and butterflies. I hope you enjoy it.

Then I went into Facebook Notes because no one really does these anymore. The very first note was someone coming forward about being HIV positive, which is one of those moments where you put life in perspective and realize that you're kind of a self-obsessed whack job. Minutes ago I was telling myself that I have post-traumatic stress disorder from this debacle, as every time my phone rings and my e-mail button goes off, I'm worried I've been pranked yet again and it's frantic friends witnessing disgusting pictures, and then I read this note (very well-written, by the way) and it's one of those light bulb moments. A disgusting pornographic picture can be taken care of with an 'untag' button, and a situation like what this young person is dealing with has many words that can describe it, but untaggable certainly isn't one of them.

I also realized that religious people LOVE Facebook notes.

In conclusion, I am, again, very sorry to all who witnessed such things. Thank you for not deleting me as a friend, and thank you for not thinking that I was doing such a thing on purpose. An extra thank you if you can find my Claritin-D at this juncture, because I could really use some.

On Albino Squirrels

2010-10-11T18:09:00.001-07:00

First of all, I have to say that I have not been updating this thing nearly enough, and for that I apologize, not to anyone who occasionally peruses this, but really to myself. While I have been working on a book, I haven't been writing daily or even weekly anymore, and I realized it was because something had to affect me on a visceral level, something that, upon my reflection, I *had* to write about it.

That has happened over the past few days.

This week, I had a great time hanging out with a friend of mine and a pal of hers who was visiting from Florida. We drank together, we went shopping together, we drank some more, and it was wonderful to spend time with the two of them, as I was worried that I would feel like a third wheel of some sort. I love that I now have a "Florida gay" in my life.

But I am writing about meeting him not because vodka is amazing (which it is), because he was a first for me. No, we did not have any sort of a romance or affair as I think he's into muscle dudes, but he was the first kind of a particular person that I had ever met:

He was a gay Republican.

A gay Republican, to me, is like when an albino squirrel is in your front yard. You know they exist, but to actually see one right in front of you is very jarring. Should you take a picture? Should you stare at it? What if he runs away?

That strange comparison aside, I think it's especially prescient to write about it this week. This morning, New York's Republican gubernatorial candidate Carl Paladino did a press conference denouncing homosexuality, reading a speech written for him by a rabbi who gladly espouses Leivticus's teaching that a man who lies with another should be put to death. This was the same morning that men in his state -- hell, the actual city he was in-- were arraigned for torturing gay teenagers and a man in a horrendous hate crime.

In Oklahoma, U.S. Representative Sally Kern is up for re-election; her opponent, a transgendered woman named Brittany Novotny, predictably has little chance. Yet Sally is known for Republicans because last year she announced that homosexuality was a bigger danger to our country than terrorism. Her comments drew a rare political reaction from Ellen DeGeneres, who rarely uses her talk show as a pulpit.

Here in Minnesota, Star Tribune columnist Katharine Kersten, the paper's lone conservative, argued that the most important issue facing Minnesota in our upcoming gubernatioral election is not poverty or unemployment, but the danger of gay marriage becoming legal and harming our children. The inexplicable, Maggie Lovejoy "what about the children?" was also a key point in Paladino's press conference, who re-itatered that homosexuals are indoctrinating our children and we must protect them.

It is 2010, by the way.

Here is what I am trying to wrap my head around: While I hate saying "I have Republican friends", not because I hate Republicans but just because I think it sounds just as stupid as when someone says "I have a black friend" or "my cousin is gay" ... I have Republican friends. And I respect and understand many of their viewpoints. A few months ago, I had a very illuminating dinner with a friend of mine who is a mother of a former classmate, yet I'm closer to her than with him (what? she's freaking awesome). I was worried about the discussion meandering into politics, but when it did, I was happy and relieved. She explained that, while she is a fiscal conservative and votes Republican, she doesn't believe in everything that our Republican governor Tim Pawlenty does. She was raised by a grandmother who spoke only Greek, and therefore was against the idea of "English-only" declarations in the legislature, and her experiences as a special education teacher instilled in her the importance of certain social programs. This was around the same time I had a discussion with my father and his friends -- all stuanch Republicans, yet they all had horror stories of the health care industry and, while against the idea of privatization or "Obamacare", understood that the system is broken and needs to be fixed.

Yet I still, especially after this week, cannot understand being a gay Republican. I do not think your sexual predispotion should affect your views on government spending, or health care, or our military actions in Afghanistan. But it was just two weeks ago when every single Republican Senator voted against the defense authorization bill that would have effectively repealed Don't Ask Don't Tell, effectively keeping us as the only country with a fully developed military with such a policy. And it is just this week, that, in the wake of far too many suicides of gay teens, prominent Republicans in the public eye are still denouncing homosexuality as "dangerous". Mr. Paladino went as far to say that it is "not valid".

I wish I would have been brave enough to ask my new friend about this, but I felt that with all the vodka flowing, things would have become heated, my other friend would have yelled that Obama is a Muslim, and I would have gone home crying. What I wanted to ask is, where do you reconcile your views? When you go to the polls, do you think about not being able to get married or to openly serve your country, or about your sugar daddy getting a tax break? This guy lives in FLORIDA, the only state where gay couples cannot legally adopt children, even ones they have raised as foster couples. Even Bill O'Reilly is against that policy, and he thinks gay marriage is like marrying your dog.

There is no tidy way to wrap this up. There is no "kum ba ya" platitude I can offer. I can only hope that the Republican party takes a cue from younger members like Meghan McCain, who has taken a more progressive stance on gay rights. I can only hope that these gay kids realize the entire world is not against them, even if it can seem that way. And I can only hope that we can all take a second to realize what is most important to us and the futures of our children, and all act accordingly.

End my pink soapbox.

On Rich Cronin

2010-09-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

Rich Cronin, former frontman of '90s boy band LFO, passed away today of leukemia. He was 35.

I found about this a little more than an hour ago, and I'm not sure how to adequately process it. First there were the superficial thoughts: He was one of my first crushes as a sexually confused 12 year olds! With his biceps and golden skin, there was something a bit more mature about Rich than the Backstreet Boys or 'N Syncers (the only one I crushed on was Brian Littrell, really, and Trevor from "Soul Decision" would have likely given me wet dreams had I not been on Zoloft).

Then there were the random memories I have, since my brain is a hodgepodge of pop culture where things like algebra and American history should be. Maybe five, six years ago I randomly perused his website (it's no longer available). This was long after the boy band boom, and all the rage were the "emo" bands or hip-hop acts. Cronin's website seemed to reveal someone hopeful yet sad about the life of fame that had passed him by. He posted links to his poetry, and I'll never forget reading the line "I used to be friends with Justin Timberlake." Out of contest it sounds trite, but there was something beneath that: Like Rich, JT was a former boy-band standout, but had survived that category to move on to an upper echelon of fame. It may have been like in high school when your best friend promises you that contact will always be had, and then she goes off to Harvard and you only see her over holidays, if that.

But what most jarred my memories of Rich Cronin was this 2007 Vanity Fair article about boy band founder/convincted felon/sexual predator Lou Pearlman, who managed the Backstreet Boys and 'N Sync to great fame, along with a slew of side projects that included LFO. Of all these bands, only one of them had a member willing to speak on record about Perlman, and that man was Cronin.

That was the line, the 'aura,' I definitely heard that aura bullshit," says Rich Cronin, lead singer of the Pearlman band LFO. "It took everything in me not to laugh. He was like, 'I know some mystical fricking ancient massage technique that if I massage you and we bond in a certain way, through these special massages, it will strengthen your aura to the point you are irresistible to people.'

"I swear to God," Cronin goes on, "I had to bite my cheeks to stop from laughing. I mean, I now know what it's like to be a chick.… He was so touchy-feely, always grabbing your shoulders, touching you, rubbing your abs. It was so obvious and disgusting.… He definitely came at people. He came at me. In my situation I avoided him like the plague. If I went to his house, I went with somebody. I would never go with him alone. Because I knew every time I was over there by myself it always led to some weird situation. Like he'd call late at night to come over and talk about a tour, and you'd get there and he'd be sitting there in boxers. The guy was hairy as a bear."

By no means was Cronin's only legacy to the world as someone who spoke out on the abhorrent behavior of Lou Perlman, but it does give pause that, out of the 18 popular boy band members that Perlman managed, he was the only one to speak on the record.

Lastly, Cronin's death -- to me as a Generation Y member -- is one of those things when you realize your own possible mortality. Not only is 35 far too young to die, but it is only 11 years older than my own age. "Summer Girls" may have been silly, but it was also unforgettable in its catchiness; my sophomore year of college, I would routinely sing it with my lacrosse-playing, infinitely masculine roommate.

I don't know the inner secrets of Cronin's life; I can only hope his was a happy one. I can only hope that leukemia research continues so that no one has to die of it, especially a man of only three and a half decades. And I can only hope that we can all still think it's fly when girls stop by for the summer...for the summer.

Happy Birthday, Corey Cooper

2010-09-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

I am over it, really. I will post on your Facebook wall later in the day, because right now I am the fourth person and that puts me in creeper status, even creepier than you already think I am. But then the right hand sign of Facebook said I should 'reconnect with you' and maybe that is a sign, but a sign of what? I am in Minneapolis and you are in Wisconsin, and I'm pretty sure you're not on my team, and I can't listen to "All I Want for Christmas is You" without thinking of the night I left my heart on the whorebox when I saw you kissing that girl, and I am convinced that Swedish pop superstar Robyn was witnessing the entire scene and used it as the inspiration for a song she would later release titled "Dancing On My Own".

I have been into signs from the universe lately. I had a dream two nights ago that my father got arrested for a DUI. Tonight I walked to the local pub and he was there too, slurring up a storm.
"You are not driving," I said, and I told him of my dream.
"God bless you, son," he said, "But I am an excellent drunk driver. I've done it for 35 years."
"But my dream!" I cried. "You should let me drive."
"How many drinks have you had?"
"Two."
"You weigh a hundred pounds. You'll be a toke over the line, too."

When we got in his truck he was putting the wrong key in the ignition, and I freaked out because I had left my iPod in the bar.
"I have to go back in!" I cried. "I left my iPod."
"Jesus Christ," he sputtered.
"Oh, wait," I said. "My iPod is in my back pocket." "And you worry about me." "But I'm just spacey. You're drunk."
He drove the quarter mile home with me in the passenger side and we were fine, but I worry.
"Do you have a savings plan?" he asked. "Will you ever move out of my house?"
"Hey," I cried. "I walked home from work with $7 in cash because I had one account and one declined account."
"Well, California, here we come."

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I stayed in Wisconsin. I only talked to Corey Cooper once during my tenure there (our other deep conversations, like when I asked how tall he was, occurred after I left and was just visiting). Maybe I would have graduated and had a big boy job, working at a clinic or family center. I would have had no pipe dreams of show business or fleeting fame. I would have been normal and happy. I would even have had good sex. I am not saying that sex is the most important thing in the world, but it is one of my what-if's, like having a driver's license when I was in high school.

Uncut Memories, and other Tribulations

2010-08-23T12:24:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a dude on the Internet last night (god forbid I ever go out) when he asked if I lived alone.
"No," I said. "I have roommates."
"Are they gay?"
"No."
"Are they hot?"
"Lol! No."
"How old are they?"
"Oh, fine. I live with my parents."

I wasn't technically LYING. I mean, I live with two other people who are not hot or gay. It's not until I mention that they're 50 that things get confusing to people.

One of my roommates is chill and likes to drink with me. The other one hasn't spoken to me since Thursday because we got in a fight, the kind where things were said that hurt so bad that we're going to stay mad forever, until we forget why we're mad in the first place.

***

My computer was acting up the other day, so while waiting for it to reboot I walked into my brother's old room. He has some of my DVD's in there and I was wondering if there was any I could re-watch.

When I was 18, my gay friend turned nemesis, Gaysian, bought me a porno. "You don't want to know what I had to do to get this," he said, and I imagined it involved some kind of disgusting sexual favor. While I'm actually not a fan of gay porn and find most of it very squicky and uncomfortable, this movie was European and had very high production quality. I mean, the plot was sort of questionable (five attractive dudes sit in a living room together and share stories of sexual exploits before engaging in group sex), but the overall, erm, action, is pretty good, and since I was a late bloomer about discovering sexuality due to my adolescent years spent on the Paxil Train, I imagine that when I was 18 I reached the promised land to that DVD about 30 times.

When I moved back from New York, it was no longer in its hiding spot, and I assumed my mother found it and rightfully threw it away. I never thought of it again.

The other night, I'm in my brother's room, rifling through DVD's, AND THERE IT IS. In completely plain view. I shuddered. Had my brother known it was there the whole time? Did my mother know it was there? What if relatives came over wanting to look at Dane's old room? Surely somebody had seen the DVD of "Uncut Memories"! What if they thought maybe Dane was secretly gay, too? The thoughts were too much to bear. It is currently hiding in my desk drawer, and I will probably get drunk this weekend and watch my favorite scenes. Before you think I'm a pervert, for me the money shot is when the dude's shirt comes off. I'm weird, I know.

***

I love Twitter, both with friends, celebrities and fake celebrities. Right now I've been Tweeting JonnytheUnit, who is The Situation's personal trainer or something? Last night I found out there's ANOTHER little gay boy Tweeting him, and this boy is totally cuter than me. Even in the fake quasi-famousphere, I am inadequate.

I also stopped following porn stars Alana and Chris Evans after they started going off against the mosque in New York City. I was torn about it. I think it's great that people have opinions on national affairs, despite what they do for a living. But when you say "I have done my research and the mosque is nothing more than a 9/11 triumph site" and "We have to defend ourselves against neighbors", well, um ... your research is wrong. I'll go back to getting drunk and DM'ing Lee Roy Meyers (a genius director, and I think I'm even going to buy "The Human Sexipede" when it comes out) and telling Rocco Reed to enjoy his weekend.

On Rules

2010-08-11T00:55:00.000-07:00

1. When you're dancing with a cute boy at The Gay '90s to Britney Spears' "...Baby One More Time", and you make awkward small talk and explain that you had this song on single when you could go to Best Buy and get CD's for 99 cents, and his response is an adorable "Yeah, I was seven when this came out", that's when you need to step away.

Here's the thing: I barely know this kid. He is not going to be a good friend of mine. But now we are Facebook friends, and because I am constantly obsessed with other peoples' lives, especially the Minneapolis gays and what I have perceived to be the Minneapolis gAy-list, some imaginary social echelon that I have decided I will never be part of and can't even decide if I want to be or not, I cannot turn away from the whole thing, but I refuse to be one of those gross gay dudes all up on his wall like "youre so cuuuuttttttee" and "call meeeeeeeeeeeee" ...

Also, if you describe yourself as a "down to earth hot gay guy", well, I won't dispute you're gay. But if you are truly down to earth, you do not know you are down to earth. If you are truly hot, you do not need to describe yourself as hot. That's like me telling people that I'm pale. Like, no, really?

Why do I care? I need to not. This is me not caring. I think.

P.S. Cute 19-year-old: I mean, I know you have a boyfriend and everyting and there's like 5,000 other twentysomething gay dudes all up on your grill, but um, if you want to come over and, like watch, Step Up, let me know. But give me a date so I can make sure my parents aren't home and maybe I can convince you that it's my house.

On Facebook Stupidity

2010-07-14T22:15:00.001-07:00

Today in Facebook stupidity ...

At the risk of bragging, I have over 1,200 friends on Facebook. Most of them I do no personally. Yes, a few of them are the lame "celeb" ones, but who knows? Maybe Jake Pavelka and I will end up being great friends and sharing our traumas together over coffee.

I normally tend to ignore things that bother me, because Facebook should not be indicative of our "real" lives, for lack of a better term, but two incidents happened in the past 48 hours that put me over the edge.

EXHIBIT A: DUMB POLITICAL ASSHATTERY.

First of all, discussing politics on Facebook, just as in life, is always dicey. I'd be lying if I said I never do it, but all the political stuff I've posted lately has been clips from The Daily Show, because it's not about viewing politics as team sports, but pointing out hypocrisy. And at the risk of another disclaimer, I wouldn't necessarily disown you or hide your updates if you wrote something like "___ greatly disagrees with Nancy Pelosi's latest quote about unemployment benefits", because, whether or not I agree with it, you have nonetheless made an informed opinion, and I can only respect it.

I work at the Mall of America. If you are a racist, it is called the Mall of Somalia. The point is that about 30-40% of my workforce is Muslim. A friend of mine harbors great feelings of bigotry about Islam, but I tend to not overlook it but understand it, because she used to live in Florida and has never had a personal relationship with someone of Muslim origin, and why would she? She reads Glenn Beck as if he's gospel, and according to someone like that, they have all their hands on the detonator.

No, this link that so infuriated came from someone I work with, who, until 48 hours ago, I thought was a really smart girl with a good head on her shoulders. It's not that being conservative or Republican makes you uncool. It's that being an asshole makes you uncool.

She posted a link about how we should be protesting the mosque being built near the World Trade Center, and how it was "insulting and humiliating to every American". Well, I'm an American and I'm not insulted and humiliated by somebody practicing their own religion, as is allowed under the First Amendment of the Consitution of the United States of America. It viscerally upset me. I wanted to comment, I really did, but what good would it have done? I would have started a flame war, and have been told by her friends that I was anti-American and should move to Europe, and bring all the Muslims with me.

So I took the passive-aggressive tact. I was viscerally upset by this link, so I shared it as a status update, and wrote that my opinion would not change hers. "Is this about mine?" she wrote. "We are all entitled to our own opinions. :-) "

And, well, yes, we are, but I hid her from my mini-feed. She's a lovely girl, but when I clicked on her page again (out of morbid curiousity), someone else had commented that they hope the mosque gets blown up. The hypocrisy is astounding, and saddening, and if I think about this anymore I will need a drink of water.

EXHIBIT B: RELATIONSHIPS MAKE YOU DUMBER.

This also involves someone I used to work with at the Mall of America. Maybe going in there makes us lose brain cells.

Anyway, she is in a new relationship, which I do not judge. I do judge when you are on Facebook and after EVERYTHING YOU WRITE is your boyfriend. She will write "I have a headache" and he will write "I'm sorry baby" and she will write "Thank you baby" and he will write "yw baby" and she will write "I took a Tylenol, I feel better" and he will write "That's good baby" and she will write "Thank you baby muah" and he will write "yw baby". This happens about five times a day.

But, still, they're happy, they're in love, it has no effect on my life, so I will pay it no heed.

She posted a profile picture of herself today. It looked lovely. So I commented on it. Jakey wrote LOVELY! in a comment. She wrote "Thank you Jakey".

An hour later I had a friend request from her? But we were friends already? Maybe it was a glitch. I added her back and thought nothing of it. Later that day I got an e-mail from her, explaining that she had cut me as a friend because her boyfriend saw my comment and got jealous, so she felt she had to remove me from her friends list until she explained to him that I am queer as a three-dollar bill. How many straight guys do you know that use the word "lovely" in everyday conversation? Then I again posted a passive-aggressive update about it, got 12 responses, and I think she's cut me for good, because if anyone is going to threaten her relationship, it is my 122 pounds of manly testosterone.

RANT OVER.

Before I Became a Total Loser...

2010-06-28T01:06:00.000-07:00

...I was somebody, y'know?

Cue it now
Hee Who Must Not Be Named
'Oh you just want attention
blah blah blah'

Yes well
If you say that
Here you are

I was no-sold tonight
Not once not twice but three times
Whatever
Fuck you Minneapolis gays
I do not need to be on your A-list
Because what are you other than gay
No, quick
Name five quick adjectives
Not so fast, you fucking ginge

Tears of a clown
I am bitter and old

'Build a bridge and get over it'
My aunt says
She is so right

Yet in my head
In a constant loop
Is 'you are just playing house'
And with that comment
Three years ago
Went all of my confidence
Crushed on Newkirk Avenue
Amidst the ganja and the chatter
She never knew
She will never cop to it
I am the ungrateful asshole
Fair enough

'When you carry around anger like that
It is like carrying around rotting garbage
Is there anything I can do to help?'
Well no
Your face turn is a few years too late

I used a lot of wrestling lingo in this post today

I will delete this in the morning

The Jakey Workout

2010-04-30T22:05:00.001-07:00

Today I went back to the gym for the first time in two weeks! I did NOT use a trainer! Here is the Jakey Workout for you kids at home:

*45 minutes on the elliptical with a result of 400 calories burned. Use an iPod and get really into Mariah Carey songs! Yell out lyrics like "I GAVE YOU MY HEART AND ALL YOU DID WAS POUND ON IT" and "LONG AS I KNOW YOU GOT ME, I'LL BE LOVIN' U LONG TIME". Pretend to not be embarrassed when people give you weird looks!

*Give a head nod to the janitor who is totally your Facebook friend but you forget his name. Then when you're in the car on the way home, of course you remember it!

*Then, head to the empty gymnasium for your Urijah Faber box jumps! Does Urijah Faber even do box jumps? Who knows? Let's pretend so we can feel more confident! Do 15 of these, followed by 15 step-ups with weights (alternating sets with each side), then 15 press-ups with weights. REPEAT.

*Notice those punching bags with you? Kick them randomly, whenever you feel like it! Pretend you are Trish Stratus. Feel free to yell out "CHICK KICK!" as you do it!

*Then go home and eat almonds, a turkey burger, and a disgusting blend of Diet Mountain Dew and Cherry UV! Congratulations! Soon your shit will be tight and you can get down to YOUR goal weight of 122 pounds and having abs like Brent Corrigan! DON'T GOOGLE THAT NAME.

Love,
Jakey

Join us next week when we discuss how to lift even if there are jocks at the gym! Don't feel insecure!

On the Mariah Carey Concert and Chicago Adventures

2010-02-16T20:46:00.001-08:00

My favorite thing about traveling alone is the ability to meet new people. Delta has these two-seaters, and you better like the person you're next to or you're in for a long flight, even if Minneapolis to Chicago is a hop and a skip. I sat next to a young woman named Annie. She was a large black woman who was nervous about flying, and she signed my journal at the end of the flight, telling God to be with me forever and ever.

My hotel was very swanky. I stayed at the Wit, right in downtown Chicago on State Street. It was next door to the theater. While the hotel was by far the nicest one I had ever been to, I could not help but feel lonely when I first arrived. And not in the "Oh, it's Valentine's day, I need to get laid" way, but that I wished my best friend Erin was with me to pore over the hotel bar with, or Diva with me to discuss Chicago nightlife. Nevertheless, I was here because of my love affair with Mariah Carey, and nothing was going to be more important than that.

That night I decided to venture to Boystown. I wasn't planning on playing board games but my hotel room had condoms and K-Y just in case, which I had purchased earlier that day at Walgreens, and I had done that thing where you buy nine other things because it's just AKWARD, y'all. I got lost and ended up under a bridge where homeless people were sleeping. I like to tell myself that I'm indestructible -- like bitch, I lived in Brooklyn for a year and when I fucked that up and had to get a job in Minneapolis, I chose one in the GHETTO, y'all -- but I was still unnerved as I had no mace or reasonable self-defense skills. It felt like a real life haunted house.

I made it to a club called Spin. This was very confusing because in Minneapolis, Spin is where the young straight folks go, and a few years ago they paid Brody Jenner a bunch of money to show up, and I had to read Facebook status after Facebook status of dumb girls going "OMG I WAS 3 FEET AWAY FROM BRODY JENNER" and I'm like It's Brody fucking Jenner. What has he done for our society? Is he even entertaining? That said, when his stepsister Kim Kardashian showed up at Aqua and my brother was there, I will admit to jealousy. I love me those Kardashians, and if Kourtney does not dump that d-bag Scott, there is no hope for civilization as we know it.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Spin. The drag queen bouncer told me I was adorable. She was the only one at that place who gave me the time of day, mind you. But I still enjoyed myself, if only because the muscular bartenders were all dressed like Cupid. I finally got the liquid courage to dance on the whorebox next to this twink who had far better dance moves. It was like we were the Saturday Night Live Chippendales sketch, and he was Patrick Swayze and I was Chris Farley.

Speaking of which, guess who the musical guest was that episode?

Why, it was MARIAH CAREY! She performed two songs off her eponymous 1990 album. You're welcome.

I got back to my hotel and felt fat and depressed, then ordered grilled cheese at 3 in the morning. I love that hotel and I am going to find a bag of money so I can live there forever.

***

Saturday I actually exercised! I spent 30 minutes on the elliptical and wore a bright orange Illinois tee so I would fit in. It didn't dawn on me that I was hours away from seeing my idol perform, but I set the TV to play R&B hits and three songs in they played the Mariah Carey "H.A.T.E.U." Remix, and I will not lie, kids. I QUEENED OUT. Jumping up and down, squealing, trying to sing like I had a whistle register. Thank goodness there were no cameras.

I cleaned up good, putting on a light blue Express button-down and a tie with matching hearts to go with it. On my way out the door, the concierge fixed my collar for me. Such service!

At the merchandise stand, I only purchased a poster and a program. I refused to buy a T-shirt for several reasons, chief among them their erroneous listing of the February 16th Minneapolis concert that did not happen.

Someone earlier on this board mentioned that you never go to these things by yourself, and I found that to be true. I was in the seventh row next to a young woman named Alison. Like me, she had traveled from far away lands (she flew in from Missouri) and was by herself as no one else in her life would spend so much money to see Mariah Carey in concert. We shared our stories of fandom. Alison became a fan as a girl when her mother bought a "Vision of Love" cassette at a yard sale. I was a late bloomer, becoming obsessed in 2005. It was my freshman year of college, when her #1 hits "We Belong Together" and "Don't Forget About Us" had mirrored my life at that point as I would blare The Emancipation of Mimi in my dorm room, gratified at the sounds of disgusted doors slamming in unison. Not one to be a fairweather fan, I quickly immersed myself in her entire back catalogue and yes, I can name all of her 18 #1 hits in consecutive order and it is a big hit at parties.

The "opener" was a R&B trio of young guys who took their shirts off a lot. Actually, only two of them did because the third one is a little stockier. They are so gonna replace him with someone with a washboard stomach. It will be like the guy version of Dreamgirls. The R&B guys only did three songs. They were on stage at 7:15 and were done by 7:30.

Then we waited while Michael Jackson songs played. I peed twice and bought a drink, telling myself that if I missed Mariah's entrance because of my pea-sized bladder, I would go back to my hotel room and promptly jump out the window.

After every Michael Jackson song that played, Alison and I would hold hands in anticipation of our idol, then groan when a new one started. I told Alison that MC would probably start at 9, then explained that Prince had been known to make his audiences wait for hours upon hours. Then I informed Alison that track #12 of the Butterfly album, "The Beautiful Ones", featuring Dru Hill, is a cover of a song that Prince did in Purple Rain.

At 8:45, halfway through "Black or White", everything went dark. We all screamed. M - A- R- I - A- H appeared in purple letters. A curtain opened, then another. Alison and I held hands tightly as MARIAH CAREY descended from a swing in the rafters.

I won't recap the whole show as I feel that would interest you guys as much as linoleum. I will say that she was a diva the whole show, and at one point even made the make-up people re-touch her face, and I didn't think she would do "Always Be My Baby", BUT THEN SHE DID. Truth be told, I spent most of the show obsessing over the fact that I didn't have any deodorant and I could feel myself starting to get pitstains, which is just disgusting. You could barely see them, but I knew they were there and I started to freak out a little bit.

Nevertheless, MC sounded amazing, had four costume changes, broke a glass after her second song, her back-up dancers were fine as hell, during "Angels Cry" Alison was convinced Ne-Yo was going to come out but it was just a random black stagehand, and I surprisingly did not tear up during "We Belong Together", but I did feel my mind drift to strange places brought upon by it being Valentine's Day and everything, and I was back in 2005 again ...

They don't love me, he would say. They just love the IDEA of me.
But I love you, I would think, but I was always too much of a chicken shit to say it out loud, so I would start talking about the weather instead. But maybe after all these years I can admit that there is a possibility I only loved the idea of him, as in my head he will always be that 19-year-old overachieving perfect Texas Longhorn, as Mariah is singing the HELL out of this song, incidentally named the #1 song of the decade by Billboard ...

WHO'M I GONNA LEAN ON WHEN TIMES GET ROUGH
WHO'S GON' TALK TO ME 'TIL THE SUN COMES UP
WHO'S GONNA TAKE YOUR PLACE THERE AIN'T NOBODY BETTER
OH BABY BABY
WE BELONG TOGETHERRRRRRRRRRRR

Mariah does not do an encore, as I am pretty sure she is in a mad dash to boink her husband Nick Cannon. Alison, another gay superfan and myself walk out together, where the superfan informs us that at the previous night's show she did "Emotions". Alison and the superfan stand outside of the theater, waiting to get a glimpse of Mariah. I opt not to do this. For one thing, I really need to buy deodorant, but secondly, Mariah gave me a concert. She doesn't owe me an autograph or a wave, and would she even come out this entrance? I walk back to my hotel room and enjoy the minibar, then call Erin to give her a full recap of the show.

Convinced that I look adorable, I decide to give Boystown another whirl. I tell the cabbie that I want to go to Hydrate but he informs me that I gave him the address of Berlin. I am torn as to where I should go, but I decide on Hydrate because, as lame as Spin was, the odds of a club being slutty instantly improve if its name is a verb. On the way, the cabbie stops at a 7-Eleven so I can buy some deodorant and a 5-hour energy shot.

I make my way into Hydrate, unsure how I am going to sneakily put on deodorant. The coat check isn't even open. Luckily, there's a private bathroom for the drag queens and I sneak into it to apply my Speed Stick, feeling fresher than ever. Now it's time to do what I do best: Awkwardly flirt with bartenders 'til closing time.

The bartenders, by the way, are worth flirting with. One of them is blonde with big biceps and a LaCoste polo, and the other is an older type. I ask for a greyhound and Lacoste tells me it's his first day and spends five minutes trying to figure out which one is the grapefruit. Then he tells me the next one is on him because the grapefruit is really sour.

However, the next few drinks I order are waters and Diet Cokes, because I drank a lot at my hotel room and don't want the night to end in vomiting or an emergency room visit. Instead of charging me $4 for a bottled water every time, the bartenders give me tap water and Diet Cokes FOR FREE, and later buy me some shots, too. I love Chicago.

Lacoste starts to lift up his shirt and I act like I'm not watching, but I totally was. A gross older man buys me a vodka cranberry but he does not smell very good. I decide to brave the dance floor, which initially proves to be a mistake when some queen is flailing his arms and hits me right in the face. It was like my Marcia Brady moment, only instead of a football it was gay Elaine Benes leading to my doom. I walk back to the bartenders and tell them that I don't want to be a drama queen, but is my face swelling? They assure me it isn't.

Then Lacoste mutters something about this is really weird, but he wishes he had deodorant.

I have deodorant in my jacket!! I discreetly hand him it under my wallet and he sneaks in the back to put it on. When he hands it back to me I convince myself that I am going to do weird African voodoo with it. The bartenders make me drinks called "Red Kool-Aid", but they assured me there was booze in it.

I finally find people to dance with! There is a cute boy and his fag hag. Boy has darker features, like maybe he's Italian or Latino. He's about 5'9" but built solid, and I notice this because I hit his upper body. A lot. I never find out his name, and I don't need to. I know he is from Chicago and weighs 179 pounds. I thought that was a weird answer. Wouldn't you just round it up to 180? I know boys don't usually care about their weight, but I thought that was strange ...

...But what gets stranger is when, while he is freak-dancing me, he tells me that his boyfriend (!) lives in Duluth. And that his boyfriend (!!) is 41 (!!) and a lawyer (!!). What the fuck?? Chicago gays are even weirder than Orlando gays, and I didn't think that was possible.

While slapping this guy's pecs about 12 more times (this poor guy, he probably looked like he came out of a Ric Flair match when he got home), I started thinking: What are the rules and boundaries? Just because one has a boyfriend or girlfriend doesn't mean someone can't go dancing at clubs, but even after this revelation he was getting aggressive with his booty dancing, to the point where he was behind me with his hands on mine, and I kept having to pivot or he was going to know I had a boner. I imagine such a situation is how middle school dances were like for all you heterosexuals.

I mean, it's not like he was being a tease; he told me point blank, "I'm not gonna make out with you, but we can still dance", but it made one wonder. Maybe in every relationship you make your own rules. I've never been in a relationship, and that's totally fine ...

I can't sleep at night
When you are on my mind
Bobby Womack's on the radio
Singing to me "If you think you're lonely now"
Wait a minute this is too deep (too deep)
So I turn the dial, trying to catch a break
And then I hear Babyface
I only think of you, and it's breaking my heart
I'm trying to keep it together but I'm falling apart
I'm feeling all out of my element, throwing things, crying, trying to figure out where the hell I went wrong
The pain reflected in this song ain't even half of what I'm feeling inside
I need ya need ya back in my life, baby....

Maybe he's married now. Got his ex-girlfriend pregnant, they shotgunned it. Maybe he's with an older sugar daddy. "I want a little gay boy," he would say, so maybe he's banging some dude who looks like Kurt from Glee. Maybe he died in a construction accident.

On the way out of the club, Lacoste is talking to some dudes. His hoodie is unzipped. Oh, Lacoste. Were I a Chicagoan you would have so been my Frank.

On my flight back to Minneapolis, I sit next to Annie again! And I learn that for as much emphasis I put on being alone, wah wah wah, being reunited with her (and meeting Alison at the concert), is a reminder that people come into our lives for reasons. For a combined three hours, she made me laugh and feel a little less alone, and she also helped me figure out my dining tray because I have the fine motor skills of a toddler. She was happy that I had a good time at the concert.

The next day I realized I had strep throat, and I'm sure screaming at the concert didn't help. Even so, it was the best Valentine's Day ever.

On Using an Electric Razor

2010-02-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

I have itty bitty hairs on my chest and I decided to shave them with an electric razor. I now look like I have been in a knife fight.

Also, last weekend I got drunk downtown and fell on my face. One night in the ER and five sutures later, tomorrow my mother will assist me in removing them. She did the same thing earlier in my life when I was three. I wasn't drunk then.

What is with Channing Tatum's haircut? It ages him ten years. I still love him in a scary way, but it makes one wonder.

In a week I will be going to Chicago to attend a Mariah Carey concert on Valentine's Day. Despite the fact that I will be alone, I think it will be the gayest thing I will ever do.

On Answering Questions

2010-01-30T19:41:00.000-08:00

My newest addiction is www.formspring.me, in which you can ask questions to others (anonymously or not) and answer as well. My profile is here:

www.formspring.me/heyjakey

I encourage you all to join! It's a good time-killer and you can find yourself having great conversations.

On Updating

2010-01-29T23:28:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated this in forever, but my brother updated his, so I feel it's only fair. I have been writing a lot lately, but all my travails are profiled on the message board at WrestlingObserver.com. I don't know what it says that my target audience is straight guys aged 17 to 50, but it does make me feel that whatever I'm saying is speaking to people in some ways.

I missed StinkyLulu's Best Supporting Actress Smackdown! I had no idea who to choose, and I was working 40 hours that week. In retrospect I would have chosen Emma Watson from "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" or Xosha Rocquemore from "Precious". I completely misspelled that last name, but it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm feeling kind of lazy. So there.

In other news:
*Operation Get That Shit Tight has just three months left before I save money. My new trainer is a 19-year-old named Scotty. He wears a puka shell. And yes, I probably would hit it.
*I am going to Chicago by myself on Valentine's Day for a Mariah Carey concert. It will be the gayest thing I have ever done, despite being solo.
*I'm switching departments at work on Tuesday! Instead of opening fitting rooms for impossibly cute boys, I will now be pressuring them into opening credit cards.
*I AM SO BORED.

When There are No Words

2009-07-17T22:29:00.001-07:00

Thank God I was warned about this before, because if the first time I saw this was in the break room at work, I would have just embarrassed myself.

Nobody Likes You When You're 23

2009-07-16T12:24:00.001-07:00

Nobody Likes You When You're 23

I hate birthdays.

I love other people's birthdays -- the parties, the drinks, the mingling, the celebration -- but I hate my birthday. Maybe it's because it's in the summer, so I never had the joy of celebrating it with classmates. Maybe because I'm a twin, so it never felt like my own. Maybe it's because ever since I was 20 I was convinced that I was too damn old to go after my goals, even when I didn't always know what they were.

23 is not old, of course, and I don't look a day over 17, but it reminds me that time is measured. At 20, I was in between my Wisconsin years, and I remember being unsure about life but I still had a zest for it -- the depressive episode didn't start until the following August. By 21 I was ready to move to New York, but I had been depressed for a good 11 months at that point and I didn't feel [i]anything[/i] by that point. By 22 I had fucked up the New York thing and had recently moved back home, peeing in a cup so I could get rehired at Walgreens. Now I am 23, and I am still at home, because instead of saving money for an apartment I blew it all on a year-long gym membership for Operation Get that Shit Tight.

I haven't decided how I feel about 23. 21 is your first year of legal drinking age in America, and you spend the whole year bar-hopping and feeling young, and the bartenders give you free tokens because you are cute and a good tipper. 22 still feels young and it's a fun number with the matching digits. 23 is weird. It's a prime number, but I don't feel like I'm in my prime. By my next prime number I will be 29, and if I am still living at home it will be in an urn.

I am hoping that 23 will be when my life makes sense, when I stop having fear and regret and instead have courage and gusto, even if I found a wrinkle under my left eye yesterday.

On Crushing on Personal Trainers

2009-07-02T14:41:00.000-07:00

Remember three months ago when I started at the gym, and I worked out with Doug, who was all muscles and dimples and was like "Jake Jake Jake c'mon c'mon c'mon UGGGGGHHHH" but then he left after I signed my life away for a year of personal training? Lately I have been working out with Douche Trainer, who is younger than me and calls me Cagefighter and I have grown to like him as a person but I still don't think I'm attracted to him, unless we were ever in a college bar in Dinkytown.

Anyway, I worked out with a DIFFERENT trainer today, named Southie. Southie has blonde hair and a very nice smile and is also a certified nutritonist. Even though I was not a fan of the exercises Southie would make me do, I was getting the trainer to laugh at my jokes.

"You're so funny," Southie says. When I mention that 3 P.M. is early, Southie asks if I drink a lot.

While we are in the aerobics gym, Douche Trainer walks in with his current client, a fortysomething housewife-type! "Keep it goin', Cagefighter," Douche Trainer says.
"Shut UP," I say, because I don't think I like him which means I do, but I am not in love with him the way I am now in love with SOUTHIE.
"Jake's my new favorite client," Southie laughs, and Southie has a really tight body.
"Thanks for laughing me so much," Southie says when I leave the gym.

I suppose I should stop delaying the point, which is that SOUTHIE IS A GIRL. I'm confused.

On Life

2009-07-01T23:27:00.000-07:00

I made this new blog so I would write in it, and now I never do. I suck at life.

I am learning there is more to life than talking to porn stars on Twitter. I do not know why I do it. In my defense, I only talk to straight porn stars, as if somehow this makes me less of a loser. Truth be told I do not enjoy a lot of gay porn because I either obsess about how the performers got into the business, or about how they got those eight-pack stomachs when I am still working on mine. And really, it does not mean shit that James Deen builds jokes upon my jokes or that Mick Blue told me I am two years old, but it makes the day go by.

I turn 23 in two weeks. I still feel 13. I work at the mall. I live at home (I didn't ALWAYS live at home, shit just happens). Cute boys piss me off. I still say "boys" and not "men". I don't want to do R-rated things with these boys, it is just that when they come into my work and flirt with me but they know I am this way and they are that way, it confuses the hell out of me and makes me want to eat a lot of mozarella sticks. For the past week I feel as if I have been on this roller coaster and my emotions and feelings go up-down up-down up-down and I think I just want to get off for a little bit.

2009-06-17T18:45:00.001-07:00

On Tanning

2009-06-17T17:54:00.000-07:00

I'm having an identity crisis. For the past week or so, I have been obsessed with the idea of tanning.

And most people would decide, instincitvely, to go to the tanning booth or not. But I am Jakey, and therefore I have to internalize all of this into something much greater.

I have always been pale. I knew this as a child, when I was fixated on the olive skin of a Black Irish classmate named Danny (I would call him "Tanny" as a nickname), and when I was at a pool party for a friend's birthday and he, at age nine, told me "Go in the sun, Jacob! You're white as a sheet!"

I signed up for a gym recently (I am paying way too much for personal training services, which means I won't move out of my parents' house until I'm 30, but I will get that shit tight). I am enjoying the results I am getting, but maybe I will never be satisfied. Everytime I see my arms in the giant mirrors I cringe at how pasty I am compared to everyone else.

Alas, here is where a moral dilemma comes into play. I was friends with a douchebag once. He was in the famousphere of Hollywood, where apperance is everything, and I understand that. He was also a gay man living in a world of masculine ideals and, in this world, you had to be a certain way to be happy. "If you want to ever make it to California," he once told me, "You have to be tan and buff."

"KISS MY SKINNY WHITE ASS!", I wanted to say. "I WILL NEVER BE TAN AND BUFF AND I AM FINE WITH THAT!"

And I'm not fine with that, but if I do go tanning, then am I making him right, by subscribing to this beauty myth? And what if I do it wrong and show up at work looking like an oompa-loompa? It all greatly confuses me.