Hello all you young lovers out there,
As anticipated, this weekend has fried me. I sit on the couch in my living room in flannel and running eye-makeup next to a new friend that appeared mysteriously in the night: a condom inflated with water that bares an uncanny resemblance to a breast.
A visit from the illustrious Raffi Klein spawned an electric midnight dance party on Friday night that ended in a lack of shirts and two strangers consummating their lust on my living room floor.
Saturday night brought perhaps the best Danger Mermaid show of all time –– sweaty bodies collided, Daniel Grant premiered his loud and saxy chops, Sina, as always, danced belligerently in front, and someone even brought flowers.
My divalicious friend (let’s call him Tom, or as you might recall, the sexy black-jack dealer from the front page of last week’s Pio) has just arrived at my house in a Brooks Brothers junior executive suit with fudge shoppe peanut butter sticks and Driers slow-turned peanut-butter cup ice cream. For his weekly 400-level nutrition seminar, Tom is doing some hands-on research to get inside the mind of an eating disordered fourteen-year-old girl. He has spent the week balls deep in excessive exercise and subsequent binging on unhealthy foods.
“It’s really beautiful because I know it’s not going to matter, because I’m going to the gym again tomorrow,” stated Tom, his mouth brimming with cream. Not to say Thomas doesn’t take joy in expensive gourmet dining. One night’s dish included baby lobster tail with steamed asparagus and gruyere cheeses.
It’s been an emotionally trying week. For days we have religiously watched Judy Garland videos at home and in the library. We’ve found that really nothing has the soul-sucking capacity of the “What Killed Judy Garland” British TV special and the “Get Happy” before and after videos (both available on YouTube).
Take a lesson from Judy, friends and drug enthusiasts: if you constantly blow your load on speed and pain pills you’ll probably be a train wreck by the time you’re 40 –– if you even get that far.
In other Judy-related news, I just learned last week that Liza Minnelli sprang forth from Judy’s loins, and the loins of her gay father, making Liza a third generation gayby. (Thomas and I plan to enact a similar procedure to benefit the entertainment industry. Our immaculately birthed child will be forced on stage at a very young age and will be versed in all styles of dance and song.)
It finally makes sense to me why Tom waited 14 hours in Times Square in 25 degree weather to acquire front row tickets to see Liza perform in New York city; why he “sobbed and literally shat [his] pants” when she looked him straight in the face during the show.
On a completely unrelated note, we would like to take the opportunity to formally address an issue that has crept into many of our conversations: the gym culture. There are certain people that seem to live at the gym. Those trying to bulk up typically hang by the far wall. Those seeking to slim down hover over cardio machines. But we’re the most interested in the brokebacks that hang out by the dumb bells and deadlift centers.
It is curious that some supposedly straight men seem to spend more time flexing their hulky biceps in front of the mirror than they do with members of the opposite sex. We wonder: Are they really just beefing up for their sport or are they after something else? Like, perhaps, a bathroom blowjob in the men’s locker room?
Just food for thought. Thanks for reading. And remember, the best is yet to come.
XOXO,
C (& T)
