So, Check this shit out.


Russians hate gays. Oh yes they do. In the city of Moscow, a group of people wanted to have a gay pride parade and festival and all that good stuff. But, once again, city government said no way poofs, why don't you go to one of those western countries that allow degenerates like you to live. And so, a group of people, representatives from poofter/western nations, and civil rights groups went with a petition to the municipal government.

They got the shit beat out of them. Oh yes they did. Homophobes, fascists, the sort of people who would do well in Russian politics beat the ever living hell out of them. And then, our petitioners were arrested. You see, you can have an Eisenstein, a Shostakovitch and still wonder how those surfs got emancipated 100 years ago.

So what do we do here in New York? Well, we protest. Who can we protest? Well... what does Russia do? Don't they make a lot of Vodka? YA! Let's boycott vodka.

And so, protesters lined up in front of the Russian embassy in New York and poured Stoli down the sewer. Held signs aloft begging all gays and gay bars to dump their Stoli and replace it with something else (tolerant Polish vodka perhaps? oh wait... crap"

It is a nice shot at Russia. Stoli's sales are over 400 million a year in America. They are the third largest seller of Vodka in the states. That should give the ol' bear a black eye, right?

First, Stoli is not the state vodka. Money earned does not go into pointing new nuclear weapons at Prague. It is a private company.

Second, Stoli advertises heavily in gay magazines which means KA-CHING money in the hands of gays! Stoli does sponsorships at bars, at social programs, in all kinds of media. KA-CHING here you go gays, some money that you gave us back into the community.

Stoli, for the record, is bottled in Latvia, not Russia.

So um. Drink up my homo-brethren. Enjoy the smooth, crisp taste of vodka beloved by millions of men and women and despised by fascists and Russian politicians.

So, I finally went,


I have thought of pride as 'see your ex-lovers in public' day for so long that I haven't had the desire to go in something just short of forever. This year however, I went. Egads.

Thankfully, having lived in Buffalo a scant three years and being with (e:Jim) for two and a half of those years I don't have much nights of regrettable passion to hang around my neck; though I hear such emo neckwear is fashionable this year.

Scores of delightful folk were there, many estrippers and more bad drag queens than you could shake a beadazzled thong at.

(e:paul) and I had a discussion about why gay pride in Buffalo is a churchy, community event where as gay pride elsewhere is carnival with half naked dancers, public blow jobs, and a city-wide celebratory orgasm. Ok, most of those words did not appear in our discussion, but they along with its attending image were lurking in the back of my mind.

But seconds before we arrived at a solution that would involve godly orgies on church alters with people of all ages, creeds, colors, and abilities it started to rain. Too bad Buffalo, just think of the diseased lust that could have brought your closer to the godhead?

Imagine it Buffalo? Our collective thighs a developed water front? It is enough to make you want to bathe perpetually.

And special congrats to (e:Mike). Well done sir, well done.

There is a momment, amid total inebriation, walking down elmwood and using the parking meter as walking sticks, where typing what one in fact says and what one infact intends end up being two very differnet things.

And so I leave this entry, warts and all, to the magic power of alcohol and a large group of people consuming it.

mazeltov children, mazeltov.

Latoya, like a siren who will eat my bowels, I am drawn to you despite all warnings.

And that moment, with the camera focused on her empty chair, one of the finest minutes in television history.

Ah yes, that feel!

Ten minutes ago I deleted my LiveJournal account. Dear fat baby christ, thank you for splashing that muse up against my skull.

LJ used to be awesome. I had a ton of friends on that had amusing little lives that I enjoyed from afar. Or people who are actually afar and so it is tough to directly communicate. But as the maw of progress ate Lj and zombie MySpace rose from the dead my friends were disappearing. Instead of scores of lovely little snippets of lives akin, I had people close to strangers. People I had never met. People who kept a photo blog of their bowel movements (content deleted. Flush)

baby, finish your drink. Let's get out of here.

So, I just deleted it. The good friends I can keep in touch with. The others? Well, there is a whole universe full of other.

The brightest spot in those whole event is that what ever horrid pastiche I called a journal will not reincarnate itself as a MySpace abortion. Nope. That path which begins with good blogging intentions, which is paved with an eye on the human experience in the personal, can lead only to a dead end of "ZOMG My MoM iS sUcH a BiTcH!!! LOLZ OMG WTF!!1!" And frankly, I take comfort in knowing that when I too die, my remains shall be riddled with worms, and not excessive exclamation points.

good night

(e:Jim) and I are busy moving accross town this week. As such, I am cranky and no fun to be around. The only way I am tolerable when moving is if I get good and drunk. And I as I am making about a dozen car trips between the old place and the new I can't get good and drunk which makes me bad and angry.

So,
I will post back here some time in the future. In the meantime I have a litter of wine that is screaming for me to drink it dead.

cheers

How to do this?

Ballpipe has such an indelible mark on my human meat brain that I am not sure what to do. Once, while at a lovely dinner at my boss' home, with her husband and two children (who are in their 20's) I was made to tell the tail of ballpipe. Much to my chagrin. But, just as my relationship with these people had to move on, so does this little journal. So I want to talk to you about pussy.

I parked my car in the lot and was rolling up my windows when I noticed her, an absolute vision, an avatar of the very goddess worshiped in the cult of womanhood. She was in her car, windows rolled down with the spring winds cooling her Artimisian body, and on her cellphone.

She was screaming

About her pussy.

To a very large and very captive audience. A dozen people. Standing outside looking and smiling, on their cigarette break but not smoking.


You see, when you sleep with someone else's boyfriend without knowing it you are in a very bad position. How were you to know, you were just getting your rocks off. You were slighted woman, lady. You and the girlfriend should get together to beat the shit out of that boyfriend of hers to teach him to sleep around.

But that is not what you did.

"Ya bitch, i knew he was your boyfriend. But that was after he licked my pussy. That was after he fucked my pussy."

This is a familiar strategy, used not just in dealing with the girlfriend of the man you just had sex with, but used also in martial combat.

Ghengis Khan called it his Chou She Yu or "Strategy of the dragon's thousand sun pussy"

It was immortalized by the poet John Keats with his seminal "Ode to a Grecian Urn of Pussy"

And now, the loving arms of momma pussy have again aided her children. By giving me something to talk about other than some very soar testicles.

good night

Folks,

If you, dear reader, recall, I mentioned a sport me and my best friend Joe invented many years ago when I was too good for drugs and drink and preferred violence (consensual only, of course). Super Danger Future Ball was a fun and good game that went from something like football but way more dangerous with no protective equipment to just beat the shit out of each other with bamboo stakes bound together by duct tape and blood. And as it passed, I couldn't help but think, thank god that was over.

But it wasn't


Years later, I went to a party at my friends place at SUNY Purchase. SUNY Purchase is a great place if you want to do a lot of drugs, drink, and get an art degree. Or in my case, do a lot of drugs, and drink with people getting art degrees. The party was at a condo style apartment on campus. Half a dozen people crammed into a three bedroom apartment, and none of them gay; which is a shame because that could really work out well/horribly for them. A few yards away from their building was a construction site with dozens of new such buildings in various states of construction and vandalism. Well, with construction materials around let me just start off the equation, and then elaborate on the solution.

a debilitating amount of cheap liquor + six foot copper pipe = Ball pipe.

Ready for it? Get a shot of something resembling cleaning fluid, cause this is going to be a bumpy ride.

Ball pipe is played with two drunk people and said pipe. Each player grabs one end of the pipe and wedges it into their balls. Yes, their balls. Then, the two players walk towards each other until someone gives up or the pipe bends.

and yes, it can bend.

For a time, I was a particularly fearsome ballpipe player. I participated in the first game of bare ballpipe. That is, no pants to cushion the crushing pain of ballpipe. I never gave up a game, bending each pipe bare or otherwise.

But a gentleman by the name of Don is the ultimate ballpipe champion. And in eons in the future there will be whole civilizations built around worship of Don.

He suffered grievous injury while playing the first game of streetpipe. This is played with a non-regulation ballpipe, this one found in a construction site in suburban Connecticut. The pipe went through Don's pants and through Don's scrotum, leading to a trip to the hospital and a number of stitches.

Don, I salute you and your streetpipe cohort Dan. You are both heroes and enoble all who hear your story.

so (e:peeps), can you resist playing ballpipe at the next drunken gathering you are at? I know I fight hard to resist it. I can't walk through the plumbing section of home depot without feeling the most joyous of pain.

Donbless you all.

As you know, Jerry Falwell is dead and all is right with the world.

To celebrate here is a video of a demonic possessed little girl wrestling Japanese men.








I can't think of a more appropriate way to remember him. Other than a giant, wet shit.

So,


I am walking the dog and the (e:Jim) (I finally can trust him off the leash) around 6 today and I notice every other person out and about is wearing a Sabers jersey. From this I have gleaned that there is a game tonight, probably in an hour or so: enough time to get drunk at the bar so you feel comfortable shaking your tits every time we score a goal.

But, my question, is wearing a jersey to a game or game related event equivalent to wearing a t-shirt of the band that you are going to see. So, for example, if one were to wear a GWAR shirt to a GWAR show you would become "that person". Does it stand to reason that someone wearing a Sabers jersey to a Sabers sporting event also becomes "that person"?

Certainly, it feels that way. By wearing said band shirt to show you are saying "Hey, not only do I like the band so much I would see them play but I would also wear their shirt. I am a bigger fan than you." The Jersey says the same thing, a nice trump card/marketing-gimick when you are in a town who chears with one mind, one voice, one car horn rhythm.

So, does it work, or are the fields of music and sports too different to have such similarities (with the obvious exception of Eye of the Tiger, which can be played at any sporting event according to Emily Post)

kisses,

-James