It's called "The MEN Event. com, The Main Site for Gay Events in NYC", and I'm the poster boy. Or one of the poster boys, just to be fair.
What's up with that? Is it because I'm bubbly and effervescent? Scandalous and Salacious? Odious and Odorific? Is it because I'm tranny panties? Nah... I think its just that I'm a faggot. That sounds right.
If you visit the site, you'll see pictures from a recent event that took place at the Opera called Boy's Night Out. On that particularly gay evening at the opera, not that the opera isn't usually queer to the bones, fags were treated to a little mixer before a glittering gay viewing of "Candide". A smashing success, Boy's Night Out brought together some 75 gay men behind velvet ropes with nothing more than brownies, wine, and conversation. I made some new friends and the event and was also able to seduce some men into buying our Candide souvenir shirt. It was Tré Gay. What, however, turned out to be tré-est gayest, was my picture which turned up on the MEN Event site the next day. But then again, who was I kidding. As Artner, said (in not so sanitary terms), my face was asking for it in that picture. What is hilarious is that I made their banner as well. I mean, I'm giving face double time here. SERVE!!!
So there I was hanging with my two fave fags watching a movie that lived up to it's name, Notes On A Scandal. If you haven't seen it, you must. In addition to being scandalous, sexy, and homoerotic, it's quite the vocabulary booster. You better work Dame Judi, WORK! You odious darling you...
Such a psycho dyke, Dame Judi's character makes you wonder about how many frighteningly lonely closet cases are out there in the world. I feel like I pass plenty of them each day going back and forth, home work home etc. Kinda scary really. Why can't we all just be the hootin' trannies we're born to be? I swear, there can be a genre called "Psycho-Closeted Tranny Panty Movies" to cover the theme of closet cases gone wild. Think The Talented Mr. Ripley, or American Beauty. These movies probe into that version of homo psychoses that I find fascinating. It's just sad that art imitates life way too frequently. Oh well, I guess the hootin' tranny prestige is only for a select few....
So, I have not updated my this blahg for a hot minute. Sorry trannies, I've been busy with the Opera...more on that later.
Now that I've found some time to blah blah, I'm here to tell you that I love me some boys. But, the astute reader you are, you prolly know all about that. You prolly know more that you want to know. You know I'm all TMI out here, but that's why you love me. Or entertain me, at the very least. That and my smokin' ass. But I digress.
Yes, since the tender age of 7 when I had my first dream of being naked with a hot bear teacher of mine (omg it was me in my pre-pubescent state with all that fur - yum), I have been aware of my faggotries. And I love it. I do. I wouldn't have it any other way. But, here I must state my beef with boys. Boys Lie. It's a fact. And that is a harsh reality that we, shit-packers and females alike, must contend with in our never-ending love for penis possessors allover.
Do I lie? I suppose I do. I used to lie less frequently, however. I used to be really moralistic in my decision making processes. I used to think about how my shading of the truth would affect others. Those were the days. Now, though, I'm less weary about coloring information (or discoloring, if you will) to meet my ends. I don't know. Boys lie, and I suppose men do too. Belch.
What irks me about the most about the BOYS LYING Phenom is that I don't understand why they lie when in the end we're just trying to get some. Aren't we? Perhaps there's a breakdown of communication, maybe someone misinterpreted some signal. But, dudes... I'm ready to hit that. So no more games. No more lies. Can't we just be civilized homos and handle that??!!? I'm saying though. I mean, I'm over that commitment thing (at least for now - thanks gnome...), so let's stop with the lies and have a good time. What do you say?
Note: the above photo features our new do's from Commune Salon in Brooknahn. Shout outs to Kazue and Nobu for making us look Japanese, when we're really Filipino. Maybe she's born with it... Maybe it Maybelline
Last Friday I attended my first opera by the NYC Opera company, a rendition of Puccini's Madama Butterfly. A tale of a clash of cultures, it made me feel like I had parallel universed that when I relocated to Japan. Although I wasn't lucky enough to go by the name of Butterfly, or Cho Cho san, I'm quite happy with the results of my fine geisha training. In the end I was able to don a kimono, sing karaoke, and use a fude to draw beautiful hiragana script. See for yourself.
But I digress. Seeing Madama Butterfly was a fabulous experience. Although I am not a huge opera fan, for obvious reasons I had been wanting to experience this opera for a while now. I remember when Minghella's production of the opera made tides at the Met.
The costumes and sets and innovation made me more interested in the opera itself. But, alas, I was still in Japan at that time completing my own geisha training and I had to miss it.
While it wasn't the Minghella vision, the NYC Opera version was still beautifully sung - even if the sets weren't spectacular. Watching Cho Cho san's ideals and identity clash with Pinkerton's reminded me of being with the mama san in Kyoto and the difficulty of adapting to a tradition that was so steeped in Nihon, or Japan, but was totally foreign to me, an outside geisha. Nostalgia overcame me as the first act came to a close and the lights in the house came up for intermission. Then the clash of cultures happened again, so unexpectedly in real life. •º•º || •º•º.
Tucked way in the middle of the orchestra, Diva and I had to brush past a good few people to exit at intermission. After finally spilling out into the end of the row, Diva told me about the snobby comments about out behinds.
Diva: Did you hear that?!
Me: No, what happened?
Diva: Someone said, "How rude these people are giving us their backs as they exit!" I cannot believe these purao!
In all my experience of exiting crowded aisles, I have always thought it best to give someone your butt and not your crotch. But apparently that is my geisha training in effect. And as for "these people", I have no clue what that meant. Did this guy think it was and interactive version of Madama Butterfly and we were his demure human property? Was that my Pinkerton? Maybe he thought this shit was Mr. and Ms. Saigon. Cats? I'm not sure, but he for sure thought that "these people" should be giving him the decency of crotching him when coming and going. And so I did when I went in. Each and every one, just so they knew I could play the snob games too. This ain't interactive opera folks. I ain't goin out like that.
Bao - suddenly my crotch was in errone's face. Sorry old lady in seat K12. I swear that was just water on my pants.
The moral of the story: Always walk with your ass to the back and your crotch in people's faces so as to not be confused with suicidal Prima Donnas. I'm sure Puccini did it just like that.
I got the gout, again. My first bad flare up in a few years has robbed me of my weekend plans to go for the gold in Wollman Rink and to fierce it up with Nobu in Commune. Just plain sux and leaves me feeling a bit like this broad.
then queens on blades are the bestest. Never into football or baseball as a kid, I usually tuned in to figure skating to derive the inspiration that other boys got from other, contact sports. Brian Boitano's costume, grace, and cold fierceness in this performance was enough to get him a gold medal, beating out Brian Orser in the '88 Olympics. Years later, BB's blades still serve as inspiration. Often times when wondering if it's going to be a top or bottom night, I just ask, what would Brian Boitano do?
Deuteronomy Madrid is one of the many personalities of your beloved, queer author. The moniker of "Deuteronomy" (the fifth book of The Bible) was adopted because of the author's fascination and respect for Jewish males all over. DM's family includes such notables as Bleekah-Madison Madrid, Niimura Katsutoshi, Yuko Propaganda, and Lexicon Reyes. He has worked for the Fergie, the Dutchess of York, not the humpy hip-hopstress, and is credited as the cover designer for her fabulous diet book, Energy Breakthrough.
