Tuesday, March 31, 2009

AI8 ~ Recap

What the fucking hell?

If I was anyone but Kris, Alison or Danny, being safe from elimination this week would be no great feat.

Before I get to the performances, can we just pause and reflect on Kara? First, she looked like she was ready to climb down from the Judge's Perch and give that dude a beat down for heckling her. Then, she says "Studio 57" instead of "54?" Wha--?

Safe
  • Kris was the king of all tonight with his beautiful re-do of one of my favourites, "Aint' No Sunshine."
  • Danny did my non-favourite "What Hurts The Most" but he did it well, and I hate to admit that it was kind of touching.
  • Alison was a little awkward with her guitar (that she only played for 30 seconds) but still delivered on No Doubt's "Don't Speak."
Meh...
  • Lil's "I Surrender" was almost painful. She's got the pipes but Simon's right, it was SO old fashioned.
  • Adam. Adam, Adam, Adam. "Play That Funky Music" has never sounded so...fucked up. I hated it. It was a horrible ball of cheese. The hair, the weird dance moves...Please! He'll be safe because all the little 'tweens always fall in love and vote for the gay guy, but that's was just ba-rutal!
In Danger:
  • Anoop was a-nnoying. He brutalized Usher's "Caught Up." I'm tired of his cocky ass, too, but...
  • Matt sang something by The Fray, and I'm a-fray-ed that he's in danger of getting the boot, but...
  • Scott bored the brains out of me with Billy Joel (who I do like) and I was completely distracted by the bouffant that he copied from Lil, but...



Megan was horrendous and if she doesn't go home, I'll be amazed.

Oh, Yeah...Great. Really Lovely.

Even though the finale of RuPaul's Drag Race doesn't air in Canada until this Sunday, I think every homo in the country already heard that Bebe Zahara Benet won the title of ... (deep breath)...America's Next Drag Superstar! I still think Nina Flowers should have taken it, but as long as it's not that Glasscock bitch. Besides...the word is she's got some crazy halitosis, bless her heart.

One of the prizes was a Greg Gorman photograph for legendary faces or something or other.

So...here it is. Really kind of underwhelming.

Personally, I want to see her eyes. I know it's a sunglasses ad, but couldn't she have been doing something different with them other than actually wearing them? And if not, then why these glasses.

I'm no fashion expert, but they is u-g-l-y, and they ain't got no alibi.

Cock, Paper, Scissors

I don't want to have sex with women either, but this is ricockulous!

A man from Russia
named only as Andrey, used a pair of scissors in a drastic measure to ensure he would stay celibate. He said: “After two unsuccessful marriages I decided to vow celibacy. I do not want to communicate with women any more, nor do I want to have any sexual relations with them.” He was found in a pool of blood by neighbours, who called an ambulance. Luckily, doctors were able to reattach his penis successfully.

Bedtime Story


I'm so sorry, kids. No bedtime story tonight. I'm wiped out!

After two crazy hours of intervention, a giant pasta dish and one little blue sleeping pill it feels like tiny but strong imps have been rock climbing my face, slipped and are using my eyelids to hold on for dear life.

Tuesday's Child...

...is yummy.

Monday, March 30, 2009

A Lesson In...

Hair.

No matter what you got goin' on in your front or your back, it will never compensate for two-tone hair or bleached out hair with black roots. That went the way of 2Unlimited, South Park bobbleheads from Urban Outfitters and anything else from the '90's.

A Lesson In...

Tattoos.


Getting the same tattoo as your buddy doesn't say to people, "We're bro's"...


...but more like, "we're 'mo's."
Actually, not even. 'Cause a couple of actual gay guys probably wouldn't do something so weird.


A Lesson In...

Fashion & Style.

This...
...is neither.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Nelly Wants To Know...


...did you turn off the lights?

G.I. Josephine

For all our gay and lesbian sisters and brothers
serving in the military!



I serve my country well
In slingbacks and beret
I march on your hypocrisy
'cause I am feeling queer today
As bright as all your medals
And shiny epaulettes
But I can't go to war right now
'cause my hair is a mess

Ah don't ask don't tell
Contaminate me with your smell
Perfume powder treachery
Loaded guns and sodomy
Soak me down with your desire
In the shower under fire
Wave the white flag, keep it clean
Call me g.i. josephine

The dykes are on the starboard
They're polishing the guns
They're battening the hatches
As tough as any mother's son
Ain't no procreation
No baby cribs at sea
No friggin' in the riggin'
You can leave the boys for me

Ah don't ask don't tell
Contaminate me with your smell
Perfume powder treachery
Loaded guns and sodomy
Soak me down with your desire
In the shower under fire
Wave the white flag, keep it clean
Call me g.i. josephine

Come out
Come out

And it's one two three
I don't live by the book
Don't ask me I don't give a damn
I don't wanna be a man
And it's five six seven
Open up the pearly gates
Ain't no time to wonder why
Anyone can die

Ah don't ask don't tell
Contaminate me with your smell
Perfume powder treachery
Loaded guns and sodomy
Soak me down with your desire
In the shower under fire
Wave the white flag, keep it clean
Call me g.i. josephine

Do You See What I See?

Yes, I'm having weight issues today. Somewhere in amongst the things is a pic of me 6 years ago. I assure you, I'm much more like the other three images.


Saturday, March 28, 2009

"What Gay Men Like"

Normally, I just slip new blog links into the sidebar, but not this time. I want to direct your attention to a sexy, NSFW site.

The site is called "FAGALICIOUS" and is a great one-stop-shop for whats hot and sexy on the Interwebs. Videos, pics, sex, sex, sex. I don't have to say its NSFW again, do I? The pic will take you right to the blog.

There.

Truth is, I dropped the ball on this one and I thought this would be a great way to make up for it.

Jason, are we good? LOL!

If You Don't Do It...

...then you're a bad person.

Tonight.
One hour.
Light some candles and take a bath.
Get down and dirty with the one you lust.

Just shut out the lights! Besides, Barack and Michelle are going to do it.

"Fight The Real Enemy..."

...AGE!

I can't believe my eyes, and neither will you. Especially when you click the pic to enlargerize the image of one Miss Sinéad O'Connor, snapped recently at some airport.

I'm not trying to be mean here, but there are oh so many things wrong with this picture!

I used to think she was so pretty, especially with the shaved head thing. It was all about her eyes and the shape of her face. And now look...life came along and gave her a great big, fat and sloppy raspberry right in her face.

The mom track pants (Champion! not even Lululemon!), Kmart tank top and Brand X running shoes. Ugh!

Honestly, she looks like a favourite auntie or your third grade teacher who has her own mess of kids at home, not a one-time-top-of-the-charts-pop-singer.

At least she's still smiling. I gotta give her that. Other than that, all I see is a hot mess.

The List ~ One Man At A Time

I never should have mentioned this.

The List is only supposed to have 5 names and, according to Rachel, an alternate.

My list is at about 562 names and I have no idea how to shorten it. So, I'm changing it up. From now on, "On My List" is going to show up here a lot. You should just assume that someone got bumped. There. A solution that is safe, vague and titillatingly omnipotent.

Here we go!



Friday, March 27, 2009

What's That Smell?

AI8 ~ WTF?

Who the hell is running this thing anyway?

Bottom three: Blond Bear, JT Knockoff, and Greatest American Hero.

Who should have gone home? GAH. Who did go home? Blond Bear.

Give me a break. It was such a ridiculous show, from the opening (LIP SYNCED) cheeseball group performance, to Smokey's ubertoxed face, to Stevie's awkward melody. Did he even rehearse? And could someone please get Reuben Studdard a napkin? I know those lights are hot, but even Whitney brings a rag on stage.

What a farce.

Look at this guy! That is not the hair or face or anything of an American Idol. He's this year's Sanjaya.

And don't give me that whole, "he's blind and inspiring!"

He. Can't. Sing.

That has nothing to do with vision. Unless, I'm wrong and you can actually sing through your eyes. Maybe I shouldn't be writing this today. I am in a LOUSY mood.

Blah.

Does This Make Me Look Gay?

The Reveal

Indeed, the hunkasaurus in this week's WhoDat? is the sexyhot Eric Bana. They're only going to get tougher.

Gay Cheque

Thursday, March 26, 2009

That's More Like It

Shenandoah

Shenandoah by Chanticleer, starring a Hobbit.;)

The List

Here is a long standing joke between Poodle and I. Do you remember when the cast of Friends created The List? A list of famous people that they were allowed to sleep with, without repurcussion. I jumped on the bandwagon. Poodle's list tends to be very specific and very static, but when he picks people that he could ACTUALLY hook up with, I feel it's only fair to not bump anyone from my list.

I'll be sharing My List in the next few days. In the meantime:


Girl, Put Your Records On







CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!!

The Lisp is running low on our collection of old school album covers.
Do you have some old school swingin' record covers that should be featured here?
Just send your JPEG to shirleyheezgay@gmail.com and see them live on.

Bedtime Stories Part II: Ottawa Years

Oh, yes. The "One Glass Too Many."

We were devastatingly acquainted with it. Shortly after that glass arrived, spirits still high, jovial and flirtatious, maybe two or three sips in, I could look at my best girl; she would look at me. "We're done," but 'done' rarely meant that it was time to pack it in.

"Done" did not go home. "Done" did not signify having to drink water for the rest of the night. "Done" didn't mean you weren't going to slam some black guy in the bathroom (you didn't have to be "done" for that to happen). "Done" meant we have opened and stepped through the door of "Beyond Drunk: The Point of No Return."

Always an interesting place to be, depending on the crew that you were with. Some would pick aggressive challenges with straight hotties on the pool tables. The gay guy insisting that the überhot bouncer, Patch would have to kiss a boy. Patch, a bald, beast built like a brick house was always confident he would win. He used to say that if he lost, he would pick the gay boy who could grope and kiss on him for 30 seconds. But if he won, he could pick the girl in our crew that we would set him up with. We never won, but my best girl won herself a pimped date with her.

On the night of that date, like any good friend would, I instructed that she didn't have to fuck him, but she had to get a look at It. The next day over coffee at Café Wim, she told me how their passion dragged them to the floor, not even able to make it to the bed. And when Patch released his stuff, she was awed. They tried, and tried, but there was no way she could accommodate all of it. He became my priority jack off fantasy fodder after that. In fact, I think the next time I saw him I handed him a jack and coke and said, "You know. I could do it. I wouldn't stop you," even though I wasn't even a bottom. He graciously declined.

Some of my posse would dance even wilder than the last time. Even during a slow, sexy jam. All the power to you if it compelled you enough to have to force us to claw them down from atop a flimsy table. I rarely did. I did however have a five very basic rules for the ladies in my life who would let that poison take over their joy and brain cells. I've never forgotten them, and I assure you, they still know them today.:
  1. Do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.
  2. No falling down on the floor.
  3. No lifting your dress over your head.
  4. No screaming.
  5. No fighting. If you get into a fight, you're on your own.
Each week, any combination of these rules would be broken. Strangely, the defiance would happen in specific establishments and in any number of combination. For example, one night at Market Station, a long lost friend showed face (poor bastard), only to be greeted by screams and an onslaught of hugs. So much so, he fell to the ground, buried under these drunken girls. He looked up at me, buried under boobs and pussies and wine breath, and all I could do was say, "Hey. 'Sup?" I'd return to sipping on my B52 on ice, and resumed picking up the bartender, Tony, who would have, I'm sure, let me tear him apart.

Another night, every single rule was broken. A crew of three girls sounded like an army of 10, screaming and carrying on. They climbed up on chairs, lifted their shirts and flashed the bar. One friend, who had just got her "tramp stamp" tattoo on the small of her back, lifted her full length dress almost over her head to show her new ink. Later, one was found screaming at a girl in the ladies room; the culprit moving in on a man that my friend was ready to set free, but needed their relationship to end with a big, dramatic "Fuck Off!" and some silly nothing whore was going to take that away from her.

There were a couple of punches, but in keeping with "Kevin's 5 Rules," I walked off to the DJ booth to request some CFM or Jamiroquai so I could keep dancing.

Finally, it was closing time and I stepped out to score a cab for our crew. While I was doing that, they drunkenly stumbled out of The Well/Market Station, tripping, tumbling and getting their limbs entwined up on the ground.

I walked back and just stood there. "HELP US!"
I reminded them..."You're on your own."

They tried to get up, but when one used the ground to leverage themselves, the other would feel their elbow or knee or head get jammed further into the concrete. Finally, after so much screaming, I tossed my cigarette, recruited the sexy Patch and we lifted them simultaneously. While they stumbled around laughing and reminiscing, I jumped into the waiting cab and as it took off, I yelled out, "see you at Wedges!"

Part 3 to follow...

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

And Now For Something A Little Different...

For those of you who don't know (or remember!--you know who you are), both of my parents are deaf. My sister and I are part of a community known as CODA's --Children Of Deaf Adults.

One of my favourite things is watching someone interpret a song in sign language. Please enjoy CaptainlOver here interpreting Britney's Womanizer.



Proudly pinched from ZephyrFiles.

Bedtime Story

I was going to continue my bedtime story from last week, but I'm going to be giving y'all something else. Yesterday afternoon, I was driving home, listening to the radio. In between the banter and relentless playing of Lisa Lougheed songs (more on that another day), Shaun Proulx read a commentary that I found incredibly touching and important.

I emailed him and asked if I could post it on my blog. Shaun said yes, and hopefully you'll find it as important as I did. And after you read, maybe click on over to see him. In fact, I insist that you do.

God I had a flashback on the way into the studio a couple of hours ago, and I only wish it were an acid flashback.

I live close to a school and kids were taunting this one boy, he looked like a young teen.

Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!

There were about a dozen of these louts, shuffling along about ten feet behind this kid, screaming at him. SCREAMING. People were staring.

Like the majority of gay men out there, I'm all too familiar with what it feels like to be that kid, valiantly, pathetically trying to hold his head up against the horrid abuse as ten times the number of people try their obscene best to humiliate you.

As an adolescent I was such a pretty boy I was mistaken for a girl, plus I liked nice clothes - not jeans and sweatshirts - and so I was teased mercilessly for that. My first taste of "Faggot" came in grade three. By high school gaydar was going off for the kids around me and so not a day went by over five long years when I wasn't pushed into lockers, called names, had things thrown at me.

So watching this poor kid today - gay boy or not, I don't know - in this day and age when gay teens are a huge suicide risk, hurt my eyes. Luckily the bus he was heading for came and he got on and it drove off. I know that feeling of relief all too well, too, making an escape - until the next time.

If you're a queer kid and you're hearing this, know that there's good news.

1) You can and will make it past this. You are already stronger than you know just for making it this far.

2) This seems like more-than-you-can-take BUT what you're being dished now sets you up really well later in life. You won't take anyone's bullshit unless you want to, trust me. Twisted but it's true.

And 3) later in life when you find out what all those kids who treated you so awfully are up to now - for me it's thanks to Facebook - you'll gain some satisfaction from learning they are still living the exact same miserable lives they were that day when all you wanted to do was walk on the sidewalk on a sunny spring day and get on a bus.


Thanks, Shaun.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

It Don't Matter If You're Black Or White...

...but you should be who you say you are.

Rumours are starting to swirl that the MJ that we all saw during his O2 London press conference was in fact, NOT Michael Jackson. That might explain the voice.


Immediately following the press conference, many people, including yours truly, remarked on his almost "drunken" behaviour, deeper voice, hunched back and bad wig.

So, I took a closer look at the "man" who was wobbling at the podium and while I do think it
was him, I am open to the tiniest possibility that it wasn't.

It might have been Julia Roberts in a wig and special f/x makeup.


Don't see it?


How about now?



No?

How about now?


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