January 2007

Who dat say gonna beat the Bears? We’re going to the Superbowl!!!

Last Saturday night, feralboy called me up just as I was ready to pop in a DVD and call it a night. We decided we would go to the Valley and check out the gay bars there. Ever since he moved to LA several years ago we have been planning to do this. He wanted to check out the scene, and I was going more as an anthropological study of sorts.

We end up going to two bars: Oil Can Harry’s and Fu/el. Harry’s was a very interesting place. It had a very country western feel to it that just inundated your senses with kitsch. So much so that it sort of induced nausea and diarrhea simultaneously. To boot it was disco night, so you had a bunch of aging fags trying to relive the entire Donna Summer experience.

There was this one guy on stage that could quite possibly be my grandfather. He looked like he was having a blast dancing with his arms in the air and eyes closed. Which is good for him. Totally enjoy life and all that, but if I ever get to that point in my life just put HCl in my brain immediately. At least I know now where they put all the old gays out to stud. (And don’t get me started about the crazy lessie with the tambourine. Yes, tambourine.)

Over at Fu/el, it was a little more comforting in a way. I can’t believe I would ever describe a cheap West Hollywood knock-off as comforting, but after Oil Can Harry’s well… The boys there were prettier, but there was a huge problem: there were only 15 people there. So I’m just led to believe that in the Valley people just can’t handle West Hollywood.

That leads to me to something else. Since I haven’t been in West Hollywood in years, does this mean I can’t handle it either? Have I just resigned myself like they did to a different part of the city content to never go back? Am I that weak? The answer to all of those questions is a resounding “YES”, but the odd part is that I just don’t really care. So I’ll just lead my lonely existence trolling Manhunt for sex and being quite comfortable in the ghetto that is Echo Park.

One final item to note: it was freezing that night. And by freezing I don’t just mean that is was cold. No. It was literally freezing. I slipped on frozen gutter water getting back into the car. I don’t know what’s happening to the weather in LA, but let me just say that I choose to pay a higher cost of living than most people in America so that I don’t have to deal with weather like this. And for now, I’ll just blame the bone-chilling weather on Canada and John Basedow.

Is it just me that thinks that the Crocodile Hunter’s kid looks freaky? If she looks this to’ up now, imagine what she’ll look like when puberty hits. Yikes. The worst part is that she’s supposed to have her own wildlife show (or something like that). Picture this: a croc chewing off part of her face like Laffy Taffy. Too bad there won’t be any jokes in that wrapper.

Whenever I see kids act and do shit like this, I keep hoping that another Drew Barrymore meltdown will happen. I mean even Haley Joel Osmont ended up crashing his car while he was drunk and stoned. What will Dakota Fanning be like? That Jerry Maguire kid?

Ok. So I was a bit hasty with my whole doom-and-gloom I’m-Never-Going-To-Blog-Again bullshit. It’s been two months which has been a nice sabbatical of sorts. But now I have some things to get off my fucking chest.

I’ve been seeing a lot of Best of 2006 lists, but I really have to agree with Buddyhead on this one: 2006 sucked in music. The Knife is horrible. Joanna Newsom is music for fucking Renaissance fairs. It was all just fucking boring. Period. Granted there were a couple of good albums to come out, but for the most part I ended up listening to old Unwound and PJ Harvey records. So fuck Pitchfork and what they’re trying to sell.

Another group of people that need to get fucked are the asshats who decided to make “going to the gym” their New Year’s resolutions. All they’re doing is cluttering up the gym and getting in my way for the month of January. We all know that by February you will be back to guzzling Super Duper Gulps and eating Triple Bacon Cheeseburgers with your Fatty McFat meal. Fuckers.

But speaking of resolutions, I decided to make one. I have never ever followed through on a resolution no matter how insipid they are. The year I resolved to buy more shoes I bought none. So following that logic, my resolution is to be celibate.

Anyhow that’s my rant d’jour. Happy New Years you boring fuckers and let’s turn this motha’ out bitches!