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(01/09/08 1:26am)
Angola.” “Borneo.” “Czech Republic.” “Denmark.” “Uhhhh...”\nIt’s my turn to go, but I can’t seem to think of a country that begins with the letter “E.” Ethiopia’s been done. So has Egypt. England could work, but we’ve already done Great Britain, and it seems unethical to use synonyms during such an esteemed family car game.\nBalls! What freakin’ country starts with “E”? Eczema?\nSuddenly, I have a flashback: My friend Danilo, obliterated beyond belief, is peeing off the balcony of my apartment complex, while singing, “We’re Breakin’ Free,” from High School Musical. Danilo is Ecuadorian.\n“Ecuador!” I say proudly. I smile, making me look 10 percent cuter than I already do.\nIt’s Christmas Eve. My family and I are on I-465, heading to a holiday party at my aunt Carol’s house. While waiting for my brother’s inevitable “Finland,” I’m looking out the window for my absolute favorite billboard, which I know is just around the bend.\n“Herpes?” the billboard asks, as if offering fresh ground pepper.\n“Why yes!” I like to respond, in a proper British accent. “And fill me up to the brim!”\nWhile billboard scouting, however, I see something very unusual – a man, sitting in the car behind us, is driving shirtless. \nSince it’s late December, this instantly strikes me as sketchy. The man’s car is even more disconcerting. He appears to be driving Jeffrey Dahmer’s old car – a rusted, blue van with no side windows and a sliding door, perfect for catching babies.\nAlhough he is entirely creepy, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Perhaps he has nipple cancer,” I convince myself. “He’s showing them off one last time, before they’re cut off, ground up and put into a high school chicken patty.”\n“Honduras!” my sister shouts, diverting my attention. “Okay, Colin. It’s your turn.”\nI begin thinking of an “I.” But just as I’m about to say “Ireland,” my brother Sean suddenly screams and begins pointing frantically out the window. “Oh my God! Look!”\nThat’s when I see it: The guy in the serial killer van is completely naked, jerking off. He’s also staring at me and licking his lips.\nMy initial reaction is reminiscent of Miss South Carolina’s when she was asked her feelings about kids not being able to find the U.S. on a world map: shock, followed by a good 30 seconds of indecipherable rambling. I am appalled, making the same face I did while watching the viral video, “2 girls, 1 cup.” Just as soon as my brain processes this shocking sight, the man changes lanes, veers right and takes the next exit. This is the second time, I realize, that he will have “gotten off” from the interstate that day.\nPerhaps the most shocking fact of all, strangely, is that the guy really wasn’t that unattractive. I always imagined interstate masturbators to be obese and/or wearing Aeropostale. This guy, I hate to say it, was pretty cute. Unfortunately for him, that chance, much like his load, was blown on the interstate.
(10/02/07 3:00pm)
When you look at this picture, what do you see? Pride? You see an emaciated boy waving a rainbow flag. You see his meaty butt cheeks, strangely disproportional to his toothpick legs. You see a black thong shoved in his crack like a coin in a couch cushion.
(08/23/07 4:00am)
"Man vs. Wild": is Bear Grylls really getting outside assistance and sleeping in hotels?
(04/26/07 4:00am)
Next week might be the end of school -- meaning months of working and boredom for everyone heading home -- but it also marks the start of the summer movie season. Forget sitting poolside and soaking up some rays, go hide in the air-conditioned theaters. Here's a look at what's coming out in the next few months.
(04/26/07 4:00am)
As the sweaty men cycled, beads of hot sweat dripping down their tight, spandex shorts, I stood in the stands – not at all aroused. \nStanding next to me, a group of shirtless fraternity guys cheered wildly, exposing underpants, which I didn’t notice because I was thinking about something else, maybe church. As they cheered, their beefy arms rubbing against my body, my crotch remained completely still – motionless – each testicle like a teeny, tiny, neighborhood pond. \n\nIt was stiff – the competition. Exhilarating. Captivating. However, my attention suddenly shifted as I felt a tap on the shoulder. Towering over me, in tall stilettos that were clearly “walk of shame shoes” – was a sorority girl, plastered beyond belief. \n“You’re that guy!” she said, spittle running amok. “You’re that gay columnist!”\nThough she went on to gush, complementing my work, I was instantly peeved. After 2 ½ years of writing, is that all I had become … the gay columnist? As I watched the laps unfold – the last five – I began to reflect upon my own. \nFive semesters of column writing. Five semesters of bitten nails, Red Bull breath and weekly deadlines. And what had I accomplished? Anything? Nothing?\n\nAs a journalist, you often wonder if you’re really doing anything, if the exertion has actually made a difference. You worry that – like a bicycle race – you’re just going around in circles, ultimately ending up right back where you started. \nHowever, as I look back – on my own little five – it’s easy to see: a lot has changed. \n\nWhen I joined the IDS during my freshman year, I was incredibly insecure with my orientation – definitely the Humpty Dumpty of homosexuals. It was through the self-empowerment of writing, and the growing confidence, that I began to establish a reputation, a following, and above all, a voice. \n\nAfter coming out, it became my prerogative to write predominately homo-licous stories. I wanted to be a motivator, a leader – like Martin Luther Queen – providing a voice to an otherwise muted community. And now, after 1,000 gay puns, 700 testicle jokes and two actual interviews, my journalistic “race” at IU is almost over. This is my last column. \n\nHowever, the race for gay rights has just begun. Together, all of us will ride towards the finish line, towards the rainbow, checkered flag of equality. \nWe’ll ride for marital rights, which we’ve long been denied. We’ll ride for adoption rights, for the opportunity to shed love upon the discarded. We’ll ride for civil rights, to ensure that hate crimes are not condoned by an intolerant government. \nIn this race, this life, there is no second place – no silver medal for second-class citizenship. We will arrive first. And though it may be an uphill trek – arduous and exhausting – I look forward to leading the pack.\nAfter all, this writer likes it rough. Really rough.
(04/19/07 4:00am)
The heterosexuals are brought in – blindfolded. \nClutching desperately to a gay dude, they waddle into their newly redecorated room. Before telling them to open their eyes, the gay waits a few moments – to build suspense, heighten the moment and apply a self-tanner. \nFinally, it’s time. \n“Wow,” the couple screams, their amazement bigger than most hernias. “This is amazing!”\n“Oh look, Kenneth! They framed that moist towelette we used on our first date at Smokey Bones!”\n“I know,” the husband says. “And they took that pile of crap we had just laying there and put it away. Golly, the gays are so innovative.”\nThe host does a cartwheel.\n“Bye, bitches! See you next time on ... ‘Queer Veneers’!”\nHomos and home-makeover shows. The two have become an unstoppable pair. From “Design on a Dime” to “Top Design,” from the “Queer Eye” faces to “Trading Spaces,” gay men have become renowned for their interior decorating – taking rooms from shabby to fabby. \nWhy is it, then, that we haven’t begun applying these skills to our culture’s morality? With gay-pride festivals oozing with sexual impropriety, and “Queer as Folk” promoting casual polygamy, there’s a desperate need for remodeling. \nBut is the fabric of gay society too difficult to reupholster? Or is it that, although we’re good at refurbishing antique mirrors, we’re afraid to actually look into them – to see our community’s smudged reflection.\nThe question remains: When will we remodel ourselves?\nThe Miss Gay IU pageant exemplifies the pressing need for such renovation. The pageant can be fixed with a few simple steps. \n• Step 1: Redesign the name.\nCall it “Miss Man-Woman IU.” Call it “The Crimson Tranny.” Whatever the change, the title needs to be switched – because it doesn’t make sense. Transvestites and gay people are not the same thing. Plus, the juxtaposition between “Miss” and “Gay” suggests that the two are inextricably linked when, in fact, there is nothing emasculating about being homosexual. \n• Step 2: Clean up the garbage.\nI’m kosher with transvestite talent shows. You want to duct-tape your pistachios and twirl a baton? Groovy. I’m there. However, the show is an embarrassment. Rather than having the performers behave civilly, as actual “ladies,” they strip and allow audience members to tuck dollar bills into their glittery undergarments. Tacky. \n• Step 3: Repair the hypocrisy.\nTen percent of the proceeds go to AIDS prevention. Great, I say! Thumbs up. Oh, but wait. It seems as if we’ve forgotten where AIDS comes from. \nIn the 1980s, the epidemic spread because of blatant hypersexuality. Granted, there was poor contraceptive education, but orgies didn’t help. And now, these back-up dancers undulate in just their underpants – shaking their asses like Simply Lemonade – miming the same hypersexual behavior that caused the disease to initially spread. Counter-intuitive, gentlemen. \nHopefully, in time, this show will have gotten a full, queer makeover.
(04/12/07 4:00am)
Hmm, ESPN or Cosmopolitan? Decisions, decisions. \nIn every doctor’s waiting room, there are two types of magazines – one for heterosexual men, the other for heterosexual women. It is at this literary crossroad that homos like me are left biting their nails in nervous contemplation, bloodying the cuticles of otherwise beautiful jazz hands.\nIt’s like that Robert Frost poem about paths – the one that makes you want to put down your Snapple and just think about life.\nTwo magazine roads diverged in a gay wood, I thought, my hands reaching toward them. And I took the Cosmo when no one was looking.\nTucking it in between the conveniently enlarged pages of ESPN, I opened it up and flipped to one of the submitted “true life” articles. It was about experiencing “love at first sight.”\nAs an utter love cynic – one who hisses at weddings and rolled hash with pages of “The Notebook” – the concept of having such a fantastical experience had always seemed laughable, especially at the eye doctor.\nHow could anyone waiting in an optometrist’s office believe in love at first sight? I thought to myself. Everyone has corrected vision. We couldn’t see love if we wanted to. \nAs Mariah Carey’s debut album, “Vision of Love,” so poignantly noted in the late 1990s, there has always been a mysterious connection between visibility and love-ability – an eerie relationship between corneas and coronaries. \nAs children, we began bright-eyed and optimistic about finding true love. But as we age, facing cheating partners and devastating breakups, the degeneration of such visionary romance begins to ensue.\nEx-boyfriends, after all, are the cataracts of the dating world.\nMy friend Charnee, still blinded by her ex, routinely claims that love doesn’t exist. She’s completely given up on the idea of ever finding romance. During the Zales diamond commercials, when the tuxedo-clad man gets down on one knee to propose – the woman beaming with absolute joy – Charnee throws an IKEA pillow at the screen. \n“Don’t do it!” she says, flicking ash from her cigarello. “He’s cheating on you!”\nIt seems like our generation has begun developing this habit – this pessimistic attitude – of staring through the tinted lens of romantic cynicism. It’s when the disbelief in romance sets in, however, that we begin settling for mere sexual hook-ups – inviting strangers from Sports back to our apartments for embarrassing rounds of “the whiskey-dick dance.”\nNevertheless, this optimistic nearsightedness is far from permanent. Because just when you don’t expect it – like while leaving your eye appointment, for example – you see him.\nA vision of love – a man so visually perfect you want to spray him down with Renu and take your contacts out all over his body. \nYour crotch – like your faith – suddenly dilates. And though you realize it may just be “lust at first sight,” at least you’ve seen something. You remember that the opportunities for finding companionship are endless. \nYou just need keep your eyes wide open.
(04/05/07 4:00am)
The house was dark – pitch black – every particle of evening air sporting a teeny-tiny, North Face jacket. \nAfter tiptoeing inside, trying not to wake my parents, I meandered toward the kitchen. Famished after a night of drunken Catch Phrase, I stumbled to the fridge for a juicy, midnight pickle.\nBut just as I reached inside ...\n“Heyyyyy.”\n“TESTICLES!” I shouted, fumbling the jar. I swiveled around to see Aaron, my stepbrother, slumped on the couch. “Crap, man, you scared the sodomite out of me!”\nAs my pulse slowed, I opened the lid and began fishing for a dill – the salty waters stinging a recent Playgirl paper cut. \n“You know what,” he muttered, his voice sullen and blunt. “You’re lucky you’re gay.”\nI raised an eyebrow in confusion, arching it like a hairy boomerang.\n“Why do you say that?” I asked.\n“Because women suck.”\n“Trust me,” I said, snapping the girthy pickle in half. “Men suck too.”\nI understood his pain. Here Aaron was – beginning the break-up process I’d recently finished. \nIt hurt to see him like that – knowing the inevitable next stages. The anger. The Facebook stalking. The rebound. The text messages. The Kleenex. The new guy. The Facebook stalking. The heartache. \nHe looked broken. \nIt was such an unusual emotion from him – vulnerability. I have two stepbrothers in all, and a stepdad, all total “macho men.” Growing up, they taught me everything masculine. \nHow to fish. How to hunt. How to kill a bear with just your ball sack. \nIt was Aaron, in fact, who showed me my first porno, which we ended up accidentally dropping into our basement crawl space. We spent the entire next day trying to retrieve it, fashioning a device out of duct tape and vacuum attachments. \nIt was during times like this – marveling their technological ingenuity, vigor and virility – that I learned how to become a man. \nThere’s a stereotype passed around between most gays – and women – that straight men don’t have emotion. It’s joked that they don’t experience love and compassion, or, frankly, acceptance of gay relationships. \nThis infuriates me. When I told my stepdad that I was gay – during the Colts’ halftime no less – he gave me a hug and said I was more of a man than anyone he had ever met. \n“And if anyone ever does anything to you,” he said, “I will hunt them down with my crossbow.”\nWhat unites all men – gay, straight, blue, mauve – is ultimately love, whether present in darkened closets or darkened living rooms. \nThe same brand of cloaked sensitivity resides in Aaron – which is why I sat down, turned on the light and gave him my support. \n“Want a Vlasic?” I asked. \n“No thanks.”\n“How about a drink?”\n“God yes,” he said. “I need a stiff one.”\n“You and me both, dude,” I said, smiling. “You and me both.”
(04/04/07 3:00pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>When the editors of INside pitched this idea to me – making $200 by any means necessary – I immediately had a flashback. I was sent back to the dark times, the dirty days where the leather of my chaps was as black as those horrible nights.But that was a long time ago ... ancient history ... February.Now, I’ve become a campus entrepreneur, making money in wholesome ways – ways that don’t end in applying expensive, medical creams. Here are five, easy ways that turned my fist full of shame into a fist full of dollars. You can do them, too!$60List items on half.comHow-to: Sign up to sell at half.com by creating an account (located at the top of the site); and then click Start Selling Now.Everyone’s got some dusty, old books or DVD sets lying around their apartment (or crack den, if you live in the Villas). Whether you’re a “7th Heaven” fan turned blood-letting, devil-worshipper or a straight guy disappointed by plotlines in “The L Word,” you can find an old season to sell. To make my bling-a-ling, I sold “Felicity - Sophomore Year Collection” (where she pulls a “Britney”), accompanied by the Jenna Jameson autobiography and “Uptown Girls,” a movie so boring I turned straight ... just for something to do. $80Participate in a psych studyHow-to: Find experiment postings located on bulletin-boards in the Psychology Building at 1101 E. 10th St.If you’re an alcoholic or occasional substance abuser, then psychological experiments are available for you! Most of the experiments are designed to measure either delinquent activity or unusual bodily defects – but are generally fun. For my experiment, lasting for two sessions of three hours each, the researchers attached electrodes to my face and made me watch pornography. Um, how do you say awesome in French?$20Sell your clothes for cashHow-to: Visit Plato’s Closet in Bloomington at 1145 S. College Mall Rd.Ironically, Plato’s Closet is the perfect place to go after you’ve just come out of one. The transition of sexualities inevitably yields a drastic wardrobe change – from baggy to boot fit, from A&F to H&M. Thus, I decided to sell two pairs of jeans from Abercrombie, mangled severely (after a viciously masculine bear fight), as well as a Hollister t-shirt that, unbeknown to others, is actually haunted by the ghost of Estelle Getty.$20Place bets with childrenHow-to: Harass your siblings. Or a friend’s. My little brother is a geography whiz. A genius. He remembers the capital of Arkansas and sometimes Canada. Though he’s well educated about geographic areas, it turns out that Sean has a very scarce knowledge of lesbian film trivia. Most nine-year-olds do. While discussing the movie “Six Days Seven Nights” this past weekend – for reasons unknown – he tried to convince me that Meg Ryan played the female lead. Too bad Anne Heche isn’t Canada, Sean. $20Write for INside MagazineHow-to: INside is always on the look out for new talent.Email us at inside@idsnews.com. When my one-week deadline became mere minutes away from expiring, I found myself – tragically $20 shy of my goal. Desperate for some quick cash, I flipped through the pages of my black book, called up my usual client, and earned the last of my money. My editor reminded me, two hours later, that I was getting paid $20 for writing the article.
(03/29/07 4:00am)
A man leans forward and bends over.\nWith eyes fixated on the ground below, he points his anus toward the sky, as if it were an African rain stick, hoisted to summon good harvest. Once positioned correctly, he picks up a small shovel and begins to dig in the dirt.\nAfter a few minutes, he abandons the shovel and starts to burrow manically with his hands. His fingers scoop and scrape wildly, clawing like cannibalistic vegans at a man made entirely of black beans.\nSuddenly, he stops. He’s found something. \nHe picks it up from the ground, scraping off the excess dirt. He looks excited – his smile is so wide it seems to loop around his face. However, the corners of his smile quickly take a dramatic plunge.\n“Son of a bitch!” he exclaims, chucking the object into the woods. “Fool’s gold!”\nWith that, he wipes his hands on his denim shorts, returns to his metal detector and continues to scavenge. \nAs I watch him from my apartment window, laughing to the point of occasional pee dribbles, I can’t help but wonder: What kind of person actually uses a metal detector? \nCome on, dude, bake some quiche. Knit yourself a life. Get a new hobby. \nHere’s this crazy guy who – in someone else’s yard – is bent over, showing off his ass like a Power Point presentation and actually searching for gold. \nYet as I watched him search, anxious to uncover hidden treasure, I finally realized: He’s not crazy, He’s just a hopeless romantic. \nLike the gold nugget, the “love nugget” seems to be a resource that’s difficult, if not impossible, to find. After a certain number of failed relationships, people begin loosing faith they’ll ever strike gold. At that point, they start accepting celibacy – eating Tater Tots by the handfuls and masturbating in the garage. \nHowever, what most saddened singles forget is, unlike gold, relationships are an entirely renewable resource. Finding them is merely a matter of tenacity. \nTake my story, for example. Every day last summer, when I returned from work, I would pass a nice-looking young gentleman walking his black lab near my house.\nFinally, one day, while feeling particularly zesty, I devised a plan for introduction. \nI would walk my dog toward him – wearing low-rise jeans that reveal my low-rise inhibitions – and when the dog leashes suddenly intertwined, so would our hearts. \nSurprisingly, the plan began unfolding just as I’d hoped. My pooch decided to drop a “doggy log” just as he passed, spurring on a lovely conversation about the gooeyness of canine feces. We then continued to walk and talk for several blocks. \nThough it turned out he was both heterosexual and married with children, the incident taught me a valuable lesson.\nEmbarrassment is inevitable, like sifting through layers of dirt. The more you face, the closer you get to discovering the good stuff. Whether you’re doing so bending forward, or bending over backward, you’ll find it eventually. The question is: Are you ready to dig?
(03/22/07 4:00am)
It’s plump. It’s ripe. It’s juicy – with a flavor so fantastic, it’s the taste equivalent of finding out you don’t have a yeast infection.\nThe apple.\nFuji, Granny Smith, McIntosh – every type is delicious. Whether named after a Japanese mountain, an elderly person or a computer that gets fewer viruses from porn, apples have become undeniably hip – the Fergie of fruits. They are a culinary staple of American culture, chronicling each stage of maturation.\nAs young children, we were told that “an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” explaining why so many Jewish mothers frequently fed their daughters pineapple. As teenagers, we put them under our shirts (possibly just me) and pretended to be Drew Barrymore, rehearsing heartfelt monologues from “Never Been Kissed.” As college students, we eat the dippers from McDonald’s to ease the pain of breakups, dunking our feelings of wanting to kill the bastard into tiny cups of caramel.\nThe apple pie itself, a fellow dessert, has become the popularized symbol of American culture, as patriotic as denying people marital rights. And at the heart of such pie symbolism – the city responsible for the providing the majority of the Americanized filling – is the biggest apple of all, New York City. \nPerusing the Manhattan gift shops over spring break, this nickname – the Big Apple –was plastered all over T-shirts and mugs. Originating in the late 1930s, it was supposed to symbolize the unity of the city. Yet the longer my vacation lasted, the more illogical this term became. \nFinancially, the city’s residents could not seem more divided. While the yuppies are out partying at posh, New York clubs sipping on appletinis, the homeless are outside begging for spare change, clinking a few, sad pennies in an old Mott’s jar. \nOn Fifth Avenue – where the prices are as high as the egos – women buy $500 Manolo Blahnik shoes, wearing them to strut past people dying on the streets.\nBecause unless the beggars are spray-painted in silver, they get none of the gold. That remains on the wrists of those sporting expensive jewelry: Cartier on one hand, denial on the other. \nLikewise, the “Big Apple” is sadly split in two. On the rich half, the yuppies’ lifestyle is ripe with success – their “fruitful” finances as juicy as their courtier. On the poor half, the homeless remain beaten down, bruised by a society that ignores them.\nOn the “Late Show With David Letterman,” announcer Alan Coulter says New York is the “greatest city in the world.” Hailing from the Midwest, however, you come to realize how fallacious this publicized greatness really is. The city is just like the produce department at Kroger – the bruised sides are turned around to make everything look prettier. \nThat’s why you have to appreciate Indiana for what it is: a cheap, but tasty, caramel apple from the state fair. After all, we may be of a lower class, with our fair share of nuts, but our compassion and hospitality stick us all together.
(03/08/07 5:00am)
There are two types of spring-breakers who visit the ocean: the readers and the breeders. \nWhile members of the first group read quietly under umbrellas, lathering their bodies with sunblock, members of the second are out cruising the beach, looking for hotties without cock blocks. \nAt night, while the readers are under hotel blankets sipping cups of green tea, breeders are out under the stars, having sex in the sea. \nIt’s irrefutable – inarguable – that the breeders (“vacation sluts” as they’re known) always come back with much better stories. Eavesdropping in class the Monday after break, I always hear some beefy-looking dude, sporting North Face and a not-so-greatly-clipped crew cut, talking about his wild adventures.\nHe begins with a narrative on skinny-dipping (which, in his case, should really be called beer-belly-dipping) and ultimately concludes with boasts of a drunken threesome, where he and his BF actually high-fived during intercourse.\nThreesomes, fornications, high-fives – I guess it’s how frat guys learn to count. \nAs a notorious reader, I have come to loath these boob-crazy beef cakes – for good reason. Last spring break, for example, while lounging on a reclining chair enjoying “The Da Vinci Code,” a football came out of nowhere and flew right into my sand castle, like a tiny beach terrorist.\nA guy wearing neon green floral trunks – his crotch a virtual radioactive garden – quickly trotted over to apologize.\n“Whoa, sorry, dude,” he said, retrieving the ball from the flattened structure. “Hopefully I didn’t smash the queen.”\nNope, you just made him irritable.\nIndeed, there is a strong, unspoken resentment between members of both groups. Each thinks their method of having fun is superior – one being more intellectual and one being more sexually satisfying. \nSo who is right? The ones who spend their vacation with “The Lovely Bones,” or with a lovely boner?\nAfter analyzing both activities, I – surprisingly – have to side with the sluts. \nThough I’ve never admitted it, as literate people never do, I’ve always secretly envied them. While I’m sitting down reading about experiences, they’re out there actually having them. While I’m interacting with characters, they’re interacting with strangers, obtaining real-life experiences – ones that can never be purchased from Amazon.com. \nAlthough I certainly don’t advocate promiscuity on a regular basis, I think that over spring break – while you’re in college and you’re metabolism is still functioning – it’s perfectly acceptable. After months of studying at the library and writing papers for class, you should be able to cut loose – to chuck your responsibility into the ocean. It is incredibly liberating when you shift from Oncourse to intercourse.\nThat’s the great thing about vacationing on the coast: the fact that every naughty, sexual mistake you make stays on the beach. Every wet T-shirt contest, every threesome, every drunken escapade is just a footprint in the sand – a sexual imprint that disappears with the tide. \nUnless, of course, you get crabs. Then you might need a cream.
(03/01/07 5:00am)
Magicians and closeted homosexuals.\nBoth tricksters, both con artists – determined to dupe audiences into believing a grand illusion. Whether it’s white doves or gay love, shiny coins or man loins, each performer’s hidden secret is kept firmly concealed under the giant top hat of social deception.\nEvery act is based on creating a seemingly magical disappearance, making either people – or personas – vanish into thin air. Though some magicians are better than others, the audience usually knows the truth resides in their sleeves: a rainbow handkerchief just waiting to be pulled out. \nTherefore, it’s ironic that, the first time I came out to anyone, I was handcuffed.\nMy friend Teri had found an orphaned pair lying in her dorm hall, and we had taken turns getting locked up, pretending to be Paula Abdul’s liquor cabinet. The cuffs were tight, constricting – a feeling that I, as well as most freshman queers, had become quite accustomed to. Finally, I decided it was time to escape. \nNot counting Jesus – or Yahoo – Teri was the first person who knew I was gay. As I suspected, she wasn’t all that surprised. We had just spent the previous day using a paraffin wax machine I had borrowed from my mother, watching episodes of “The Golden Girls” as we rested our hands in purple conditioning gloves. \nThe following weekend, she held my freshly exfoliated hand as I drove home to tell my family. In the car, we played on loop the Diana Ross song “I’m Coming Out” (from the Levi’s commercial with the singing belly buttons), as I nibbled nervously from a Miss Piggy Pez dispenser. \nI wasn’t scared – just anxious, ready to escape from the uncomfortably tight “straight jacket.” Looking back on the event now, exactly two years later, I’m almost nostalgic.\nTelling them was remarkably fulfilling, like visiting my own funeral – an almost transcendentally surreal moment when emotion is completely raw and uncensored. Unlike many gay adolescents, I was fortunate enough to have very accepting parents – as cool as Pop Tarts are delicious. \nThe only people I feared telling were my grandparents, since they’re Catholic and wrinkly, assuming that prejudice was hidden somewhere between the flaps of aged skin.\nSo, I sent them an e-mail.\nThe next day, I had received a message back. The subject line simply read: “Gay.” On the page was a link to an e-card. When I clicked on it, a video clip began to play, showing a tiny, animated baseball player hitting a ball deep into the stadium stands. \nBelow the animation, a caption read: “Grandson: We Think You’re a Grandslam ... PS, We love you.”\nI laughed until I cried, speckled tears of relief falling onto the home row keys. After years of lying and countless performances, the magic had finally stopped. The show was over.\nAt least I thought. \nAlthough the handcuffs are now off, I’m still not completely free. None of us are. The chains of prejudice, bigotry and intolerance still exist, shackling us to the reality of American hatred. \nGetting those to disappear is the real trick.
(02/22/07 5:00am)
Pimples, tumors and testicle sweat: These are now the only attributes that distinguish human beings from robots. \nOur imperfections. \nAs American culture continues to evolve both technologically and socially everything seems to be getting increasingly mechanical. We consume so much technology daily – so many Word documents, so many Excel spreadsheets, that it’s amazing we’re not pooping in binary, or peeing in Times New Roman.\nAfter all, everyone’s becoming a robot. \nCollege seems like the unfortunate gateway to this robotic existence. Classes are now headquartered online, forcing students to compulsively check their inboxes. Campus Webmail pages are “refreshed” so often you’d think they were starring in a douching commercial. \nIt’s getting ridiculous. \nWe’re not even treated like humans anymore. At Sol Spa on Tenth Street, you now have to do a fingerprint scan to prove your identity. A freakin’ fingerprint scan! Isn’t that a bit much? This isn’t “Alias,” for Christ’s sake. No one’s tanning for the FBI. \n“What happens when armless people want to tan?” I asked the bronzed receptionist, the other day. “What do you scan then?”\n“I don’t know,” she said coyly, arching her eyebrow to a suggestive altitude. “I guess it depends how hot they are.”\nSadly, this kind of interaction – this playful volley of communication – is slowly being siphoned away, as we succumb to living in a virtual world. Witty banter might as well be growing out of Britney Spears’ head: shaved off by the increased autonomization of digital technology. \nGrocery and department stores are trying to replace humans all together with their newly developed self-checkout lines. “Put your item in the bag,” an automated woman instructs in a creepy, dominatrix tone. \nThough the introduction of self-checkouts does seem handy – especially for those who face the embarrassment of buying lubricant or lice shampoo – these machines are inherently flawed. While grocery shopping the other day, stocking up on 10/$10 Kroger “Rescue Hero” gummies, I spotted a woman who was trying to buy a broom. \n“Put your item in the bag,” the voice demanded. \n“I can’t!” the woman screamed nervously, sweating like Michael Richards at the Black Expo. “It just won’t fit!”\nIndeed, robots will never make adequate substitutes for humans: not in the checkout and certainly not in the bedroom. \nThe Web site RealDoll.com, which manufactures life-size sex dolls (ho-bots, if you will), believes otherwise. For $7,000, buyers are able to custom-design their own partner of choice, choosing everything from hair length to fingernail color.\nLike the automatic checkout, these robotic substitutes for actual people are littered with pitfalls. Men derive the majority of sexual pleasure from “the chase,” the victory of obtaining physical domination. How gratifying is it to conquer a dusty doll with rubber yabos that you keep next to the Dirt Devil?\nThe fabricated perfection of all these robotic substitutes – Oncourse, self-checkouts, ho-bots – is, ironically, what illuminates their imperfection. \nAfter all, it’s the flaws that define our humanity – our imperfections that prove we really exist.
(02/15/07 3:58am)
I've always felt a mysteriously deep kinship with Bob Saget. A cosmic connection. A spiritual bond so powerful it can bend certain metals. \nAt first, I thought it was just a physical attraction -- an internal octopus of hormonal passion, swinging its wild tentacles of desire. But the more I watched "Full House," the greater this sensation became, transcending the shallow realm of mere lust. The feeling seemed mythical -- magical - like dry-humping a unicorn. \nI knew it was love. \nThus, when I was informed by the IDS that I would get to actually interview Bob Saget, who's promoting his new NBC show, I was ecstatic. \nThe host of "America's Funniest Home Videos" talking with America's funniest homo? \nIt doesn't get any better than that.\nThough the interview was going to be via conference call, I still wanted to look hot for Bob Saget. So, I got my hair cut professionally, bathed twice with Ivory soap and bought new boxer briefs from H&M, made of 88 percent spandex. \nWhen the interview finally came, the day before Valentine's Day, my excitement level -- like the elasticity of my underpants-- was near 88 percent. Yet as soon as the interview began, Bob Saget's omnipotent presence was able to lull me into a state of tranquility. \nFor many minutes, Bob Saget spoke to me -- primarily about his experiences in returning to network television. One of my first questions involved the relative similarity between his show, "1 vs. 100," and its predecessor, "Deal or No Deal." I asked what he considered to be the biggest differences. \n"We don't have briefcases," Bob Saget replied, "And also I'm willing to full-frontally touch someone. Although Howie and I do touch full-frontally, we just don't use hands." \nAs he spoke, his words spoke with a warm, airy resonance. His voice was like a vanilla cupcake -- frosted with a smooth, creamy tone and sprinkled with scattered bits of colorful inflection. \nContrary to his smooth cadence, his wit was razor-sharp -- the kind of wit you could use to stab Republicans. With every question posed, he offered a response that was not only instantaneously funny, but eloquently stated. It's the same comedic harness that has made his recently released movie parody, "Farce of the Penguins," such an instant success. \n"They can't keep it in stock," Bob Saget said. "It's out at all the Blockbusters and it's selling out everywhere on Amazon.com. ... People love it." \nThe mention of love got my blood pumping -- fast -- and propelled me to ask him the question I'd been waiting to ask all my life. \n"Do you have any plans for Valentine's Day?" I asked, my armpits overactive. "If not, would you like to spend the day with me?"\n"I do, I really want to be with you," Bob Saget said. "But ... I've got a girlfriend." \n"Not a problem," I thought to myself as I cackled and slipped into a diaper. "Not a problem"
(02/15/07 2:55am)
Nicotine, Aver's and sexual favors. \nNatty Light, corn and Internet porn.\nOn the ever-expanding list of college addictions, the Web site YouTube.com is easily at the top. The video site, which was established exactly two years ago today, has quickly become a ubiquitous IU obsession, getting more hits campuswide than bongs on 4/20. With such a wide variety of videos, it's become popular among students of all ages, races and orientations.\nHeterosexual cybergeeks, pumped up on Red Bulls and frustrated semen, ogle video clips from the lonelygirl15 series, printing freeze-framed cleavage stills and taping them to the shower.\nDrunken sorority chicks, after stumbling home from Kilroy's at 3 a.m., watch the "Shoes" video repetitively, laughing so hard they barf all over a crinkled copy of "A Walk to Remember." \nGay "American Idol" fanatics, using their remote controls as microphones, lip-sync along to Kelly Clarkson's original audition video "Express Yourself," wondering if -- conversely -- she's ever made a pair of pants ... out of a shirt. \nThough the aforementioned videos are popularized by these niche audiences, there are still a variety of videos that nearly everyone can agree on. Which is why, to celebrate the site's anniversary, I have composed a column dedicated to honoring the best clips YouTube has to offer. The winners are:\nStrangest: "Text Message Breakup"\nAs the sequel to the entertainingly-moronic "Shoes", this video shows the protagonist Kelly's reaction to being broken up with via cell-phone text messages. It features dancing Stormtroopers, roller-skating vampires and a guest appearance by Margaret Cho, clad in a skintight leather jumper. Eerie, but awesome. \nCutest: "Panda Sneezing"\nPandas are adorable by nature. So adorable, in fact, they're frequently mistaken for me. In this video, this "cute factor" is taken to the extreme, with the delightful addition of ejected panda snot.\nCraziest: "World's Most Dangerous Comic"\nPerforming on the show "America's Got Talent," a comedian attempts to catch a bowling ball covered in spikes and lit on fire -- with his face. Oh, and did I mention he also has live scorpions in his pants? \nFunniest: "Sex Tape Transcript"\nIn the satirical spirit of "Saturday Night Live," this skit features a group of faux Shakespearean actors who join together to read the Colin Farrell sex-tape transcript in heavy, British accents. \nArtiest: "Noah takes a photo of himself every day for 6 years"\nThe title says it all. This video presents a rapid slide show of one man's self-taken digital pictures for over six years, featuring 2,356 pictures and, consequently, 2,356 really bad haircuts. Nevertheless, the piece is stylishly crafted. Set to music, this collage of digital evolution is not only creative, but strangely beautiful. \nBest Voice: Lara Simms\nOne of the unique advantages of YouTube is the ability for talented, local artists to gain nationwide exposure. Simms, for example, an undiscovered artist who has uploaded about 30 of her own videos, has already harvested quite a fan base. Her collection of clips has received thousands of views and complimentary reviews, all noting a blossoming star.\nEnjoy the videos, my little honeys!
(02/08/07 1:38am)
According to a recent announcement by Chris McJesus, founder of the Catholic Ocean Conservation Society (COCS), this entire organization will shut down -- immediately -- if new anti-discrimination laws are passed that allow sodomites to begin adopting whales.\n"Homosexuals have no right adopting," McJesus says. "All they want to do is kill the whales and turn them into cosmetics. Either that or they have some sort of perverse plans for the blowholes. It's sickening."\nMcJesus began this organization aimed at "saving the whales" -- both literally and spiritually -- in 1972. There are currently 1,275 whales in the adoption program, most of whom were orphaned after a group of lesbian huntresses invented the harpoon in the late 1960s. \n"After reading the story of Jonah, I developed a deep appreciation for all sea mammals," McJesus explains. "If they're mentioned positively in the Bible, then that means they should be protected -- not only from poachers and fishermen, but from the butt-crunchers."\nAccording to the company brochure, for a charitable payment of just $25 "humans can help prevent the extinction of these endangered creatures." By "humans," however, they of course mean heterosexuals. \n"Two men cannot be a mother to these whales," McJesus says, "It's impossible. What happens when the whale gets her first period? Who's going to teach her about the whale-gina? These sodomites can only offer kelp, not help."\nIndeed, COCS has a strict anti-homo adoption policy. These regulations are based on the disturbing findings of numerous gay-adoption studies, which reveal that whales adopted by sodomites turn out predominantly deranged and unstable.\n"Look at what happened to Free Willy," McJesus says, "He was raised by a couple of bum-ticklers and now he's a pedophile -- letting young boys with Disney mullets grab his tail and ride him bareback. That's why we shot that blubbery bastard and fed it to Bill O'Reilly -- intestines and all."\nIn his book "From 'Brokeback' to Humpback: Why Queers Make Crappy Parents," author Nathan Hanswagal explains the dangers of homosexual adoption. \n"Gay people are diseased," Hanswagal writes. "It's as simple as that. They have a chemical imbalance, causing them to say no to vaginas and yes to glitter. It's a debilitating, biological sickness." \n"Just think about it," Hanswagal continues. "You wouldn't let Michael J. Fox hold a Faberge egg, so why would you let a sodomite adopt a whale? These animals may be strong in stature, but they're weak with moral persuasion. Shamu, for instance, was recently arrested for dealing LSD." \nSome suspect that sodomites -- in their devilishly anal ways -- want to adopt whales merely to legitimize their sex-crazy, gay marriages. \n"Jesus may walk on water," McJesus says, "but he cares about what's underneath. As a devout Catholic, it's my job to ignore my better judgment and hate homosexuals for no reason whatsoever. It's God's will."\nWith such stern beliefs, the foundation is threatening to take drastic preventative measures to prevent homosexual adoption, including closing the ocean and kidnapping Bette Midler. \n"Although homosexuals may love cocks," McJesus says, "COCS hates homosexuals"
(02/01/07 2:12am)
My grandmother and I have dramatically different tastes. \nShe likes Republicans; I like Democrats. She likes hugging my little brother Sean; I like duct-taping him to the walls. I like partying at Pi Kapps; she likes partying at Acacia. \nNevertheless, one thing we can always agree on -- and will always agree on -- is the savory goodness of Red Lobster. \nFor those of you reading this column internationally -- particularly my immensely loyal Ethiopian readers -- you may be relatively unfamiliar with this American treasure. So sit down on your Laz-E-Boys and allow me to explain. \nRed Lobster is a fine-dining eating establishment renowned for its unusually peppy, Caucasian hostesses and its delicious seafood entrees. Its signature lobster is a feat of crustacean cuisine, so plump and heavenly it's like eating Charlotte Church.\nWhile it's true that the majority of food is oozing with sodium and globs of saturated fat, no one seems to care. Why?\nWell, the answer is obvious. It's sinfully delicious -- duh! \nIt would be interesting to note that if you replace the jumbo shrimp with jumbo thugs, eatable crabs with venereal crabs, you would inevitably end up with the restaurant equivalent of the VH1 dating show "I Love New York."\nLike the oh-so-caloric seafood dishes, the show is devilishly tasty, peppered with the same ingredients for televised success as its predecessor, "Flavor of Love." The show centers on the dating tribulations of Tiffany Pollard, aka "New York" -- a loud, breast-tattooed diva with a big mansion and a big weave (neither of which are hers). \nFrom a pool of 20 men, most of whom are self-appropriated fly-ass pimps, Pollard attempts to find a suitable long-term hubby. The producers of the show add some "spice" to the premise, however, by picking primarily male contestants with severe psychological imbalances and affinities for violence. \nOne of the shows deranged contestants -- a dashing young man by the name of "Pootie" -- was recently ejected from the show, after a near mental breakdown. \nHowever, deranged Pootie is nothing new for the VH1 network. On the most recent season of "Flavor of Love," one of the female contestants was reprimanded for accidentally defecating on the floor. \nBecause of such outlandishly uncouth stunts and general lack of moral decorum, it has -- of course - quickly become an American favorite. According to Variety, the program had "the best start for a series in VH1 history," its premiere capturing an impressive 4.43 million viewers. \nThough educated scholars are undoubtedly slamming the show for its corruption of American civilization -- and viewers would probably agree -- one fact remains clear: The viewing public has a taste for this mentally, caloric type of programming. After all, the show is like one big Cheddar Bay Biscuit: gluttonous, unhealthy, but undeniably filling.\nSo, if you have a penchant for tactless humor and trash TV -- watch away. Though, as I'm sure your grandma would tell you, it's in pretty poor taste.
(01/25/07 4:05am)
Chlamydia, scabies, dyslexia, cholera -- you name it, it's growing in my hamper.\nAs a result of laundry procrastination, my closet has become infested with mounds of dirty, diseased clothes. For two months, the garments have accumulated faster than Bette Midler's back hair.\nConsequently, the clothes are beginning to reek. I'm talking evil -- pure evil -- reek, like sniffing Hitler's armpits. It's a disturbingly foul olfactory experience, somewhat reminiscent of burned toenails and disemboweled sea bass. Thus, I've learned to keep the closet door closed, to avoid confronting my hygienic negligence.\nAnd I'm not alone.\nFrom personal hygiene to social hygiene, from closet space to cyberspace, the same habit of producing and accumulating filth is replicated on the homosexual headquarters, Gay.com. On the site, the stereotypical "dirty laundry" of the gay community -- nymphomania, drug use and general immorality -- is not only exposed, but promoted.\nAs the succinctly inclusive title suggests, Gay.com serves as an all-encompassing guide to gay life, featuring member profiles, news articles, chat rooms and local event listings. Although each of these features could be -- and should be -- designed to promote positive lifestyles and cultural betterment, they are instead designed to facilitate the same "filthy" habits we try to argue don't exist within our community.\nThe bulk of member profiles, for instance, look like advertisements for escort services. Each profile provides a gallery of "naughty" pictures, wherein shirtless twinks photograph themselves posing in front of a bathroom mirror -- one which clearly has not been Windexed. \nYou can see their nipples, you can see their toothpaste, but mainly, you can see their desperation. \nRather than taking an eHarmony approach to the Web site, establishing a positive outlet for meeting possible long-term mates, the profiles section is structured around penile measurements and adult photographs. The site merely functions as a cyber-pimp, facilitating interaction between Netscape Navigat-whores, people in desperate need of both washing and Febreezing their morality. \nWhat bothers me the most about this site is the fact that pornographic material is not only prolifically introduced, but commercially endorsed. With every paid subscription to the Web site -- a Web site that is supposed to represent the entire gay community -- members are given a free subscription to another triple-X Web site. \nNow, am I against pornography? No. I eat porn for brunch, as do 98 percent of all men, gay and straight. But I don't believe that culture should be defined by something as parochial as sexual proclivity.\nJust as clothing is used to represent and express an individual's taste, Web sites such as Gay.com should be used to express our communities' taste -- our values, our pride and our self-awareness.\nIt's easy to blame heterosexuals for all our problems, using them as a collective scapegoat for our moral ambivalence. But this is our problem, our ignorance and, above all, our dirty laundry.\nAll we need is a little queer Cheer.
(01/18/07 2:29am)
Ten minutes into the movie "Click," I found myself writhing with ferocious anal pain. \nWatching the movie was like receiving a cinematic colonoscopy -- uncomfortably painful -- with a script as foul and twisted as Whoopi Goldberg's small intestine. Nevertheless, the plot presented an interesting concept: the ability to live life by remote control. \nThis fantastical scenario seems enticing. With such a clicker, we'd have the ability to pause during sex, mute President Bush or even -- upon seeing someone disturbingly ugly -- increase the tracking on his face.\nAlas, such a device has not existed -- until now. \nTBS network recently defied the laws of reality -- reality TV, rather -- by introducing "American Idol: Rewind," a show that allows obsessive viewers to watch replayed episodes from previous seasons. This time-twisting show has since become a syndicated smash, capturing an audience of nearly two people each episode (which Nielsen ratings reveal are me and a guy in Wisconsin with multiple breast cysts). \nThus, in light of such popularity, I have decided to write a column with a similar premise -- a look at the inevitable events of the sixth season, which premiered Tuesday. \nInevitable occurrence No. 1: A second-rate diva, wearing a boobaliciously low-cut evening gown, will sing (and butcher) Whitney Houston's "I Have Nothing."\nIt's happened four seasons in a row, courtesy of contestants Trenyce, Jennifer Hudson, Vonzell Solomon and -- most recently -- Katharine McPhee. Every performance somehow manages to out-suck the last, causing ears to bleed and babies to shatter. McPhee was the queen of such musical despair, with a performance so flat and wobbly it sounded like someone sat on a goat. Undoubtedly, this season will be the pinnacle of auditory rape. \nInevitable occurance No. 2: Ryan Seacrest will renew his "vaginal contract" with Fox.\nIt's getting ridiculous. After years of blonde highlights, Prada eyeglasses and crotch-hugging, boot-cut jeans, he still hasn't come out. Why? Fox is paying to keep him in, slipping paychecks under the locked closet door. While the topic of sexuality -- regardless of preference -- doesn't belong in a show about singing anyway, even off-camera this sexual farce continues. \nWhen rumors first began to surface about his wavering heterosexuality, his publicists released pictures of him on a faux date with Teri Hatcher. As if he doesn't work hard enough dancing around the topic of sexuality -- now he's schlepping his fake penis all the way to Wisteria Lane. \nInevitable occurrence No. 3: Fox executives will blatantly fabricate votes for ratings boosts. \nAfter powerhouse Tamyra Grey, from the first season, was voted off prematurely, I became skeptical about the legitimacy of the voting process. My suspicions were validated the next season, when two-ton Ruben Studdard was crowned the victor and Clay Aiken was given the silver medal. But where are they now? Clay Aiken recently released his third CD to national fanfare, and Ruben is working at the IU Bookstore. \nDespite off-key ballads, faux heterosexuals and vote rigging, "American Idol" remains a ratings juggernaut, as undeniably addicting as rich, chocolatey Ovaltine. Perhaps that's why no one's touching their remotes.