This last weekend, I took another trip out to an area notorious for being white and rich: The Hamptons.

We made some delicious fried chicken out of Padma Lakshmi’s new cookbook, Tangy, Tart, Hot, and Slutty: I’m the Host of Top Chef Listen to my Opinions Blah or whatever it’s is actually called.

I made a video of the experience. I kind of was inspired by Ina Garten’s show, Barefoot Contessa, and tried to take lots of sexy close up action shots of food. Coming out to the Hamptons, I felt just like her 60 year old gay florist friend, Robbie. Ina introduces the show, “Robbie’s coming over tonight, and I’ve decided to make his favorite… pancetta rubbed southern fried chicken with creamed spinach and a very special gruyere mac ‘n cheese. For desert we have a chocolate torte in a lake of raspberry sauce. He’s had a really tough day so I want to do something extra special. It’s a surprise… shhh,” rasping in the restrained voice of a plump fag hag in denial.

But as usual, I got drunk and the thing turned into an annoying amalgamation of incomprehensible bullshit. But since I personally find it funny, I’m sharing it anyways.

In case you can’t tell at the end of the video, I don’t know the lyrics to Britney Spears’ “Gimmer More.”

I’ve always had a problem going out. Despite my being positive that most, like me, wouldn’t dare approach others at a party or bar (or in a public setting, for that matter), I think I’ve been proven wrong. Usually aided with loads more alcohol than I consume, gay guys at the few bars I frequent seem to have little to no trouble making light conversation with others. I, on the other hand, am so self-conscious, so ready to edit my words and actions at a moment’s notice, that the idea of making small talk with a dude (sober or not) is so clearly an unnatural, put-upon facade meant to get one’s number [or tushy], I can’t fathom that either parties would tolerate such silliness.

Apparently, I’m wrong. Read More!

I got an email in my inbox today from a good friend who had copied a bunch of known homosexuals asking the following question:

What are people’s general reactions to the men in this article? to this lifestyle?

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/24/garden/24haverland.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

do you feel an automatic urge to tear your face off, or is living a life like this a secret (or not-so secret) ambition?

The article follows the the Galanes-Haverland couple and how expensive things and interior design has drawn them together and made them happy and gay together over the last 12 years.

In my dreams, I am so rich that I hire people like them to design my spaces and then I have a (illegal alien)maid that cleans up after me and helps me bathe so I don’t ever have to be responsible for my own filth. But not everyone is the sort of hedonist I pretend to be. And my buddies had a lot of interesting things to say that are worth sharing.

And now let the feeding frenzy of commentary that can only happen when too many type A personalities are CCed on an email begin! Read More!

Before there was Stewie, there was Runt Page.

To all future screenwriters planning to pen a script involving babies who talk like adults, this is your Apocolypse Now.

To everyone else who thinks chatty infants are awesome, you’re welcome.

The Gray Lady took a trip to Williamsburg recently to spill the beans on what gay male hipsters do:

• Bump
• Grind
• Repeat
• Grow beards
• Wear cowboy boots and Converse sneakers
• Have money
• Like Britney Spears (ironically…?)
• Talk like girls who talk like babies
• Be generally icky

…Yeah, that’s about right.

Bump. Grind. Repeat. [NYT]

Photo by Willie Davis/Veras via villagevoice.com

While I have unfortunately been too busy with The Job That Pays Me (pimping out underage boys… shhhhh!) to write much of anything worthwhile this week, I got totally inspired this morning.

A good friend of mine(who has even written on GMSC before!), has found the solution to living out my wildest hentai tentacle rape fantasies. Read More!

As a “comedian” (which, I realize, is as gross as it sounds on paper as it does verbally), I have very specific taste when devoting my patronage to a comedian or - better yet - “distant protege.” To me, figures like David Cross, Michael Showalter, Dave Hill, and Patton Oswalt are the ones to watch: experimental, progressive mastheads of the alternative-comedy scene whose respective abilities to play with the medium has allowed for slow-to-build sea changes in domestic humor at large (see Flight of the Conchords, Adult Swim, and The Sarah Silverman Show).

And yet, poor taste prevails. Nevertheless, despite the continued presence of talentless blowhards like Carlos Mencia, Dane Cook, and anybody associated with Last Comic Standing (Ralphie May is totes fat, LOL!), there remains a prominent gap between the alternative and the mainstream into which more offbeat comedians fit. And more often than not, these performers have the ability to still attract a wide audience which can, in fact, lead to a special on premium cable (which is nothing to scoff at, either). Whether you find them funny or not, you are very likely to recognize names like Jeffrey Ross (snarky humor), Lisa Lampanelli (bawdy humor), and Paula Poundstone (cat humor).

When it comes to gay comics or “gay comedy,” I usually have to turn away. Much like material based on race or religion, “gay humor” is - in my opinion - boring and cheap. (You are a man who dates men, and sometimes the dates don’t work out well? What the WHAT?!) Hearing a gay comic give their takes on the unmistakably predictable attributes that affect daily life as a result of sexual preference become just as predictable as the hetero comics who sputter similar garbage, except that the gay comic usually feels compelled to pander to the audience, throwing “sassies” about blow jobs, meth binges, and Jake Gyllenhaal into the curriculum vitae.

Now, however, we’ve gone one step further. Gay comedy has become a tool of the outsider, used, in fact, to build a gay niche. Read More!

I took a little trip to The Whitest Place on Earth (Greenwich, CT) this weekend on Sunday with some friends. We rented a Zip Car (Have you seen this car rental system, guys? I mean really… have you checked this out?) and drove up to go mansion spotting and look for a clam bake.

On the way we formed an emo band. Here’s the cover of our first album, titled “Emperor Palpatine.”

It’s about having a broken heart but then finding refuge in the solitude of nature. The splendor of the Connecticut skyline really speaks to that, but you’d know that unless you were an insensitive jerk who didn’t cry during Titanic or The Last Unicorn.

We shot some inserts to go with the album as well. Read More!

So, I know that I promised to keep you kiddies updated daily on the health of my colon, but alas, I’ve had better things to do. Like drinking a quart of salt water every morning after drinking laxative tea at night to, you know, clear my pipes.

Anyway, I’m still alive after a week of not eating anything - which is more than I was expecting. But god, if I was a corpse I’d be way skinnier. I was hoping by now I’d have lost twice the weight I’ve actually lost, but oh well. Today my boss told me I looked “skeletal” and that makes me think I’m on the right track.

Next stop:

It’s time for me to start planning my birthday party, which will be on February 2nd this year at an undisclosed location. Here’s a videoclip from last year’s festivities.

Actually that’s really Tim Curry from 1986’s The Worst Witch. A time when I was still in diapers. You think that’s sexy, right? Whoops, you’re a pedophile!

But seriously, just put my face on Tim Curry’s in that clip, and that was the party last year. I’m working things out myself for the bar and the DJs, but I need food suggestions. Last year was the chocolate fountain. This year…. a fine pickle spread?