Just because I like dick doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about homosexual women.  Sure, all we really share in common is mass persecution, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put my feelers out there.  In fact, I’ve lived in Park Slope - one of the lezziest neighborhoods in New York and the United States - for three years!  In my neighborhood, 3/4 of the guys I check out almost always turn out to be well-groomed dykes (to whom I tip my hat).  We’re both into dogs, the outdoors, and lumberjack shirts, so - yeahhh - I think I can say a thing or two about the gals.

So let us raise a glass and salute some awesome ladies of ‘the L word’ variety. After the jump, my top five fave ladies who love ladies. Read More!

While Colin raps on one certain very-famous-right-now lady (whom I, too, love, but probably because she’s, like, Black Oprah), there is a lady who’s become the equivalent of my dream hag (if, of course, that whole phenomenon didn’t make me want to vomit poop):

Miley Cyrus.

It would be so boring, I know, if I adopted her as an ironic crush in an empty allusion to gay camp.  She’s someone - much like Raven Symone, who went from adorable child actor to a hyperactive trannie-clown whose overacting recalls every WB sitcom ever - who has, of late, boggled my mind.

Like Raven, she’s not really… “pretty,” so there isn’t much of a “princess” factor.  She doesn’t seem especially girly, so the idea of exclusively pink, sparkly, strawberry-scented merchandise goes out the window.  Her origin within the pop cultural landscape fascinates me, too, as she was merely one of an endless number of Disney pawns who found mammoth success.   Incidentally, her father was a former one-hit wonder who is now desperately clinging to her for relevance by playing her dad on Hannah Montana (and, p.s., it’s working).  So it’s just kind of like…what are you? Read More!

Speaking of Margaret Cho, the loudmouthed lady comedian is about to reinvent her career with a reality show. But unlike “D-List” success story Kathy Griffin, Margaret Cho was never even a little funny.

I’ve already gone on at length about why I think Kathy Griffin is essentially awful. She treats her gay male fans like pets, glorifying them in a manner that comes off as gentle fun-poking, when in reality is merely a marketing tool (that has, needless to say, worked like a charm).

And yet, I somehow find Margaret Cho more offensive, and not just because - again - her “dirty, edgy” humor makes Carlos Mencia look like George Carlin (hush yo’ mouth!). It’s bad enough when a comedian’s home run is dependent upon race relations, but Margaret Cho quickly traded the “My mom is crazy!” bit for something significantly ickier: the self-positioned “outsider” stance.

Although she’s now slender and married to a dude, Margaret Cho was - at one point - chubby and “bisexual” [and Korean - IMAGINE THAT!]. She swiftly adopted the “oddball” status that has since been mainstreamed by Pete Wentz and his army of Emo kids in eyeliner and skinny jeans. By doing so, she went totally LGBT-friendly, calling herself “queer,” fondling a vagina or two, and taking up burlesque (the unofficial hazing ritual for any overweight lady who even thinks about going lez). Thus, Cho acquired a gay fan-base. Are homos really that easily manipulated into disguised consumerism? (Answer: Yes. Yes they are.)

And that, readers, is likely how she got to write an idiotic (and dare I say “destructive”) piece in this month’s Advocate titled “Dick O’Clock.”

Most fag hags agree that the best times they’ve ever had were at gay bars, sharing precious moments with their fags, drinking lovely pink cocktails and dancing and laughing the night away.

Until it becomes “dick o’clock.” You know what time that is, don’t you? It is when all the gay men in the club simultaneously start looking for dick.

Margaret Cho, you see, is a dear, dear friend to gay guys. She can say “fag” and it’s okay. She’s in the club, you see? She, herself, is a self-appointed “fag hag” because - that’s right - she knows the terminology [bitches]! Read More!

In a film naturally dominated by a cast of downtown, off-the-radar artists, actors, and overall “personalities,” it was not easy for any one performer to necessarily give a “breakthrough” performance in John Cameron Mitchell’s sweet, endlessly clever 2007 film Shortbus. Nevertheless, Jay Brannan, a guitar-strumming prettyboy, who plays Ceth, a guitar-strumming prettyboy (with a name spelled funny because he’s, y’know, quirky and shit), clearly stands out among his co-stars. Brannan not only makes Ceth likable in a role that otherwise might be seen as whiny and self-congratulatory, but his charisma as an actor (and his butt*) is additionally undeniable.

“Soda Shop,” Brannan’s original song featured in Shortbus, served as a prime example of his signature style of songwriting. With a lilting falsetto and biting, confessional lyrics, Brannan - on his new album Goddamned - is essentially Sara Bareilles, doused in gay with a pinch of Rent-inspired urban melodrama: the music is fine enough, and that’s all you need to know. He’s not Mozart, nor is he trying to be.

What’s kind of icky about Brannan, however, is that doesn’t just use his looks to sell records in a traditional pop manner (see Enrique Iglesias, Britney Spears, post-crazy Mariah), but does so in a grossly calculated, arugbly postmodern way in which he feigns vulnerability and overt self-awareness. Whether it’s drooling daddies, eager thirtysomething urbanites, or midwestern twinks looking for their own John Mayer, Brannan has crossed over into the mainstream via D.I.Y. YouTube videos in which he often sings his songs topless (and sometimes - in a move akin to that of a high school senior who didn’t the lead part in Guys And Dolls - naked) . Y’know, Jay’s just another gorgeous guy without his shirt on, singing sensitive ditties about rejection and loneliness, which are the same feelings experienced by folks just like you. Read More!

Fist Patrick called it a few years ago during our senior year at NYU. Beards, he claimed, were going to be make a comeback. And he was right.

In fact, in recent weeks, Christopher Schulz, an art gay in Brooklyn, has received a lot of press for his independently published periodical Pinups that taps into what is becoming known as the “post-bear” culture. Its pages are essentially decorated with images of naked young guys who like their beards, buzz, fuzz, and fur (in fact, the original cover boy is a contributor to this very blog!). And guess what? No mention of bears, cubs, otters, wolves, dragons, witches, unicorns, or time-eating CGI robots. How refreshing! Schulz, instead, considers Pinups to be a larger, publicly-displayed method of feeding his artistic and sexual appetite. It’s not porn for hairy guys and it’s not a catalog dripping with false homoeroticism. Pinups, Schulz claims, “[embraces] natural beauty as opposed to the plethora of ubiquitous Adonises in the commercial ether,” and while that’s a lot of fancy wordage, I totally get it. And it makes me feel super.

2006, a time before Pinups, saw the rebirth of shag, and while it took a while to grow on me, personally, I am an admitted slave to the scruff. So last year, when I grew my own (it’s a scruffy shell of fuzz, not an attempt at being mistaken for Bin Laden), I would never have guessed that I would experience a sea change in the way I was received by others. Read More!

While recently at a comedy show downtown, I sat behind a homeless girl (if living in Williamsburg lofts constitute one as “homeless,” that is) and her friend, a petite, effete young man who acted like a teenybopper circa 1997, orange belly shirt and all. As I sat with my boyfriend at the time, the guy made sure to start chatting us up and dropping the names of places where he had been employed as a go-go dancer (including the OG dumps like Twirl and Heaven, not surprisingly, clubs where my twinky gay friend in high school went to soak his UFO pants on “Foam Night”). If we didn’t already realize that he was, in fact, gay, he made it clear when he brassily suggested we include him in a threesome.

Look, there’s a reason I don’t date girls. Like the bestseller says, I’m just not that into them. Vaginas aren’t necessarily my “thing,” per se, so when this dude literally started to do “skanky dancing” to The Pussycat Dolls song playing overhead, just as he started to tease us with glimpses of his ugly, overpriced underwear (does anyone else think it’s creepy that gay guys scoop up undergarments slightly resembling those worn by those whose balls haven’t yet dropped?), I had enough. Read More!

With the eyes and ears of a giant manbaby, I have a good amount of difficulty adopting the “New York attitude” of remaining ignorant to everyone and everything in public settings. That being said, it’s hard to not get caught up in some of the especially intriguing sights that happen specifically in New York’s underground lairs. Here are some of my recent favorites:

What’s MetroPlus? I think it’s exclusive to minorities. Oh, wait…

Floppy hair and football neck? Sign me up. Whatever, I like doctors appointments. And football necks. Read More!

Can I hate a gay for being feminine? Yes. No. That would be wrong.

Can I hate a gay for being altogether creepy? Heck yeah. Welcome to teh infraweb.

Okay, I don’t hate Jack Mackenroth, the designer whose vague and teary-eyed departure from Project Runway was kinda sad, but mostly confusing. He’s had HIV for 17 years and claims to be in perfect health, but his exit from the show was a result of what looked like a painful infection clearly emphasized the reasons to never ever visit a plastic surgeon (srsly, waxed brows and curled lashes are one thing, but his enhanced cheekbones and hollowed-out eyes are nightmarish and …predictably sought-after in Chelsea’s gay ghetto).

Anyway, this isn’t an extremely late post about a months-old ProjRun episode (leave that to the experts) or a meditation on Jack’s mild appeal via his utter weirdness. Rather, I came across this treasure (which has since been flagged) on Craigslist, an ad that doesn’t quite purport to do anything but directly offend Mackenroth in a somehow more retarded pidgeon-y LOLtalk. Read 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!

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.