My favorite person never comes to Thanksgiving anymore..

Well, it's Thanksgiving again. Yes, the time of year when we give thanks for all the wonderful shit that we have. This year I am thankful to be rid of the Yaris. Yup, I did it, I finally traded in that emasculating little fucker for a giant, gas-guzzling, unreliable Land Rover — and I couldn't be happier.

This year my mom is probably thankful, too. Thankful for her family that uninvited her to Thanksgiving because she stood up for her gay son. Because, unlike them, she doesn't believe that homosexuality is an addiction — like gambling or alcoholism. She believes it is a normal part of the evolutionary scale, like AIDS or a black president. Liberal. And you know, the more I think about it, I kind of think that gay could actually be an addiction too. I think I literally am addicted to gay. They are right! I mean, I want gay ALWAYS and in LARGE amounts. Once I start gay I can't stop. It affects my career, my choice of friends, my mood, my shoes. I seek it in dark alleys. I would blow someone for gay. Fuck. Paint me pink and douse me in poppers, bitch, 'cause I'm gonna sing me some Cher all night — or at least until these pills wear off!

But really, what a nice lady, my mom. I adore her. But all this good-and-evil-family-drama-hubbub has got the old wheels turning again. Why do all the good people die first and all the shitty people continue to live on and on? Example: my grandmothers. The good one is dead, of course, but the wicked one is doing just fine, more than fine, really. I mean, think about it. Most good people are dead — with a few exceptions.

So, what am I getting at? To live the longest we must be the biggest, most viciously heinous cunts the world has ever seen. We must say and do horrible things constantly. I've already got a head start on the majority of you, which means by the laws of the universe, I will be the one making snide remarks and racist comments during your funeral. You are welcome in advance.

Think about it: Use this holiday to your benefit. Take my timely advice and put it to use on your family and friends this Thanksgiving. You'll thank me when I'm shaking your martini at your 102nd birthday, you wretched cunt-face.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to run over your dog in my giant SUV.

In 1978, God changed his mind about black people.

So, in case you haven't heard: I'm gay marrying Jon. If you haven't heard, you probably weren't invited to the wedding. Sorry about your luck. It doesn't mean we don't love you, we just don't love you as much. Even so, please feel free to still buy us something.

I invited my grandmother, my only living one, to the wedding. She's a devout Evangelical Christian. It's cute. She judges people for everything and feels pity for everyone because they are all going to Hell — while she is lifted up during the Rapture, next year. Meanwhile, she sits in her living room watching one-hour prime-time cop dramas and eats cookies that she stores in her oven — which she won't use because her dog is afraid of it. She has been single for fifteen years, as my grandfather died in the 90s. She doesn't date or leave the house, unless it involves going to church, bible studies, work, or McDonalds. Her house is stuffed to the gills with nick-knacks and she keeps a gun in her nightstand. When she dies, she plans to have her dog put down and buried with her. How Egyptian.

Anyway, I invited her to the wedding. I guess I knew she probably wouldn't go. She could have come up with a laundry list of excuses, really. But, her answer came in the form of a letter. Throughout the letter she refused to refer to our wedding as a wedding. She would say things like, "this ceremony you've created", or, "this ceremony you feel is important". The letter went on with statements like: "these choices you've made" and "lifestyle decisions", blah, blah. In there were also a few "love you's", sprinkled in for good measure. The bottom line: She thinks I've defied the Lord Jesus Christ with my lifestyle choices and her attendance of our ceremony (wedding) would be supporting these inappropriate decisions. Cunty. I understand where she's coming from though. She's like 800 years old. There isn't much time left here for her on earth and she is really concerned about doing anything that would impede on her chances for Eternal Salvation. Her bottom line: don't fuck it up.

I wrote her back explaining how I was glad she wasn't coming, as her presence would only sour what is to be a wonderful day. Seriously, I could imagine her sitting there, lips pursed, rifling around her purse for a half stick of clove gum, having a rotten time. So, why was I so mad she wasn't coming? I guess I'm not. I guess I'm just upset that she thinks my entire existence is a series of bad decisions. She also compared the situation of her at our wedding to me at her Bible study, as a way to relay how uncomfortable she would feel. Fuck yeah, I'd be uncomfortable at her creepy Jonestown Bible study, but its a weekly event of no real significance. A wedding is a once in a lifetime thing, one hopes, so comparing the two is absurd. My email response tried to explain that my sexuality is not a choice, although my decisions to act on it are, doesn't make it, or me, unnatural or evil. I also tried to put my relationship with Jon into perspective. Really it's all futile. She is old and close-minded and she isn't going to change. I tried my best to let her know how much she hurt me, but in the end Jesus will always win. She loves Jesus so much. So, I cancelled her hair appointment with me. I just couldn't deal.

Jon and I have been on a whirlwind of vacations: New York, San Diego, San Francisco. What a blast. It's really made me hate Ohio and all it's small town mentality and bad restaurants. San Francisco, wow, what a fantastic place. First of all, it's fucking beautiful. Like retarded beautiful. And, it's filled with gays. How great is that? So, after returning from this land of Liberalness I had to deal with Granny Full of Grace. It was a total Midwestern overload. I had to put my foot down. Why should I have to deal with someone else's shit? 50% of the world, or more, thinks I don't deserve rights. So, why should I have to listen to my old-bag grandmother tell me that too? Or my aunt or uncle? Just because we are family doesn't mean I have to like them. I mean, technically they don't really like me. Really, when you think about it, every other animal in the world doesn't hang out with their extended family, and if they were forced to, they'd probably just eat each other. This is how I can justify my situation. That, and they're a bunch of assholes. And who would even want to eat them anyway? They'd be all salty and self-righteousy.

Puke.

Gay Realness

I had a realization today after walking into the disgusting Ace Hardware on the South Side. This creepy south-end-gay sales associate greeted me with a, "Can I help you find anything?" To which I replied,

"Caulk."

This hillbilly, who I might add, I could smell from a mere eight feet away, glared at me. I felt dumb. I just told some gross gay creep I was in the market for caulk AND I was wearing running shorts in public — which already makes me feel totally uncomfortable.

My realization? I am a self-loathing gay. I mean, this is clearly nothing groundbreaking. If you've read anything I've written in the last three years, or talked to me more than fifteen minutes, it is fairly obvious. I blame Ohio, not just being back here, but being born here. I guess its better that Iran. Sorry, Perry.

So, I decided I need to get over it. I need to own my gayness. I need to "werk it out". I don't mean like waxing my eyebrows or lip gloss werk, I mean just get over myself. Get over my self-loathing-ness of my sexuality. This is going to be hard.

I went to my freshman orientation for The Ohio State University. I felt elderly. Everyone there was eighteen and had both parents with them — which was totally weird. I mean, whose parents are still married?? The whole thing was so wholesome. I was hungover, of course, which I felt brought a real "grittiness" to the situation, which was much needed.

The orientation included speeches about parking, and dorms, and activities, and groups we could join — including a Quidditch club. It was queer. And to top it off, each PowerPoint presentation was sprinkled with "O-H" slides which we were required to cheer back "I-O". I think this was for the parents — something to get them jazzed about giving away half of their paychecks for the next four years. We were also given a buckeye. Which is a nut — for those of you who live in California — and the mascot of my new college, which is dumb, but not as dumb as my junior high mascot which was a specific type of plaid. Later that night, when I was drunk again, I saw the nut on the kitchen counter and for a very brief moment felt sentimental. I was pretty drunk.

I've been drinking too much this summer. It's been great. I'm really owning my drinking. I'm werkin' it, hard. That, after all, was my plan — have fun, enjoy life, etc. I've also been doing a little home remodeling. I decided to tile a few walls in the upstairs bathroom. Sounds simple enough, right?

What a fucking pain in the ass. I will never tile anything ever again. Ever. If I ever need anything tiled, I will hired a professional — or hire the Mexicans loitering around the Lowes. So, I don't know if any of you have tiled, but the process is something like: stick the tiles on the wall, grout, caulk, voila. Let me just say, after days of rage and a hole in the dining room ceiling, the job is done. Yes, somehow I managed to burst a pipe in the floor which leaked into the ceiling below which now needs replaced. This reminds me of when I tried to work for my dad one summer — well, he made me. I was paying off a debit I accrued on a credit card I stole from him. I was a good kid. Anyway, one summer I "worked" for him. Mostly I hid behind packing material and slept on forklifts, that and chain smoked, but technically I was an "employee". One day I was driving the forklift back into the warehouse at full speed, chain smoking, forks up — unknown by me — and blew through the side of the warehouse taking with me a large eight by ten piece of warehouse wall. In my defense, I was probably still sleepy from the nap I had just woken up from. Later that day my dad asked me if I was gay at a Coney Island.

So, here I am. Step one of owning my gayness. I'm not really cut out for manual labor, so why do it? Maybe my dad was right. From here on out I'm totally gonna own/werk my inability to do manual labor.

So, South Side gay sales associate, that is the last time I will come for your shitty caulk. Werk!

Oh, but on a side note: I did decide not go to women's events anymore (ie. bachelorette parties, baby showers, etc.) because I am still a man. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I need to be all acting like a woman and be pretending to give a shit about your baby. That is your mistake and I am certainly not going to celebrate that. Maybe if you ladies start having abortion parties I'll change my mind.

The New Revolution

Jon and I just got back from Puerto Vallarta — well, now its been three months ago. This was my third time and Jon's second trip. Let me tell you, if you've never been there, you're missing out. It's a land of magic — not just because every fourth block smells like garbage and someone asks you to purchase their wares — but because you can get anything you want. Anything. When a cab driver asks you for a ride and you decline, his next obvious question is if you'd like any cocaine. If this too is something you aren't in the mood for, he offers you a blow job. How nice is that?! The fact is, the people there are just friendly. The pharmacia, or pharmacy to our American friends, is open to the public and anyone with an addictive personality is left feeling like a kid in a candy store. Muscle relaxers — buy one, get one free.
The most amazing part of Puerto Vallarta though, is the food. After living in New York and Ohio — where Mexican food consists of cheese slices or "queso" (which is Midwestern for "plastic cheese sauce") — it is amazing to eat authentic Mexican food again. Even if it did first require me eating Pepto Bismol, Gas X and Immodium.

I graduated from community college. Some people asked me if I was going to walk in the graduation, I scoffed. I think it insulted them. Really? Two years of community college and I should be proud enough — and feel accomplished enough — to walk? I did get the graduation pamphlet complete with the FAQ (number one being: do the gowns come in extra large sizes?) which I promptly discarded. I was supposed to start at OSU this quarter but, alas, I remain at Columbus State, because my transcripts never made it. I say this like it was someone else's fault, but truthfully, it was mostly mine. So, I've started my hospitality management classes at Columbus State. My first class was food safety and sanitation. Our "professor" was in front of the class (which is in a 70s basement — which went well with his 70s mustache) next to him, written in yellow chalk: HOSPATALITY MANAGEMENT. It was all downhill from there. Our first major discussion was on food temperatures. The focus was then shifted to types of food.

"What is poultry?", he asks the class.

I never answer questions. It's far too much fun to hear what people say, and besides, I don't want them thinking I'm smart or they might follow me back to my car and steal my parking money.

"Poultry are things that fly.. well, with a few exceptions. Can anyone name poultry that can't fly?", said his moustache.

"Ducks", said a fat girl.

"Nooo, nope. Ducks fly."

"Chickens" , boasted the other fat girl.

"Nope, chickens do fly, not high, but they fly." This all being said while a six foot image of a winged chicken was projected onto the yellowed screen. "The ostrich and the emu, they are both ratites", his moustache explained.

"What!? You can't eat no ostrich!?", the fat girl barked.

The remainder of the class time consisted of everyone learning how and why people wash their hands. A concept that left most people bewildered. How one makes it thirty years without understanding that bacteria and germs are picked up from various things that you touch is beyond me. When you take a shit, little particles of shit can get on your hands. Then, if you're making a salad at the Applbees where you work, your shit gets in people's salads and voila, Norovirus gastroenteritis!

"I don't wanna be eatin' no people's shit!" Well, genius — wash your fucking hands!

The class ended with a debate as too which fast food restaurant was the best — there was a unanimous vote for Popeye's biscuits, which were compared to crack based on their deliciousness — and finished up with the professor trying very hard to explain that the Olive Garden is not fine dining. Everyone decided that because they put nice clothes on when they go there, it was considered fine dining. Why argue.

So, I'm taking the summer off. Mostly for my own personal sanity. I think I've reach my maximum capacity for idiocy in this lifetime. Let the summer begin!

blog post number fifty three.

It seems like only yesterday that I was writing a post about how it was going to be 2009 and how much I hate writing the number 9, and now look—it's 2011! Isn't that fucked up? Two years have passed and now we have less than two more to go before we all die a horrifying death in the form of a mass destruction of the planet Earth, or as the ancient Mayans called it: the end of the calendar.

Zany.

If this ancient prediction comes to fruition, then I should graduate from college and die at just about the same time. But for serious, things just keeping dropping dead in Arkansas and Louisiana. Did you read about this? Like hoards of birds and fish and bugs are dropping from the sky or floating up to the top of the water. It's very end of times. So, maybe it's true. But isn't it funny how archaic that concept is? Like this idea of a vindictive, evil, smiting god, punishing us for 'saying his name wrong' or for having 'anal sex'. "And now I will kill all this shit because everyone is horrible!" And then we all throw a pig into a bonfire, rub mud on each other and chant. I have to agree with him though: People are horrible.. and pigs creep me out.

Still, not to point fingers or anything, but isn't this really all your fault, god?
God, god.

Of course, with my luck, the Apocalypse or whatever will totally come and you know I'll feel like a total schmuck if a giant white (Aryan) hand plunges down from the heavens on December 21st, or May 21st, or 1999, or whenever the hell it is now. And I'm sure all these people I know will be resting peacefully in the soft, giant, white hand looking down at me, mumbling amongst themselves, "He really shouldn't have been such an asshole."

On to something far more important: my car. I still haven't sold my car yet—7 months later. It's madness. While out running errands the other week, I drove passed a large store front window and caught a glimpse of myself gliding by. I was instantly embarrassed—embarrassed like when you fart in front of someone or like that feeling you get when you watch people sing on TV. It made me feel like a woman. Like more of a woman than when I used to wear tiny pants and makeup in the 90s. Why is that? It's just a car.

I started school again. My last quarter in community college! (noise of jubilation) In my geology class, as an "ice breaker", the professor made us all say our names, where we came from and something interesting about ourselves. I hate stuff like this. Everyone was like, "Uh, I'm from Lima, Ohio and I like dogs" or, "I'm from Grove City and I ride dirt bikes". I was trying really hard to think of something interesting about myself. Um, I like booze and food, laying around.. I don't know. Then he came to me:

"I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo. I've been a hairstylist for the last decade and lived in San Diego and New York City... and now I'm here"

My professor: "Did you just make that up?"

..silence..

I then wished I could retract. (I like dogs, too.) Just saying the word 'hairstylist' to a bunch of hillbillies is like goosing a straight guy in a locker room. Needless to say, it caught them all off guard. I would have gotten a better reaction had I just said, "I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo", then farted. Maybe I wouldn't have turned bright red.

Why do I honestly give a shit what people think? I'm thirty. But at that moment I felt just as gay as when I drove passed the beauty supply store window and saw my large head blinking back from the reflection of my little black car. My testicles felt like little pink jellybeans. I've never really been one to care of what others think and I've never been particularly masculine, so why now does my gayness make me uncomfortable? The older I get, the more aware I become.

The class turned away. My professor lifted his eyebrows and said: "So who's that one hairstylist in New York who charges like $1,500 a cut and flies in on a helicopter from the Hamptons?"

I was like, "No idea."

He was like, "C'mon, start throwin' out some names."

"Yeah, no idea."

I don't know who the coolest fucking hairdresser in the world is!? I don't even want to be a hairdresser! Why do you think I'm sitting in a geology class, learning about rocks, at 6pm instead of blow drying some bitchy old Jewish lady's hair? I was so embarrassed. I honestly have no reason to be, but I walked back to my tiny car after class, head hung low, squeezed in, and drove home listening to (insert gay song here), hunching at each traffic light just to see out.

Did anyone ever stop and think maybe the Mayans weren't predicting the end of times but rather just felt they had completed a sufficient amount of calendar? Like, "Let's just stop here. I'm tired and we're all totally going to be dead before we get to use this whole thing anyway." I mean, not that I'd mind if we all died at the same time. I'd actually prefer it. I think one of my biggest issues with death is that life would only be over for me and that everyone else would get to keep doing fun things, like drinking or going to the beach, and I'd just be dead. Like being grounded forever. So, if a giant meteor was plummeting toward the Earth, I wouldn't mind. "Oh, how's our luck, you guys? Looks like we're all going. Shoot." I'd actually find comfort in that. Does that make me selfish?

As the ball dropped on the year 2010, while standing in a dark gay bar wearing ass-less chaps, I clinked my plastic champagne glass (filled with $2 sparkling wine) with Jon's and I thought: "You know, Jacob. Being gay isn't so bad. I have the most amazing partner anyone could ever find, a great little life—complete with a cute little house—and my ass looks bangin' in these chaps. And that's more than most heterosexuals could say, right? So, bring it on 2011, you bitch!"

snap.

I'll get you my pretty, and little your brother, too!

When I was a wee lad all I ever wanted to be for Halloween was a witch—complete with pantyhose and an itchy black wig. I think this was my Halloween costume three years in a row, upon my own personal request, of course. In hindsight, it was actually pretty cool of my parents to let me do that year after year. I'm sure my dad loved it. Probably just about as much as when I'd put the Christmas tree skirt on like a dress and jump and twirl around our living room at Christmastime—a proud moment for any Midwestern father. Hm, isn't that interesting? Why do gay children have an innate desire for feminine things? Maybe that's a total blanket statement, but I think I'm having a revelation, people. I didn't have any sisters, and my mom wasn't particularly girly, so why the girly desires? I wasn't really exposed to it. Maybe it was an influence of all my female friends—of which I naturally gravitated to. Maybe it was the TV? I'm reading this book right now about how body pain and skin problems are the result of suppressed rage and I'm almost to the part where the reader, me, is going to uncover their, my, secret rage. Supposedly, something is to have happened in my childhood to spawn this unconscious rage—something I'm not supposed to know about yet. This is apparently some sort defense mechanism of one's subconscious in efforts to protect the conscious mind from emotional distress. What if something wacky happened in my childhood, like my mom dressing me up as a girl, taking photos and telling everyone I was a girl? You know, one of those stories: like where some guy cries every night, "Why do I sit down to pee and can only 'get off' when I sniff high-heeled shoes!? Whhhhhhy?!" And then he finds out his aunt made him wear pink panties or something... nah, if anything I traumatized them by dressing as a girl and taking photos. I didn't technically "take photos". I made videos. It was artistic, you guys, not like porn or something. This is getting off topic. And I'm sure the real story is that my mom had to explain how the little witch was really her son, shrugging her shoulders and smiling to the perturbed neighbors. Maybe she should be reading this book. Anyway, I'm sure my secret rage is a product of being a little feminine boy who grew up in Toledo, Ohio and was called 'faggot' and 'girly-girl' everyday and would come home and cry. Pretty depressing.. kinda like those gay teen suicides. Seriously, what's up with that? It's like that movie Suicide Club.. or Heathers, sort of. It seems so silly to just go and off yourself, although, with the way the world is, maybe they just saved themselves a lot of heartache. Being gay kinda sucks. Where do you go? It's not like Jon and I could just move to some cute little town and stroll down to the general store to buy bread, or have a little potluck—the villagers would greet us with torches, not casseroles. Even New York isn't safe. Every gay person I know there has been called a faggot numerous times, plus there's all those crazy beatings, and those weirdos who tortured captive gays in their Brooklyn apartment, or whatever. The world doesn't like us—even if Ricky Martin, or Cher, or whoever, makes a viral YouTube video saying it's fine. It's not fine, Cher. So, I guess I should be happy I have parents who let me wear pantyhose, only if it was once a year, and who only slightly groaned when I was nancying about in that holiday tree dressing.


Speaking of gay Halloween costumes: Jon and I are going as Batman and Robin. Yes, I'm wearing spandex this year—in public. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I blame Jon. My head is way too big for spandex. I think this is because I was born c-section. I imagine my head as a Mylar balloon, all long and flat, and behind it: my body, trailing behind like a curly ribbon—more of an afterthought than anything. My Halloween costume exacerbates this misfortune. It also makes my face look all squishy and bloated. I'm not sure if this is because of the contrast of head-to-toe Lycra to the small amount of visible face flesh, or possibly the fact that my face is being squeezed through a tiny stretchy hole, or maybe it's just that my face is bloated and squishy. I, unfortunately, expect the latter. Not everyone can be Val Kilmer, you guys. Someones gotta be William Shatner.

Tonight is "beggar's night", as my grandmother calls it. As a child, I found this term ridiculously funny. Growing up in a wealthy suburb, where the concept of people begging for food was so foreign and hilarious to me, I imagined "beggar's night" to consist of smelly children in tattered clothes with soot-smudged faces plodding door-to-door for tiny, garishly wrapped, sweet morsels of sustenance. Or even worse yet: smelly children with no costumes, holding dirty pillow cases slightly a gap, frowning for candy. Now that we live in Merion Village, this all makes sense. Full circle, as they say. So, hopefully no one tries to shoot us this year, tie us to the back of their red, white and blue pickup truck, only to drive us three houses down the street—where they would then fashion our arms into a gun rack. You never know, really.
Happy Halloween, you guys!

Trick or treat! Thank you. (Although, nowadays I believe they omit the last part.)

Dear Diary,

I just realized it's been awhile since I've written anything, but not because nothing exciting has happened. Exciting things happen all the time in Ohio. Someone once referred to it as being "off the chain". Ok, so maybe that's a lie.

I have never gotten the chihuahua's teeth cleaned. They are turning six this year. Eddy's teeth have gone from slightly moldly to completely corroded in a matter of six years, but that's like (6 x 7 =) forty-two in dog years and that's a ridiculously long time to ignore one's dental hygiene. This is also a lie. Jon has brushed both Eddy and Eva's teeth a few times over the last couple years — what a nice guy. I have always joked when people would ask, "Why don't you brush their teeth? Their breath smells like trash. That's disgusting.", I would chuckle and say with a shitty smile: "I'm just waiting for them to fall out. Teeth are overrated anyway." This too is a lie, well at least the shitty smile part, as my teeth are gleaming and white. Eddy's teeth, on the other hand, have begun to fall out. It has happened. This is it: the moment I have been waiting for.. and I couldn't feel more terrible. So what does one do when they let their pet's teeth rot out of their mouth? One writes a haiku:

Her teeth are now brown
They have fallen to the ground
To the Swiffer they stick
Me=dick

Ok, so maybe it was more of a limerick — and I'm pretty sure you can't use 'equals' in a haiku anyway as it is a mathematical symbol and in that form contains no syllables. How's that for a mind-fuck? The point is I feel bad and her teeth are scratching the hardwood when I'm trying to clean.

I'm reinventing myself. I know, you're all like: You are perfect, Jacob, everyone wants to be you. I know, you guys. Thank you. No, but really. I decided to sell my car and buy a truck. Well, it was Jon's idea originally, but I stole it.. the idea, not the car. I think our household would benefit from a truck and I hate my car. I feel like a total fag driving it. It's like riding around in Adam Lambert's hair — but with wheels. The problem now is selling it. No one else wants to drive Adam Lambert's hair either. I don't blame them. It would be a perfect first car for a semi-wealthy teen girl from the suburbs — most likely a hockey cheerleader. I need to market to this niche.

So, I guess I was over-exaggerating when I said 'reinventing'.

Can you believe it's August? Me neither.