Just A Gay Boy

No joke.

I got a new apartment. It's big, has a bar and is on top of a pub. It had me at hello.

The next two weeks, then, are being dedicated to finding a subletter to take my current apartment, which just means I'll be screening loads of highly entertaining/terrifying emails from people responding to my post on Craigslist.

So far, here are two of the best:

Well hello--I'm Mary Ann, I am looking to move during the first week of June and looking for long term. I am a writer and researcher about the fuel crisis. I am no longer doing psychotherapy as a psychiatrest like they say, but I now seek to save many from the energy crisis, especially the earth mothers and children , like the ones I did family therapy with, so they do not suffer with cold and hunger in time. Does your bed come with sheets?

 

I am gregarious and enjoy conversation, but respect privacy. I need privacy myself, and relish working alone on the computer in the dark quiet. I enjoy classical music and sacred music.  country western too, if I can get it.  I don't like rap and hip-hop, unless you have good earphones!

I do need a furnished room and a bed with sheets would be best. 

My number is ***-***-**** or ***-***-****. Please call me.

Best wishes:  Mary Ann ******, M.D.

Hi,

My name is Lonetta. This is lucky day!

I am originally from Romania. I am actress. I also work as server. I am really busy, but love Sunday brunch and traveling places like romania.

I will be great friend but I know how to respect your privacy. NO MORE DRAMA (that is for your mother).

I work tomorrow all to day. But please leave me message and I will call.
Movies are fun too!

Thank you thanks!!

Mary Ann seems like a good fit. But only because my bed has sheets.

Happy Anniversary!

Today's my 4 year anniversary since moving to New York. Then, I had two suitcases and didn't know a soul. Now, I have a home, a dog, good friends, a stable job and a healthy drinking habit.

I'm pretty proud of myself.

You're welcome, interwebs.

Q: What do you get when you give two retards a video camera and all the Bartles & Jaymes they can drink?

A:



Yeah. So. I figured out how to use my Christmas gift. And, yes, the world will be a better place for it. Obvi.

Open letter

Dear Mr. President Elect,

I supported you during your bid for the Presidency by donating $50 back in October.  I'm not looking for a thank you, but I do want to acknowledge that fifty spanks to someone like me is three bottles of wine away from a good night's sleep; that is to say I had to go without so you could go with, sir.

How you chose to spend that cheddar I don't know. I'd like to believe it went towards your staff's payroll or advertising or travel or convincing America that McCain was the creepy uncle who molested your brother in 3rd grade, but that's really none of my business. You probably used it to buy a pack of smokes and spent the rest on a mani-pedi for Michelle. Either way, I gave that money freely because, on the campaign trail, you were The Little Engine That Could and I liked trains.

Now you're the President--soon to be one of the most powerful men in the world--and you're still looking for a handout? For your Inauguration? I mean, really? Really? Come on, B. You don't need my scrilla just so Malia and Sasha can have a bounce house. You're heir to a multibillion dollar budget. Find that coin elsewhere or call Pete Wentz and ask him and his flat-ironed mop to work the evening for scale. I shouldn't have to tell you this.

Cuddles,

Evan

A gauntlet, if you will

If you haven't noticed, I come from a place where comedy is of the utmost importance; your strength of character depends wholly on your ability to execute a fart joke flawlessly. When raised in this kind of environment during your formative years (i.e. college) you tend to develop a strong sense of competition among your peers, one that can get out-of-hand after a rousing game of "That's what she said" has run its course.

Recently, some of my college friends from California created boneraday.com, a website dedicated to famous artwork reimagined through boners. This is just the kind of thing we wasted hours on at school when we should have been doing other things like, you know, growing up. Anyway, when my roommate and I, whom I also went to college with, heard about boneraday.com we decided to issue a retort.

Here was how the challenge was extended:

***
From: In The Butt
To: Farley, Scott, Matzke
CC: Sarah, Evan
Date: Thu, Jan 15, 2009 at 4:57pm
Subject: A gauntlet, if you will
Mailed-by: gmail.com

Dear Sirs:

We understand you have been hard at work on a website about boners. While we commend your creativity and spunk, in the spirit of healthy competition we have erected our own site; a West Coast vs. East Coast Comedy-Off, if you will. The gauntlet has been thrown.

To button this letter, below is a haiku by one Mr. Evan Pohl:

Knock, knock. Who is there?
It is us dickfaces, HA!
Ready to look dumb?

Heh, heh,

Evan and Sarah
Founders & CEOs
http://inthebutt.tumblr.com/
***

Prepare yourself. Things are about to get epic, kittehs.

It looks more like a fruit bowl than a national award

If you will remember, a film I worked on won an award from the National Board of Review, and last night we got that awar...erm...serving dish. My boss laughed when I put some oranges in it this morning, only didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't joking.

No one gets my humor.

I think I found my calling

Feeling the credit crunch, on Monday Australia's Tourism Department of Queensland announced a new job opening: caretaker of the state's Hamilton Island. The position comes with a six-month contract, a $105,000 signing bonus and the keys to a multimillion-dollar beachfront home. In return, The Chosen will keep a daily blog about their adventures on the island and promote Australia's lush natural habitat by recording themselves lazing in the sun, snorkling along the reef and flipping turtles on their backs. (That's not to say blogging doesn't require skill, per say. It's a very difficult, thankless profession taken on by selfless, goodhearted writers who failed to sell their screenplay in college. I mean, I'm guessing.) The tourism board requires all candidates to "be excellent communicator[s] and be able to speak and write in English".

To that end, gentlefellows, here is why I am qualified to rev up Australia's sagging economy, and why everyone else can go suck it:

1. I'm a swimmer.

2. After a few pints, I play a mean didjeridu.

3. I'm a big fan of Paul Hogan.

4. Once, when I was 3 1/2, I thought I was a kangaroo and tried to stuff my buck (brother) into my pouch (diaper). SIDE NOTE: I don't think it's weird I wore diapers until I was 3 1/2. Moving on.

5. I'm way more entertaining than an episode "Kath & Kim".

6. I have a poster of Grant Hackett above my bed. Sometimes I talk to it. But only when I'm trying to fall asleep. Or only when I'm not trying to fall asleep and I'm just talking to it.

7. I have Geoffrey Rush and Cate Blanchett on speed dial. We're totes besties. BELIEVE IT.

Tourism Department of Queensland, Australia, you now have every reason to hire me and not those other losers. I'm sure there're about a bagillion other qualified candidates, but no one--NO ONE--can make an out-dated pop culture reference relevant in a story about canoeing the Whitsundays like me. (The water was so clear, it made Crystal Pepsi look like Kirks! ZING!) That has to count for something, right?

Acknowledging My Shortcomings (heh heh)

Let's cut to the chase: I've realized the trend, OK? I see what's happening. Every 2-3 weeks I write a post about how I've been so busy with Work and The Dog and Dudes and Swimming and Traveling and Throwing House Parties and Recovering From Said House Parties and General Life Distractions, and how I will resolve to write more often, in spite of everything going on. I fully understand the paradoxical afghan I weave, friends. So this time, in an effort not to jinx myself into taking another mental sabbatical, I will make no promises. The next post could be tomorrow, or it could be next month. Shit, I may not even lay finger to keyboard until well after Biden's prediction of an International crisis has run its course. Let's think of it as a taudry little game of hide-and-seek, shall we? Just between you and me, kittehs. Kthnxbai.

And, no, I have not yet figured out my new Christmas gift, but when I do it will be EPIC. Guaranteed.

Reading List



America Anonymous: Eight Addicts In Search Of A Life by Benoit Denizet-Lewis

Christmas partying, Single Ladies and completing life goals

I've finally recovered from our Christmas party, Jingle Ballsack, after only two weeks, which is probably the quickest turnaround in recorded house party history; my worrying barren of merit since everything went off without a hitch. The open bar once again proved to be a decision worthy of a month's rent as it supplied us all with many fond memories, namely memories of my swim team, who came, drank, removed their shirts and groped their way through the festivities like champs.

 After a few irritated calls from our neighbors upstairs, the party shutdown around 4:30 but somehow, once me and my watchful eye went down for a catnap, started up again soon thereafter and didn't officially end until 9 the next morning.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Even though I'm not the barometer of pop culture (to the extent that I've missed the last few episodes of "Gossip Girl" and have no clue who Taylor Swift is or what the fuck a Kindle does), I can say with some authority that you must've been taken hostage by Somali pirates if you haven't seen the infestation of "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" parodies on YouTube. The majority of them--that is to say ALL of them--make me want to crawl out of my skin (sorry, Shane Mercado), but none of them compel me to poked my head-cameras out with a dull knife like this one:

WARNING: BE PREPARED TO BE HAULED OFF TO PRISON AFTER WATCHING. ENJOY!

Conversely, this is one of the better by-products of Sasha and her fierceness, that is unless you've overlooked Chocolate Drop:

The other night my roommate Brianna made Chanukah dinner for me and the rest our Former-Christian-Now-In-It-For-The-Gifts flatmates in an attempt to broaden our sensibilities. Prayers were said, koogle eaten, manishevitz drank. It was all well and good and Jew-y until after-dinner talk took a considerably smuttier turn for the worse. Without going into too much detail--although I will once I figure out how to upload MY NEW CHRISTMAS GIFT (ayyyyy!!1!11!!^&#JHKLOLZ#%W&#*@&%#+)--whistling came into play, at which point I had to admit I am not a man because I cannot whistle. After much cajoling, I proved how deficient I am as a human being by blowing air through my head-disposal like I was blowing out a candle. It was so embarrassing.

The next day, while walking home from work, idly minding my own business and singing Wicked in my head (SHUT UP), it happened: I whistled. 25 years of putting on air lipstick versus one chorus of "Popular" and all of a sudden I'm complete! I was stunned. And now I can't stop. I whistle everything. "Go Tell It On The Mountain." "Little Drummer Boy." "Disturbia." I've even started cat-calling on the street. WHEEEE!

In a weird way, it's a little encouraging that after so many years, things are still able to change. A sign of the New Year? Let's hope...

How to make an Evan

1 pair dirty Chuck Taylors

2 episodes "Gossip Girl" ("The Hills" will work, too)

A generous sprinkling of awkward situations

4 to 5 sprint practices

1 heaping pile of self-loathing

8 oz Kiehl's Eye Alert

2 tablespoons Chris Garneau (you can substitute John Mayer or Dixie Chicks when no one's looking)

A dollop of misread sarcasm

A pinch of text sex (stir with scotch before adding)

1 make out partner

2 cups minced comebacks "whateva" and "no big woop"

3 1/2 handfuls porn, sifted (less needed if using Titan Men)

Dust lightly with Chipotle and serve with cheap beer