Just A Gay Boy

Because it's Friday and I'm tired and hungover and can't think of anything to write and if it's good enough for the New York Times then it's good enough for me

 

Find the full article here.

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?

Gay Movie Weekend, The Worst Date Ever, The Trouble With Sleep and Where The Shit I've Been...

Anyone who knows me knows about my inability to multitask, so when dinners, drinks and dates crowd my iCal the first responsibility to feel the crunch is usually my writing and, more specifically, this interdiary; gravely irresponsible of me, I realize. It's scientifically proven the world is kept on-axis and safe from vacuous celestial wormholes because of my eloquent prose and masterful illustrations. That being said, I'm back, vigor renewed, and ready to join Al Gore in doing my part to protect our great planet by taking shots at Lindsay Lohan and that dude from "The Hills" whilst drawing ornate mosaics of penises and butts on the backs of magazines. YOU ARE WELCOME, EARTH.

Last weekend I went to see Were The World Mine with my friend Evan (no relation). Essentially, it's the story of Timothy—frustrated, tormented, gay—and the mythical, love potion-shooting flower he discovers during rehearsals for his high school's musical adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He spends the majority of the film running around town giving everyone the floral equivalent of a money shot, turning innocent baby breeders queer as a three-dollar bill. Partly to teach them a lesson, partly because Tim-boy’s jonesing for the captain of the rugby team, he pays particular attention to the school’s jocks. Lots of shirtless dance montages ensue. (There’s other stuff that happens, but I’m taking journalistic license since there’s Chipotle staring me in the face and I can’t concentrate.)

As a whole, the film’s uneven and the writing suffers under extreme storyline demands, but it’s still worth a trip to the Village with your fellow gal-pals. As Evan #2 put it, it’s like a feature-length Sean Cody video. Just try to spot body hair. I dare you.

And then there was this little film, Gus Van Sant’s Milk, which I saw on Thanksgiving with my friend Amy. I gotta say, I’m a sorta kinda yeup pretty much speechless. It was just…right. And flawless. And inspiring. You’d think there wasn’t a celluloid taboo to break after Brokeback but there was, and now, because of this film’s compassionate, honest portrayal of gay activism and its early pioneers, I’d be hard-pressed to find anymore. Extremely timely and absolutely necessary, it’s a poetic indignation of baseless hate and, without crossing too far into the realm of sentimental schmuckdom, a beacon of hope. (Ugh! Typing that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up! Maybe I need to watch Beaches, get in touch with my sappy, schmaltzy side? I am gay, after all. I know it’s in there, right next to the side that fawns over Bette Davis and “Golden Girl” reruns.)

I went on my date with Project Runway Contestant. Here’s what I have to say: Talking about how fame hasn’t changed you does not a good date make. Granted, I didn’t help the situation much. I’m emotionally retarded and deathly afraid of anyone saying they like me, so I prefer to go on dates in very public places with enforced time limits in an effort to squash any budding signs of romance. That being said, meeting at a Starbucks in Times Square on your lunch break is not really conducive to getting to know someone. But it’s my own fault. I was only interested in meeting Heidi Klum. Whateva.

Getting to sleep has been a struggle lately. Just within the last week, right before shutting my eye drapes and engaging in a blissful eight hours with La Franco, I get a pang in my chest, the kind of stabbing feeling you get when you miss someone your heart wants but your head knows better than to think about. Annoying.

Reading List



Hero by Perry Moore and The Thought Gang by Tibor Fischer

Question: If the top of my head is now officially a cast member, when should I expect my SAG card?

Things I'm grateful for on the eve of history

1. President [insert a name that rhymes with Shashock Shoshama here]. Fingers crossed, this whole picking-a-new-person-to-shape-the-future-of-our-nation-and-dictate-who-the-law-will-allow-me-to-marry thing will be over by tonight, if not tomorrow morning, which means I will soon have a decent night's sleep.

2. "Let It Rock" by Kevin Rudolph ft Lil Wayne. It's the official unofficial jam of Fall '08. Do yourself a favor: Buy it, throw on some socks and undies and Risky Business that shit all over your apartment. You will not be disappointed.

3. Poor judgment. Although it's not something I would lead with during a job interview, I can own up to my inability to make good decisions, and last weekend I outdid myself. Here's a word to the wise: Never give your business card to Random Dude You Made Out With On Your Birthday because he will then have the address of your employment, and then, like me, you will also have a creepy flower arrangement, along with an awkward card reading "Happy birthday boy -R," sitting on you desk. Acute stupidity may not be the thing I'm most proud of but at least I know I'll always walk away from a night at the Ritz with an interesting story.

4. Pandora. Stations include: Manchester Orchestra, Kings Of Leon, The Servant, Chris Garneau, MIKA, Phantom Planet, Jurassic 5, Credence Clearwater, Iron & Wine, Kanye and Scissor Sisters.

5. Ryan Reynolds running the NYC Marathon for Team Fox and if you need me to elaborate then you should not be reading this blog.

Fall has officially arrived

Last weekend, some friends and I went upstate to pick apples. Don't ask me why. It seemed to us like the thing to do and like I'd ever say no to someone who wanted to drive me out of the city. Plus, I'm a victim of peer pressure, and, even though I'm the only bushel of fruit I'll ever need, all the cool kids were doing it so I did, too. Not that there's anything wrong with apple picking, but what am I gonna do with 20 pounds of Golden Delicious? Stuffing two in my back pockets and singing "and the boots with the FUR!" is funny once, sure, but not a week later when my fridge still looks like a mini-Mott's factory.

Anyways, it was a sight to see, friends. Here're some highlights:

Fishkill Farms, Fishkill, New York

Some old trailer I became obsessed with.

Me eating my weight in apples.

The Great Escape

Wet Hot American Summer is a great film, from which I have learned so much. Of the many things it has taught me (the mosquito is the state bird of New Jersey, serving jumbo shrimp is a culinary oxymoron, it’s always best to leave my bullshit baggage at the door when auditioning for a revival of Godspell), since I moved to Manhattan nothing has left a bigger impression than when the film’s characters leave camp, ride into town, binge on heroin, return sober as nuns and confess, “It’s fun to get away from camp, even if it’s just for an hour!” Because here’s the thing: New York is a beautiful place to visit, but when you’re a permanent resident here it is absolutely essential to leave once in awhile if you intend on keeping your sanity, even if it’s just for an hour.

For this very reason, last weekend some friends and I packed up and headed to the Hamptons to go wine “tasting.” I use quotations here because we didn’t taste. We binged, and rightfully so. Look, the city is a fucked up place. When you’re not dodging oncoming traffic you’re stopping a bum from spitting in your mouth, and when you’re not stopping a bum you’re trying to scrape through the crush of tourists on your way to work. The point is New York is a goddamn madhouse and renting a limo full of booze and driving two hours only to pass out in a vineyard is COMPLETELY ACCEPTABLE.

To wit, here is some photographic evidence of how Gothamites unwind, even if it was just for an hour:

It's a bad sign when these are the pictures you're taking before you get to the winery.

Macari Vineyards, Mattituck, New York, located on the North Fork.

This is about as classy as we got all day. From there on out things just went downhill.

Case in point, a giant box of pastries, the food of choice for single women in their 30's and drunk twenty-somethings who have no shame.

The ride home was, as you can imagine, well lubricated and full of fart jokes.

The personanification of style and grace.

THE BIG SHOW

As I mentioned in an earlier post, last week I headed into Mountie territory to support my company’s film at the Toronto International Film Festival, which was invited to compete in their documentary category.

The whole experience was, to say the least, overwhelming. As it turns out, our little film, which we’ve been quietly plugging away at for the last 18 months, was one of the higher profile events at the Festival. Within an hour of stepping off the plane, on my way to check-in with Guest Relations, I came across this:

A window display—nay, eight window displays—showcasing our film, prominently holding court at Birks, the Canadian equivalent to Tiffany in the States. Unfortunately, this didn’t lead to complimentary tiaras for the filmmakers, but it was still nice, nonetheless.

That same day was also the night of our premiere. Prior to arriving in Toronto, Audi, a co-sponsor of the event, arranged to transport the production staff to and from the theater, but, being the lowly assistant that I am, I was relegated to the poor man’s chauffer, a cab. However, by some shift in the universe’s cosmic forces, I weaseled my way into one of the plush sedans. Little did I know, the drivers were instructed to drop their passengers off at the red carpet, and, as you can imagine, arriving in front of a velvet rope in a tinted vehicle can create quite a stir. Yes, it’s true. For one millisecond I was famous. Well, more like one-sixteenth of a millisecond; the time it takes a camera to realize you’re just ordinary and not at all an actor. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. I’m sure someone mistook me for Jason Biggs and probably clicked off a few more shots.

Me and one of the film’s producers, outside the theater, after the pandemonium. Take note at my shameful attempt to grow facial hair.

You see that look on our faces? That’s the look of aborted celebrity. Luckily the film fared better inside the theater than I did outside of it. You can check out some of the reviews here and here.

Following the screening was the after party and, again, more mistaken identity as I slinked out of the car and onto the red carpet leading into the venue, apologizing profusely to reporters for being just a regular person and not Matt Damon. I think this time they caught on because not a single flash went off when I passed. In fact, one paparazzo even threw his camera down on the concrete in disgust. (He was probably French.)

Fed up with the photographers outside, I went Sean Penn on the ones inside.

Inside the party, the alcohol flowed freely, mainly from the bottle to my glass. Jessica Alba and Leelee Sobieski stopped by and we chatted for a bit, mainly to catch up but also to discuss not eating and not ever wearing a bra, respectively. Harvey Weinstein and Mark Cuban even came.

The rest of my stay was filled with more similarly absurd situations. The night after our premiere, another of the film’s assistants and I braved Toronto’s nightlife with low expectations and wound up at a bar with Jude Law. One morning I got up early to catch a screening of In The Valley Of Elah, Paul “I Have 46 Oscars” Haggis’ new film, and was treated to a panel discussion by him and Tommy Lee Jones. I even met Stuart Townsend at the Four Seasons and wished him luck on the premiere of his debut film, Battle in Seattle.

In short, I was a complete starfucker, but I did take time out to explore, namely the amazing gay Village of Toronto.

No more than a few blocks long and as many wide, the Village is an awesome spectacle of fagdom. Literally everyone who walks its streets is a homosexual. I’m not exaggerating. Clothing stores, restaurants, doctors’ offices—all gay owned and operated. Even the postal truck I passed was playing “Hung Up.” It was incredible. I’ve never seen gay so concentrated, which is saying a lot coming from a kid who once got up on the bar at Boysroom. Walking down Church Street, taking in the blatant displays of homosexuality, it was hard to understand how I could’ve ever been ashamed of who I am. Toronto showed me it just feels right.

I Am A Beer Pong Champion (and I didn't even know it)

Chicago, July 2007. I prove a liberal arts education does, in fact, provide you with every skill you'll ever need to survive in life. Notice the ball, in mid-flight, off to the right, which turned out to be my signature throw for most of the night. I called it the 'tricky boner.' Why? Because even though it's curved it still gets the job done.

Going Home

There are few places on Earth like the Minnesota State Fair. In New York, we take pride in the fact we can get whatever we want, whenever we want it, delivered right to our front doors. If you’re craving couscous and a blowjob and you live in Manhattan, it's safe to say you can have both, in thirty minutes or less. Pasta and analingus aside, there are a few things the city can't offer, which is why God created the Midwest.

Birthplace of peanut butter bratwursts, pancakes on sticks and corndogs longer than Michael Brandon’s dick, every year Minnesota plays host to one of the largest state fairs in the country and was the backdrop for my first visit home since coming out. Luckily, I have some very understanding parents so the trip was extremely therapeutic, but I was still glad to have a pail of Sweet Martha’s cookies and a skewer of over-spiced pork to help me through the tough times, i.e. when my mom asked me why I like to do things with boys.

Coming home wasn’t all shits and giggles, but I knew going in it’d be a little rough around the edges. It would’ve been naïve of me to think confessing I fooled around in high school with the other boys on the swim team wouldn’t create some waves with the parentals. Like making an omelet by throwing an egg against a brick wall, shit’s bound to get messy and I knew that. Thank God for the State Fair.

Among the many offerings from the Minnesota State Fair you can get a shake made from the milk of the heifers you'll be judging and ridiculing! My advise? Don't go to the Miracle of Birth Center while enjoying your dessert. Seriously.

Dinner, pulled fresh from mom's garden. Delicious!

Self portrait, driving through Stearns County, MN at dusk.