The Buzzcock's Pete Shelley was also born on April 17! (Much more fun than Kruschev or BFC) As were Nick Hornby, Afrika Bambaataa, Posh Spice, and Maynard from Tool (who is my true b-day twin, sharing the same year too). Just a little FYI in case you want to send them a card.
In case you missed the announcement, yesterday was my birthday. I worked, wrote my column, met some friends for drinks at the new wine bar (eh) on Broadway and then went on to the always awesome Dressler for dinner.
It was also the birthday of Blake Fielder Civil, aka Mr. Amy Winehouse. But whereas I got presents and toasts, Mr. Winehouse didn't even get a visit from his wife. Poor Blake Incarcerated!
A more complete wrap-up of my Seattle trip to follow tomorrow, but I thought I'd show you the nice photo of me and my knight in shining armor. After the jump, the NSFW version!
Since I discovered that my face is allergic to waxing, I needed a mustache solution because facial hair just won't do at Gay Bingo. So here I am busting out the Jolen bleach. Hot, right? Yeah, I know you want me. I am going to be turning gay boys straight all over the place this weekend.
My bags are half-packed, but tomorrow I have a lot of writing to get done and then two parties I need to at least show face at—first, the Hired Guns Not Quite What I Was Planning bash and then RKB's Dirty Girls soiree at Sutra. When am I going to have time to pack the rest?
Unrelated, but kind of funny—earlier this week my dad called to let me know he was subscribing to some freako Jesuit magazine. "The subscription is two-for-one, Jude, do you want the extra subscription?" he asked.
"Er, no," I snorted.
"You really should open your mind and read what these guys have to say," he insisted.
"I can read about buggering little boys on the internet and besides, I don't believe in god," I reminded him, listening to the sound of his heart shattering through my cellphone. "And isn't it a big no-no for you catholic types to proselytize?" He would not be dissuaded until I threatened to tell the pope on him when he rolls into town next week.
I just found out that the mayor of Seattle is going to be pulling bingo balls right alongside me next week! Obviously, I need to find out everything there is to know about Mayor Nickels (which naturally makes me think "Mayor Nipples"). So if anyone has any Mayor Nickles dirt, please send it here! (That's Jordan's bingo dress and I'm really upset that I didn't find it earlier.)
Also, I just discovered—quite accidentally—that my part-time job is ending. So please, if anyone needs a writer for hire, again, let me know!
Sometimes it's my keys, other times my sweater . . . usually it's my sunglasses. But I don't think I've ever left without my fetus. Nah, zygotes and such I like to keep locked and loaded. Unfortunately for the cleaning crew at the Bush International Airport, some unlucky passenger aboard the NYC/Houston flight left their fetus behind in the plane's bathroom. Yikes.
Texas authorities are running tests to determine whether or not the fetus was viable at the time of its disposal, so they can determine whether or not to press charges once they track down its carrier. Because it's not horrifying enough to miscarry in the bathroom of a plane. I've never even had the stomach to even take a dump in an airplane can, so I can't imagine what was going on in this poor woman's head. Let's just say, I doubt it was something she did by choice.
I'm so sorry to everyone who got spammed during my gmail's (hopefully) temporary bout of insanity. Fingers crossed that I solved the problem and to those of you who wrote back, yelling at me for emailing you 50 times about Chinese products I wanted to sell you, uh, it wasn't ME! I don't have anything to sell. I'm a giver, baby. I give you my love.
Again, I'm so sorry!!!
I'm going out to Seattle next month to host a night of gay bingo. I was already excited by this, obviously, but then yesterday I found out that the event is already sold out (you can still sign up for the wait list) and instead of the 100 or so people I thought would be attending, it's actually more like 750.
Um, WTF?!? Not only is that scary (750 people! Ack!), I'm obviously going to have to step it up a notch or ten in the outfit department. A tasteful Banana Republic wrap dress is definitely not going to work for such a festive occasion.
I asked my fashion-forward friend Mark Mitchell for his opinion and he advised, "You can hardly overdress for something that has 'Gay' tacked at the front of it. The fags demand it. So, I'd just go a little further than you think you should!"
Is a red sequined dress a step too far? Would I be nuts to buy this offa ebay? There's always the danger that I'll look like an extremely sparkly apple, but there are worse things, right? It's not like I'm looking to get laid.
Or maybe I go in a more retro direction . . . the theme of the night is Pillow Talk. Do I try to work a Doris Day look for the hordes of Rock Hudsons? Gay bingo! An audience of 750! What to wear?!? I'm afraid! Suggestions, please!
The Post reported an extremely disturbing story this morning . . . apparently, one of the mega-wealthy new tenants at the newly condo-ized Plaza, decided to take out her garbage last night. (This isn't the shocking part, but aren't rich people supposed to have servants take care of that kind of thing?) She walked ten feet down the hall to the garbage room and promptly found herself locked herself inside.
Tenant Joanna Cutler—pictured in the Post clutching the Faberge egg she'd unwittingly left in her wide-open apartment like a sitting duck—shrieked at the unyielding door for hours. "I kept asking: 'Who's going to find me? Why won't anyone check up on me?' I can live through anything if I know there's an end in sight, but I was beginning to think there wasn't."
Cutler is obviously still shaken. '"It was freezing and I kept shivering," she said. "The tile floor felt like ice and was too cold to sit on. I had to stand up the whole time."'
What kind of city are we living in where rich people not only catch a chill but then are forced to stand up for seven whole hours at a time? Can you imagine if that pricey little egg had actually been stolen? I shudder to think.
I can officially report that there's nothing more satisfying than walking into a restaurant with your big tall boyfriend and noticing the height-challenged "actor" you briefly dated (until he completely disrespected you by leaning over you to hit on your friend) is now going to be your waiter for the evening. Guess the whole "acting" thing didn't work out so well. . . .
