You try and take my man bitch?!?!?!

Based on a chilling true story.....of murder...deception...and the ever changing role of the "babydaddy."

I recently caught up with the girl from my very hometown who viciously murdered the mother of a girl who her man was seeing. Luckily, I was able to sneak in an interview segment which provides major insight into the motivation and coldness of this young woman. She will be indiscreetly referred to as "J."

Fag: I actually remember you from years ago. Your sister went to school with my sister...this makes me connected to fame and notoriety...you have no idea how honoured I am to be in your presence.

J: *sobbing uncontrollably* I'm going to be sentenced to life behind bars, if not death, and all you can think about is the potential celebrity you may realize as a result of this?

Fag: Absolutely! It's not everyday that somebody can say, "I am very closely connected to a calculating murderess." In order for me to claim my shame, I'll need to know your reasoning behind this.

J: yO, this bitch was seeing my man....he my babydaddy, and this ho-bag is trying to steal him from me....muthafucka needs to reconize that I ain't takin no shit!

Fag: So you killed her mother? How does that get her away from your man? And since you'll be in jail forever, it's not like he's gonna be with you anymore.

J: Fuck that shit, I was sending that hoochee a message..."Fuck with me, yO mama gets beat down." I firmly believe that message was sent loud and clear. And let me find out my babydaddy is sleeping with that slut, I gots my wayz of knockin em both out. And lemme tell you something, my man is gonna stand by me.

Fag: What's your baby going to think, with you in a rubber room for an unspecified amount of itme?

J: I provide for my child the way I know how. When my baby grows up, my sacrifice will teach her that if someone is fucking around with her, it's ok to kill whoever necessary to let them know she ain't fuckin around. It's a tuff life out there, and she needs to be strong. Showing her the ways now will prevent something like this from happening to her in the future.

Fag: All you've caused is heartache for the mother's family, you didn't even take out your intended target, and you wound up in the slammer. How do you think this plan worked out for you?

J: I don't care about the mother's family, they was all trying to get with my man anyways. And I got that bitch good, she has to live knowing it's her fault her mama died. I don't care about being in jail...with good behaviour, I'll be out in 10 years, in enough time to take the rest of them out. I figure, before I die, I can take out 5-6 more of them...if I get 10 years for each murder, it works out. If I can escape, which is really easy in these minimum-security prisons, I can probably take out a few more of them. This will guarantee that nobody will ever take my man.

Fag: Ok, back to what's really important...once this hits the public, my name will be synonymous with hard hitting journalism.

J: So this interview was for nothing more than your personal gains?

Fag: Most definitely, it's how this world works sister! Have you anything else to contribute to this back and forth?

J: I'm glad to know that something good has come out of this. May my actions be testament to strength, and inspiration to those committed to make it in today's world. Off I go to rot for the rest of my life, come back anytime.

Fag: Well, of course, if you've not escaped.

Shortly thereafter, another murder was making front page news in the area. However, the story was dismissed as a feeble attempt to replicate the infamous shame recognized by the above goings-on. People will never learn that using sad stories and life-costing events for the purpose of furthering their own careers is simply Un-American...

OMG girls...ROAD TRIP!!!

I came to New York City in the late 70's from Detriot.....with $37 in my pocket....and I asked the cab driver to drop me off in the middle of everything....and there I am in Times Square.....OOPS!!!! This story is already taken....but hell, originality never made for good TV anyways....

Having an ultra-hot boyfriend [hi Mark :)] is a wonderful thing....sharing traveling expeditions with said ultra-hot boyfriend is even better.....but nothing beats having two great creative minds converge to craft [ever so carefully] an experience worthy of composition...

One fan of my conversation pieces once told me, "I'm really a big fan of your conversation pieces." Without further "hablando mierda" [Espanol for "talking shit"], the stage is set as follows...

We have, of course, me, who I'll refer to, in classic fashion, and with too many commas in this damned sentence, as FaG....Mark will simply be M [in the interest of fairness], and you'll NEVER believe this one, a bitter complaint-laden crack-ho who will be penned Chris van Dyke [the flavour here being Chris for the unisex name, and van DYKE for obvious reasons], and this will be shortened to CVD to make it sound like some technological doo-hickey....

Just when you're shuddering in utter disbelief that we stumbled upon a character such as CVD, [actually, M and I were unlucky enough to have it stumble upon us], the incredulity continues as I announce we were in a.....GAY BAR AAAAUUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!

Admittedlty, Baltimore has little more to offer than a beautiful harbour/aquarium, and the smell of Smarties in the air on a Friday night....however this was a Sunday night, so no smell was to be found, and we had returned from an earlier sojourn to DC, so no harbour was in the cards...do the math.....

M and I are having good times....good drinks....good chat....as CVD comes our way....plops its drink on our table....let the wonder begin....

CVD: "Can I put my drink here?"

FaG: "Sure." [returning attention to M]

CVD: "Where are we? Is this a homosexual bar" [Is THIS a fucking fruit shake or what?!?!?! M snickers in my general direction]

Fag: "Yea....this is Central Square."

CVD is on his cell phone, screaming into it as to indicate frustration....

Fag: "Ya know, you can go outside, it would be a lot easier....the admission is free and you can come back in."

CVD: "Yea but I'm lazy....I'm trying to figure out what this drink is, I can't even tell what it is and it sucks....here....try this...."

Fag: [drinking aforementioned drink] "This is pretty good, tho I can't nail what it is."

CVD: "Well I'm from Philadelphia...the bars and drinks are NOT like this [insert Greta Garbo-esque dramatic hand motions here]

CVD goes off for a mini stroll as M and I babble over what had transpired. The concensus is rather clear that this person is a freaking FLAKE, one that even Head and Shoulders cannot kill...alas, he returns.....

CVD: "I can't believe this....none of my friends know where this forsaken place is....this drink is terrible and I still don't know what it is....I can't stand this music and these people."

If thoughts were words, mine would read "Guess WHAT Sparky?!?!....you're no freaking prize either..."

FaG: "Hmph."

CVD: "I can't stand the noise here. Is there somewhere that there's not so much noise?"

M: "Yup."

Fag: "Yea, there are stairs right behind you."

CVD: "Shit, I didn't see those....I must be really stupid."

M: "Yup."

CVD shoots M a look, and as I didn't hear the last CVD statement, I wondered why the look was given, until I'm filled in afterwards...

CVD: "Ok well have a good night."

FaG: "Have an excellent evening....it's been your pleasure."

And with that, CVD steals off into the background staircase, leaving M and I where we started...having good drinks, good times...and even better, no evening of ours was ruined by a psychic vampire seeking attention and sympathy....

Visual monstrosity

I never thought the day would come where I'd see myself in a train wreck.....without any actual physical damage, bloodshed, or, most importantly, news coverage. The wounds, however, reached far into the psyche, blemishing an entire colony of brain cells that were once so useful. Remember those 3/4 sleeve shirts from the 70's, a la Jack Tripper? You know what I'm talking about....those T-shirts with the white body and whatever-coloured-sleeves that spans approximately 3/4's of the arm? Raglan tees, I believe. Needless to say, only certain people should be wearing those...and that constituency clearly does NOT include people who think their perfectly placed drunken combover matches their blue jeans, blue Kamakazi, and blue-green 3/4 sleeves. As he tried to invade the occupied restroom, I half-nicely indicate that it is taken, and he sits without word or incident.

We finally take our seats [we being my ultra-hot boyfriend Mark and I, who is ultra-hot as well HAHAHAHAHAHAHA], across the aisle from this woman who is a rather fruity yet bovine blend of a curly-haired-Jeanene-Garofolo and that lesbian activist from Legally Blond. This is someone you can picture without knowing who Jeanene Garofolo is, or what Legally Blond was. Smoking is a bad habit....nail-biting is a bad habit....laughing at NOTHING is habitually reprehensible! How easily entertained is the "I-still-use-Ogilvie-Home-Perm" spokesmodel as she bellows at a repugnant group of pre-pubescent, intoxicated Wastechester snobs who board and overrun the center of our car? The blond tressed bimbo, who we'll call "Sterling" [of Sterling Hitchcock and sterling silver shame] dominates the aura with her random ideas of conversation. Her electorate is comprised of an obviously sickened-by-alcohol temptress who we'll call "Sloan" [of Sloan-Kettering notoriety], her boytoy who we'll pen "Matt" [because all teeny-bopper-nelly-bottom-twinks who are gay and don't know it yet should be named Matt], and a style-less geek who evidently did NOT read the instructions on her weave-it-and-believe-it-yourself kit who we'll designate as "June" [because I ran out of upper-crust monikers].

"Sterling" wastes very little time in chatting the ears off of anyone willing to listen. Lucky for her [insert eye-roll here], she sinks her verbal fangs into an unsuspecting triad of pseudo-intellectuals who turn their attention from cursory conversation about "taking a shit" [as opposed to giving a shit?] to "Sterling," who is ranting about moving 17 times in 17 years [to jump...from....seventeen floors...and crash...into...freefall.....thanks Siouxsie]. Shouts of "HARRISON SUCKS" permeate the car, as if that's not an overstatement of the oblivious. "Sterling" and "Matt" continue the refrain, attempting to indicate the exact size of cock that Harrison indeed sucks [PS kids, if a town were physically able to wrap its jaws around anything, your statement would be almost intellectually feasible]. "June" sits there like a bored hooker, chatting uselessly on a cell phone, serving no purpose other than to be a poster-child of the fashion disaster [If I were digitally smart, I would create a poster containing a picture of this girl with that big red no-smoking red circle with the slash through it and place it on 7th Avenue, otherwise known as Fashion Avenue, for Fashion Week]. "Matt" takes "Sloan" to the boxed bathroom as she indicates the need to hurl her previously ingested boozeriffic goodies. "Sterling" asks the previously mentioned threesome what schools they attended, etc etc etc. "Ogilvie" sits there, still laughing at nothing, as she absorbs the a-humourous atmosphere. "June" will probably not be referred to anymore in this column. "Matt" and "Sloan" do a few more reps to and from the lavatory.

"Sterling" seems to forget about her entourage and prolongs the agony with her random topics. Nobody is interested anymore, expect "Ogilvie," of course. "Sterling" turns her focus from idle raves to the train conductor, from whom she requests a hi-5, and he half-heartedly given in. "Sterling" states, "That guy loves me," and he turns around, flashing a non-caring smile. A gentleman, dressed in what looks like a doorman's [or is it doorperson's?] outfit [black suit, white shirt, those damned tuxedo-esque black and white shoes] walks through our car looking to obtain the exit door and "Sterling," thinking she can engage anything that moves, yaps to him, and all he offers is a very snotty "EXCUSE ME LADIES!" Too bad there were no ladies involved, because that would have been an almost workable statement otherwise.

Am I the only other one who would rather have been watching The Anna Nicole Smith Show?

Drunk with someone you no longer love

Ever wonder what the ingredients to a legal acid trip were? As with all things, I once again have the answer...all that's needed is a bare-bones-anorexic-two-course-dinner consistent of Power Bar and Slim Fast, washed down subsequently with a glorified alcoholic lime slushie greatly lacking in flavour...needless to say what's missing in taste is made up for with booze content....fasten your seat belts, we are ready to begin our trip...

Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff...we are cruising at an altitude of 100 feet above sea level...I'm afraid we're not able to get any further due to interference...there seems to be scattered luminescense held into place by glass entrapments, lifted high into the air by wooden and steel security means...looks like we're gonna have to trail it by foot....but thanks for flying Mentally Numbing Airlines....and by the way, we don't issue refunds...

An unguided yet familiar tour yields next to nothing...people are meaningless amoeba-esque shapes that take on no real form...their auras offer nothing to be desired in terms of any stimulus whatsoever...yet, there is something to be said for a night sky clouded with haze and confusion, for the external matched the internal...and for once, I felt at ease...

Lyricism is a many spledored thing...many times so enveloping, intellectually viable or not...overthinking sung words as to find meaning in the overtly obvious may seem sad to the normal hush-and-rush-girl-on-the-go...but for those of us who thrive in the thrill of the self-actualization scavenger hunt, anything will do....

Don't ask how I wound up in Bedford Park....it "just happened." And just as well, because no news is not news, it's simply boring. Try to liken lines of dried spilled juice on the ground to an ancient geograhpic location where the rivers of old provided life to its subjects...then, try REALLY hard to pinpoint those very inhabitants of the land that must work themselves to the bone for mere survival...lastly, wonder exactly how many of these peasant workers can survive in this context, even if the body of water in question never seems to run out, replenishing it's own fluids a la Mother Nature...maybe there is one more step...try leaving this simple, giving land to find something or somewhere more convenient and exciting...

How to get rid of them...for REAL!

I've always held that in order to get rid of a man you don't want, give up crappy sex, and he will stop talking to you SO fast....last weekend, I indeed [and of course, intentionally] conjured up a new and unsluttier way to do so....tell them you're a writer...
Travels took me to a seedy gay dive bar, only because I made the VERY impromptu decision to go out at 12.30 on a Sat. nite, and because I knew the place had no cover...and my intention was to in fact muster up inspiration for another journal entry.
How then, in such a morally bankrupt sex-driven environment, can someone who looks like ME get rid of men by telling them you're a writer....it's actually quite simple...if YOU went to a place like that, the last thing you want is for reading audiences to KNOW that you were there and interacting with people....
The following illustrates 3 such people I gave the heave-ho to, without directly telling them to go to heck...
I pitched tent in the back area and perched on a chair as soon as I got into the place...plopped cigs onto the table and sat there with a very stone-esque, uninterested look on my face....however when one is as cute as myself, even THAT looks cute and is not an effective man-deterrent, so the first man came up to me and asked if I was OK, I was like, yea I'm fine...what are you doing here...just looking around, gathering inspiration....for what...something I'm writing....oh, you're a writer....yea but nothing official....what are you writing about....whatever I deem worthy of being written....hold on a second, my friend thinks you're cute and wants to talk to you....
Fortunately, he never brought back his friend, and it was at that point I figured that the possibility of being mentioned in a writing would be the equivalent of being consigned to gay hell, so they go away and never come back!!! I was THRILLED!!!!
I had seen [and admit, was checking out] guy #2 who came up to me...and I had all kinds of lines planned...he looked younger than me, however was with someone at LEAST double his age...I had a few quips planned....how nice of you to bring your father...hey, the nursing home called my cell and is looking for grampa....but none of that was necessary...he came up to me and carried along the same banter as guy #1. He starts....oh you're so cute and we're worried that you're having a bad time here...no, believe me I'm fine...I actually don't want anyone talking to me tonight so it's quite ok...oh, so why bother coming here...I have research to do....interesting, on what...worry not, it's not necessary that you know...well ok, just making sure you're ok...I'm fine, thanks and have an excellent night...
By the time guy #3 talked to me, I was about to leave so that was very brief...he smiles, I smile back, asks what I'm doing and if I'm ok, yea I'm fine and don't ask!
So Dita, what's it gonna be? What ARE you writing about? Simply, nothing more than my critique of a quite uninteresting place...as soon as I walk in I am looked over like the Sunday morning meat delivery...I can read in the eyes of many the sexual scripts they'd place me in if it were within their capacity...luckily no one follows me as I venture into the obscure reaches of the place, once again hoping not to be noticed...as mentioned above 3 guys talked to me, and those conversations lasted no more than 1 minute each, fortunately for me, I was left to observe almost uninterrupted....
However much to my un-surprise, there was a couple making out on a couch [I remember when I used to do that]....but to my surprise, BOTH members of the couple were quite attractive...I was clearly beside myself...
But back to the eyes of the many vultures creeping in dimly lit backrooms, there was this physically reprehensible specimen of gawd knows what looking in my direction and each time I looked that way I returned a look of disgust....how embarrassing that would have been if he came up to me, I would have had to cause a scene....but luck was on my side, and he never arose....several others looked my way but did not act in any way, which again was good for me...I looked intently at the TV screen playing "porn-teasers," and that's mildly amusing because even though they don't show body parts [except ass], it's not hard to know full well what's going on....OH SEX...I DIDN'T KNOW....give me a freaking break....however that provided much needed diversion from unworthy demons trying to steal the light from my eyes....
But enough of the conceit bit, as you already knew this about me...is there really anything else to write here? No, not really....only that I was able to walk out of there with an immensely satisfied look on my face, accomplishing what I set out to do, and not prostituting myself to do so....

Homosexuality from 1890-1990

I must say that even though this first Mailbox of the year is going to be nowhere near the ratings winner that HHH'S return is, the ants have decided to come up for a "ring-in-the-new-year" topic anyway. They say, "If you call yourself a fag, why don't you just tell your lack of readership exactly what being a fag is like." Well, it's as simple as "I'm still a man, I just happen to do men," but of course the general public does not comprehend that, so here goes....

Firstly, to show that gay sex has come along way in the past 100 years, consider the Victorian Era...the time period during the late 19th Century when the stork still delivered babies, the time period that nobody enjoyed sex, much less talked about it. Today, gay sex enjoys a widely popular publicity via cult-esque following over the internet and on line. Face it Bloomberg, without the prowess of gay sex, Chelsea and its establishments cease to exist...which in turn send the state of the economy into further freefall. This means we are free to roam like cattle in Montana, like bums on a subway, like Fresh at a movie premier.

Secondly, there are certain facets of our society once considered highly "gay," that are now becoming commonplace. For example, men with earrings, up until about 20 years ago, were instantly stigmatized as "girly" and "faggy." Ok call me old school as I believe earrings on men are absolutely tasteless, but nobody looks twice anymore when we see the beer drinker on the corner sporting the gold hoop, the ghetto baby boy glistening in the glow of a diamond stud. Also, cheerleading males, though still looking rather homosexual as they prance around like *N-Suck wanna-bees are being considered more and more athletic in the realm of contact sports.

Thirdly, it is becoming more and more acceptable for men to bitch and cry about weight disorders. Formerly only a "womanly issue," a growing number of men, both straight and gay, are discovering the modes of beauty as shown by the likes of Calista Flokhart and Kate Moss, and as such, have become decidedly more vocal and conscious about body image and shape. [PS - fags have always been self conscious about image, but that was normally via the ways of beauty regiments, fashion dilemmas, and hair artistry.]

Yet, whilst I've illustrated the evolution of the gay male from Ancient 70's into the new millennium, I've managed to say absolutely nothing in terms of myself. That's because you don't want to hear about that, but you will anyways.

Like most men, I too hate being manipulated by personal ads that proclaim "CUTE!!! HOT!!! WET!!!" and wind up being to'up, skanky, and anything but pleasing to the eye. Like most men, I too hate being overlooked in a bar whilst all the hotties flock to other men who are nowhere near as cute as I am. And like most NY area males, I hate when the Yankees lose to scrubby southwest teams!!!!!

In terms of acceptance, I honestly find that it is found easier amongst the straight population. Most of my A-List are straight, some involved in relationships, all of whom accept who I am. Many people, believe it or not, comprende Englais that I won't jump at a man just because he is male and I am sexually interested in men. Once people see past the sexuality issue and get to know ME [I am JAY before I am GAY], it is so much easier to cut the shit and get along with people. Cite, for example, "straight night," a one-night-only shindig per month where I hang out with the boys for wrestling PPV and join in the viewing pleasure of scantily clad chicks. Granted my rank sucks because I can't call a match to save Hellen Keller's eyesight, but it's a great time with guys who rock, even if they are straight and chant the Stratusfaction of Stacy Keibler in a thong. Also, more often than not, I'm the first one the girls come running to approve their men, to be their wedding guests, to make believe I'm their man....

However, shockingly enough, fellow homosexuals are not quite as open-armed.

There are so many unwritten rules that I just refuse to follow [I shamelessly admit, I LOVE Madonna, Cher, beauty supplies, and fashion, but you won't find me at the gym, I cannot recite Broadway hymns verbatim, I watch baseball for the sport, and I enjoy The Man Show]. I actually have and value my personality....I'm not super muscular or paper thin....physically, I am greater than most gay boys....not less than...fucking greater than [thanks again Margaret!]....I love sex and men but do not pride my existence on them...my friends of all sexualities are the best things that have ever happened to me and I'll never think otherwise....

To summate this wonderful, in depth, touching diatribe, well, it's as simple as "I'm still a man, I just happen to do men." Make any more sense yet?

Holiday love

Lighting takes on a new form, morphing into pools of contrived feeling, commercialized spirituality, and phony religiosity. Reds and greens confuse the masses as decorated ferns are mistaken for traffic lights. Malls are packed with weary shoppers who think they have the answers to the holidays - "If I can just get Mom that perfect watch, I can shut her up for another year and creep closer to that inheritance."

Shops become church, church becomes an excuse to catch some post-consumerism shuteye, and post-consumerism shuteye gets shattered by the new generation of carefully trained ingrates.

Televisions are crammed with time-honoured classics, CD players chime the latest excuses for today's stars to earn an extra buck, and post offices are jammed with, for most, the sole correspondence of the year. Supermarkets proclaim never-before-seen bargains which are seen every year on must-haves for the holiday meal.

Meanwhile, gramma is spending her last "season" in the nursing home, pondering, "Do I actually...lay here and pee on myself, or get up and pee," weighing the pros and cons of such an action [thank you Margaret Cho]. Disturbing footage plays during the commercials of holiday movies, attempting to illuminate the hearts of potential donors, pleading for assistance, hoping that viewers will realize the true giving ideals of these times and open their wallets and hearts for just a moment, even if it is for only this time of the year.

But who cares if gramma fades to dust, at least there is one less trip to make once a year....and who cares about the kids on the television commercials, they're just made up by Hollywood airbrushing...and nobody likes Uncle Jim the mental patient anyways. Who cares about the season of giving, as long as there's a new gadget on the list that will hopefully be under the carefully crafted spruce.

All I want for Christmas is...for those annoying lights to go out already...for the stores to be less crowded so I can take advantage of the day-after sales...and for gramma to survive just one more year, maybe that will give her enough time to write her ungrateful children out of the will....