Saturday, September 20, 2014

"You don't know. You're not a parent!"

   I am tired of hearing people say stupid things. "You don't know. You're not a parent." Why because I have free time and disposable income?  Or is it because when I get drunk, instead of forgetting what a condom is I compulsively eat?  Really? Just because I don't have kids doesn't mean I don't know what it's like.  We were ALL kids once. Just because I am not a parent doesn't mean I can't judge you for not potty training your 4-year old or talking to them like they are gift with purchase.  Sorry, I get my accessories like most people, from some overly eager Israeli in the mall and not a vagina.  Call me crazy. I can judge all I want. The same way you may judge if you catch me picking my nose while at a red light.  Big whoop! So what if the only reason for me to have kids is to start a sweatshop?

   Another thing, stop with the stupid baby talk. What? I get it. Your kid looks like a gremlin. Really? Just cause your kid has a uni brow doesn't mean you don't have to treat them like a human being from day one!

   Please stop asking what I think of your kids. "Isn't he adorable?" What? You don't know? Why are you asking my opinion of your kid? I laugh at funerals. I am not the one to ask!

  Slutty moms! Stop dressing your little girls like whores. Enough with the matchy matchy shit too! If you dress your little girls in daisy dukes and Uggs, better include a diaphragm with it! Yes! I said it!

  Unlike most of the world I can't just accidentally have children. As a gay person I have to use my head, not the one in my pants, but actually think like an adult. I know it's hard to comprehend. Next time someone tells me, "Yuri, you don't know. You're not a parent." I will simply say admit that they are right and roll my eyes the way anyone in my position would. Oh yeah, I will also start pushing photos of my pet on them just to show that I too have pictures of a dog in my wallet.


Friday, August 29, 2014

Stop tryin' to fix us up!

In my experience, when you’re gay people often seem to assume that you are single.  They don’t even ask usually.  Just assume.  And I’m not. Okay? I’m not single.  I’m not partnered, because I hate the word.   It also suggests a level of commitment that scares me.  This isn’t because I am gay but because I am a man like many men who fears various levels of commitment.  To be clear, my boyfriend is not my partner.  I’m not in business with anyone, but I’m not single. 

But if I WAS single, I wouldn’t be interested in whatever mess you’ve decided must be right for me.

In my experience it’s usually some straight girl trying to be helpful even though the best way for her to be helpful is to mind her own business.  She means well.  The effort has an element of love in it, which is cute.  It’s still annoying.  Stop trying to fix us up!

Usually the story unfolds as such.  You will be out with your girl space friend at a local eatery or most likely a bar.  Mid conversation her random gay friend will just show up.  What a coincidence?  At that moment I usually realize what’s going on only before it’s too late much like having to run the mile in PE. I then constantly look for excuses to sneak away to the bathroom and head home.

It’s usually like, “Yuri I would like you to meet Zardoc from a galaxy far away.” She then whispers just to me, “He’s single and gay.”

On first glance Zardoc usually is a notch above repulsive and has one of those voices that just grades on the ear.  Imagine a male Fran Drescher without the looks and lots of moles.  His face is literally green.  I’m not even sure we are the same species, let alone compatible.  All I can do is roll my eyes in the direction of my girl friend to show my lack for approval.  After looking at this creature sipping a dirty martini across from me, my next thought is, “This girl must really think badly of me.  What must she think I look like? Bitch must think I’m a dog!”

Zardoc won’t shut up about his lame job as an Account Executive but for some reason, he lives with his mother.  He’s like every man I ever met in Italy.  He’s also wearing a crop-top.  That should be reason enough to run. He also has a chain-wallet. I am just disgusted.  There is no accounting for taste.  I used to highlight my curly hair and fro it out to look like Justin Timberlake during the *N-Sync days.  I guess I am not one to talk.  This dude is just not for me.

In these fix up situations generally all that matters to the matchmaker is that he’s gay! Who cares if we have nothing in common? Sorry people! That’s not enough! I would never fix up my straight friends using the same train of thought.  I wouldn’t match up two random straight people just on the basis of being heterosexual and assume it’s a match made in heaven. 

That would be like, “Hey Mike, this is Esther, she is 82 and visiting from the home, you also have corresponding genitalia.”   That would never workout.  Now, lesbians, yes.  If I knew 2 lesbians with a U-Haul who had similar taste in music and hardware I would consider fixing them up.

The next suggestion I have to our straight girl friends is when you do meet out men, boyfriends, partners, twinks, boy-toys, husbands or whatever you want to call them please listen to the following.  DO NOT ask “are you sure he’s gay?”  I know you don’t realize the insinuation but you are indirectly saying that he’s too good for my kind.  And YES he IS gay.  I have taken the car for a test drive and your powers don’t work here.  Get over it.  I would never go up to you and say, “girl, your man is nice. You sure he straight?”  I would never say that to your face.  I may think it, but I wouldn’t be so rude.


Next time, lets not embarrass Zardoc. Lets just stick with people watching, drinking and talking about life!

Sunday, June 8, 2014

"Nicole with the boobies"

            My cousin Nicole is my best friend.  As we enter our thirties we get closer and have a better understanding of each other.  We are two months apart in age and were raised like twins but I’ll get into that later.  To paint a picture Nicole is tall, curvy and has light delicate voice that makes you want to sip chardonnay while riding a yacht through the Mediterranean.  Even though our family pretends not to know, she is covered in beautiful, artistic tattoos that makes her like a walking art gallery of love and a complete contradiction to anything Jewish.  She’s an ex-punk rocker girl finding her way.  Ironically her signifier since our teen years has always been her rack.  “Nicole with the boobies” is what they called her.  At the end of the day that’s her, just a cute, artistic Jewish girl who has more than her looks to offer the world that happens to have the biggest titties you have ever seen.

            There was a time when Nicole and I looked like twin boys.  Yes twin boys.  It was around the time “Encino Man” came out that we got matching bowl-haircuts just like the one Brendon Fraser gets in the movie.  It was the time.  Everyone was doing it.  Being the little boys people thought we were.  She collected baseball cards, wore baseball hats that made her have an odd resemblance to John Goodman in “King Ralph” and had plans to be a marine biologist.  I on the other hand, was the type of 7-year old that loved to cook, read Tiger Beat and lived to watch reruns of “Mary Tyler Moore.”  This was YEARS before I realized that I was so gay that someone could get diabetes sitting next to me.  It was a different time. 

            Nicole and I were Latchkey kids.  We spent most of our free time together mostly because our parents worked, couldn’t afford a sitter and it was before we knew better.  We also spent our youth going to YMCA day camp.  Where every day we spent hanging out at a local park making macramé friendship bracelets and the nights getting yelled at by our parents for getting sunburned and not using enough sunscreen.  Our family was straight from Russia.  Nicole and I were first-generation, pale children.  Some people went in the sun and tanned, we would ignite.  Camp was also the place where Nicole would unknowingly become the youngest fag-hag the world had ever known.  Years later we would find out that nearly every one in our inner camp circle of friends (4 people) would become the best hairdressers and drag queens the world had ever seen.

            At camp Nicole and I dressed the same for the most part.  She often wore an old black Paul McCartney concert shirt that her sister gave her.  It was her favorite shirt.  The shirt had been worn so much it was just a black shirt with a half of a wilted rose on it.  Neon shorts often entered the seen and a baseball cap covered in white lace that she thought made her look like a fly-girl from In Living Color.  Oh yeah and there was always a fanny-pack and did I mention we were fat?  Not like “Gilbert Grape” fat.  No.  We were pleasantly plump.  When looking at us from behind, all one could see was love handles and side-boob.  We were often confused for brothers.  Did I mention that Nicole always wore these little diamond earrings?  Even so, we still would get confused for brothers.  We were also the type of fat kids that would be near last when hiking because we would were too busy playing with chapstick.  We had this cookie-dough flavored stuff that we would smear all over our hands and lick like a Popsicle just to curve our hungers.  It would be years before we learned that hunger would never go away no matter how we tried to squash it.  It would take an entire adolescent of dieting and learning to tune out Susan Powers infomercials, Oprah, Dr. Phil, Dr. Atkins and everyone else for us to learn that. 


            At camp when headed to the water fountain we, as kids needed to have a buddy with us.  I was Nicole’s.   She turned her fanny pack to the side, leaned down to sip some water as she had done millions of times before.  I stood off by a few feet.  Behind Nicole was a small boy no older than 4 trying to rush her and behind him his mother.  As Nicole sipped the water, the little boy complained about her taking too long.  The mother then said, “Let the little boy finish.”  Nicole said nothing.  Made no eye contact to the little shit and his mother.  A few seconds passed of pure silence.  Nicole started to cry and said, “I’m a girl.  I’m wearing earrings.  I’m a girl.”  While I grew up intellectually knowing Nicole was in fact a little girl, this was the first time I realized that we weren’t both boys.  It hadn’t really dawned on me until that moment.   It would be another 4 years before the boobs grew in.  She left school nearly flat as a wall and returned from summer brake a woman.  This was made clear not only by her appearance but by the amount of fifth grade boys who would ask me what happened to her.  It would be another 8 years before Nicole came to terms with them; stopped trying to hide her lady bits them from herself and the world.  It would be another 10 before she realized their magical powers. 

Friday, May 30, 2014

Scrambled Channel - full story


Lately I’ve had these telltale signs that I must be getting old.  I intellectually know that at 29 I am arguably young.  You are as young as you feel.  I didn’t feel old when at breakfast the bartender didn’t even card me.  I didn’t feel old when at Macy’s some random woman offered me eye cream.  It was strange being that I was in the Home-Furnishings section but I went with it.  I didn’t feel old when my mother told me that I was too old to be a young parent.  None of that fazed me.  I did however feel old when a 20-year old asked me “What’s a scrambled channel?”
I officially realized that I, like the elastic on Mariah Carey's clothing officially am old.  

I explained that a scrambled channel was that magic place between channels.  If you didn’t have HBO or Scinimax this was what you lived for.  I realized that this kid didn’t know the pain, excitement and exhilaration of trying to watch scrambled-soft-core porn.  Looking at a scrambled channel was like looking at one of those Magic Eye pictures from the 90s.  Where your friends asked if you saw the image beneath the image.  You would stay no every time, then just lie and say you saw it just to get them off of your back.  This kid didn’t know what it was like for us to find porn before the Internet.  You had to have a friend, sister or National Geographic.  It was hard.  This kid never knew the thrill of arguing with a buddy if that was a mole or a tit.  He just didn’t know.  He looked at me like I was speaking alien.  I explained how we as children in the cable-age became masters of our domains when our parents weren't looking.  He didn’t know about how it became a talent to switch channels fast and slow enough to see a remnant of a scrambled tit just because we could.  We ALL did it.  At least those of use without that relative who had that illegal cable box.  The trick was to not get caught.  This was a primitive time right before the Internet became our peephole into the universe.

I realized that this kid didn’t know that there was a time when life was harder.  Where we didn’t download music.  We joined these CD clubs.  We would get 10-15 CDs in the mail without any intention of ever joining or paying.  It was a different time!

 This kid didn’t know that there was a time in our recent past where we were so primitive that we would purchase Internet in increments of time.  When you went on you had to know where you were going.  There was no time to waste!  Each Internet Company would try to sell you their Internet connection by giving you CDs with 10-100 free hours at a time for an introductory thing.  If your family was broke like mine, you never paid for the Internet.  Once you were done with one, you would cancel the membership and switch to another company for more free hours.  After a year or so of bouncing between free Internet deals we got the Internet sweet spot America Online.  We had never used AOL before.  This was the place that connected millions little boys to dirty chatrooms.  It was also the first place many young boys like myself searched for porn.  It was great.  I became great friends with porn.  I also, like all young boys innately knew how to clear the web browser.  It’s just how we developed.  You got a boner and automatically knew how to clear a browser.  I thought I covered my tracks well.  No one would be the wiser.  This was before we knew how the world worked.  This was before we knew what cookies were and that AOL would send commercial emails from sites you had visited.  I didn’t know this either.

Weeks went by since meeting my good friend Internet porn.  My mother and I went to dinner.  Being that she’s Russian and English was her second language, sometimes there would be words she didn’t completely understand.  Between the burger and the shake my mom asked, "What is boo cake and can I eat it?" The world has never been the same.


Thursday, May 22, 2014

Come out to a show I'm in Saturday #HELLAFUNNY from producer Stroy Moyd!

Please come out for a fun, cheap comedy show with an amazing lineup of comics including myself. It will be a super fun show and you can bring your own booze!
It's on Saturday 5/24 at 10pm!


Monday, May 19, 2014

What is Boo Cake?

Lately I have had this realization.  I am getting old.  When my mom told me that I was too old to be a young-parent I was okay with it.  When I went to Macy's and was offered eye cream in the furniture department, I took it with a grain of salt.  When a 20-year old asked me what a "scrambled channel" was,  I officially realized that I, like the elastic on Mariah Carey's clothing officially am old.  I asked the kid if he knew the pain, excitement and exhilaration of trying to watch scrambled-soft-core porn.  He never knew the thrill of arguing with a buddy if that was a boob or mole.  He looked at me like I was speaking alien.  I explained how we as children in the cable-age became masters of our domains (when our parents weren't looking).  It became a talent to switch channels fast and slow enough to see a remnant of a scrambled tit just because we could.  We ALL did it.  At least those of use without that relative who had that illegal cable box.  The trick was to not get caught.  This was a primitive time right before the Internet became our peep-hole into the universe.

Like many others.  We didn't really buy CDs.  We just joined music clubs just to get get the free-CDs.  We had pagers to show others we had friends.  Once the Internet came out we bought increments of Internet time.  It was weird.  Each Internet company would try to sell you their Internet connection by giving you CDs with 10-100 free hours at a time for an introductory thing.  Once you were done with one, you would cancel membership and switch to another company for more free hours.  After a year or so of bouncing between free Internet deals we had America Online.  We had never used AOL before.  I had never seen Internet porn before then.  Boys will be boys and I met Internet porn.  Like most boys of that time we innately learned how to clean our browser history.  This was before we knew how the world worked.  This was before we knew what cookies were and AOL would send you commercial emails from sites you had visited.

Weeks went by since meeting my good friend Internet porn.  My mother and I went to dinner.  Between the burger and the shake my mom asked, "What is boo cake and can I eat it?" The world was never the same.
 

No Deposit Casino