The day I shat myself... Rough draft

            My entire life my mother always told me that I was a 45 year old man since I was 5.  Anyone that has ever crossed paths with me could vouch for this.  I have always tried to take care of myself.  If I were allowed to I would probably have changed my own diaper.  As a kid, when guests were over, after a long meal I would offer them a cigarette.  It was the 80s.  It sounded less horrible then.

            It was in the 4^th grade the first time I flew on an airplane.  I was 9, Boyz II Men were still boys, Queen Latifah still rapped and Madonna closer to the age of them boys in her music videos.  It was another time.  It was a little bit before we got dial-up.  If you don’t know what that means, look it up.  Anyway, our class spent most of the year raising money to go on a field trip to Sacramento.  After selling as many chocolate bars as our families could bare, our entire class went for just a day from our home base in San Diego to Sactown. 

            On this trip lots of parents came to chaperone their children on this trip to our state capital.  I was one of maybe 4 kids in our 30 person class who’s parent did not come on this trip.  At this time my mother worked 7 days a week and very hard to provide for me.  I packed up my walkman, fannypack, fruit by the foot candy and left for the trip.  I was assigned to hang out for the duration of the day with my friend Trey and his mother as my chaperone.

            The flight was 80 minutes long.  It was the longest of my life.  It seemed like eternity to little me, yet I only recently remembered this happened.  There was a point between landing and reaching the terminal where I lost it.  I don’t know why but I just lost bowel function.  Usually when I say this I am kidding.  In this situation I am not.  I was a cute, big-headed kid that shat his pants.  Even then I was a grown ass man because I took care of my shit most literally by myself.  I didn’t tell a soul that my pants were filled more than the bathing suits on “Bay Watch.”  I not only didn’t tell anyone, I also didn’t make a scene of any kind.  I spent the entire day walking around in my own shit, went panning for gold because that was what people did in Sacramento then, went to museums, took another flight back to San Diego and my lips were sealed.  No one knew.  Not even my mother.  The second I got home I scrubbed and washed my clothing so no one could be the wiser.  I figured that there was no reason to involve anyone else in my shit, a thought that I would echo later.  The interesting question is did the people on this trip have no sense of smell? 

When I was a homophobe

     There was a time recently when I was called a "homophobe."  When I heard this I thought that someone should immediately inform my boyfriend.  This was the was first time in my life I had ever been accused of this actually.  What happened was I responded to a picture I saw shared on Facebook. It was a photo of a little boy with the "No on 8" campaign design on his cheek while holding a sign which read "My name is" whatever his name is "I am not gay but get called'... then listed pejoratives variations of the word faggot.  The sign when on to explain how his parents complained about the bullying to the school district and they not only took no action but the bullied kid was reprimanded by the school. I saw this sign and was shocked.  I also felt horrible for the kid.  I commented on the photo saying that people should have supported the kid based on the fact that he was a child being bullied and that alone. His sexuality had no relevance.  Then lots of people commented getting upset.  I then went on to say that there was no reason to explain if this child was gay or not. People should support all bullied children and try to protect them for the reason that they are kids and that alone.  After hundreds of others commented on this post someone randomly commented that I was the H-word.  This was said out of context.  Then when I commented saying that whether this kid was gay or not all that mattered was he needed help  Then again I was attacked by people on this post.  One person even went on to talk about how he had met me and knew people like me even though we had never met nor did we have any mutual friends.  He also lived in a part of the country I had never been to.  Then one of people on this board took a photo of one of my comments without the context of the "No on 8" photo and then posted it onto a blog called Joemygod, because the more drama the merrier.  The next day I was tweeted by about 40 people calling me a hateful homophobe telling me about how homophobia still had existed, an argument I never made in the first place...  Interestingly enough what these twitter people hadn't realized was that attaching me in this way on my personal account was pretty homophobic in itself.  I did not ever say that homophobia didn't exist.  I also never said that this kid from the original conversation was not called homophobic slurs but that didn't make his cause a gay one.  By clearly mentioning that this kid is not gay while advertising a symbol of gay rights does not make this kid's cause a gay one.  It's about a child who needs defending. That's all.

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Vodka and Limelight - Story of a Bartender

"Run Forrest"

Intro rough draft for my next book....

            They say to write about what you know. Something you’re an authority on. I suppose writing about how to roll the perfect joint doesn’t make for a best seller. I do know how to drink responsibly and not be the guy who ever gets kicked out of a bar for any reason. That’s not a topic. Just called being an adult. I am though the biggest klutz who’s survived more odd injuries/impediments than Lindsay Lohan’s career. This is a topic that I am an authority on: surviving the lemons life throws and coming out a better person with lemonade and a funny story. At the end of the day that’s all we have. Our stories.

            I could start by telling you about one of the three black eyes I have survived in my life. None of which resulted from a fist. I could tell you about how during my 10 years bartending I accidentally cut my hands on glass more times than an old person cuts the cheese. I could tell you about my 19^th birthday. When I broke my foot walking New York City. Yes. Walking. I could tell you about how I was hit by a car while crossing the street and not only survived but changed the world around me. I can tell you how I ended up with a few screws in my femur, a surgery that made me into the real life bionic man and left me with the uncanny ability to forecast the weather. We will circle back to that one later.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning. I was born with two left feet. That’s not a euphemism. I was the cutest pigeon-toed, flat-footed, bigheaded, shockingly pale-white little boy you ever did see.  You would have to be blind not to see me. I heard people needed sunglasses to look at baby me. I was so damn white. Back talking about my two literally left-feet. I was forced to sleep with these braces on my feet. Not exactly “Forrest Gump” style but similar. This is what the podiatrist assured my parents would help fix my feet. A pair of shoes with a metal bar connecting them and keeping the toes pointed as far out as possible. This was understood as the only way to help me have a normal life meaning able to walk like other people. It was also before I knew that I would never be like anyone else and that was actually okay.

Every night I would go to bed with those heavy braces on my little meatloaf looking feet. As a toddler I thought there wasn’t anything heavier than that bar holding my feet in place. As an adult I realize that bar couldn’t have been more than 3-5 pounds.  At bedtime my mom would tuck me into bed, which was a playpen because I was known for climbing out of the crib. I was the MacGyver of infants. What can I say? After mom hummed lullabies, setting me down in the pen and shut the light off, I was vehemently at work on an escape mission to find me real family, the rich one. I had lots of living to do.

I have never liked the word can’t or limitations others may put on one another. I also have never liked the word can’t. Many other kids in my situation would have thought, “I am in bed with heavy weight on my feet, maybe I should go to sleep.” Or feel bad about themselves for not being like everyone else. Not this guy. I took my legs, lied on my back rocking them back and forth in the middle of the night with my feet dangling over the side of the playpen.  After like 20 tries the momentum of the weight of the braces allowed my little body to fly across the room, and limp with the bar holding my feet together, pointed out the living room. Once there my mother would scream out of fear saying, “you could have killed yourself.” I would try to protest my bedtime and every time my father would carry me back to bed telling me to stay put. This would continue for another few years. Luckily I never stopped exploring and we eventually realized that the silly feet-braces didn’t work.

Ten Things You Should Know About Gay Bars From a Castro Bartender

Ten Things You Should Know About Gay Bars From a Castro Bartender

Check out my article from Queerty.com.  Please read the reviews and comment.

Thanks,
Yuri

Back when i was the "Tea Fag"

            Nine years was an interesting time in a young boy’ life. It was the point before we learned to take ourselves too seriously. It was the age of innocence. It was the age of spontaneous erections and awkward discoveries. It was the time when we truly understood the power of a good fart joke. This lightheartedness faded with time for some people. It was also the age where someone could do something that would stick with them for life. Trust me.

For years people would call me the “Tea Faggot.” I wish I would have had a good comeback and self-esteem to corrected them then.  I would have said, “I like coffee too!” I never did though. I was nine. The world was a different place then. The internet was still a big wilderness and a twinkle in most of regular people’s eyes. “Beverly Hills 90210” was on TV. It was the first time around, when Donna was STILL a virgin. Kirstie Alley was known less for her size and more for her incessant whining on “Cheers” then. It was just a different time.

I was in the fourth grade. I had three real friends. I was related to two of them and one of them gave birth to me. The point is that there were slim pickin’s and that was okay with me. My cousin Nicole was one of my best friends not completely by choice but mostly by situation. We were latchkey kids two months apart with mothers who were sisters. We looked like twin boys until puberty completely hit. I was nine so that tide hadn’t hit yet. We were also in the same class Nicole and I. We also had the same friend.

After school Nicole and I would walk to her house. This was where I lived as far as the school district was concerned because it was a better neighborhood than my own. Our mothers both worked long hours because they had to which left us with lots of down time. This was where we learned to be creative. This was also where we realized that we loved television more than some of our relatives.

The second we got home the TV went on and we went on search for a snack. After dealing with the drudgery of being little fat 9 year olds who were teased often, we needed some caloric love. I would go through the cupboards and fridge and create amazing snacks. There were quesadillas, bologna and tortilla sandwiches and sometimes my aunt would leave us quiche. Yes quiche. If that didn’t sound cute enough, I would also have tea every day. What 9 year olds drink tea? Me. With quiche and tea I’m surprised I ever had the need to formally come out to anyone.

It was one fourth grade afternoon that was just like many others before it. Nicole and I were just finishing watching an episode of “Tale Spin” and about to put on our favorite movie, “Hook.” It was at that moment we both were startled by the sound of the teakettle. My other cousin who was 20 at the time was in her room so we weren’t exactly alone. Since the whistle meant it was tea time, I went to pour Nicole and I a Styrofoam cup. I know, who uses Styrofoam? It was a different time. Anyway, there was a commercial that came on the TV as I was pouring the hot water into the little cups that has a loud bell noise in it. I got startled, tapped the table with the cups and spilled the boiling hot water all over my shorts. It took me a second to realize what has happened. I then started to scream. It felt as though my shorts were literally stuck to my skin and burning through it. I wanted to rip the shorts off but I was in front of 2 girl cousins. Not knowing what to do my older cousin makes me hop into a bath running cold water with the shorts still on. I would eventually get the shorts off, pulling some of my skin with it. It was horrible. My normally pale-bordering clear skinned leg was now lobster red. My poor 20 year old cousin looked horrified running cold water on me. She quickly called for an ambulance.

When the ambulance arrived at the house so had my mother. This was odd because in those days my mom was late to everything. We would often tell her to come to events an hour earlier than the actual time for this reason. When my mom arrived I was being transferred from the bath to the weird bed they carry you on when you are being helped by an ambulance. Hot, muscled EMT guys carrying me on a cot. An image wasted on 9 year old me. As the two men carried me to the ambulance my mom followed less than a foot away in tears. My mom went from tears to bustin’ balls inside the ambulance van. I was screaming due to the pain in my leg. This was before I knew the appropriate obscenities. It was just yelling. We are speeding through intersections and the female EMT say, “We don’t allow screaming.” I wanted to tell her we didn’t allow her Millers Outpost look but would make due. I didn’t say that. My mom though made eye contact with the woman and shut her down. She then said, “if he wants to scream, he is in pain. Let him scream.”

Once at the hospital it took at least 2 hours for a doctor to help me. Bureaucracy at it’s best. They didn’t even give me a pain reliever. My mom spent the whole time pacing and losing sanity. After a long wait and waiting again they gave me a pain reliever and proceeded to remove some of the layers of shin that were burned off. Then my leg was wrapped with all sorts of bandages. From the waist up I was a pudgy little boy. From the waist down, I was all mummy.  I had second and third degree burns all over my left thigh. On the upside, I missed 4 days of school, which to me was bliss. This was 4 days of watching “I Love Lucy,” “Sally Jesse,” and some other crap. I was in heaven.  This was until I returned back to school. It was there I learned my new name “Tea Faggot.” It would be years until that name went away, then they would call me simply “faggot.” I would become a better person for all this.

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Injuries. My little feet.

            They say to write about what you know. Something you’re an authority on. I suppose writing about how to roll the perfect joint doesn’t make for a best seller. I do know how to drink responsibly and not be the guy who ever gets kicked out of a bar for any reason. That’s not a topic. Just called being an adult. I am though the biggest klutz who’s survived more odd injuries/impediments than Lindsay Lohan’s career. This is a topic that I am an authority on: surviving the lemons life throws at you and coming out a better person with lemonade and a funny story. At the end of the day that’s all we have. Our stories.

            I could start by telling you about one of the three black-eyes I have survived in my life. None of which resulted from a fist. I could tell you about how during my 10 years bartending I accidentally cut my hands on glass more times than an old person cuts the cheese. I could tell you about my 19^th birthday. When I broke my foot walking New York City. Yes. Walking. I could tell you about how I was hit by a car while crossing the street and not only survived but changed the world around me. I can tell you how I ended up with a few screws in my femur, a surgery that made me into the real life bionic man and left me with the uncanny ability to forecast the weather. We will circle back to that one later.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning. I was born with two left feet. That’s not a euphemism. I was the cutest pigeon-toed, flat-footed, big-headed, shockingly pale-white little boy you ever did see.  You would have to be blind not to see me. I was so white!  Because I my feet I was forced to sleep with these braces on my feet. This is what the podiatrist assured my parents would help fix my feet. A pair of shoes with a metal bar connecting them and keeping the toes pointed as far out as possible. This was understood as the only way to help me have a normal life meaning able to walk like other people. It was also before I knew that I would never be like anyone else and that was okay.

Every night I would go to bed with those heavy braces on my little meatloaf looking feet. As a toddler I thought there wasn’t anything heavier than that bar holding my feet in place. As a adult I realize that bar couldn’t have been more than 3-5 pounds.  At bedtime my mom would tuck me into bed, which was a playpen because I was known for climbing out of the crib. After she hummed lullabies, setting me down in the pen and shut the light off, I was vehemently at work on an escape mission. I had lots of living to do.

I have never liked the word can’t or limitations others may put on one another. I also have never liked the word can’t. Many other kids in my situation would have thought, “I am in bed with heavy weight on my feet, maybe I should go to sleep.” Or feel bad about themselves for not being like everyone else. Not this guy. I took my legs, lied on my back rocking them back and forth in the middle of the night with my feet dangling over the side of the playpen.  After like 20 tries the momentum of the weight of the braces allowed my little body to fly across the room, and limp with the bar holding my feet together, pointed out the livingroom. Once there my mother would scream out of fear saying “you could have killed yourself.” I would try to protest my bedtime and every time my father would carry me back to bed telling me to stay put. This would continue for another few years. Luckily I never stopped exploring and we eventually realized that the silly feet-braces didn’t work.

Growing up poor and working on TV

            Growing up, we were pretty poor.  I didn’t have to turn tricks to get the lunch money and later hand over to bullies or anything like that, but we were poor.  My mother and I were poor enough that I was able to get California’s finest pubic school lunches for free.  Where the corn dogs were occasionally green for no apparent reason and fruit was covered in enough corn syrup to piss off Paula Dean and the food was good enough to clog an artery with one bite.

We were poor enough that in high school I didn’t have to work because I wanted to or was forced to.  I worked because it was something I needed to do to get where I wanted to go.  It was in about seventh grade that I realized that I would need to get a job and that every grade past 6^th was a joke.  I hated school in the way other kids hated Brussels sprouts.  This was when I decided that I wanted to be an actor.   This wasn’t a new revelation, but it was a new action.  It was then that I figured it was my duty to become a famous child actor like the Olsen twins or the chick from “Small Wonder” that no one remembers. 

I made my mom drag me to auditions in LA.  We lived in San Diego at the time.  I pushed to get headshots and go the whole nine-yards.  This was also my excuse to get out of school, which was brilliant.  I imagined that some tutor, would educate me eventually, like the kids I had heard about on TV.  I would buy a $50,000 car cause I could.  I would go to some amazing Ivey league college like Brooke Shields.  I would fit a B-rated film, maybe a “Poison Ivy” sequel, “Poison Oak” during that hard freshman year of college.  There would be many awkward scenes in this movie that I would later regret according to People Magazine, as I would try to break away from that teen persona.  I would also end up on the cover of Rolling stone wearing a leather jacket and burning one of those little American flags on that was the toothpick on my sandwich for controversy. 

Back to seventh grade I worked to make these daydreams happen.  I got an agent who sent me to a few big auditions including playing Jason Alexander’s fat blob son on a show that didn’t make it past it’s pilot (I was too thin so my mom said) and one for a JCPenny Commercial.  The commercial auditions were my favorite because I would pretend that I was the guy from the infomercials that always sounded surprised and smiled for no reason.  It was great.  At the JCPenny auditions I auditioned as the nerd prom date for some hot girl and her father was played by the dude who was in a whole bunch of 80s movies including “the Boy Who Could Fly.”  It’s okay; no one else remembers his name either.  It was odd that he was playing a father figure when he was only 10-12 years older than me at the time.

By sixteen or seventeen I filled some of my time with extra-work and a part-time job at the amazing Carl’s junior.  I was practicing my on air voice while working drive-through.  People there hated me cause I would pretend the drive-through was my radio show and ask customers inappropriate questions, like “when did you’re love of food take over your life?”  I oddly was never fired from there.

I took many drama classes and on-camera acting classes taught by jaded actors, along with has-been casting directors.  I met parents who had no life and lived vicariously through their children.  I knew kids who thought fame and popularity equaled happiness.  They had all the personality in the world while the camera was on, and were like talking to paint when the camera was off.  This would be my experience later in life with guys who did porn (they called themselves porn stars, but you’re not a star if no one knows who the fuck you are), but that’s another story.  I was an extra on every Disney show that people are embarrassed to admit they watched, and a few Aaron Spelling Shows, which were quickly cancelled.  The highlights of my short-lived television career included over 10-episodes of “Lizzy McGuire,” an Aimee Mann Video and a reenactment scene of “America’s Most Wanted.”  I played the Jewish kid the neo-Nazis were chasing around campus.

During the acting days I met Yasmine Bleeth a few weeks before an alleged coke bender, which landed her on the news.  I met Hillary Duff before anyone knew who she was or that she was and Miley presumably stole her thunder.

It was at 18 when I did my last Hilary Duff Music video (if you watch really slowly, you can see my back), when I realized that I was getting too old to be the next DJ Tanner and didn’t know if I had it in me to become the next Balkey from “Perfect Strangers.”  It was then that I decided it was time to go for plan B.  I went to college.  I decided that LA wasn’t ready for me and I would become a writer or maybe go into advertising and if that didn’t work out, revisit the concept of turning tricks.

I was 19 and working as a shift manager at a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, attending a local Junior college when I decided that I would really let go of the “dream.”  I realized that I wanted to write, live, travel.  It was then I decided that I would transfer to a college in San Francisco and become a writer.  I of course wouldn’t major in creative writing because well what is that useful for?  So I majored in something equally useless and general, Speech Communications (Public Speaking).  It was this choice that set the stage for everything I have done since.  I would spend the next few years living, writing, drinking and working on creating the shit-storm that is my life and my stand up.  You’re welcome.

"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.

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!

My 30th Birthday on crutches...

"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. 

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.

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!

Here is a link to tickets: http://greatstar10pm.eventbrite.com/?aff=estw

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.

Mom Jokes 4 Mother's Day

    I always give my mom a tough time.  She hates to workout and I always try to push her to fitness because I love her.  She calls me yesterday and says, "Yuri did you hear? Last week Ukrainian Mayor was shot while jogging.  See? Fitness kills!"  

     My mom tells surprisingly good jokes.  She said I could be whoever I want to be in life. She was wrong.  20 Years, 5 restraining orders, 10 years of therapy later, I in-fact can't marry Luke Perry.

     During the 5 minutes it was legal a few years ago for gay people to marry my mom said, "Get married! I wan't you to be the next Anna Nicole Smith. You know...but alive.

     She's always bugging me about kids.  She's always like, "Yuri what about grand babies? What about grand babies?"  To which I respond "babies don't come out of there. Trust me I've tried."

    Growing up my mom was the type of cook that made you think, "anorexia, that has merit!"  

    My Mom didn't cook much.  She had 3 dishes though that were amazing: scrambled eggs, mac n' cheese and chili with hot dogs.  Because we were Jewish we could never be considered white trash but we sure as hell did try!

     Truth be told my mother is very supportive of me doing comedy.  Sometimes a bit too supportive. I often try jokes on her.  She's my sounding board.  I'll call her up and say, "hey mom can I try this one joke one you? So a rabbi, a priest and"... She interrupts laughing too loud before I get anywhere close to the punch line.  Under her breath says, "HA! HA! HA! You so funny...  After $80,000 in college you doing standup. HAHA"...

    

There are homeless squatting 4 free in a large, empty apartment in my building. Laws protect them from eviction. I'm moving there...

There are homeless squatting 4 free in a large, empty apartment in my building. Laws protect them from eviction. I'm moving there...

     San Francisco is so fucking weird.  Where the weed's a flown,' the over-entitled rich kids spend way to much money to look like they don't care and the streets are paved with crackheads.  This is the place I call home.  Here you can smoke pot everywhere you damn well please but god forbid you light a cigarette or use a plastic bag, the masses will show their distain for you with passive-aggressive shrugs.  So, recently I find out that there are homeless people living in some random, unmarked Pandora's box of an apartment in my building.  Let me repeat this: there are homeless squatting for free in a large, empty apartment in my building. Laws protect them from eviction. I'm moving there...

       I am kind of afraid to go into this apartment that the homeless are apparently living in.  This is not out of fear for safety or hygiene.  It's because I bet their place is bigger than mine.  I know it's not the size but the motion of the ocean but this is ridiculous.  If I don't pay my rent I can get evicted.  If I illegally have a pet in my unit I can be evicted.  If I illegally try to squat in a unit that I'm not living in the law protects me from getting evicted easily.  What's wrong with this picture?  Where is the "It Gets better Campaign" now?  Apparently if you set your sites low enough, you too can squat in a Tenderloin apartment for months for free.

      I imagine there to be a large variety of half-smoked cigarette butts to be offered for appetizers when visiting this apartment.  A television in the corner that has both shattered glass and isn't plugged in, but makes an amazing coffee/coke table...  Who are we kidding?  Crack is cheaper!  Here there is no doodie-smell.  No. No.  You know why?  There is a toilet and electricity!  Who pays for it?  They don't know, care or ask questions.  I imagine a bed made with street sheets as far as the eyes could see and nice, warm blankets made of wall insulation.  What type of homeless live there?  This I do not know.  I assume it's the well-to-do homeless that went to homeless college in order to afford their fancy digs.  There one would major in Panhandling or Human Sexuality.  It is San Francisco after all.  Don't make the mistake of bringing non-organic cigarettes to this party, you will not be welcomed.  Much like how I went to college, majored in Speech for 5 years, learned how to roll a good joint and live in an apartment I can't afford.  Since I have no choice in this matter, maybe I should write them off as dependents?  See?  Stars really are like us.  So from now on when people ask how I'm doing I'll say, "excuse me have a dollar?"

Single Moments

     There is this point in being single that I would like to talk about on stage but can't really figure it out.  When you get a phone number from someone you would never imagine going out with in any other circumstance.  Maybe you're out trolling a bar and some toothless, balding hottie hands you their card.  In the moment you're like, "fuck no."  If not verbally, in your head.  Then a few days later you realize you still have the card.  For some stupid reason you never threw it out the number.  It's just sitting in your wallet looking at you.  Then there is what I call a "single moment."  It's that time where you have watched enough Scandal to get your period, started to refer to your dog as we and find suicide funny but would never actually do it.  You're just desperate enough to reconsider the situation and try out good old toothless.

I am producing a comedy show called Yuri & Friends with International Headliner Thai Rivera!  He will make you uncomfortable in the best way possible. His politically incorrect style of humor has taken the comedy world by storm.  After becoming a  favorite and regular at clubs such as the Hollywood Improv and World Famous Laugh Factory he started to travel across the country in the most unlikely of places, redneck bars. Some of you may recognize him from the Jo Koy Comedy Tour, he has also been featured on Comedy Central's Live At Gotham and The Logo Network's One Night Stand up. Thai made his second appearance on Comedy Central October 25th, on Stand-Up Revolution.  

Hosted by myself, this show includes local favorites Lydia Popovich and Johan Miranda! Special guest Marga Gomez has won “Best Comedian” in both SF Weekly and the Bay Guardian! This is a night not to be missed! 

See it live at San Francisco Punchline comedy club at 8pm on 4/15/14  while tickets last!

Yuri & Friends with Casey Ley

Vegetarians and Gluten allergy BS

     Todays started shitty... First off I wake up early at noon.  My friend Lisa invites me to lunch.  She says, "hey lets get barbecue."  When we get to the place I find out that it is vegetarian barbecue.  That doesn't even make sense!  It is at this moment I realize that going to a vegetarian barbecue is like going to a prostitute that just wants to hold your hand... You leave very hungry.

     What a lot of people don't know about me is that I was a vegetarian for 2 years.  I didn't do it for any moral or ethical reason.  I just looked in the mirror, realized that I had larger breasts than most women.  I figured with all the hormones in today's meat supply going meat free was the way to be.  Then there was a trip to Virginia.  Don't ask why I was there.  I just was.  I'm with some friends at the Wendy's drive-through because it was either that or go hungry for another hour.  I ate a fry with a tiny morsel of chicken stuck to it.  I'm was so hungry I didn't notice.  This was when the blood-lust kicked in and I was hooked.  I ate enough chicken tenders, shakes and fries to kill someone.  It was as though I had never seen food before.

      As an ex-vegetarian I can comfortably say that unlike homosexuality it's lifestyle choice and manageable.  What I do not understand is why vegetarian restaurants keep trying to push shit like fake Chic-en.  If you are against eating something that had a face, then why the fuck would you make your food look like something that once had a face?  To-furkey?  More like wet cardboard.  "Riblets" taste like feet smell! Stop it!  Making your vegetarian food look like meat is like saying 'I don't do heroin anymore so I shoot up insulin.  No saturated fats!"

       What I am saying is vegetarians need to stop pushing rank shit like fake-sausage and focus on the good stuff like...  Actually I am having a hard time remembering what that is but eventually I'll remember.

      After vegetarians the next actually more annoying group are the people who lie and say they are allergic to gluten.  Can people stop lying about that shit?  I am sure a small percent of them legitimately have issues with that stuff and I get it.  I don't get though why they have to make crap like "gluten-free cookies."  Isn't that a bit extreme?  Why not just eat a piece of plastic?  If you are changing your diet to be healthy, here is an idea: STOP eating shit like cookies!  Gluten-free beer?  Really?  Why not just hit yourself in the head and skip the crap beer?  At least your taste buds will be intact.  To be clear I am not saying people with real gluten issues shouldn't get to enjoy being a lush just as much as I do.  What I am saying is why make lame crap like gluten-free bagels when you can just skip the bagel and have something else?

The END OF DAYs...

            Today I get to the office after a long night at the Lab.  I am super tired and envious of all the San Francisco people I pass on my way to the office.  I am late to work and cranky.  Walk around San Francisco during any weekday and there are people everywhere, the park, cafes, it’s like they don’t work or all lie and say they telecommute.  Right before I get to work I pop by a coffee shop on a blog down from the office.  There are people of all sorts, typing on their laptops, sipping their lattes and laughing their heads off while having their conversations presumably about soy products or crap that annoys me.  A part of me is envious, wishing I could be like them sitting there on my laptop, sipping a coffee and working on my blog, writing jokes just for fun.  Instead I have to be an adult, go to my career-job writing boring ads for things I don’t care about.

            I roll into the office at a quarter past 10 in sunglasses hoping no one notices my bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep.  All 20 of my officemates are silently working on their projects at their computers typing away.  One is clearly pretending to work while watching a movie or something funny on his screen because he keeps laughing so loud the noise is just grading on my tired ears.  I get to my desk, unpack and check my email.  Usually I have at least 7 emails from my boss and his bosses asking me to do random updates to my accounts.  Today there are no emails.  I actually have nothing to do.  Besides the jackass laughing in the corner, the silence in the office is piercing.  I spend the next 2 hours updating my blog with various stupid jokes in my head completely ignoring what is going on around me.  

At noon my boss messages me on my computer’s messenger (even though he is just sitting 25 feet away at his desk).  It’s strange how passive-aggressive offices are these days with computers being the way you talk to your co-workers even if they are in the same room.  He asks me to meet him in the CEO’s office.  I assume they are going to give me a promotion or something along those lines because I’m an idiot.  I get laid off.  This is the second time in my life I have been laid off and I am 24 years old.  The only thing I say to them is “again?”  Both Director of my department and the CEO look confused and try to coddle and console me telling me that the lay off has nothing to do with me personally just the economy.  I have no emotion on my face at all at this moment.  I think it scares them.  I don’t look happy or sad.  I look like I’m in a comma.  After they hand me my check, I feel numbed.  I go pack up my desk and walk out.  As I get into the elevator heading out of the building I suddenly have tears streaming down my face.  They are the “I’m going to Disneyland” tears.  I am happy.  I am unexplainably ecstatic to be done with the office.  I am so happy that I am upset that I am not shattered by this lay off and make an appointment to see Dr. John.  Since he is booked up for the next 2 days, I go home and write.  I don’t know how or why but some stories just flow from me.  I write three about my years at the bar on the blog and proceed to pass out for several hours until my bar shift that night.

The night it all happened!

The night it all happened.

            Working at the Lab is fun but not what it looks like.  That’s what I explain in my last blog entry.  My mom reads it and instantly calls me.  She wants me to stop talking about pot in my entries because then people will think I do drugs.  I tell her, “If you call pot a drug then yes I do.  If you live in San Francisco, it’s considered fresh air.”            

            After the lovely pot argument with my mother, dad calls me.  He is clearly smoking a cigarette and starts choking on his own cough before I get the chance to say hello.  This makes me want to roll a joint but I don’t because I’m out.  Dad asks me when I’m coming to visit.  He hasn’t had a job in several years at this point.  I have no idea how he gets by.  I ask him why he can’t drive up to visit me.  He tells me it’s too far for him to drive.  I offer to pay for Amtrak and he then says he’ll get sick on there.  I get annoyed and he changes the topic and asks me if I have seen the latest Pay-Per-View fight.  I say know and even though it’s on the phone I can hear him shaking his head.

            Something that has always bothered me is that I have lived in San Francisco for around six years.  My father has never tried to come and visit me.  On occasion I have made pilgrimages to visit him by driving the six hours to Northridge and hanging out with him.  This act consists of watching a twenty-year old Tyson/Forman fight on a loop for at least an hour, stuffing our faces with enough Chinese food /MSG to bloat and awkwardness.  There are a lot of weird silences that we cover up with the sound of the television.  After the fights, we switch an old Columbo rerun for my grandmother.  She lives with dad then comes by with bowl of grapes to make sure we are fully nourished.  She makes light conversation about her daily struggles, current ailments and then my dad goes to the bathroom to suck down 1-3 cigarettes.  

            My dad makes it very clear to me that he loves me but not that he’s dependable.  I remember as a kid my father was supposed to visit San Diego, and take me to the zoo while introducing me to his girlfriend at the time.  He never came.  This was the third or fourth time this happened.  That night I found out that it was because of the Northridge earthquake.  He lived around the corner from the apartment building that fell over. 

            From fifteen year-old and on I always worked.  I would take time off of work to meet up with my dad in San Clemente, our agreed upon halfway point between his home in Northridge and mine in San Diego.  Two out of five times he would have to cancel the day of which would anger me.  After a while I stopped making those plans with him.

            I tell Dr. John about how it upsets me that dad hasn’t ever made an effort to visit me.  Dr. John asks me to measure my stress-level.  Right now I am at an 8.  This is on a scale from 1-10.  I don’t really have a reason for this.  I just know it’s there.   He then tells me to just focus on myself for a while.  Write out my feelings maybe on the blog and keep my dad at bay for a little bit while I compose myself.  I hear what he says but of course don’t listen.  That night, while working on a new blog story I purchase tickets from my dad to fly up to see me.  I call to tell him about this and he is super excited.  The tickets are for the following weekend.  It’s a Friday-Monday sort of thing.  That Thursday my dad calls to tell me that he isn’t feeling very good and can’t come.  It’s like being 14 all over again.