Trick Or Treat!

Like all women who fall somewhere between "Victoria’s Secret model" and "not in an advanced state of decomposition" on the Physical Attractiveness Continuum, I've had my (small, but still…) share of unwanted attention from strangers. And again, like all women, I find the majority of these encounters creepy. But there's also a part of me that kind of loves them, for their sheer absurdity. Like that time the guy on the street sang me the Filet O' Fish jingle, or the time I pretended to be a deaf-mute with that guy in the pizza place, or when that crazy guy on the train was convinced I was a foot fetishist. Fun times. Especially when there's an audience: I was waiting for the subway one night when this guy stumbles over and makes his clumsy, drunken advances; I tell him, sorry, I have a boyfriend (which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to outright hurt these psychos' feelings). He then slurs, "Well, you can't blame me for trying, right?" and proceeds, as he walks away pointing at me, to individually poll every other person on the platform, "You can't blame me for trying, right? I mean, I had to try, right?" Every time one of the people he's shouting at and consequently spitting on looks quizzically in my direction, I wave like I'm on a parade float and give them a thumbs-up. What can I say — I'm an entertainer.

But if there were ever a night for the freaks to come out and play, it's Halloween. I am a lunatic for Halloween. It's like my high holy day. I usually start planning the next year's costume as soon as I change out of the one I was just wearing. Over the past several years I have been: a Ninja, a Manson Girl (vintage '70s outfit covered in fake blood), a Hindu Goddess, a Geisha, Medusa, Pregnant Britney Spears, Dead Princess Di (I know, I'm going to hell for that one), a Vegas Showgirl, Tia Dalma from Pirates of the Caribbean, and — perhaps my all-time fave — Lara Croft: Womb Raider (Lara Croft, only pregnant and wearing a baby carrier with some "ethnic" baby dolls in it). All homemade. I'm telling you, I go ALL. OUT. The year that I was Medusa, I won a costume contest at work. The prize was $50. The costume cost me $80 to make. I still considered it a victory.

So this year I dressed up as Adam Lambert, because I secretly want to be him, and as a companion piece to my sister's Lady GaGa. We were fuckin' fabulous. See for yourselves:





And trust me, when you're walking through the Village next to a drunken, stick-thin, 6-foot blonde in fishnets and a leotard covered in sparkles, you're bound to get some attention. Especially when you're also walking in these boots:



At one point, we pass by a bunch of construction-worker-looking guys avoiding the rain under some sidewalk scaffolding. They start hootin' and hollerin', and little sister, in her semi-inebriated state, decides it would be funny to wave at them, go "HAAA-AAAYYY!" and sashay away like a drag queen on the catwalk. The guys get louder and rowdier, and I yell after her, "If they start chasing us, I'm gonna kill you! You know I can't run in these damn shoes!"

Later on we are safely ensconced in a new bar, hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the street. Because I'm wearing a headset, sitting on a stool, and facing outside in order to watch the parade of crazies, people start mistaking me for the doorperson and showing me their IDs. I try to finagle a "cover charge" out of a few of them, but since I'm wasted and can't keep a straight face, this scheme sadly doesn't work.

Then this guy comes at me. After initially hitting on my sister and getting nowhere because she's too busy lurch-dancing like a spastic cripple, he's moved over to my side of the table and feeds me the old "You two are so hot, you must be sisters!" line. Now, I've been drinking steadily and running from bar to bar in the rain for hours at this point, the wig I'm wearing feels like a wet cat sitting on my head, and I can actually feel the eyeliner smeared down my face. There is no way I believe this guy actually thinks I look "hot." So, of course, I laugh in his face.

"No, really!" he insists. "You look so much alike!"

This is when I decide, since I am dressed like a man, to reveal to Romeo that yes, you're right, we are related, but I'm not her sister — I'm her brother.

Loverboy freezes, then begins vehemently refuting my claim. "No way, you're lying. I'm not stupid." But I saw that moment of panic in his eyes. Had I been in my right mind, I should have offered to unzip my pants and prove it, just to see his reaction. I really regret not trying this out.

So, boys and girls, the moral of this story, I suppose: I may not be a hot, leggy blonde, but it's reassuring to know that I at least make a pretty gay boy. ;)

RIP Chris

Today I learned that someone I used to work with was stabbed and beaten to death.

Because he was gay.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE???

Smack In The Pulpit

About a month or so ago, I went to see the Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit at the Whitney Museum of American Art. I went on a Friday night, because that's "pay-what-you-wish" night and I'm a cheap/broke bastard. I'd never been to the Whitney before, and I was expecting to just show up and stroll on in, so it was a little disconcerting to get there and see a line of people waiting to enter snaking around the block. Apparently, "pay-what-you-wish" night is a big draw.

I've always loved Georgia O'Keeffe artwork. I've had the same "Dark Iris" and "Red Amaryllis" posters on my bedroom walls since college, and every year, my mom gives me a new Georgia O'Keeffe desk calendar for Christmas. It's the gift that keeps on giving: flipping the page to the next stunning, vaguely sexual flower is like opening a brand-new present at the beginning of every month.

This particular exhibit, though, is focused on her early abstract work. I'm really only familiar with her flowers, so I'm a little nervous that I might find these paintings disappointing and they might spoil her for me (I hold my heroes to very high standards). Exiting the elevator on the third floor and coming face-to-face with a giant oil-on-canvas mural of clouds and blue sky is the first indication that I have nothing to fear. I'm already hooked.

My relief, however, is short-lived, and by no fault of Ms. O'Keeffe. The adjacent elevator opens behind me and disgorges a motley, murmuring guided-tour group. Groan. I enter the gallery in an attempt to head them off as the tour guide begins to cheerily corral her charges.

Unfortunately for me, I'm one of those people who stands and stares at paintings like Cameron in the museum scene of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, so the tour group overtakes me by, like, the fourth painting. There's a moment of panic when I find myself adrift amidst them. I manage to pull my little journal out of my bag and escape to a bench on the other side of the room to write down some impressions and the titles of the works that I like until the mob is safely out of earshot and the room feels spacious again.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm really fun at concerts.

So now I'm back to comfortably strolling, staring in dazzled, slack-jawed awe, and being reprimanded by museum security for getting dangerously close to the paintings and occasionally and hypnotically reaching out to touch one. I'm like a 13-year-old boy who's just discovered free Internet porn — I'm that entranced. Whoa...look at those colors! OMG, I can actually see the brushstrokes!!!

I'm rooted in place in front of these two paintings:

when I eventually sense another presence. The tour group has dispersed (how long have I been standing here?), and there's a trio of former tourists who appear to be a father and two daughters now standing behind me (how long have I been blocking these poor people's view?). "Oh! Excuse me," I apologize and step aside. And then Dad lets loose with this declaration:

"Now, see, this is finally a good one! It's got bright colors; it's got energy! This one is just all white and boring. It's depressing."

"It's not depressing!" I retort in mock-anger, valiant defender of my artistic idol. "It glows! It's angelic!"

Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if the guy had then said, "Well, I think it's depressing because..." No, what he instead chose to say — and in a very let-me-lecture-this-poor-ignorant-fool-who-doesn't-know-any-better tone of voice — was: "No, it's not. It's just depressing." And this is when I must fight the seether.

Sir, I am a college-educated, self-sufficient, grown adult, fully capable of forming my own opinions, who — if I may be my severely elitist and judgmental (not-so-)hidden self for just a moment — by the looks of it, has been to far more fine art exhibitions than you (that number being "4"). I'd appreciate it, especially since you just emerged from a tour for which you willingly signed up and in which you learned the background and significance of each piece from a professional art historian, if you didn't dictate your daughters' perceptions to them or attempt to school me in the respected tradition of "I Don't Like It Because It Doesn't Match My Furniture" art criticism.

I only say this in my head, though, because I'm already on bad terms with security. Instead, I stare unblinkingly at The Professor and smile malevolently until he backs away with his progeny and I can go back to gazing in peace.

To quote an exchange from The Corrections:

"Well, everyone is entitled to their own taste."
"Yes, but some people's tastes are better than others."

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable

The phrase "making love."

People who blow their nose really thoroughly in public.

Co-workers who insist on carrying on a conversation while you're in adjacent bathroom stalls.

Eating a banana in front of someone.

Subway missionaries — not the crazy ones who scream about burning in Hell (they're fun to toy with), but the ones who just stand there, silently holding up pamphlets and smiling beatifically.

When someone in my party asks the waitress a lot of questions before ordering.

Those toilet paper commercials with the cartoon bears.

Picturing Tiger Woods having sex with anyone.

When people sitting next to me on the train are reading books with titles like "Healing Through The Catholic Mass."

Turning down those kids who go door-to-door selling candy or magazine subscriptions to help them "get an education" or "stay off the streets."

When you ask someone where they were the other day and instead of just answering "I was sick," they explain in detail the consistency of the phlegm they were coughing up or their 24-hour bout of diarrhea.

The word "diarrhea."

Interacting with anyone in a position of authority.

Hamsters.

Funerals.

Dating.

Here + Queer = Used To It

Theorem: All the hot guys are gay.

Let A = 'hot' and B = 'gay.'

Given: If A then B. [1]

[Note: ~ = 'not;' :: = 'therefore']

Problem: Using Survivor, Project Runway, and American Idol as examples, prove that while the contrapositive of the above statement, ~B = ~A (i.e., all the straight guys are busted) [2], is true, the converse statement, B = A (i.e., all gay guys are hot) [3], is false. Show your work.

Example 1: American Idol
1. Adam Lambert = A (hot) + B (gay) :: TRUE
2. Taylor Hicks = ~B (not gay) + ~A (not hot) :: TRUE
3. Clay Aiken = B (gay) + ~A (not hot) :: FALSE

Example 2: Project Runway
1. Daniel Vosovic = A + B :: TRUE
2. Jeffrey Sebelia = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Chris March = B + ~A :: FALSE

Example 3: Survivor
1. Todd Herzog (China) = A + B :: TRUE
2. Rupert Boneham (Pearl Islands) = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Richard Hatch (Borneo) = B + ~A :: FALSE

Bonus Example: The 'Liberals vs. Conservatives' Factor
1. Anderson Cooper = A + B :: TRUE
2. Rush Limbaugh = ~B + ~A :: TRUE
3. Ann Coulter = ~A + X (tranny) :: FALSE

Goaty's Haiku Korner

Some original works by my brother:

"Christmas time is great.
Everyone loves each other.
I have glaucoma."

"Mr. Miyagi,
Daniel-san's karate friend.
Man, he could clear house."

Why Traveling To Long Island Makes Me Glad I No Longer Live There

So I'm taking the LIRR home for Thanksgiving. It's the day before (you know, the one informally known as "the biggest party night of the year"); I've got an overstuffed tote bag and a cat with me; and, luckily, I've got an express from Flatbush Ave. straight to Babylon. Because the car's already crowded and I don't want to be one of those people who takes up more seats than they need to, I'm sitting on one of the fold-down, handicapped-reserved benches with my bag on the floor and the cat carrier on the bench across from me. When we stop at Jamaica, a whole new throng of people crowd on. I rearrange myself so 2 more people can squeeze onto the benches with me and Boo, but there are still people standing in the aisle and the little vestibule area by the doors. The conductor attempts to come through and collect tickets.

And then...

A stereotypical entitled princess-type, oblivious to her rolling suitcase smacking into everyone behind her as she pushes her way through the crush of people, stomps up to the conductor and yells, "ExCUSE me! Does this train go to Montauk?"

"Change at Babylon."

"NO," she snaps, and repeats, like one of those people who thinks that just saying it louder will help the foreigner understand, "does THIS TRAIN go to MONTAUK?"

"You have to change at Babylon," the conductor tells her irritably. Can't say I blame the guy.

"You mean I have to transfer TWICE?!?"

The guy across the aisle from me snorts and mumbles, "Well, it is 100 miles away, lady."

Princess gets all huffy, turns back to the conductor and says snottily, "Well, thanks for your HELP! I don't know what's up YOUR ass!"

People are flat-out laughing at her now and I'm thinking, "Up his ass...?"

Princess Pompous storms off, complaining, "I don't know why it doesn't just go straight to Montauk."

Well, sweetheart, maybe it's because the train across the platform that says 'MONTAUK' on the side in big red lights is the one that goes straight to Montauk, and maybe you'd realize that if you tried to figure it out for yourself instead of expecting other people to do it for you...? Just a guess.

She then proceeds to drop her suitcase on the head of her lucky traveling companion while trying to place it on the overhead rack, laugh obnoxiously about it, get sloppy drunk and spill her drink on aforementioned traveling companion, and talk loudly on her cell phone, bitching about her horrid 'ordeal,' for the rest of the ride.

You know, I always think people on the subway are rude and inconsiderate, until I remember that the people taking the Long Island Rail Road are rude, inconsiderate, and Long Islanders.

No sleep 'til Brooklyn, yo.