Runner-Up Syndrome

Adam Lambert.

Mondo Guerra.

And now, Miss Arkansas, Alyse Eady.

I refuse to believe that this woman didn't win:

The new Miss America, Teresa Scanlan of Nebraska, is allegedly only 17 years old. I'm hoping for a Vanessa Williams-style scandal in which they discover she's really underage so the yodeling ventriloquist can assume the crown.

I mean, c'mon! She's a YODELING VENTRILOQUIST! How could you possibly find a talent more suitably representative of the overwhelming ridiculousness that is the Miss America pageant?

Plus, her evening gown was WAY fiercer.

The Party's Over...

My 2011 New Years Resolutions:

1. Spend more time at the toy store.
2. Marry Neil Lambert (subject to availability).
3. World Wide Web domination.

Stay safe, y'all!
See ya next year!!

Sibling Rivalry

I'm in my year-end rush to fulfill my self-proclaimed goal of 260 posts by the end of this year, so you're going to be hearing(reading?) a lot from me in the next few days. At least, those of you who are left — my most loyal of subjects, you hardy survivors of the Great(ly Overexaggerated) Drought Of 2010.

MAY MY KINGDOM FLOURISH AGAIN!

By the way, where the hell has Dalia been...?

So, I find it somewhat coincidental, in regard to my newly-restored resolve, that my Twitter feed this morning contained this proclamation, from my most favoritest Interwebz crush:

Oh, no he didn't...

If there is one thing you should know about me by now, it is that I can't resist a challenge, real or imagined. So whether Mr. Lambert is aware of it or not, we are now competing to the death for the Twitterverse title of Witheringly Sarcastic Web-Ranter Extraordinaire.

Neurotic Nation is en garde, sir.

May the battle begin. >:)

God Damn Glam Nation

I know I have been sorely lax in writing up my Adam Lambert concert experience, and to those of you who have been waiting, I apologize for that, but there is almost no way to condense into words what spending 3 hours doing elaborately dazzling make-up and dressing like a Vegas showgirl high on peyote; 6 and a half hours standing on line in the middle of Times Square in 90 degree weather surrounded by frothing fans and curious tourists taking my picture; 2 hours lost in a crush of chubby teenaged girls who are seeing the show for the sixth time and delusional, far-too-inappropriately-dressed middle-aged women trying to push their way past said teenagers up to the front of the stage; and only one glorious and over-far-too-fast hour mesmerized by the overwhelming spectacle that is Adam Lambert was like.

I can, however, describe to you how much I hate people. I'm pretty good at that.

After stampeding our way into the theater once the doors were finally opened, everyone rushes towards the stage to claim the perfect spot. And these chicks — because they were mainly girls and women — were flat-out, claws-out prepared to defend their hard-won territory. Ok, that's understandable; after all, we had spent half the day waiting in sweltering heat precisely to obtain such a prime piece of real estate.

But this one woman...

I have no idea who she was or why she chose me, but this 40-something woman in a floral blouse, carrying a purse and a cocktail, decides to stand directly next to me and engage me in conversation. Her opening line is:

"Will you look at all these little girls? They're babies! Who wants to look out into the crowd and see them?"

My immediate reaction is to think, "Who the hell thinks he'd rather see you?" but I push the thought aside and just try to ignore her. After all, I am here to enjoy myself.

Then she asks me if I can hold her spot while she gets another drink. Hold her spot? How the hell do you hold someone a spot on the floor of a general admission show? Especially at the show of someone like Adam Lambert, who inspires The-Beatles-and-Elvis-combined-level hysteria? Yeah, sure, whatever, lady. Just go.

Sure enough, several minutes later I hear from somewhere behind me, "Excuse me...'scuse me...sorry...excuse me..." and my new best friend has pushed her way back to my side. People are giving us nasty looks and I want to explain to them that, look, I am an innocent party to this shit. I, unlike some people uncomfortably near me, have been to a concert in the last 2 decades and understand the rules of standing-room-only ettiquette.

Unfortunately, she tries to chat with me again. I'm texting my mom, who is somewhere up in the balcony, sitting down. I try looking around for her and BFF is all, "Ooh! Who are you talking to?"

"My mom."

"Your mom's here, too? Cool! Where is she?"

"Up in the seat section," I tell her. I don't add, "Where any sensible middle-aged woman who is simply here to enjoy the show and doesn't harbor fantasies of seducing a gay man 20 years her junior should be."

"That's so cool! What's she saying?"

Listen, you nosy bitch... "She says there are some boys making out right in front of her and they're the only guys she's seen here so far."

"OOH! WHERE?!?"

Jesus Christ, woman. I do not want to be privy to your perverse voyeuristic fantasies. I mumble, "I don't know," and go back to texting again so she'll leave me alone.

Me: "Crazy drunk lady down here thinks I'm her best friend."
Mom: "HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Thanks for the sympathy, Ma.

Crazy drunk lady is now telling me, all conspiratorially, that we're not gonna let ANYONE get in front of us! No way! We can take these teenagers! At this point I am now visibly ignoring her, but she ignores the cues and keeps talking. [ED. NOTE: I almost just typed "stalking" — Freudian slip.]

Meanwhile, there's a 15- or 16-year-old girl on the other side of me yelling to her friend, who is somehow a row of people behind us. "Do you guys want to stand together?" I ask, sliding aside a few inches to let the friend through. "Really? Oh my God, that is so nice of you! Thank you so much!" They are so ridiculously grateful for this small act of kindness that I feel like I just handed them both a winning Powerball ticket.

But then this bitch has to ruin it. "Hey! Why are you letting them in front of you? I thought we weren't gonna do that!"

We? Who is this "we" you speak of, you hag?

The friends are looking back at us with strange expressions now, so I lean forward and whisper, "It's ok. I don't even know who she is."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh my God, we thought she knew you! That's so weird."

You're telling me, kid.

The show still hasn't started yet when I notice a little Indian-looking girl with braces standing next to an older man who appears to be her father, a little behind me to the right. She looks about 13 and is about 5'3". She's standing on tiptoe to see the stage. "Can you see from there?" I ask her. "Do you want to move up?" She lights up like I just told her she's going to Disneyworld and turns to her dad, all excited, to see if it's ok. "I'll take good care of her," I promise, and move aside to let her through. She keeps repeating, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" and she looks so happy, I feel like I've been given the Nobel Peace Prize.

So of course, this witch next to me has to ruin it again. "What are you doing?" she scolds me. Then she says to the little kid, "It's a good thing you're short!" What the fuck, lady? She's like, 12! I'm practically cocooning this poor child with my own body to keep my promise to her father, and I whisper to her, too, "It's ok, just ignore her." The two friends look back at us and snicker knowingly.

And again, after all this shit, she then asks me to hold her spot for her while she goes to the ladies room.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The place has gotten much more crowded and I think, there is no way she's gonna find her way back up here if she leaves, so I say, "Sure! No problem," and wave her away.

Thank God. Problem solved.

But no.

Unbelievably, about 20 minutes later, right in the middle of Orianthi's set, I hear grumbling behind me and shouts of "Hey! What are you doing?" and I hear a familiar voice repeating, "Sorry! I'm up there with the girl in the hat!"

Oh, no. You did NOT just insinuate that I have any role in this fucking mess. "No, you are NOT!" I yell back at her. "You are NOT with me! I DO NOT FUCKING KNOW YOU!"

Amazingly, this does not deter her nor impede her determined advance. She actually gets right up next to me again, and PUTS HER FUCKING ARM AROUND ME, like we are fucking partners in crime, and says, completely fucking obliviously, "Hey! I'm back!"

Are you FUCKING kidding me?

I am furious. "Look, lady," I fume at her, "I don't know you. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS! I DO NOT KNOW YOU! And I know Adam is all about love and positivity and shit, but if you do not stop pushing me, I swear to God, I'm gonna start throwing punches."

I'm almost positive I heard someone applaud.

Thank you, Cleveland!

Good God, Someone Help Me...

This is not a "real" post but I feel the overwhelming need to share it with someone because it's like in that movie The Ring where the only way to save yourself is to get someone else to watch the video and pass it on to them and I'm pretty sure I need to do something like that because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I CAN NOT STOP WATCHING THIS:

Something So Outrageously Hot It Has Invaded My Very Soul

Please refer to this post while I take a moment to recover...

Good luck, and Godspeed.

Top 5 Reasons I Should Have Been Born A Gay Man

1. Adam Lambert
2. Johnny Weir
3. Daniel Vosovic
4. My obsession with Lady GaGa.
5. I really like sucking [expletive deleted].

Oh, and I am frequently outrageous and controversial, as illustrated in #5 above...

Fair Warning...

Just for the record, anyone who calls me a "freak-show" and expects me to be insulted by it obviously has no idea who they're dealing with...but good try, @1Kelly_Anne. Better luck next time.

I ♥ Twitter wars!

I Survived Glam Nation...Barely

I am way too exhausted to write up a full report right now, but I thought I'd at least show you what I looked like:

Glam Nation Transformation!

Lighten Up, It's Just Fashion!

T minus 44 hours, 45 minutes to GLAM-STRAVAGANZA! A small taste of what's to come:

Totally appropriate style of dress for a 36-year-old to be seen in public, no...?

Run Like A Girl

Last Saturday I ran the women-only Mini 10K in Central Park. At first I was confused as to why it was called a "Mini" 10K — were the miles somehow magically shorter than those in a regular 10K? It turns out, as a co-worker and fellow racer described and as the "History" section of the website confirms, to be "a much stranger and sadder story": Back in the '70s, when the idea for the race came into being, it was believed that women — being the fragile and delicate treasures that we are — were physically incapable of completing a full marathon, so they substituted this special all-female 10K just for us, and since it was the '70s and mini-skirts were in style, they named it "The Mini." Knowing this backstory, I think I would have preferred if it had instead had something to do with the Mini-Cooper, or midgets. I decided to just call it "The Lady Race."

I hadn't realized prior to the run what a draw it was. During the pre-race "festivities," which I was unable to observe due to my not-at-all publicly embarrassing "NON-COMPETITIVE/12-MINUTE MILE" corral being too far away from the stage, the voice from the loudspeaker welcomed former Olympians and marathon winners from places like San Francisco and Sweden and as far away as Kenya and New Zealand. Most notably, for me, was the announced presence of Paula Radcliffe, the New York Marathon winner from 2007. Back then, this picture:

...plastered not only in the sports section, but on the front pages of newspapers everywhere, filled me with such joy that to this day I still believe it represents all that is right with the world.

As tiring as it was (who knew Central Park West had so many damn hills??), it felt great to see so many bouncing ponytails ahead of me, to pass so many boyfriends and husbands cheering for their girls on the sidelines, to be a part of this crowd of ladies of all shapes and sizes and ages and races and speeds, all of us headed for the same finish line. Corny as it sounds, it was moving — literally and figuratively. And it was also kind of fun, whenever a male jogger just out for a regular run got a little too close and crossed our path, to point and yell "Hey! Get outta here, faker!"

However, I've mentioned in my previous running post, that I have no will power when it comes to matters of endurance and physical fitness. This time around, though, I was inspired to push myself a little harder — as illustrated by this internal monologue around the 4-mile mark: "Ok, once you pass that lamp post you can walk for the next 3 songs [was listening to my iPod]...ooh, wait — 'Just A Girl' just came on! This is symbolic! You have to keep running for this one...c'mon, you can make it; you’re almost there...lip-synch — it'll help you breathe...wow, why does this seem so tough? Maybe I can walk during the instrumental break...NO, damn it! You will not walk during the instrumental break! Stop being such a wuss! — Ok, ok, I'm sorry; I’ll finish the song...sheesh..."

And fittingly for this particular race, as I came breathlessly down the home stretch, my sister spotted me from the sidelines and ran alongside me, clapping and cheering, right up to the finish line. GIRL POWER!

* * *

I've often noted that I could really do without the sideline photographers littering the courses of practically every race I've ever run. Really, who wants a picture of themselves red-faced and sweaty and in an awkward position circulating around the web, unless they're a porn star? During my first official race back in March in Prospect Park, the finish line photographer snapped this iconic shot:

[Click for full-size awesomeness]

I was seriously considering ordering the commemorative plaque.

So this time around, specifically since it was "The Lady Race," I decided every time I passed the paparazzi not to give them the finger, as was my instinct, but to do the Lady GaGa eye and blow them a kiss. And for once, I'm actually kind of looking forward to the results.

Coincidentally, on the train ride home, a cute guy got on a few stops after me, noticeably carrying a Kermit The Frog stuffed animal. Fortunately, he sat near me, so I had the opportunity to lean over and ask, "I'm sorry, but I need to know — what's with Kermit?"

"Oh," he replied a bit sheepishly, "I passed this elementary school doing a fundraiser and they were selling them, and I couldn't resist."

Heart = melting.

He added, "But now I just look like that guy who carries weird stuff around."

"Hey," I reassured him, "Lady GaGa did it! That makes you cool to me."

Man, I wish I had got his number...

* * *

Yesterday, I ran the Corporate Challenge 3.5 mile race in Central Park. And I'm pretty sure a large portion of my co-workers are now wondering how an obviously insane person ever ended up being hired by a respected company like ours. Which I suppose is warranted, since one of the HR supervisors overheard a piece of conversation in which I was involved that began thusly: "So I was stalking Adam Lambert's brother on Twitter..."

But enough about Neil...

I was feeling pretty good, considering it was my second race in twice as many days. I even managed to pass a couple of co-workers. And then at about the 2 ½ mile mark, my foot started going numb.

I don't know why this happens, but I've experienced it several times before. It doesn't occur every time I run, but there doesn't seem to be any predictability to it. When it does pop up, I usually just try to grin and bear it. Because I am obviously a retarded masochist.

So I stopped along the sidelines and shook the foot out a little and loosened my shoe laces, hoping this would solve the problem as it occasionally has before. I did this 3 more times at regular intervals — no improvement. Finally I just gave up and took off the shoe. Miraculously, feeling finally began to creep back in. They say barefoot running is supposed to be good for your joints, so I kept my sock on and ran the last half a mile with only one shoe (using much more caution than usual to avoid the piles of horseshit that dotted the course).

Made it to the end and hopped over the finish line on one foot. Can't wait to see how this picture comes out.

UPDATE: Damn it, picture results from the Mini came in this morning — no GaGa eyes. Yet I do consider these an improvement over that last masterpiece:

[Click to embiggen. P.S.: Those facial expressions are laughter, not pain.]

UPDATE AGAIN: Anyone who may have doubted my artistic ability after this post, please compare the MS Paint representation of my hair to the real-life one in the photo above. I AM A GENIUS!!!

Artistic Vision

I feel like I've really captured the essence of fanatical desperation in this piece. And also my hair.

Behold:

[Click to embiggen]

Original image: Masterpiece

UPDATE: A friend on Twitter asked why I was wearing a dress, but he was naked. My explanation is that another psycho chick must have torn his clothes off.

Oh, and just to be clear: That's Neil Lambert. Striking resemblance, no...?

You Can Add The Prefix "Glam" To Anything And Make It Sound Fabulous/Retarded

Yesterday I came up with this analogy:

Glamberts : GlamNation :: Neilists : DamnNation

"Neilists," like "nihilists" — get it??

...ok, here:

(from merriam-webster.com)
Nihilism:
1a: a viewpoint that traditional values and beliefs are unfounded and that existence is senseless and useless
1b: a doctrine that denies any objective ground of truth and especially of moral truths
2: a doctrine or belief that conditions in the social organization are so bad as to make destruction desirable for its own sake independent of any constructive program or possibility

If you've ever happened to read his blog, NegativeNeil, you will understand immediately why both of these monikers are so appropriate.

"We believe in nothing, Lambert. Nothing!"

God Damn America.

Thank you, Cleveland!

We Are Glam-ily...

Got my early birthday present from my mom and my sister tonight:

I AM GOING TO SEE ADAM LAMBERT!!!

Passport to Glam Nation gets stamped June 23rd. I can not WAIT to put together an outfit for this!

Thank you, Cleveland!

UPDATE: Ticket says "16+". Thank goodness I just squeaked by there...

The Land Of Make-Believe

I have nothing to write about today.
So I got this cheesy survey off the Interwebz instead — enjoy!

How old do you think is too old to dress up for Halloween?
NEVER!

How old are you?
35 going on 12

Are you into scary or sexy costumes?
The "sexy" costume craze has gotten out of control. Last year I saw a "sexy" Canadian Mountie and a "sexy" Sherlock Holmes. Seriously, ladies?

Will you/Did you dress up this Halloween?
Yes, and yes.

How many times do you plan to wear your costume this year?
Uh, once...? Have they extended Halloween without telling me?

What is your costume name?
"AWESOME"

Describe your costume?
My last costume was Adam Lambert. He is indescribable.

Where will you be celebrating Halloween?
Where WON'T I be celebrating Halloween?!?

When was the last time you went trick-or-treating?
High school. I was taking my little sister around the neighborhood, but that was really just an excuse.

Have you ever entered a costume contest?
Psssht. My department won 4 company-wide contests in a row while I was at my last job. The year that I left, they didn't even enter.

How soon did you know what you wanted to dress up as this year?
I literally decided this Halloween what I was going to be next Halloween.

When did you get your costume?
Last year I started late — end of August.

Do you deck out with lots of accessories, or just what it came with?
Dude, the accessories make the costume! And my costumes don't "come with" anything — that's cheating.

How much did you spend total on your costume this year?
Oh man, the boots alone cost $50...

Have you ever made a home-made costume?
Ever? Are you kidding me? ALL my costumes are home-made, bitch!

If so, what was it?
In chronologically descending order:
* Adam Lambert
* Lara Croft: Womb Raider
* Tia Dalma from Pirates Of The Caribbean
* a Vegas showgirl
* pregnant Britney Spears
* Medusa
* a Geisha
* a Hindu Goddess
* dead Princess Di
* Kitana from Mortal Kombat
* Shelly from The Crow (this was part of a couples costume)
* a Manson girl (this was part of a group costume)

What is your favorite couples costume idea?
The year that The Crow came out, I was in college and every frat party had at least 16 guys dressed as the Crow. One of them was arguing with my boyfriend at the time that he had the more authentic costume because his had the necklace with Shelly's ring. My boyfriend goes, "Well, I have Shelly," as I turn the corner in my white nightgown and dead girl makeup, with a white rose and wearing my own ring. The guy's jaw drops and he goes, "Damn. You win." Then he got me a beer.

What is your favorite group costume idea?
A few years ago, my sister and her friends dressed up as the characters from Clue — really brilliant, detailed costumes — and they each had their own weapon — the rope, the candlestick, the lead pipe. I was so jealous.

Name one of your childhood costumes?
Oh God, they were always those cheap plastic ones with the masks you couldn't breathe through. I think once I was Holly Hobby.

Do your parents still dress up for Halloween?
I don't remember my parents ever dressing up for Halloween. Except that one time I lent my mom my Ranger jersey so she could wear sweatpants to work as a "hockey player."

Do you already know what you want to dress up as next year?
Duh.

Get A Damn Job

Via Twitter again:

negativeneil: I would rather pour salt in my urethra than write another cover letter. It's gotta be Kosher salt, though. I'm not a fucking maniac.

Have I mentioned that I love this man?

Cat Power

Text messages sent to my sister by my cat from inside his carrier while traveling by train to Long Island:

"i think im beimg kidnapped. i'm stuck in this fukken bag agan. always with this fukken bag."
"i wish i cud rome free with the wind in my hare like my feral forfathers."
"my ansestors ate yors, u kno."
"were chanjing at jamayka now. i thot it wud be warmer. this cold jamayka sux."
"do u think this bum wud share hiz beer with me if i aksed him?"
"rebecky sed i shud stop complaining becuz ther are lotz of cats out ther who r less forchunate then me. i think thats bulshit."
"shes letting me lissen to her ipod tho. who iz this adum lambert fag?"
"wud it kil her to play a littel foghat?"
"ok were heer now. cum pik us up. ill be the one in the bag waring the hedfones."

Late-Breaking Lame Claim To Fame: Volume IV

This just happened:

BeccaGo: @negativeneil Am I old enough for it to be creepy if I hit on you?
negativeneil: @BeccaGo yes you are

Boys and girls, that is Adam Lambert's brother personally shooting me down via Twitter.

Thank you, and good night!
[Special thanks to Dalia for coming to my defense during my absence.]

Long Live Rock 'N' Roll!

The Brooklyn Museum is huge.

At least, it's bigger than I expected. I feel like I'm wandering through a lavishly furnished labyrinth on my way to the "Who Shot Rock & Roll" photography exhibit. This is the Museum's current big draw, and it's a rainy Sunday during a holiday weekend, so of course it's crowded, and if you've read my previous museum post, you know how much I love crowds. There are also more kids running around than I expected. I can't imagine a rowdy 6-year-old is actually going to appreciate black and white photos of Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop, and thus begins that slow buildup of breeder-induced irritation I've lately become afflicted with.* Then I spot a Georgia O'Keeffe painting in one of the galleries I pass through.** This makes me smile. I take it as a good omen.

*As a former English major and an editor, I acknowledge the preposition ending this sentence, and I quote Winston Churchill on the topic: "That is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put!"

**Yeah, I know I did it again.

I eventually exit the maze and arrive at my destination to be greeted by a giant wall-size poster of David Lee Roth's face. Not exactly sure what kind of omen that is. The exhibit inside is arranged somewhat chronologically, so, unsurprisingly, the first subject is Elvis Presley. There's a video of one of his SHOCKING (tee hee) sexually charged performances of "Heartbreak Hotel" and — because I'm a feverish, worshipful fan who finds parallels everywhere (never mind one who has played the entire "For Your Entertainment" CD back-to-back so many times that I can now play the strings section from "Soaked" on my oft-neglected viola) — my instinctive response is: ADAM.

Yes, we've had this conversation before: I love Adam Lambert. Not "I'm-totally-getting-a-sex-change-just-to-make-out-with-you" love, more just "it-makes-me-happy-that-you-exist" love. Like the way I love Habitat For Humanity or Häagen-Dazs Five ice cream. Only much prettier to look at.***

***His brother Neil, on the other hand, is "I-want-to-abduct-you-and-handcuff-you-to-my-bed" love. Really — big words and unbridled sarcasm are such a turn-on...

So, this glittery alien vs. 'The King': both labeled "controversial," for their innovative musical styles as well as for oozing sexiness. Hordes of foaming-at-the-mouth girl fanatics: check and check. There's a photo in the gallery of Elvis kissing an anonymous (female) fan, pre-fame; I know you've all seen those SCANDALOUS (tee hee) pictures of pre-Idol Adam kissing (a boy) on the Interwebz (or The O'Reilly Factor). They even kind of look alike. Or maybe it's just the hair...

I admit, maybe I'm reaching — who knows if he'll end up being as revolutionary in retrospect? But the boy has undeniable talent and distinct star quality, and he's definitely got things all shook up.

Reading the didactic labels (yes, I just learned that phrase today) for each Elvis photo, and with Mr. Lambert still on the brain, a line jumps out at me: "his blend of charm and sexuality." As a writer, my first thought is, "Yes — nailed it!" A spot-on description so succinctly put, I almost want to clap. I mean, there are plenty of hot guys who wear eyeliner in the music industry (I'm looking at you, Dave Navarro and Billie Joe Armstrong) that I'm sure many find more attractive than Adam Lambert (Dear Glamberts: Please don't kill me), but what hooked me is he also seems to be just a charming and, in the words of Chelsea Handler, "very normal" guy. As in — and this is what I believe may set me apart from the majority of his female fans — I'd rather hug him than fuck him. Not that any of us chicks even have that chance, but you know what I'm saying. And as I've stated before, I sometimes wish the Lamberts would adopt me, you know, just so we could play board games and stuff.

I conclude my visit 3 hours later, standing mesmerized for a good 15 to 20 minutes in front of the video for David Bowie's "Life On Mars."

I just can't get enough of guys wearing eye makeup.

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. ;)

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