Stream of Consciousness Blogging: Kylie!!!

It has been a whole week since I went to the Kylie Minogue concert and I haven't mentioned a word to you about it!   First of all, it was the gayest event I've ever attended short of gay pride celebrations---yes, even gayer, way gayer that the Ricky Martin concert.  As I took in all the scenery around me, I was once again struck by all of the different brands of gay there are.  There's me.  I'm a pretty mild mannered, conservative brand of gay, as are the two friends I went with.  At one point, I was standing in line for some beer, and a girl behind me told me I was so cuuuute, and then asked me if I was an accountant.  That paints a picture for you, now doesn't it?  I also went with Pumpkin Delight, who, while not gay, she did fit in with the mild mannered, conservative portion of the crowd.  Then there were the "dressy" gays, the ones who wore things out of the main stream, things like feathers or sparkly things or hot pants and such.  The tattooed, bad boy look also made its appearance, along with the buff, gym rat gays.  And then, who could forget the ones that I refer to in my mind as the PDA gays?  They're the ones who, since they're in a huge crowd of other homos, decide that they might as well make out and grope each other, presumably because they aren't afraid that they will get their faces smashed in.  No, actually, I'm sure it's because they are just horny boys.  And horny boys will be horny boys.  At one point during the concert, three particularly horny ones (who were directly behind our dear Pumpkin) decided it would be fun to participate in a certain act.  Yes.  You know which one I mean.   Now, the bench seating at the Hollywood Bowl isn't exactly spacious, and they kept bumping into Pumpkin.  Poor Pumpkin was just trying to enjoy Kylie (whom I haven't even mentioned yet, I know, but I will, since this post is after all dedicated to her, the Goddess of Pop).  Pumpkin was just trying to enjoy Kylie, so she wasn't paying much attention to what was going on behind her.  She just kept moving farther to the side, and looking at me like "ohmygodwhydotheykeepbumpingintomecan'ttheyjuststayintheirownspace".  

Finally, she did turn around a bit and said, "Boys!  Boys!  I know you're having fun, but you're bumping into me!"  Little did she know how much fun they were really having!  Fortunately, they stopped pretty soon after that and two of them left, and then everyone was able to focus on she who is sheer perfection, Kylie Minogue.  She was fantastic.  The set was pretty much breathtaking, the costumes were extravagant, and the music was so much fun.  She sang it all, live, unlike a certain other entertainer that I saw in concert a couple years back, who has been dubbed the Queen of Pop.  

Well, Goddess surpasses Queen, let me just tell you.

A Discussion About Eyebrows

Shall we talk about eyebrows?  Okay, let's.

The day before the Ricky Martin concert, I was trimming my eyebrows with the new trimmer I recently purchased.  At first, it worked well, but as the battery drained it didn't seem to do the job as efficiently as before.    So, using a substandard tool, I attempted to cut down the unruly, wiry eyebrow hairs while, at the same time, keep from trimming the whole eyebrow down too low and short.  At the most critical moment, Giancarlo absentmindedly turned off the bathroom light.  As a result, I managed to mow a huge chunk right out of the center of my right eyebrow.  What was Ricky going to think?!  Surely he would see my maimed brow and think again about coming home with us.

This episode got me to thinking about eyebrows.  It is a known fact that as men grow older, their eyebrows become more and more rebellious.  Left unchecked, they very easily can get way out of hand, even for the most conscientious eyebrow groomer.

However, if you are a man who has absolutely no self-awareness, and who most likely doesn't own a mirror, your brows will very easily turn into this atrocity:

As I illustrated in the first photograph, dealing with this issue can clearly get out of hand.  Lately I have seen some pretty extreme male eyebrow fashioning:

This, of course, is nothing compared to some of the extreme measures taken by women who are trying to alter improve fix disfigure change their eyebrows:

Beauty, however, is highly subjective and very much in the eye of the beholder.  My eyebrows are far from perfect.  He who hath perfect eyebrows, let him cast the first stone.

Speaking of perfect eyebrows, I found a couple pairs that I consider to be pretty much perfect:

Male:

Female:

So now you tell me.  What do you think about eyebrows and the care or lack of care thereof?

My STAR Smile

This is what I look like this week.  Minus the shiny red lip gloss.  Minus the make-up.  Minus the longer hair. Minus the bulging veins behind my eyes and in front of my hairline.  Minus the pointy nose.  Minus the huge mouth. Minus the wrinkles.  

Yep.  This what my fake, being-forced-to-administer-standardized-tests-to-seven-year-olds face looks like.

And that's all I'm sayin'.

Pumpkin Delight is putting it all into words for me this year.

This is the Hotel Where Jason Stayed

This is the hotel where Jason stayed.

This is the room with a comfy bed inside the hotel next to the theater where Jason stayed.

This is the theater next to the hotel with a room with a comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is the view of the theater rooftop from the window of the room with a comfy bed in the hotel where Jason stayed.

This is the view of a fancy celebrity-laden party behind the theater from the window of the room with a comfy bed in the hotel where Jason stayed.

 This is the view of the tour buses that carried Ricky and his people to the theater from the window of the room with a comfy bed in the hotel where Jason stayed.

This is Jason outside the theater in which Ricky was soon to perform that stood next to the hotel with the comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is Jason in front of the screen inside the theater in which Ricky was soon to perform that stood next to the hotel with the comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is Ricky performing on the stage inside the theater next to the hotel with a room with a comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is Ricky dancing on the stage inside the theater next to the hotel with room with the comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is the part where Ricky wore an open shirt on the on the stage inside the theater next to the hotel with the room with the comfy bed where Jason stayed.

This is the theater carpet upon which Jason fainted when it got to the part where Ricky wore an open shirt on the stage inside the theater next to the hotel with the room with a comfy bed where Jason stayed.

And, this is one of the many Latina grandmothers that also fainted on the theater carpet upon which Jason fainted when it got to the part where Ricky wore an open shirt on the stage inside the theater next to the hotel with the comfy bed where Jason stayed.

Dear Ricky Martin

Dear Ricky,

As you can see, our moment is finally going to arrive.  After all of these years, we will at last be together.  Ever since Livin' la Vida Loca, I've had my eye on you.  From afar.  But nonetheless.

You're at the top of my list, you know.  My free pass list.  You have been for years.  And this Saturday I know that when our eyes meet--which they will--yours on stage, and mine sitting in Mezzanine Left Center, you will see what you have been missing.   And you'll see my handsome and faithful husband sitting right next to me.  When he realizes what is going on, a flash of recognition will cross his face, and he will murmur in my ear that it will be okay to bring you home.

I don't know how you'll arrange it with your people, but we'll pick you up outside in front right after the concert in a 2004 silver Dodge Grand Caravan with integrated child seats, that we affectionately call the Homobile.  We also call it the Grocery Getter and the Mormon Mover, although the latter is inaccurate.  It's just fun to say.  Try it, Ricky, say, "Mormon Mover."  Ah.  I digress.

We'll come back to the house.   I hope you won't mind two yappy dogs and a resonant old Mexican lady who will insist on telling you each and everything she watched on the news that day.   I hope you'll still be in the mood for an evening of enchantment and calisthenics.  I hope you don't mind night guards and retainers.  I hope you don't mind the possibility of a seven year old boy waking us up really early in the morning with a question like, "Isn't farting the best thing ever?" or demands like, "Please tell me what a nucleus is made of!  Is it another nucleus?"

Now Ricky, I just want you to know that I don't care for all of those tattoos all over your arms.  But I'm able to look past them, and adore you for who you really are, just as you have accepted you for who you really are, after all these years.  Oh, Ricky, I was so proud of you that day.  Reading those words, "I am a homosexual man," on your website was like finally being told after all these years that large blocks of cheddar cheese every evening is actually good for my cholesterol.  Or something like that.

I'll not keep you any longer, I know you're in Los Angeles as we speak, making talk show appearances and rehearsing for your concert.  But know this:  In case you don't spot me right off the bat, I'll be the middle aged gay white man wearing ironed jeans and a nice button down shirt.

Love, your biggest fan,

Jason

Our Father HORT in Heaven

For the first ten years of my life, I heard my dad begin his prayers by saying, "Our Father HORT in heaven."

I idly wondered what HORT meant.  I had heard people say "Our Father who art in heaven," which I understood.  But at my young age I didn't make the connection that HORT actually meant who art, not even given the fact that he grew up in southern Idaho. (Aside:  In southern Idaho, people often get their short a sound confused with their short o sound.  For example, they pronounce the word fort as fart, Lord becomes Lard, and Mormon becomes Marmon.  Don't ask me why.)

One Saturday morning over our typical pancakes, fried eggs, Sizzlean, and cherry Kool-Aid breakfast, I asked my dad, "Dad, what does HORT mean?"

He looked at my sideways.  "What do you mean, HORT?"

"You know, when you pray, you say 'our Father HORT in heaven.'  What does it mean?" I pressed.

He banged his fist down on the table and groaned loudly.  Red Kool-Aid sloshed out of his glass.  He thought I was making fun of him.

"Why is it that you always have to question my auth-ARE-ity?!?" he yelled.  Then he smacked me up side the head.  I think it was at that moment in time that I started hating breakfast.  Especially pancake breakfast.

He sure showed me not to ask fresh questions, didn't he?

Lessons from GAGA!

I want your love and I want your revenge.

I want your psycho, your vertical stick.

Can't you read my poker face?

Can't believe my eyes, so many women without a flaw.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen.

We're bluffin with our muffin.

No matter gay, straight, bi, or transgendered life.

My mama told me when I was young we were all born super stars.

We're on the right track, baby, we were born this way.

That boy is a monster!

Click here for an actual account of the evening's festivities.