Archive for July, 2013

A Straight Man’s Guide To Gay Chicago

July 31st, 2013

CAUTION: I haven’t been to Chicago in five years. Also, I don’t really know the city that well. With that in mind, here we go.


MEETING PLACES: Wrigley Field, US Cellular Field, Soldier Field.

Wrigley Field is where the Chicago Cubs play their home games between April and September. US Cellular Field is where the Chicago White Sox play their home games between April and September. Soldier Field is where the Chicago Bears play their home games between September and December.


Men go to these places. A lot of men. The odds would dictate that some of them have to be gay. Be forewarned, as these are not gay meeting places but venues for sporting events.


DID YOU KNOW: There is nowhere in Chicago for gay men to watch sports between the months of January and April.


NIGHTLIFE: WGN is based out of Chicago. Stay in and watch WGN. If you seek companionship, start an online dating profile.  Skype with potential dates instead of actually meeting them.




WEATHER: Chicago is known as “The Windy City” for the strong gusts of wind that sweep in off Lake Michigan. It gets so windy that many residents put on bulk mass just to stay upright while walking down the street. Fans of the so-called “twink” body-type will be disappointed at the few-and-far-between slender gays who don’t waddle mid-stride. On the bright side, there are a lot of Chicago “bears”.


FOR HOOKUPS WITH STRANGERS: The Tribune Tower, home of the Chicago Tribune. This thirty-six floor building once held the empire of one of the largest newspapers in the country. Today it is an abandoned settlement with plenty of room for anonymous erotic escapades. Why, you can even get bent over a chair that Gene Siskel used to write film reviews in!


DINING: Kraft Foods is headquartered in a Chicago suburb. Some foods well known in the gay subculture are produced and manufactured by Kraft, including Capri Sun, Jell-O, Philadelphia Cream Cheese, Velveeta, and of course Kraft brand cheese and mayos. If you don’t want to go to the store, go to Kraft HQ.



Thank You, Elvis Presley

July 28th, 2013

Dear Elvis Presley,
I have been having a shitty weekend thus far, but I won’t spare you with the details. I have not had the kind of bad days that you had, King. I mean, my hot wife never left me for your karate instructor. Let’s not even get into the way you left this stupid green and grey rock.


I’m so glad that you, dear King of Rock ‘n Roll, had to lend your voice to some of the worst songs to ever be published. Because they are a hoot to listen to and really bring things into perspective.



That song somehow did not end up on the cutting room floor. They actually put that out as part of the soundtrack for your film Speedway. “He’s Your Uncle, Not Your Dad”. Even the title is so stupid.



Why did Elvis Presley have to sing “Old McDonald Had A Farm”? Why did they do this you, King? Was any performer’s career mismanaged more than yours?


Let’s put it like this. The album that had the Elvis version of “Old McDonald” came out the EXACT SAME DAY as Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band by the Beatles. Oh, Elvis. You poor bastard. They put the boots to you. But I gotta laugh because this shit is terrible and you actually went along with it. Even when you phone it in, you manage to give 75%.



Oh Elvis. Obviously you wanted to jump out of the copter, even if you were on a soundstage. You took it like a bunk bitch.

All Roads Lead To Nowhere

July 27th, 2013

It’s after four in the morning and I am depressed.


There is a famous quote by Carlos Castenada, that all paths lead nowhere. That some paths have heart and are good paths and others are not good but they all lead nowhere. I hate that quote. I want a path that will go somewhere. I hate that quote because I think it’s probably absolutely true and all roads really do lead to nowhere and everything leads to nothing. There are no real stepping stones that lead to a better thing. Doesn’t that sound terrible and empty? It should.


What separates us from the damn monkeys, sitting in the zoos scratching themselves and impotently flinging poo at gawking families? THE PATH! But if the path leads to nowhere, we might as well shit ourselves and pick scabies off each other. “No, you don’t get it. The journey is the destination.” Bullspit. I want a destination. I want it when I buy a bus ticket and I want it in life. Otherwise, what am I living for?


Don’t tell me that life is going to be what I make of it. I don’t need to hear that garbage. Maybe I should go back to being a Christian. At least they tell you there’s a destination: do good, be good, believe, think good, and pray, repent, etc, and you will have a place in Heaven. Now that’s something you can get behind. It’s no all-you-can-eat at Ryan’s Steakhouse but it more than Carlos Castenada ever has to offer. I hope he’s dead.


I just checked. Carlos Castaneda (now properly spelled) died in 1998. Good riddance, asshole.

Meet The Man Who Met Hulk Hogan

July 25th, 2013

Not every story can be told. Sometimes in order to get what you want, you have to cross a line you normally wouldn’t cross. How else then would you be able to get something you will never forget, like say a picture with the Hulkster.




In the 1980s, Hulk Hogan was a champion wrestler and TV star who led a nation of Hulkamaniacs by preaching his “demandments”. The demandments were simple: train, take your vitamins and say your prayers. Over the next few years, the Hulkster would add to this list two things: believe in yourself, and believe in Hulkamania. . . brother (the Hulkster said “brother” a lot).


As a people, we let Hulkamania down. I personally did not do those things most of the time. I haven’t prayed since the last time I had a panic attack on an airplane years ago. I haven’t taken a vitamin since. . . what year is this? Training? Are you kidding? Believe in myself? How is that even possible? I’ve been in therapy for years. If I could believe in myself I wouldn’t need therapy.


Oh, Hulkster. I let you down. More importantly, I let myself down. By failing to follow the demandments, I have become the antithesis of Hulkamania.


But there we were. Jon,  Young Mary and myself in a fancy Louisville hotel. We were in the presence of Hulkamania. And I felt the solemn power of the Hulkster as he shook my hand and called me “big dog”. I felt redeemed. I felt like I was capable of great things, like I did when I was a child. With renewed spirit and wide-eyed enthusiasm for the world around me, I could take it on and damn the torpedoes, brother!


My soul has been crusty with snark and sarcasm. I have written things about the Hulkster on this very website that were harsh and critical. Was I wrong? Is he a good person? I don’t know on either account. But much like the Batman, we must look at Hulk Hogan not for what he is but for what he represents. The ideal of Hulkamania is stronger than the back of the man who holds the name. He has failed many times, as any human will. Do you know who else wasn’t perfect? Martin Luther King, Jr., but do we really hold it against him?


I’m going to start believing in myself today. The Hulkster would want me to. Not for him. But for me. And for all the Hulkamaniacs out there.

Metal Box

July 17th, 2013

I am helping to kill the environment.


I live in a trailer. You may think of this as a sign of poverty and low culture. I like to think of it as a long, rectangular metal box that gets stupid hot in the summer and super cold in the winter.


Right now, it is stupid hot outside. My temperature gauge says it is 105 degrees. Inside it is 80 degrees. It would be far worse if it weren’t for my big amazing air conditioner that I keep on 23 1/2 hours a day, set at “penguin house” level. This is bad mojo for the environment.


If you want me to feel guilty about my role in stabbing Mother Nature in the ribs, Caesar-style. . . I confess to feeling guilty about it about on occasion. Then I start thinking about living with heatstroke in a tinderbox with temperatures up to the mid-90s, perhaps even greater. Then I think about the self-perpetuating cycle of abuse humanity heaps on the Earth that keeps us hotter and hotter every year. Then I consider that the thing I use to escape global warming is the thing that makes global warming worse. I admit that I’m conflicted at times.



House Of Cards On Cardboard Foundation

July 16th, 2013

I am deeply afraid.


July 19th.


I have spent months in preparation for July 19th. That is absolutely true. I got an e-mail from one of the Lebowski Fest organizers in April about performing this show in July. Since then I have rebuilt my repertoire from the ground up, and perform two shows. One was a phenomenal success, the other a complete and dismal failure.


I want to do well. Perhaps there is not a lot on the line. Fame and stardom do not await me if I do a great job. I just don’t want to fail and not on a big stage like that. I don’t want the heartbreak that comes with it. Heartbreak can occur on a small stage in a dive bar. So the fear shows up. Months of planning and for what? Wouldn’t it be stupid?


How stupid am I that I have been planning like an idiot for this show? Maybe I’m a fool. I feel like my little world can be destroyed by light winds, like a house of cards.


July 19th.


Another New Old Car Blues Again

July 13th, 2013

I finally did it. I killed the transmission on the Monte Carlo. Now it sits in my front yard waiting to be taken away, because I traded it in.


You may wonder how a ’95 with a dead transmission can possibly traded in for anything. Well, there is the matter of monthly payments on the new car, which is an old car. 1999 Lincoln Town Car. This is a very nice automobile, at least I think it is because I have yet to drive outside of Fordsville with it and I’ve had it for almost a week.



It has a sunroof! And air conditioning that works! Seriously, I’ve kept it at 60 degrees this whole time. It’s really great. It has a digital thing that tells you how many miles you have before you’re empty. People have been driving this type of car for DECADES! Isn’t that incredible?


This car is too good for me.

I am Hypocrite

July 10th, 2013

I am going to stop criticizing wrestling programs on this website. From now on, if I enjoy something I will write about it as a means to promote it.


I have only done this a few times. I’ve written about an angle on Impact, some things that tick me off about WWE, and reviewed the occasional Chikara show. There are two good reasons for me to not do this anymore.


1. TNA and WWE (the largest targets of my ire) wouldn’t listen to me anyway.

2. I am not in the wrestling business.


It’s not my place to really critique wrestling shows. I can tell you if I liked them or not or what I liked and didn’t like. I never had the gall to critique in-ring action, largely focusing my bile at the storylines leading to the matches.


I don’t like The Miz. I will never like The Miz, but I can’t do what he does in the ring. Likewise, I don’t have to deal with the pressure of producing weekly episodic content every week of the year. I have never been stuck in a room with an expectant Vince McMahon. Nor would I want to.


I came to this revelation after reading a stupid blog by a tedious little guy who wrote about country music. He loves country music and wants to save it. From what, I don’t know. But he’s not a musician. Not a songwriter. Not a performer. He doesn’t do anything but sit behind a keyboard and type his opinions, which he has the right to do. But he wants to save country music.


He’s a self-appointed guardian, protecting the shield of country music. Nobody asked him to, nobody even wants him to. If it were “Joe Schmoe’s Country Music Blog” no one would give a hoot, but since he’s put up the mantle of SAVING a genre of music he has garnered a following for his bully pulpit.


Country music doesn’t need to be saved any more than rock music or hip-hop or anything else. It’s music. It’s meant to be played and listened to. The people who push the narrative of SAVING music genres are usually the ones least qualified to do so.


So when I browsed through this guy’s country music blog, I thought “You fool, this is what you could be if you keep writing about wrestling”. I can stop watching or continue to watch and make fun of it when it’s terrible but it’s counterproductive for me to sit here and pretend I as one fan can have any effect of the creative operations of the largest wrestling promotion in North America and its’ distant runner-up.



Death Pool: Half Time

July 4th, 2013

We are at the half-way point in the year and it is time to recap the death pool.


I am not good at picking death. Of the twenty people I selected for my death pool, only three have kicked off in 2013. This puts me in thirteenth place with ninety-six points in group play. Meanwhile, first place has nine deaths and 353 points. I have little to no chance of capturing the first place spot by the end of the year, unless the following things happen.


1. Whitey Bulger is convicted of murder and commits suicide in his cell rather than receive the death penalty. Suicide is bonus points.

2. El DeBarge needs to relapse into heavy drug abuse and overdose. Shouldn’t be too hard, but you never know.

3. Gene Hackman breaks the world’s heart and dies. I get bonus points if that happens because I’m the only one who has him.

4. Cuba admits that Fidel Castro is dead.

I Should Do Drugs

July 3rd, 2013

I don’t know what my grandfather expects of me sometimes. He doesn’t like it when I yell and I try not to but sometimes I can’t help it.


You try sitting in a shitty car with no AC for two hours plus with an engine trying to die on you. Feel the hot sun beat on you as the vents put out sweltering air because you’re trying to keep the car from overheating. Hate life as the engine refuses to accelerate and you can’t go faster than 30 MPH up a hill while driving through the back roads to a recording session you’ll never make.


What am I supposed to do? Kill ’em with kindness? I need to yell, and I wasn’t even yelling at him. I was just frustrated. I really wanted to kill my car on that hilly road. I hoped that it would break down for good and catch on fire. When I got home I shook in anger. The car has lived long enough to make it to a nearby repair shop.


Car trouble is nothing new. But this is different. This is a shitty fucking car. This is the worst car I’ve ever had. I’m not cursed with bad luck. God is not opening his asshole to shit on me exclusively. I just own a horrible car that was horrible when I bought it.


He thinks if I’m yelling, I’m automatically yelling at him. Does he not get me? I just want the day to be over. My car is in the shop and it’s the 4th of July. Yelling at the top of my lungs is just a way to let off some steam. I’m trying to take back the power in my life and stop being a victim of the “me vs. everything” narrative that has kept me haunted by the past and I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.


I should be taking recreation drugs.