Great moments in anal sex (part one)

Tonight, I was watching a film (I like to distinguish a serious film from the simple diversions of the average movie) called "Double Pleasure."

It wasn't about twins or a certain brand of chewing gum; rather it centered on the art of double penetration. I use the word art because it takes a true Michelangelo (I hear he was an eager bottom, too) to circumvent the science of the rectum and take two sizable cocks in his hole. Practice makes perfect in this field — whether it be a pair of dildos or a greased traffic cone.

Brent Corrigan starred in one of the most famed double dickings in gay cinematic history in "Schoolboy Crush," but the artists in this case come from Eastern Europe. This Eurocreme collection gathers some of the best DP scenes from its excellent series of clean-cut yet hardcore gay Euro sluts from such films as "Raw Edge," "Raw Rescue," "Raw Heroes" and "Raw Courage." You get the idea, but the last two make me think of an Adult Video News televised special ... "Tonight, we present profiles in raw courage. These heroes, when faced with the reality of large, beautiful penises, find the inner strength to bend over and take every inch."

Well, after watching "Double Pleasure," I have to say that cops and firefighters have nothing on these cock-hungry bottoms (unless there are firemen out there who don't mind two hoses in them simultaneously). This movie showcases the bottom artists as inspiring role models who teach us to search out a moment of anal courage in our own lives.

When we face that decisive moment, here's hoping we can all stand up to that stately measure, bend over and double our pleasure.

Gone, baby gone

Was it the "pitchy vocals," song selection or the painful admission of her food phobias? Of course, the breakdown isn't available for reasons why a contestant is booted, but Alaina Whitaker had more to cry about Thursday night than the juice from her green beans touching her dinner role.

I thought the twangy teen blonde — Carrie Underwood the Sequel — who ended up a weeping mess after being booted wasn't all that bad, in comparison to some of the other top 20 (not the greatest of all time, as Ryan keeps asserting). The other one to go was Alexandrea Lushington. I'm glad rocker Amanda Overmyer managed to escape an early death over that horrid Wednesday performance. I expect her to come back fighting next week, though the choice of songs may not do her any favors (she really shines in the Janis-Doors-CCR Summer of Debauchery-era songs). After '60s week and '70s week, I am going to presume next week will be '80s week and the contestants will butcher some Prince and Madonna songs.

On the men's side, I wasn't shedding any tears over Jason "Blond Streak" Yeager and Robbie "I'm a Bad-Ass Rocker Because I wear a Bandana" Carrico. You could also take Chikezie and Luke Menard, too, who looked like Orlando Bloom's dark-haired brother doing a karaoke turn in a cheesy, sleazy pickup bar.

Let's face it, the men (and most of the women) are just elimination fodder for David Archuleta's march to world domination. I, for one, am ready to submit to my precocious singing overlord.

Imagine a brotherhood of men ("Idol" top 20)

Well, there are 20 people left in the competition, but as the astute Mr. Cowell pointed out on Tuesday's night show, there's David (that would be Archuleta, not Cook or Hernandez) and then there are the other 19, who are looking more like also-rans with each passing week.

Did you notice how Ryan, the judges and the advertisements cut back on the "most talented top 24 ever" braggadocio after last week's disaster? If the men's performances are any indication, viewers should be able to sue for false advertising. Jason Yeager? Chikezie (no longer Ezie)? Luke Menard? Robbie Carrico? Were there really this many bad male singers in the competition last year? If so, I've managed to block it out. But I'm pretty sure there have never been so many bad haircuts in one season, and that's counting all of Sanjaya's from last season. So long, Garrett Haley, you'll haunt me in some nightmare years hence, but never shall we hear your insipid vocal delivery again.

Tuesday's show consisted of one great performance, a couple of decent turns and a whole lot of mediocrity. Dreadlocked Jason Castro proved an interesting contrast to the bombast of the average "Idol" contestant last week, but his sweet busker with a guitar schtick is proving to have a short shelf life (shock us next week with a Nine Inch Nails song or a crew cut). Michael Johns coasts on his charm and biceps, doing his vocal chords no favor with a subpar Fleetwood Mac cover.

The two who improved from last week were Danny Noriega and David Hernandez. Danny, as those who saw his diva neck-snapping take on "Jailhouse Rock" last week will remember, is gayer than a Saturday night at the baths. David H. is obviously not as fabulous, but his pre-song interview that revealed that he used to be a champion gymnast as a teen hinted at a Sunday morning at a truck stop glory hole. Personally, I'd rather see David H. do a floor routine (watch out for those sticky pools, dear), but his vocals were a'ight (in the eternal words of Randy Jackson) on "Papa Was a Rolling Stone."

Danny, meanwhile, atoned somewhat for the atrocities from last week by acknowledging his version of the Pressley classic was involuntary manslaughter, if not outright murder. His take on "Superstar," while sometimes shaky, was a big improvement — perhaps because it's easier to see him impersonating Karen Carpenter than Elvis Pressley. No word on if he also has an eating disorder, but if he comes dressed as the anorexic drummer during the Top 12, I'll call in and give the fag a vote.

The performance of the night again goes to our resident closet case. David Archuleta's take on the world's sweetest paean to atheism and socialism.

IMAGINE

This is one of the rare moments when I agreed with all the judges' comments — though only with Paula's assertion of his performance being a moving one; unlike Paula, I don't wish to suffocate David, decapitate him and hang his body parts from my rearview mirror. Oh dear, I think that was Coca-Cola cup talking.

Simon told the other contestants they had reason to worry, and I could imagine them in their seats, hoping in vain that David A. (that's for adorable) would suffer a relapse of vocal paralysis or that Paula would somehow make good on her threats of dismemberment and vehicle accessorizing.

The most interesting judge comment — and this is a shocker, dawg! — came from Randy. He asked why David chose not to sing the song's first verse. He began with the third one — "Imagine no possessions" and not the traditional Lennon opener, "Imagine there's no Heaven — and I have to say it was a bit jarring to hear it start there. I wish they had given more time for his song and less to the others' nonsense, but Randy had a point about pointing out this change.

Of course, Randy asked his question from a traditionalist's standpoint of following the lyrics, but the selection of that verse, and the omission of the two others, is very telling. David said the third verse was his favorite and offered a great message. Would this be in opposition to the first verse, which posits a godless world ...

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Can you imagine the controversy of a Mormon singing "Imagine there's no heaven"? Talk about losing the Wal-mart grandma vote. The song has such a pretty melody that God-fearing Americans overlook the fact that its lyrics are a veritable "Communist Manifesto." But the third verse about sharing and not letting people go hungry is certainly the most palatable of the buch. Of course, he has sung the full song before, but that was on some daytime talk show, not on the No. 1 show on television ...

IMAGINE, EARLY VERSION

Well, maybe I'm placing too much importance on the religious aspect of the lyric change; perhaps his Hollywood Week interpretation of Bryan Adams' "Heaven" had proven so successful he dare not envision a world where that song didn't exist.

It's also interesting that the judges are presenting David as a sort of inevitable choice this early in the season. It reminds me of the nascent stages of the Hillary Clinton campaign, when she was a dominating force and could do no wrong. The problem is that voters like their voices to matter — even if those voices matter for the worse — and so they may rebel when something is presented as the only route. I hope it doesn't go that way (will rocker nurse Amanda Overmeyer turn into his Obama?), but it does seem like David's team is running this like a campaign. The strategies are excellent, the jubilant stage chatter is on message, but somehow there's a bit of disingenuousness in his response to all this effusive praise. This kid has been performing for years; he can't be that shocked by a compliment (call it the Melinda Doolittle syndrome). He even seemed frightened for a moment when Ryan threatened to leave him on stage alone, but it was just coy, playful sexualized energy on Mr. Seacrest's part, as he quickly rushed back and found a way to put his hands on young David.

I guess I don't mind the campaign aspect of David's path toward victory; I guess you have to do what you have to do to win (I can't wait till this campaign goes dirty and he starts circulating pictures of Danny Noriega in drag; oops, I think Danny already did that). But how cool would it be for David to drop the tween/grandma-entreating façade for a moment, let his true self shine along with his talent and let America accept him for who he really is — a very good young gay singer?

Imagine there's no Midwest voters,

it isn't hard to do,

no one to call or text for you,

and no heterosexuals, too.

That's a brotherhood of men I could really get behind, if you know what I mean.

Oscar the Slouch

As host Jon Stewart noted — shortly before urging members of the Academy seated in the audience to indulge in a rare moment of self-congratulation — the looming awards show was a major impetus for getting Hollywood executives and the writers to come together earlier this month to hammer out a new contract. Ah, it's enough to make Norma Rae shed a tear (or at least two-time Oscar winner Sally Field).

And so a deal was forged, the show was saved and words of sparkling wit permeated Sunday's telecast. Well, maybe not. You would think it a perfect opportunity for a group of re-energized scribes to show off those highly valued skills, but we got the same canned banter we get year after year. The tired nature of the show was brought home on its 80th birthday by the extensive use of montage collections. Next up ... sound editing through the years! The best montage involved the use of binoculars and periscopes in cinema (if I had to choose one scene, I would go with Jodie Foster being hunted with night vision goggles in "The Silence of the Lambs"). I was expecting a montage of the previous montages to end the show, but I was let down (though seeing the Coen Brothers up there three times was its own sort of déjà vu).

Of course, we were told we should be grateful for what we got. The producers had only weeks to pull the show together. And they framed their hurried work in terms generally reserved for preparing a space shuttle for launch (I'd say this rocket went into orbit but some of its insulating foam has broken off). 

But then, I have always loved Oscar night since I was a young teen. Maybe it was the way it caused my father to explode in conservative indignation, the only equal to Barbra Streisand and Bill Clinton (both of whom were referenced on the show Sunday) in his liberal pantheon of rage. "It's a bunch of faggot cocksuckers giving each other awards," he would say. Well, that's actually the Adult Video News awards; I love those, too, though I dare say they doesn't require the same formality in dress.

With the Oscars, you have Jack Nicholson beaming from the front row, people in hideous outfits and celebrities handing out prizes to each other, and there's bound to be amusement, intentional or otherwise. Here's a look at the night's highlights and lowlights ...

THE HOST: Stewart was suave and entertaining — less annoying that David Letterman, Chris Rock or Billy Crystal in the role, if not as sophisticated and at ease as Steve Martin on the Oscar stage, nor as delightfully crude as Whoopi Goldberg. Stewart's métier is real news — wars, diplomacy, politics — not the faux news of E! Entertainment Television (Marion Cotillard upsets Julie Christie for Best Actress!). He made a couple of interesting political jokes, but his biggest laugh involved the comparison of Cate Blanchett to a vicious pit bull (I always saw her playing an Australian sheepdog myself).

BEST SPEECH: Tilda Swinton, for taking note of Oscar's buttocks. He's been doing a lot of work in the gym the past couple years to slim down (well, in truth, the Academy wanted to save a few bucks on the gold plating) and only Ms. Swinton drew attention to his posterior, comparing it to her agent's. This colleague might have been the butt of her joke, but she promised to pass on that statue to him, at least. Let's hope it goes nowhere near his own rear (remember, statues should not be used as dildos).

WORST SPEECH: Javier Bardem (who was awesome as a gay poet in "Before Night Falls" a few years back), who spent half of it addressing his mother in Spanish. This distinction goes to him not as a rebuke of his speaking in another language, but instead for making me realize that the only words I can remember from my high school Spanish classes are gato, baño and cerveza — though I'd rather not use all three together in a sentence. How do you say "deadly cattle airgun" in Español, Javier?

BEST PRESENTER: Steve Carrell, for recognizing the social gravity of the three best animated feature nominees.

WORST PRESENTER: Tom Hanks. Of course, they bring in "Forrest Gump" to introduce our troops, who handed out a documentary short film award to a film about lesbians — somewhat ironic for this entity. Don't ask, don't tell and, darling, don't wear fatigues on the Red Carpet. Even if it is just an old throw rug stained with Iraqi children's blood, the fashion faux pas is still a bit tacky.

BEST LINE: "That's the good part of getting old. I don't recommend the other." — Production designer Robert Boyle, responding to a standing ovation for his lifetime achievement award. At 98, he proved it may be no country for old men, but on the Academy stage, age has its benefits (though don't tell that to a scowling Ruby Dee).

WORST LINE: That groaner from Stewart comparing Harrison Ford and a car dealership. Truthfully, I find the average car dealership to have more personality.

BEST SONG PERFORMANCE: None. They all sucked balls, even that one by that nice Irish pair (Where's Bono and the Edge when you need them?). Why couldn't they have spent the time re-creating the rudely overlooked avant garde score from "There Will Be Blood"?

BIGGEST SNUB (AWARD): The Oscars lost all credibility the moment I found out that Sarah Silverman's groundbreaking "I'm F***ing Matt Damon" was omitted from the live short film category. I fear there's not much hope for Jimmy Kimmel's sequel, "I'm F***ing Ben Affleck," at next year's ceremony — unless he can remake it as a cartoon and campaign for it in the best animated short category.

BIGGEST SNUB (DEATH MONTAGE): Brad Renfro. The "Ghost World" actor was omitted from the role call of the recently departed. It wasn't the opiates. Heath Ledger was mixing more meds than an overworked pharmacist and he got the pimp obit spot at the end. But Brad was nowhere to be found. Official word from the Academy had it that he wasn't a big enough star. But the young actor deserved a spot alone for his conflicted strip tease at a gay bar in the revenge film "Bully."

BEST UNEXPECTED WIN: "The Bourne Ultimatum" taking three technical awards (editing, sound effects editing, sound mixing ... Yay! It can be part of next year's sound mixing winners montage!) It should have been up for some bigger awards, but at least it paid some recognition to a genre that rarely gets credit when done well. And it's rarely done as well as this. The next best thing to f***ing Matt Damon? Seeing him jump over rooftops while wearing a tank top (though sadly not the lamée top Ben Affleck was wearing in his short film).

BEST EXPECTED WIN: Daniel Day-Lewis crushing the competition in the Best Actor race. I was hoping for one moment the honorable thespian would hoist his statue, give thanks to the Academy and then tell the audience of more than one billion people (unfortunately only about 10 of those people have seen the wonderful "There Will Be Blood") that "this award is brought to you by McDonald's milkshakes! Chocolate, vanilla or strawberry, I'll drink your milkshake, so you better buy two at McDonald's. And don't forget the value meals. There will be bargains at McDonald's!" Alas, the noble Brit kept things high-brow and dedicated the award to family. Yawn. Why not dedicate it to Heath Ledger again? (Or better yet, show Brad Renfro some thespian love. Don't tell me you didn't study his work in "Bully" while preparing for your role in "Gangs of New York.")

BEST AWARD GIVEN TO AN ERSTWHILE EROTIC DANCER: Diablo Cody for "Juno," just edging out multiple winner Ethan Coen.

BEST GAY MOMENT: Jon Stewart offering the indelible image of two winners having their Oscar statues make out with each other (well, they have been working out lately ...). If only it could have been the sound mixing team, it could have been an orgy. Meanwhile, that lesbian film won best documentary short and "No Country for Old Men" producer Scott Rudin thanked his male partner (of the intimate kind, rather than the production end ... unless the Coen Brothers want to say something — and I'm pretty sure, if his comments on state are any indication, Ethan isn't talking, though I hear he gave a good table dance back in the day).

WORST GAY MOMENT: The Red Carpet. Need I say more?

Alexander the Great (poem)

This is a poem I wrote a long time back (maybe 10 years ago) and found in a pile of papers. I thought I'd type it up and post it.

Alexander the Great

From the Black Sea to the Red Sea
to all of Persia's seas,
his kingdom spread more rapidly
than the most infectious gay disease.
In Damascus and in Babylon
or in Athens back in Greece,
Alexander found that war
could bring him that elusive inner peace.

His father led an army
and his mother wore a crown.
Alexander wore rubies
in his satin dressing gown.
Aristotle taught the young man
of literature and of art.
and suddenly his little universe
was tearing him apart.

He said, "I want to see this great big world
and I want to make it mine.
Just like dear Bucephalus,
I'll tame it with my mind."
So he took his father's soldiers
and began claiming the planet's wealth,
Killing all dissenters
and the turmoil within himself.

He kept on routing kingdoms,
and the boundaries of his land grew.
He loved the pride of capturing
something dangerous and new.
And he understood the path to glory
must be littered wide with graves,
and he separated the nuclear families
and sold them off as slaves.

He found a woman to carry his son
for him and a man to lie at his side,
an army to conquer the world for him
and a few servants to keep him satisfied.
And he showed each of those soldiers
what leadership truly meant
as he ordered five lieutenants
to join him in his stately tent.

Yet, still he held his sword
in shame to be ignored
for all the people's love
he simply couldn't afford —
from the boys on the street
that he paid with silver coins
to those goddamn unwashed masses
he'd never be able to join.

And back at his sterile palace —
an oasis of ponds and trees —
he found a lonesome mate
to marry his blood and its disease.
Alexander of Macedonia wanted
to be loved more than to be great.
But now it's much too late as they lift
his body into that wooden crate.

Notes on a Candle

I went shopping today with a straight friend, which is akin to going to the mall with a grouchy accountant who hasn't paid retail for an article of clothing since his first job interview. Every time I tried to pick out something that was lovely — but was not necessarily practical — I got a disapproving look and often a stern rebuke. 

"Do you really need that?" he asked.

"Well, no," I admitted. But then an Asian candle shaped like a monkey is hardly something one ever requires as a purchase essential to his existence, though he may greatly covet it. "But I want it."

I was thinking it would look great on my book case, next to some painted oriental snuff bottles and a small Buddha figurine. I figured this waxy primate and that inanimate wise man could become good friends over time, but my buddy was having none of this.

"What the hell do you need this thing for?" he asked, picking up the monkey candle as we stood in an aisle of Target. At first he accused the poor primate of self-pleasure, though he wasn't spanking the monkey, as there was no "monkey" there (in other words, this candle was anatomically incorrect, sad as that is). "It's $4.99!" he said. I was about to comment on what a great deal that was, but it sounded like the price tag had already inspired a certain amount of outrage on his part.

The truth is ... I'm a candleaholic. When I'm downtown, I can't pass the Illuminations store without popping in to see what votives they have, whether they be meyer lemon, lychee or hyacinth. While pulling in a particularly good haul of pillar candles in scents such as Asian Pear and Provence Sorbet, a clerk at Cost Plus World Market once asked me, rather rhetorically at that, if I was a "candle guy."

It's not like men in the 16th Century had their masculinity questioned by the number of candles they owned. Back then, I'm sure the size of a man's candlestick collection was a measure of his power. But try telling that to a snide saleswoman while purchasing a set of sea-blue tealights redolent of a Mediterranean breeze. I'll have the last laugh when a major power outage hits and I have enough paraffin paraphernalia to keep my apartment looking like Stevie Nicks' coke den for the next three years.

You see, this monkey wasn't merely some decorative whim. He provides a purpose. I'd hate to disfigure this monkey, but if it came down to it, his skull would melt on lightless night. I was justifying him through practicality, but my straight friend managed to talk reason into me with some simple logic.

"You could get a margarita with the cost of that monkey." And he was right. Perhaps not a good margarita, made with a Grand Marnier float, but a decent happy hour cocktail could be purchased. He was using the only reasoning (alcohol before all else) that could get through to me in my crazed candle lust.

So I let the monkey be, as I continued to shop (though I did buy a couple candle sets with spring scents). As I filled my cart, he watched but didn't participate — as if shopping with a homosexual were some deviant rite that would lead to his emasculation. This point was driven home when we made a sojourn in the bath and beauty section. As I carefully checked the labels on spa products, creams, lotions and soaps, my friend stood by anxiously like a flasher in a schoolyard. "People are going to think I'm a pervert for being in this aisle. It's obvious I don't belong here," he confessed, as if his proximity to the Burt's Bees Almond Milk Beeswax hand creme belied his degeneracy ("Do the gays use that stuff for their sodomy," I imagined him wondering). I told him to check out the sponges and scrub brushes, but he said that would be even worse, and I had to grudgingly agree. He was being a pain in the ass, but he was keeping me more financially sensible.

Of course, the only reason this friend tagged along was because he wanted to go buy a TV at BestBuy (next door) and didn't have a car. He spent $800 on that HD flat screen, and though it was a nice television, all I could do was wax poetic in my mind all the way home about how many wonderful candles I could have bought for that enormous sum.

Gay singers: 'Idol' play things

"American Idol" is a show that has always had a conflicted relationship with the gays — like the curious straight guy who wanders into an adult-store glory hole booth excited and giddy and, 10 minutes later, rushes out quickly, silently, shamed.

No doubt a good percentage of the show's younger male viewers enjoy dual fantasies. One involves a large cock invading their throats. The other is even more masturbatory — a shower of confetti enveloping them in the season finale of the talent contest, their "I Make You Proud" anthem blaring; they tune in to pamper their often deluded faggot dreams of being stars and pump up the ratings.

But what has the show given back? Well, homophobic banter between Ryan and Simon; a parade of ridiculed homos in the audition rounds to be mocked by the average viewer; contestants who came out (Jim Verraros, RJ Helton, Anwar Robinson), but only after their seasons were off the air and they were rendered culturally and financially irrelevant; rumors still swirl about others who may have a measure of success left in them (Clay! Mario Vasquez).

But the last couple of seasons provoked a backlash from gay rights groups (particularly for the derision of contestants who would sound better if they were "singing in a dress" and the lame gay panic jokes between Simon and closet case Ryan), and the producers seem to have decided they have to do something to prove they're not hateful without alienating their core viewers: America's heartland families and tween girls who buy posters of these effeminate singing males.

It's interesting how that dynamic is playing out this season on the show. Past gay contestants said they were "encouraged" not to mention their sexual orientation on the air, and that rule seems to be in effect still. But, for the first time, there have been serious contenders who have left no question which team they play on (including jokes about being the family's "homecoming queen" and self-styled comparisons to lesbian talk show personalities).

Gay Elvis was in the house Tuesday night for the opening round for men.

Danny "Snap it girl!" Noriega — who, not so ironically, sang "Proud Mary" in his first audition — shows his fabulous sass after Simon ridicules his criminal performance of "Jailhouse Rock" ...

Jailhouse Rock

From bad to equally bad, it's Colton "self-confessed Ellen DeGeneres lookalike" Berry butchering "Suspicious Minds" ...

Suspicious Minds

On Thursday, results night, American voters showed a modicum of good taste (unseen since they elected Bill Clinton president) to send home Colton Berry, who will have to settle for an alternative occupation as an Ellen DeGeneres impersonator. Danny Noriega lives to mince another day.

But it's interesting that these two flamers (taking on such a masculine icon, no less) got so far; in years past, they wouldn't have gotten past Hollywood Week. But their purpose is twofold — they're PC cannon fodder (see results night), horribly mediocre and flamboyant ("Hey we put on the homos, and the people voted them off. We tried!") They'll prove their worth without breaking the Top 12. The second role they play is brilliant deflection for the talented closet queer of the bunch, David Archuleta.

I'm pretty convinced this dude is homosexual — from his youthfully diva take on "And I'm Telling You" to his first taste of music being a video of a "Les Miserables" performance to his musical references to his somewhat effeminate tendencies (more so when he gets excited) — but he's also talented and very marketable to that core audience. On top of this, he comes from a Mormon-Hispanic background (two groups not exactly known for joining pride marches). He may not even be out to those closest to him (or he play off some "confusion"), but it seems like his producers are worried enough about the mere perception, and handlers have gone into overdrive to secure his tenuous masculine footing — the same way they have in years past to protect the image of contestants of questionable orientation.

There's lots of talk on the Internet about David's orientation, and on several message boards I saw an "acquaintance" of the family was always quick to point out that he knew David, that he may come off as gay but that he's completely hetero, and homosexuality isn't a part of Mormonism (I went to send these people a copy of "Latter Days"). The tone of these postings suggests the uniformity of a PR campaign. Tuesday night's choice — if he indeed chose it — was a safe song (Smoky Robinson's "Shop Around") that talked about seeking love with girls, many girls (it's a defense for being a playa). I had the feeling he would have rather chosen a Streisand song if he had his own druthers. The most interesting part of the night is when Ryan took pains to point out that the girls love him (and he loves that the girls love him) even when they flirted like a painfully in love high school couple during the post-song chat. Ryan even found a way to get touchy-feely.

Shop Around

Interview

Some may wonder why I've spent so many words to ponder such an inert, trivial show (though it is trashy fun). But it is the most popular one on television and appeals to that odd crossover demographic of Kansas Wal-Mart families and young homosexuals. On more important scale, this season may be how the former learns more — and, by extension, reshapes or hardens any positions — about the latter. The impression that these gay contestants make could alter or confirm the way these heartland Republicans view gays (think of the effect on the zeitgeist from a couple of sympathetic characters in "Brokeback Mountain," and that was fiction).

I'm sure these heartland viewers can imagine Danny Noriega in a dog collar, being urinated on in a gay S&M dungeon (it's probably the first thing those perverts think of), but imagine how shocking, enlightening and mind-changing it could be for them to know that sweet, cute, talented little David Archuleta enjoys taking it up the ass.

Welcome to this blog, bitches

So I had a blog on MySpace like a good faggot. But unlike a proper MySpace homosexual, I was failing in my sacred duty to chronicle every dramatic moment of my day. I was remiss in not posting when I ran out of banana rum or every time I realized, painfully, that Josh Hartnett will probably never do gay porn.

Well, here I am at a new blog spot (it appears some homos aren't gay enough for MySpace). While I don't plan to have an emo outburst at the slightest provocation or disappointment, I have decided to post more. ... when I feel like it or I'm drunk and bored, of course.

So what should you expect? Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll: Same-sex sex only, of course; drugs should include alcoholic refreshments; and the rock will represent my interest in pop culture (more indie rock than hard rock, though rock hard is always acceptable). I intend to bring you humorous and oh-so insightful looks at culture and politics. I will also post my views on art (music, tv, book and movie reviews — mainly DVDs, because they're so much better than actually going to a theater, spending $10 and then not being allowed to mix a cocktail to deal with all the annoying bastards sitting around you, unwrapping their aluminum-foil covered snacks and breathing heavily during the intimate scenes). Finally, I will also include some works of fiction (poems and short stories) on occasion, and rarely will they be G-rated (so if you aren't interested in what rhymes with "fisted orifice," I would suggest picking up a copy of Robert Frost's collected works instead).

Enjoy reading this gay blog and let me know what you think (especially if you intend to rim my ass with your comments).