Checking links from and stumbling upon one from 2001, a homo you waited to link to who blogged obtusely about his day-to-day activities, painting in broad strokes with colorful turns of phrase. Shameful. Everyone can write like him if they try hard enough. A movie reference, a Google for the right music reference, pictures of beefcake from a golden era, an album cover. A couple of emails from him and questions raised as to whether he was just a link-whore looking to be linked, as he had you in his for a period of 3 months and then you were declassified. The silence stretched as you didn’t have anything to say to a guy who worked out a lot, and quite a popular blog with the gay boys who loved pecs, delts, and a clever zinger. He seemed to know something about punk rock yet nobody you knew knew who he was. You waited and found his actions suspicious only to be confirmed years after, in the past, but today with an left-field slur about you from a New York muscle mary you’ve never met. Thank you very much for November. Bully for you. I couldn’t link to you then nor will I do it now. Pouting at your age?

The nightly heat has started to take it’s toll on me. I sit as still as I can as beads of sweat cascade from my brow and collect in various places until they can’t hold any more. I read the news of rockets and over-reaction and get sick to my stomach. “Has the whole world gone mad?” I ask myself. The loud voice in my head laughs and answers me back with a question, “What do you think?”

I move on to chat in pidgin German and French with friends overseas thanks to my handy translation widget courtesy of Steve Jobs. I muster up an erection several times to have it deflated by questions concerning my country’s leadership. I deny knowledge of said leadership and it comes across loud and clear. I jerk-off into my jockstrap.

Earlier, I shared alcohol with wonderful company and talked over sushi. I’d never been to Martini’s Over 4th, which overlooks the twinky bathhouse where 20-somethings spin out of control on methamphetamine. You take an elevator to the drinkery and emerge into the bar filled with rather excitable, gay men with mustaches. They must be back in style or they are all stuck in time. I meet Kris and his two straight friends and get caught up to their one martini. I don’t drink martinis but when in Rome as they say. I get Kris‘ CD and a stack of postcards from the first Buzzcock show I lent my illustration talents to drum up their best attendance. It’s fun and the lady singing is a sassy, middle aged woman that fags seem to love. After their second and my first drink arrive, I suggest sushi and we go around the block to Kozumi – the best place in the city for sushi. Drinks are on Kris’ good friends.

Usually it’s packed, but tonight it’s without many people and we get seated immediately. Just buzzed and not drunk we laugh and chatter over sushi, forgetting mostly about people who are less fortunate. The food is as good as expected and I am thanked for such a suggestion. The little man in my head licks his finger and strikes the air in some imaginary tallying of points. I sober up on a plate full of goodness – Unagi, Ebi, Aji, Kani, Maguro, Saba – and wash it all down with a refreshing iced green tea. As promised, Kris pays for my dinner, and we walk his friends to the corner. They are full of good food and need some rest. We wave good-bye, and ponder a place for a beer.

being in North Park, we decide that the Brass Rail is where we will go. I don’t understand why they charge a $10 cover but we pay it anyway. The place is a tragedy. Kris buys me a beer and entertains me over the loud sounds of hip hop. I feel out of place in my tartan bondage pants and studded vest full of bands I hold dear, but where else can you get a black drag queen to give you beads and a bottle opener courtesy of Budweiser, the lame of beers? Definitely, not my place to hang out.

We finish up after we are wobbly again and walk out into the sultry night air. I feel sprinkles on my face. It lightly rains, but being Pride weekend, people either don’t care or welcome it as a sign that the weather is about to get cooler. Kris has to perform at Pride and I have to return some Dickwadd porno before I get charged late fees, so we hug good-bye and make tentative plans for the weekend.

I try, in vain, to ascend into the parking garage to obtain my car. The attendant informs me I have to go down the steep ramp and get down that way because they lock the doors at night to keep the bums out. The car radio informs me that Lance Bass is gay. He’s a hero and some other silly hyperbole thrown in the mix. Finding out Lance Bass is gay is like Boy George coming out. I still don’t get how he is brave after he’s made millions. He’s not my hero.

I toss my jockstrap onto the floor and crawl into my sheets.

I got my sketch pad out and sat in a comfy chair, kicked off my Chuck All-Stars and put my socked feet up on my ottoman, picked up my pencil and before I could even put a line on the paper – I passed out! For several hours!

Next thing I know, it’s midnight, the back of my head is all sweaty, I haven’t done a thing, and I’m being physically shaken awake. What the hell?

You’d think the last couple of weeks have been hard on me or something. This weekend, all I’m doing is art related stuff – I’ve got 8 comic book pages to ink in, a commission to start laying out, a t-shirt design to think about, and a possible scooter club logo to imagine and possibly start!

I’d really like to clean my room, pick up my clothes and sneakers and put stuff away and do a little vacuuming. We’ll see what gets worked on… and this constant heat without air conditioning is making it hard to focus on anything but closing my eyes and drifting off to a place where all my dreams really do come true.

Since I’ve been asked by the guys who do the monthly queer punk and skinhead party to start handing over monthly illustrations for their posters and promo material in a solid step toward branding the hootenanny (after this month’s very successful turn-out!), It looks like I might be flown out and put up for a few days in the beginning of August (the 4th?) for the next one.

The next few days, I’ll be hashing out the details of my duty/duties at the shindig, which I think includes autographing posters (see the one below) and plenty of glad-handling (or is it man-handling?) and living out my unfulfilled rock star, jet-set daydreams.

Polish up them boots ‘cuz I wanna see you and your crew there!

http://www.buzzcocknyc.com/

Stay tuned…

It’s hot and the oppressive feeling that the weather brings hardly makes it worth doing much of anything. Drinking beer cools you down for a little bit, but you have to get up and piss after every beer.

This isn’t a problem really. After beer number 3, it becomes way too much fun to hit the toilet. The feeling of a long, clear rush of urine shooting out the tip of your dick is a great sensation if you are a piss pig, like me. I brace myself, left hand up against the gaudy wallpaper the landlady put up that looks like some grandmother exploded all over the walls. I’m overcome by the hot musky scent of somebody who was here before me. It lingers and I inhale as I pour out the contents of my bladder.

It’s me that stinks like that. Of sex and sweat and summer heat. My dick thickens in my hand as the seemingly never-ending stream arcs higher. I dribble out over my hand that holds my cock and use the liquid as lubrication to stroke myself drunkenly, breathing in more of my perfect pit.

I decide I need another beer to recycle. Maybe I’ll get myself completely wet and lay myself down so I can launch my next hot stream up and then down into my mouth, I think.

This could be a long night of self-pleasure.

This is an old, old post from my old blog, but it still rings true. I recently got trolled on Yahoo and if the guy had the decency to make himself known, I’d break his face into 1000 little pieces. Enjoy your classroom setting, you jerk!
If you don’t go to punk or ska music venues, you enjoy Whitney Houston or techno-disco, a fun night out includes your season tickets to the opera, the back half of your closet is filled with leather clothing, you mince about, use words like “Sir”, work in investment funds or are a doctor or whatever and make serious bank to afford to throw dinner parties for you and your über-fags, or you think a night out with the boys is down at the gay bar – YOU AREN’T A SKINHEAD! There is no such thing as a “leather skin” or a “rubber skin” either. What the fuck is that?! You made that up! It sounds like you need to invest in some sort of skin cream.

Stiff Little Fingers and The Cramps are not something you get from fisting too much. The Clash is a band too, but it’s also what happens visually when I see you in a flight jacket and your boots laced up all retarded. Prince Buster isn’t a genital piercing. Symarip isn’t a brand of poppers. Doctor Ring-Ding isn’t the guy down at the clinic. The Slackers aren’t the kids down the corner who yell “fag” at you when you walk by. LGB doesn’t stand for Lesbian, Gay and Bi. Ska is not a sexual position, but as the song says, you are a stereotype. The only pit you’d ever be in is your “Daddy’s” and skanking isn’t about having liberal sexual morals. Hari Krishna‘s, people with bad lice, and cancer patients have more in common with you than you do with skinheads. Most of all, being a skinhead isn’t a “state of mind” you rotten, little queen. What kind of hippy, clap-trap is that?

So stop that shit already! You’re embarrassing yourself. Anyone can go out and get a decent pair of boots, throw on a Fred Perry and put on a flight jacket, hike up their jeans, but if you can’t even talk the talk how will you ever be expected to walk the walk? Go to an actual punk bar instead of the “skinhead and punk themed fetish night” with you and your “skinhead” dress up doll friends… I double-dog dare ya!

Let me put it another way. Remember in college or high school and some guy found out you liked guys and he wanted to “experiment” with you? Remember how annoyed you got with being his guinea pig? That’s how annoyed I get when I see some dumb-ass gay guy who has enough brains to go online and learn how to make a pair of bleachers, but not enough to know that putting on the gear isn’t an alternate substitute for his leather costume or the one at the cleaners that he wore to the Black Party. It’s one thing to be kinky and a pervert but it’s an entirely different thing to be a ignorant, shallow, insulting grab-ass.

I’ve made it a point to stuff some business cards in my wallet with the purposes of handing them out to guys who may or may not be interested in my work, posing for me, or to get to make out with them (depending on them, of course).

Yesterday I spied a really damned adorable punk with blue eyes, long lashes, fuzzy little mohawk and lip piercings. I handed him my card with hopes he’d drop me a line, but I’m not expecting much. His hands were full of IKEA purchases and probably lost it, but at least I’m getting braver about it. Never miss an opportunity. This has to be my new motto going forward.

The worst a guy can say is “no” but if they say “yes” – they could end up with their very own portrait for free.

In other news, I sold 2 pieces this week which makes me a damned happy man. Massimmo (a portrait!) and Recycling are finding a home in Toronto, Canada.