Tucker Carlson isn’t gay…he just likes to beat them up.

So yesterday, I said it getting caught soliciting sex in a public bathroom would be a terrible way to be outed. I spoke too soon. Because apparently, you could have solicited a teenage Tucker Carlson in a bathroom, who would have beat the shit out of you. Back in the mid-80s, the teenage Carlson was hit on in a men’s bathroom: “I went back with someone I knew and grabbed the guy by the — you know, and grabbed him, and …and… Hit him against the stall with his head, actually!”

MediaMatters has the transcript and a video.

Not to call Tucker Carlson a liar…ok, I will, because it just seems rather unlikely that in the mid-80s, at the height of the AIDS hysteria, that a man would have just “grabbed” him out of nowhere. The foot-tapping signal that got Craig busted has apparently been around for decades.

And leaving to get a friend and coming back to beat the guy up? It’s not self-defense at that point. It’s assault.

Then there’s the adamant denials of gayness from b0th Scarborough and Carlson at the beginning of the clip. Jesus. How pathetic. It’s like, god forbid you even say the word “gay” without first swearing up and down that you aren’t gay, will never be gay. Get over yourselves, men.

And the Clinton reference….it was how many years ago now? And you people STILL won’t let it die. Let. It. Go.

Finally, I have to say that what bothers me about this whole thing is that people are so squicked out by a guy touching their foot in a bathroom stall, but women have to put up with far, far worse routinely.  And it’s just part of the status-quo.

I’m not saying that I’m drop-dead gorgeous, but there are blocks in my neighborhood that I can’t walk down with two or three yahoos whistling at me.  Every day, there’s some dork honking at me as he drives by.

Instead of a cop assigned to sit for hours in an airport john,  why don’t they go after cat-callers?   At least they’d be a lot busier.

Neologism of the Day

Gaydenfreude

Pronunciation: 'gA-d^&n-"froi-d&
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French gai, of Germanic origin; akin to Old High German gAhi quick, sudden + German , Freude joy
1 : When your friend comes out to you and you’re think, dude, I knew you were gay five seconds after I first met you;

2 : The hand-rubbing, cackling glee felt upon news that a Republican politician, with a history of supporting anti-gay legislation has plead guilty to solicitation in a men’s airport restroom.

I mean, it’s really almost too much for me to handle. I’ve been practically orgasmic with schadenfreude for the past few days. I mean, getting picked up for solicitation is a terrible way to get outed, unless of course you are a hypocritical, sanctimonious asshole who has made a career out of oppressing the very population he vehemently disavows. So my sympathy is rather non-existent.

So, I am rather looking forward to watching him burn on the pyre of public opinion. Also, it’s rather hysterical that he expects people to apparently believe he was just asking that cop for some toilet paper.

Colonics for Dummies

(One of the neat things about WordPress is that you can see the search strings people use to find your blog. I’m a little scared of what this post will turn up, but what can you do?)

I may have previously mentioned that the Girl Roommate is a little crazy. Luckily, she’s crazy in an entertaining way, not anI-have-to-sleep-with-a-knife-under-my-pillow way.  A few days ago, we were both hanging around the apartment, watching TV, and she announces that she’s going to give herself a colonic.  Because “Ah’ve always wanted one, but Ah’m too cheap to go get one, so I got this stuff that my mom drank before her colonoscopy.”  Also, you can lose up to three pounds.

Yes.  I live with a girl whose life-long ambition, apparently, is to give her lower intestines that new fresh car smell.  I think my life has descended to new depths of absurdity.  I mean, not only does it sound gross and exceedingly uncomfortable, but I’m pretty sure the human digestive system, barring disease or physical damage, is actually quite efficient at expelling…waste.  But who knows?  Maybe she really needed that dime she swallowed back in 1987.

So, that’s how it came to pass that I was sitting on my couch, watching my roommate drink a bottle of cherry-flavored saline laxative.  And then get on the phone with her mom, because “Ah’m drinking this stuff, and Ah think it’s the right one but it doesn’t make me puke and you said it made you puke.  I could drink this all night!”

I love my mom, but one of the tacit rules underpinning our relationship is that THERE SHOULD BE NO DISCUSSING OF THE POOP! NO NONONOnononono! NO!

I went to bed while she was still on the couch, complacently flipping through Entertainment Weekly.  I didn’t want to witness the “poop party.”

Meat = the Indian Viagra

That’s not his granddaughter he’s holding…

The world’s oldest father, Indian farmer Nanu Ram Jogi says, “I eat all kinds of meat – rabbits, lamb, chicken and wild animals.”

Dude’s 90.   90.  My grandparents are younger than he is.

BARF.

On Writing and Mojo

I went to Starbucks again this morning  and got another 500 words out.  I won’t say how long it took me.  Except I got here at 9:30 and it is now past noon.  The ironic thing is that I started coming to the local Starbucks to write because I couldn’t get on the internet here (well that, and the Hot Barista Boy).  But now that we’re changing ISPs and we won’t have the new service until Tuesday, I signed up for a pay-as-you-go T-Mobile account to tide me over.  That…was a bad idea.

I’m fighting a mental war with myself to go back and edit what I have.  I am almost a third of the way to my word goal, but I know what I have is disjointed and inconsistent.  But that way lies madness.  I keep telling myself that.

(Sadly,  Hottie Barista Boy doesn’t work here anymore, as of two days ago.  Sadness.  Thought it is funny how totally deranged I sound when I talk to hot guys these days.

Hottie Barista Boy (HBB):  Hey, how’s it going?

Me: Uh.  Good.

HBB: I always see you working here.  What do you do?

Me: I, uh, I write.  Stuff.

HBB:  That’s cool.  So, it’s my last day here.

Me: Oh.  Uh.

HBB: Yeah, I’ll be working at Chase next door.

Me: Mmph. Uh.  I gotta go.

HBB: See you around.

Seriously.  It’s totally pathetic.   I think I need a mojo transpant.)

In Which Our Heroine Whines. A Lot.

Life is kind of sucking right now. I haven’t been writing or working on my novel very much this week.

I haven’t made it to the gym for the past week and a half. I tend to feel like shit when I don’t work out, but I haven’t been getting up in time to make it to the gym, and I hate going at night because it’s crowded and full of people and I HATE PEOPLE. Ok, not really, I just hate the ones who like to show off their packages in spandex shorts and weight belts and stand around getting in my sweaty way.

And I lost my cell phone last and even though I have a snazzy (read: expensive) alarm clock, the cell phone alarm did a better job of waking me up. The alarm on the replacement phone is suck-ass.

(And I think I’m still traumatized by spending roughly eleventy billion hours on hold with Sprint over the course of four days. Fucking customer service outsourcing. Rage.)

What else sucks now? Oh, my roommate hasn’t paid me yet for his share of this month’s astronomical utilities bill. Which will be taken out of my bank account oh, tomorrow. And I can’t exactly demand the money, because he hasn’t been paid yet for his new job and according to him, he has 60 cents in his checking account. Fucking AC. I hate AC. I don’t even use AC and I’m subsidizing my roommates’ use. UPDATE: Dude paid me. Just in time.

I’ve been overeating, too. Which makes me feel like crap. And then I eat some more.

Today, I found a rip in a favorite newish sweater. Of course I found the rip after I left the house.

I stubbed my two left pinky toes two days ago. There was a lot of blood. I’ll see if I can post a picture later. It’s still really owie.

I’ve been totally unproductive at work this week, too. When not dealing with totally annoying fucktards of co-workers.

And if I were a Together and Functional, Emotionally Healthy Person, I’d go eat some whole grains and tofu and go meditate on something or other. Do some yoga. But, I’m not. I’ll probably just go eat Haagen-Daz and read a trashy romance novel after work.

Just Call Me Auntie Em

Seriously? A tornado? In Brooklyn?

I woke up around 6:30 am to about an inch of water on my bedroom floor; water was pouring out of a leak under my windowsill.

My day didn’t get any better after that.  Though for once, I’m glad I don’t work in Manhattan.  Apparently it was complete chaos.

Anyway, I expect the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to gallop down Queens Boulevard any day now. It’s not called the Boulevard of Death for nothing, after all.

Da, mo-fo

Since yesterday Hell was visiting New York, I decided to go to the beach. I’m cheap, so I went to Brighton Beach instead of paying thirty bucks roundtrip to take the LIRR somewhere nicer. Actually, I kind of like Brighton Beach. It’s Little Odessa, and practically everything is Russian as soon as you get off the Q train. It’s rather surreal to me, who grew up going to picturesque New England beaches with sand dunes and clam shacks, to see apartment buildings opposite the beach. But I do like the fried stuffed dough things (I won’t even try the Anglo spelling here) you can buy for a dollar. Those are tasty.

Anyway, whenever I go to Brighton Beach by myself, someone mistakes me for Russian. I don’t know if this happens to other people. Actually, the first time was this weird old dude when I was waiting for the Q at Union Square.

Weird Old Guy: You look Russian.

Me: Uh. I’m not Russian.

Weird Old Guy: Where are you from?

Me: I’mgettingonthetrainnowstoptalkingtomenowbye.

Then later, at the beach, this group of people start pointing at something and jabbering away in what I assume is Russian. (Two guys and a girl, and incidentally, the girl had some of the hairiest calves I’ve seen on a XX carrier). I realize they are, in fact, talking to me.

Me: Pardon?

Looks of surprise all around, and what I can only assume is “She is not Russian?!” Turns out they were curious about my ipod shuffle. (Which I love, incidentally.) Apparently only one of the spoke (limited) English, so it was a very short conversation.

So yeah. Pass the vodka. I’m gonna go shake the family tree and see if any Russkies fall out.

Questions

We make chicken stock, beef stock, vegetable stock, fish stock…why not pork stock?

Holly Golightly — bipolar?

Is there a higher birthrate in certain months of the year?

Edit:

Ok, I should have googled before I wrote about pork stock.  I guess it does exist.  I just have personally never run across a recipe calling for it, or seen it in the supermarket.  Go figure.

Anyway, I thought of another question:  Why do I buy Vogue?  I lose my mind every few months or so and buy an issue, forgetting that

a) I think most haute-couture is ugly

b) not that I can afford to buy it anyway

c) I also don’t care about 19 year olds whose favorite store is Barneys

d) I have never even been to Barney’s

e) though I have been to their outlet store

f) not like I bought anything there, either

g) I am actually rather apalled by 19 year olds who shop exclusive at Barney’s and Screaming Mimi’s (whatever that is) and whose favorite brand is Chloé

h) I have no opinion whatsoever on Chloé

i) except that I can’t afford it

l) I also care about none of the following: the latest handbag trends in Cannes, new liposuction techniques, the new whatever,  the enfant terrible du jour of the fashion world, profiles of socialites and society matriarchs, or pictures of ugly outfits.

In other words, it is completely irrelevant to my life.  And yet I still buy it 3-4 times a year.