05/03
Friday, May 30, 2003



Sorry about being away so long. I'm really fucking sorry. Come on, come back here. I promise that things will get better. Now, let's see that pretty smile of yours. Aw. There we go. That's better.

So, what would you do if you had one week left to live? And by that I mean, what would I do if I had one week left to live. Well, I'd spend my savings mainlining heroin and being gang raped by high-priced 18-year-old escorts. Wee! But I wouldn't call friends and family to tell them good-bye, because that would be one lousy last week.

Or maybe I'd volunteer at a soup kitchen or AIDS hospice or something -- something that would look good on my resume at the gates of heaven.

bk





Thursday, May 15, 2003



A male flight attendant was recently arrested for lacing a crying baby's apple juice cup with xanax. Moral: we should all be so lucky. It's nice when strangers do something for the greater good (or pleasantly surprise you with juice and pills.) I can't believe that this misunderstood guy is now in custody. And you just know that the baby's mother was one of those thoughtless types who allows her kid to run around Safeway willy-nilly, letting it smear snot on your pant leg. I'm sure she just let the kid howl non-stop for the entire flight. Parents think that just because they have precious little gifts from God that they and their immediate surrounding are more important than yours. But it's the man with a prescription for xanax, actually, who towers above us all.

bk





Monday, May 5, 2003



We here at Cubby Control threw a smashing bash to unanimous praise. Well-prepared cakes and all, if you can handle it. But the best part of any party, though, is the time leading up to it: pre-party time. That's when I get to flutter about like Meryl Streep in The Hours (minus the tribal-dyke jewelry) making sure everything is in its exact fucking place. The smell of perfume in the air, the wringing of nervous hands, the lighting of 40-watt-or-dimmer lights -- what a rush. As a child, I used to love the getting-ready ritual my parents performed before a night on the town, drinks on a boat, key parties -- whatever they did during those days. Everything smelled so nice and adult, and the air was so clean from their showering and shaving. I remember loose make up floating in the air, and I watched closely. I think the best lesson I learned form my parents was how to appreciate luxury. (Notice: not "have luxury," but "appreciate" it. There's a world of difference there.) Parents who teach their children that sensation is bad and an over-priced dinner bourgeois should be killed, because they raiseboring, judgmental, communist adults.

But back to the party...

Someone put a fistful of confetti in my bed, which was rude. I woke up the next morning covered in shiny heart pieces, with several of them lodged in my ass crack. And who was playing with my dirty gym shorts? Ew.

And the gays got along... until the last hour or so. Heh. Towards the end of the night, they sharpened their claws on one another, which was fun to watch. John prevailed as the winner, sending the tweaked and unsure back into their corners. Like gay boxing, if that makes any sense.

And now I'm tired. Just tired. Won't someone help? I need to be taken out for a cocktail and a drink. Or a salt scrub. Why am I now always busy? And who's responsible for it?

Oh, and Happy Cinco de Mayo! Telemundo! Betty la Fea! Flautas!

bk