MOANING CLUB

Oh, what a morning

2006-12-14T05:03:00.000-08:00

Good Moaning babies,

Don't cry for me Pasadena...

It seemed too good to be true. And it was. It looks like we are going to lose the majority in the Senate due to South Dakota Sen. Tim Johnson's sudden and inexplicable stroke-like illness. Yes babies, the dude just dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes and was taken to George Washington University hospital for an emergency surgery.

You know what I think, babies? He was poisoned. Yes. I truly do believe that. There is nothing that these Republicans would not do to retain power. I bet George W. is doing his Church-lady dance right now at the Oval Office while whistling Yankee-doodle-dandy at the same time. If Sen. Johnson doesn't recover, a new senator will be appointed by the Republican, the evil evil Republican, governor of South Dakota. And he ain't about to appoint a liberal, I tell you.

Oh well, at least we still have the House... unless there's a sudden outbreak of salmonella that sends all the freshmen congresspersons to the same slaughterhouse that is currently butchering Sen. Johnson.

Oh, yeah, there is an article in the Chicago Sun Times that explains how circumcision reduces the chances of getting HIV. Call me crazy, but wouldn't it be better (and safer) to simply put a condom on? I remember Lowell telling me that he hated my foreskin and he would prefer it if I would get a circumcision. Yeah, sure, I will gladly hack off a nerve-packed chunk of my penis just so that some butthole will think my dick is pretty. My policy has always been: you love me, you love my dick... foreskin and all. If you want some other dick, then go find another boyfriend. As to the HIV epidemic, I have one thing to say: wear a condom, keep the foreskin.

Yes babies, the reason why parents want to mutilate their baby sons' tiny little penises is so that they won't have to deal with the uncomfortable task of showing them how to properly use a condom. And they don't want the schools to do it neither. No sir, no sex ed classes in this country. Instead we will remove our babies' foreskins and be done with the whole ugly thing. Hey daddy and mommy, I got a better idea. Why not simply cut off the penis altogether and sew-shut the asshole? No HIV virus will get in now.

Dear God, please don't let that singing whale be nominated...

Yes babies, today is it... Today the nominations for the Golden Globes are announced and I am sweating it here. Chances are that the hateful Cetacean Beyonce will be nominated for her role as the fat singer who gets the glory in Dreamgirls. I have been told by many that she will be nominated: Oscarwatch.com, my neighbor Epistola who claims to be psychic, Stevie Wonder who has a thing for fat women who can't sing, and basic common sense as Beyonce is being groomed to be the next Diana Ross (Really? What's next? Mariah Carey as the next Twiggy?).

So here I am, eating my heart out this morning with the news that we may lose the majority in the Senate, penile mutilation in young babies is about to be legitimated, and fat bovine blimp Beyonce will win an undeserved nomination.

I am glad the weekend is coming, babies...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

His Garish Holiness, the Pope

2006-11-29T12:31:00.000-08:00

Good Moaning babies,

It has been a very rough three weeks for your humble servant as we are experiencing plenty of problems here at my work site regarding the software I maintain.

So, in order to lighten up a bit, I have put together a little photo show which showcases the varied and garishly impudent sartorial style of His Holiness, and my own personal favorite homophobic malefactor, Pope Benedict.

Enjoy the garish show. Peace and Love, Cesarin.

The Holy Bling Bling:

Finding this bundle of joy under your Xmas tree will send you screaming for the Inquisition:

What's with this bizarre fascination with the letter 'T'? Why not wear a 'U' around your neck instead?:

I swear, this former-Nazi holy man is just one hat choice away from being a KKK Grand Dragon:

The devil does wear Prada shoes after all (I think that Dorothy is walking barefoot in Oz nowadays):

Now babies, what straight man in the West would wear this headgear?:

No no no no, this is too much! A golden bong? I bet Benny smokes the good Chronic shit too:

TOA and the Election

2006-11-08T05:54:00.000-08:00

"Senator Santorum? This is Satan calling... Guess who no longer has God on his side..."

Good Moaning babies,

For those of you who don't know this, Democrats took the house (232 to 203), the governorships (28 to 22), and are about to take the Senate (49 to 49, with too-close-to-call Montana's democratic candidate ahead by three thousand votes and Virginia's democratic challenger ahead by eight thousand votes). This is great news indeed for us radical bleeding-heart secular-neo-pagan liberals who have been sick of the new order theocracy that this country has become since the village idiot was elected president.

This is a bittersweet turn of events for your humble servant, however. As ebullient as I am at the left's victory in this election, I find myself with egg on my face in my personal life. You see babies, I decided to ask Thomas of Aquinas out on a date yesterday, only to be cruelly spurned. Actually, I wasn't technically rejected as much as I was informed that TOA is no longer on the market. It turns out that this hottie is already dating some pimple-faced kid from his church. How come nobody told me this? Dang, I hate this shit. But I do realize that I have to make a concerted effort to date more, and I see this failed attempt as a dress rehearsal if you will. Now I know I can confidently ask someone out and, in the event that I am rejected, I am thick-skinned enough to take my licking and keep on ticking.

Don't you fret none, Mr. Santorum. Jesus loves you even if the voters in Pennsylvania think you're an asshole.

But coming back to this election, there were a couple of thingies that completely surprised me. The first being the voters in Arizona defeating a homophobic anti-gay amendment to their constitution that would have banned same-sex marriage. This is the first time that a state has rejected such an initiative, which is very significant (and telling). It means that the GOP's infallible scapegoat, the homosexual, is losing its efficacy. Also, South Dakota defeated an initiative to make abortion illegal. Yes babies, you heard that right. The Christian right's efforts to revisit Roe vs. Wade in the Supreme Court is not to be thanks to the voters in South Dakota.

Did I mention that I asked TOA out on a date and he said no? What the hell is wrong with kids nowadays? He can't juggle two men at the same time? Geez... When I was twenty-five I was dating five men at a time. Sure, it was unnerving sometimes, but you just need to figure out a schedule that works for everyone. I would see one boy on Monday night, another one on Wednesday, the third boy on Friday, and the weekends would be done on a first-call first-serve basis. They need to teach time-management classes in public schools. That and sex-ed. Or both combined.

Secretly, Mr. Santorum was hoping for the right to bestiality, that pig-fucker.

But back to the election. There will probably be recounts in Montana and Virginia, which means we will not know the real outcome until the end of the year. What a bunch of weenies. And Miss Nancy Pelosi is poised to become the first female Speaker of the House, goodie-good-good. Let's just hope that the Democrats don't fuck this up, which they tend to do sometimes. Sure, let's give Bush hell. Let's investigate some of these buttholes and send a few of them to jail, just to rattle the GOP a bit. But let's fix things as well, especially this Iraq thingy-thing-thing.

As to TOA, next time I should think before I act. I had been thinking about going to his Church (see picture above) on Sundays, not to receive the Lord into my heart (fuck that) but rather to meet good gay men who think they are blessed, vis-a-vis their open-door policy in their dating department (is it stereotyping when you reckon that gay Christians don't care too much about looks? Hey, don't judge me too harshly, you would've come to the same conclusion had you gone to that kennel club of a mixer on Friday night... they were serving Purina Puppy Chow treats for God's sake...); but now that I have created a potentially embarrassing situation with TOA (who happens to be the head queer in charge of new recruits --haven't you heard? Homosexuals can't reproduce so we recruit), I can't show my face at this congregation.

I don't think I could ever face him again. How does one do it? How does one handle rejection? Nighty, how do you do it?

BTW, I think I know who TOA is dating. I went to the church's website and I have seen several pictures of TOA with the same spindly dark-haired boy in tow. I think I could beat the crap out of him. With one hand. And blindfolded. While I eat crackers and whistle Yankee-doodle-dandy.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Redemption through cunnilingus

2006-11-06T04:52:00.000-08:00

In God we trust, everyone else pays cash.

Good Moaning babies,

It has been a tough week, hasn't it? I seems that nowadays you can't toss a used condom in a crowded church (or Republican fundraiser) without hitting a dick-sucking fag in the face. This Reverend Ted Haggard sexual thingy-thing-thing is the latest in a month-long series of sexual bombshells the conservatives in America are dropping on us poor unsuspecting voters. For all their homophobic rhetoric, these moralizing conservative Republican tightwads do get their little willies worked out quite a bit, no?

I have been reading all these testimonials from Mr. Haggard's followers at his congregation, the Church of the Perpetual Sucker, and they all tend to agree that all these hardships endured by the good reverend have been the work of Satan and Mike Jones, the male whore in HIS employ. Pleeeeez. Satan has been kept quite busy with these evangelicals throughout the years: Jim Baker getting it on with his cheap skanky secretary; Jimmy Swaggart picking up cheap skanky streetwalkers in Baton Rouge; and Jerry Falwell going down that waterslide in his cheap skanky suit. It would seem that Satan has no time for anyone else anymore.

Mike Jones, "Have you babies seen the dude? He looks like brick shithouse."

But one thing that Ted Haggard's followers are most definitely NOT buying are his claims of only getting a massage from the male whore and not using the drugs he bought. These worshippers may be caught up in a faith-induced frenzy, but they are not stupid. If you want a massage you hire a masseur. You don't hire a male escort who's been ingesting steroids through a garden hose (have you babies seen the dude? He looks like a brick shithouse...). And the elders at his church didn't buy the I-didn't-take-it-up-the-ass story either. Ted Haggard is gone. Fired. Kaput.

Let us pray... that no more assholes will lead us.

Which is kind of bad, really. Of all the religious assholes out there, Reverend Haggard was the less homophobic. Sure, he was working towards the passing of an amendment in Colorado that would've defined marriage as a heterosexual thingy, but he also praised the Supreme Court's decision to decriminalize sodomy. Reverend Haggard also had no qualms about instituting civil unions in Colorado, as long as they were not called "marriage." And in one telling anecdote of tolerance, Reverend Haggard invited a gay church to sing at his congregation's Christmas pageant even as other congregations were boycotting the event because of the gay invite.

So, even though Haggard was no gay sympathizer, he was not an inquisitor either. And that's the shitstorm I see coming. In order to make up for Reverend Haggard's sexual transgressions, I imagine that whoever takes his place at his church (and on the other end of the White House conference calls) will be some hardline far-to-the-right I-eat-fags-for-breakfast homophobe.

Reverend Haggard was the topic of conversation at this gay Church mixer that I attended on Friday night with the Nightcrawler. I know what you babies are thinking: what was an avowed secular humanist with pagan tendencies doing at a gay Church event? Well, it was organized by The Christians, a group of young men in their twenties who belong to this Anglican church and who don't see their homosexuality and their faith as a mutually exclusive thingy. Nighty has been a friend of The Christians for a while, and he takes me to these events sometimes. As a matter of fact, I have been to Thomas of Aquinas' house several times (TOA is a twenty-five year old boy who wants to become an Anglican minister one day; he is roomies with Thomas of Torquemada, TOT, and is friends with Saint Thomas, St.T, two other charming homo Christian boys) and I have thoroughly enjoyed their company. We just don't talk about religion and thus keep things on a cordial plane. Well, we made an exception with this Haggard thing on Friday night's mixer.

"This Haggard dude is a big-time fag," I said to St.T while sipping on sacramental wine.
"I think he is bisexual," St.T said.
"Come on, sheeez, bisexuals don't exist," I said, obviously shnookered-up already (and they serve this wine during communion? I gotta join up).
"Yes they do exist too, I know several bisexuals," St.T said.
"No you don't," I responded, "You know a bunch of fags who feel guilty for sucking dick, so they go off and eat pussy just to keep things on an even keel."
"That's ridiculous," St.T said.
"You know what's ridiculous? Seeking redemption through cunnilingus, that's ridiculous," I said.
"How can you make such a blanket statement?" St.T said.
"Oh, I know all about it. These so-called bisexual men are nothing but self-hating homos, that's what they are," I said (and I feel really bad now that I am recalling this conversation), "Why can't they deal with their self-loathing in the the way that any normal fag with the affliction would? Go to the Eagle (leather bar) and lick somebody's boots, or dress up in a French maid uniform and clean somebody's house. But eating pussy? That's way too radical and unnecessarily cruel."

I immediately stopped talking shit when TOA showed up with a tray of goodies. I have to admit that I have a thing for the boy. And why shouldn't I? He would be the perfect man to bring home to my mother: he is young and respectable (he wants to be a reverend for Christ's sake), and if he gets anointed or consecrated or whatever witchcraft it is that they do at the Anglican church, he will have a steady job and never be laid off. But I was not about to make any passes at anyone at this hootenanny. It was a Church thing, so hands off I thought. However... St.T was telling Nighty and myself that this particular church had a make-out room next to the confessional. I certainly hope that St.T was kidding. I don't care how reformed your congregation is, I doubt that any such make-out chamber would be sanctioned by any Reverend.

Except for Reverend Haggard perhaps.

Don't forget to vote tomorrow. And vote Democrat, if only to piss off the idiot at the Oval Office.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Halloween

2006-11-01T06:22:00.000-08:00

A good old-fashioned Jack-o-lantern.

Good Moaning babies,

I hope y'all had a happy Halloween. Mine was fucked up.

The day began with people picketing the Wiccan center at Takoma Park, a liberal-leaning municipality just around the corner from where I live. I normally get up at five in the a.m. to get ready for work. By the time I get going, it's around six in the morning and there is no traffic on the streets. Well, yesterday morning it was a parking lot on East-West Highway, the main thoroughfare in Chevy Chase. This was unheard of so early in the morning. The reason for the bottleneck was a group of fundamentalist Christians who had staged a day-long protest, calling for the burning of all Wiccans in Takoma Park, and who had decided that the best way to call attention to themselves was by laying down on the middle of the road and disrupting traffic.

The pentagram, symbol of the Wiccan faith.

That pissed me off. I kept thinking, why not just simply run them over? But then I realized that it would not be good P.R. for the Wiccans. Plus it could throw my front-end alignment out of whack (those Christian fundamentalist didn't look like they had skipped any meals lately).

I remember when I was seventeen and was attending the University of New Orleans. I used to have a good friend in my Biology class, Lonnie Matherne. We studied together all the time, mostly at my house, but sometimes we would study at his house (he lived with his parents). One particular day we were studying the mitotic phase of the cell type when I heard some major hammering coming from the garage.

"What's that?" I asked my friend.
"That's my dad," he said.
"What is he doing?" I asked.
"He's building stuff," he said.
"What kind of stuff?" I asked.
"Tiny little coffins," my friend said with a sigh.
"For what?" I asked, alarmed.
"For a demonstration at an abortion clinic," he said.

Tiny little coffins babies. I was thinking about my friend's dad and his macabre little endeavor while I was waiting for the police to arrest them bible freaks and let the traffic go through.

When I got back home after work (and the gym), my neighbor came to my door and asked me if I would mind taking a few kids trick-or-treating. She was supposed to be the chaperon this year but something had come up and she needed a replacement. I looked at the kids all dressed up in spooky costumes and said sure, why the hell not.

Trick-or-treating in a liberal-leaning town.

That was a mistake.

I had about ten kids with me, but the kids were too young and easily scared, and the homeowners around Chevy Chase/Takoma Park had gotten too involved in the festivities. It turned out that almost in every house where we could go trick-or-treating we found scary decorations and people dressed up in scary costumes handing out candy. All my kids refused to go anywhere near them houses, but they wanted the fucking candy, so they would cry and beg me to go fetch them their fucking candy. Imagine opening your door on Halloween night and finding a forty-three year old man in his business attire holding a bag saying "trick-or-treat" and expecting candy. Yes, imagine THAT babies. I had a lot of explaining to do in order to get them to throw some sweets my way. And, in the end, I realized that I was a lousy trick-or-treater. I was only able to get about a tenth of the loot the kids expected. They were clearly disappointed (and scared shitless), so I had to go to the Walgreens by my house and buy fifty dollars' worth of candy and put that in their tiny little bags.

Satan sends his regrets.

After that Halloween debacle, my Wiccan friends showed up at my house around nine in the evening. They brought dinner and movies on DVD (the original "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" with Gene Wilder, and the Narnia movie) and kept me up until midnight, at which time they dragged me out of my house to go have a hootenanny shindig in Rock Creek Park across from my house. Apparently, midnight is prime-time for a witches-and-warlocks shuffle. We did a little dance, and little song, some minor incantations, and sent out invitations for characters to appear. Lucifer didn't show up (the louse), and by two in the morning I was adamant that I returned home. Conjuring up the devil can get tiresome, if you know what I mean. I didn't care how long them Wiccans had been waiting for this holy night, but I had to get up at the crack of dawn to go to work. The Devil would have to wait another fucking year if he was to show up at all. I figured all his time was nowadays occupied talking to George W. Bush and couldn't waste any time taking a detour through Rock Creek Park.

Anyway babies, Happy Halloween.....

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Killer Quips

2006-10-30T08:31:00.000-08:00

"It will be long and hard, and there will be no withdrawal." -- Winston Churchill addressing Andrew Sullivan's sex life.

Good Moaning babies,

Here you have a few good quips provided by Moaner Josh:

"He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire." -- Winston Churchill

"A modest little person, with much to be modest about." -- Winston Churchill

"I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure." -- Clarence Darrow

"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." -- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)

"Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?" -- Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

"Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." -- Moses Hadas

"He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I know." -- Abraham Lincoln

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it." -- Groucho Marx

"I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." -- Mark Twain

"He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends." -- Oscar Wilde

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play. Bring a friend...if you have one." -- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." -- Winston Churchill, in response

"I feel so miserable without you; it's almost like having you here." -- Stephen Bishop

"He is a self-made man and worships his creator." -- John Bright

"I've just learned about his illness. Let's hope it's nothing trivial." -- Irvin S. Cobb

"He is not only dull himself; he is the cause of dullness in others." -- Samuel Johnson

"He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up." -- Paul Keating

"He had delusions of adequacy." -- Walter Kerr

"There's nothing wrong with you that reincarnation won't cure." -- Jack E. Leonard

"He has the attention span of a lightning bolt." -- Robert Redford

"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge." -- Thomas Brackett Reed

"He inherited some good instincts from his Quaker forebears, but by diligent hard work, he overcame them." - James Reston (about Richard Nixon)

"In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily." -- Charles, Count Talleyrand

"He loves nature in spite of what it did to him." -- Forrest Tucker

"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?" -- MarkTwain

"His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork." -- Mae West

"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go." -- Oscar Wilde

"He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp-posts... for support rather than illumination." - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

"He has Van Gogh's ear for music." -- Billy Wilder

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Comments by Moaners

2006-10-25T06:04:00.000-07:00

A typical Southern-style seersucker suit.

Good Moaning babies,

Here's a few comments I have received about yesterday's moaning:

"You're making fun of Woody's coat and you were wearing a seersucker suit?"
Hey, Gregory Peck looked like a million bucks in a seersucker. Watch "To kill a mockingbird" and you'll see.

"It's not the 'Bee' Bar, it's the 'Be' Bar!"
That just doesn't make any sense.

"Homosexuals voting Republican is like the chickens voting for Colonel Sanders."
You got a point there.

"I also thought that Bjork was from Finland. Your moanings are so educational."
Happy to oblige.

Jeffy-Boo leaves the Capitol after getting his ass grilled by the Ethics Committee.

"Did you see Jeff Trandahl or Kirk Fordham at the BeeBar?"
No, I didn't. The cadre of gay GOP'ers at the BeeBar was definitely D-list. However, Jeff Trandahl does work out at Results, the gym. I had seen him many times but never even gave him a second look (or a first for that matter). But after seeing his mug on TV and the internet all this time, I realized who he was the next time I ran into him. Invariably, he is way shorter than he appears on TV and lacking in gravitas, but he is a cutie-patootie. Too bad he's got this despicable asshole for a boyfriend (I hate the fucker, he seldom wipes the machinery after he uses it). On the plus side, Trandahl's boyfriend is not a page-type-ish young boy but rather a real man of forty or so. That goes to show you that not all gay Republicans are Mark Foley clones.

"Vodka Stingers? I thought Stingers were made with Cognac or Brandy."
True, but that's expensive. Substitute the pricey booze with cheap vodka and you get shnookered for less.

"I saw that spikey haired boy that you talk about. You said no to him?"
I said maybe later, but then we had to leave. If that boy is cruising people like your humble servant, then he's got to have a screw loose. He'll be there next week. Next week qualifies as "later," no?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Bees and the Seersucker Suits

2006-10-24T05:46:00.000-07:00

Good Moaning babies,

This past Saturday evening the Nightcrawler and your humble servant went to the new gay bar in DC, the BeeBar.

Now, this must be said. There are no bees at the BeeBar. If you come to this bar thinking that there will be a bee motif waiting for you, you will be disappointed. No vodka stingers. No honey flavored martinis. No bartenders with beehive coiffures. No fat gay dude on a fainting sofa pretending he's the queen bee. Just no bees. Nothing. Zilch.

Since we were going out to celebrate the Nightcrawler's 29th birthday, I decided to wear my big-boy clothes. I almost never wear them, but I felt that someone has to be a surrogate father figure to the 'Crawler. The poor boy is turning into a cheap floozy living without any parental supervision. I felt I needed to set an example to the next generation of homos coming after me. So, with much aplomb, I wore my AX caramel colored pants, my AX black stretchy collared shirt, and my seersucker striped broad-shouldered suit-coat that made me look like a 50's dandy daddy-o. I thought this was the appropriate ensemble for Nighty's 29th birthday dinner party, a watermark event as homosexuals depreciate at an accelerated rate after they turn 30.

First we went to the PS restaurant for dinner. Their Pear Martini's were heaven-sent, but their Lamb Dish sucked dogshit. Fortunately they serve you very small portions of it, so I didn't suffer too much. I did like their Monkeyfish appetizer. One bite and the fucker was gone too. Pity. I must try their Breaded Bull's Testicles in Raspberry sauce over Angel Pasta next time I dine there. Them testicles were huge. They reminded me of my last boyfriend Jake. Unlike the Lamb dish, the Bull's Testicles looked tasty and filling. Just like Jake.

At PS we were joined by Cutie-Pie and Woody Allen, who brought a very charming Finnish lady with him. The only Finnish I know is not suitable for dinner table conversation as I learned it by watching 70's porn movies from Scandinavia. To my surprise, the Finnish lady spoke English beautifully. I congratulated her on Bjork, but, alas, she informed me that Bjork was from Iceland. I asked her what the difference was. That brought an uncomfortable silence between us, but I was able to save the evening by telling her my cunt joke: What is the difference between a whore and a cunt? A whore is someone who sleeps with everyone. A cunt is someone who sleeps with everyone but you. Hilarity ensued.

As a matter of fact, I had been laughing my ass off from the moment I saw Woody Allen's new coat. It looked as if Woody had been thrown headfirst into a throng of libidinous barebackers from Atlanta during Southern Decadence in the French Quarter. The coat was ragged and torn everywhere, but it seemed that I was witnessing a sneak preview of the Winter fashion line, or so Woody informed us. It's a bleak future for this country, I tell you. But as long as Woody was happy with his sartorial choice I was happy also. He could've been lying to us, however. Heck it's happened before. When I was seven years old, my cousin Cecilia told me that boys were wearing clogs that year, so I sneaked into my mother's closet and wore her Swedish wooden clogs to school. I got beat up with my own shoes. But I digress. The point is, we will have to wait and see until the Winter line is unveiled at D&G if Woody was telling the truth or not. In the meantime, the only people sporting Woody's look were the winos and bagladies who were sleeping in the parking lot outside PS.

After dinner, we all walked to the BeeBar. Woody Allen and the Finnish Lady detoured and went to a homosexual party taking place around the corner from the BeeBar. Nighty, Cutie-Pie and your humble servant contemplated going there, but we opted for the Bee. As I said before, I was disappointed at the lack of flying hymenopteras in the house. The closest thing to a bee that I could see was this skinny young boy with spiky hair (who I called Spike) who was very interested in my seersucker suit. He looked like a warrior bee. It was the hair.

The BeeBar reminded me a little bit of Halo, another gay waterhole in the NW section of the District. The Bee didn't have the antiseptic ambiance that Halo does, but it is similar to its NW sister in that it's a cadre of gay Republicans plotting to take over the world, after brunch but before tea-dance. I am serious. Who would've thought that there were so many gay Republicans in this world? The main topic of conversation in every clique at the Bee was the ignominy of Mark Foley's predicament and the insidious nature of the Democrats. I knew I was outnumbered so I said nothing, as every person at the Bee outweighed me by at least seventy pounds (it is whaling season in the District, apparently) and could easily beat the shit out of me if I came to the defense of the Democratic party. I went to the bathroom and was followed by Spike. "Nice coat dude," he said. "Thank you," I responded. "Where did you get it?" he asked. "Dillard's," I said. "What's that?" he asked. "A department store in New Orleans," I said. "Cool, wanna make out?" he asked. "Maybe later," I said and left the bathroom.

After a while, we decided to leave the Bee and go to Cobalt. Now that's a bar that lives up to its name. As a matter of fact, most of the bars on 17th street NW make good on their monikers. Cobalt has a blue motif happening inside. Chaos is pure pandemonium (mainly due to the Latin boys there). Widows, just down the block from Chaos, is full of old people. And JR's, well I hear that in the early 80's it used to show that old TV program Dallas and had people come to the bar dressed like the characters in the show (SueEllen was a favorite of many, second only to JR, hence the name, I think).

Anyway, I felt overdressed at Cobalt. Seersucker suits just don't have the impact in the north as they do in the south. But it could've been worse. I could've been wearing Woody Allen's coat. After a little while at Cobalt, we decided to end the evening.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

2006-10-23T05:43:00.000-07:00

Video of the day: Oliver's "Good morning starshine"

Yes babies, it's hippie time for the flower children...

Week Recap

2006-10-20T05:44:00.000-07:00

Good Moaning babies,

Here's a few things that have happened this week to your humble servant:

1) On Wednesday night at the gym, Number 32 (one of my favorite obsessions since January) jumped me from behind, wrapped his towel around my neck, and patted my ass while discussing Chi-Cha (a Peruvian drink that requires the bartender to spit in the concoction to make it ferment).

"Do you think that Number 32 was flirting with me?" I asked Scoobie-Doobie-Drew.
"I think he was trying to kill you," Scoobie replied.

"His trademark coiffure is not very becoming to a man of his age..."

2) I saw former CNN political editor and current HotlineTV commentator John Mercurio barefoot at the gym on Thursday.

He had come out of the locker room and was purchasing gym socks at the front desk. He was wearing his tanktop and his shorts with no socks or shoes, and I was quick to notice that he's got big feet. As a matter of fact, everything about him is big: his all-around web identity, his pronouncements on Republican hegemony, even his hair is big. His trademark coiffure is not very becoming to a man of his age. I mean, sure, it creates a distinct persona from the rest of the cookie-cutter commentators on news TV nowadays; it says, "I am edgy, I am punkish, and I am giving you the news like you've never had them before..." But that kind of delivery works best when you are in your twenties.

Like my twentysomething Polish co-worker at Pentagon City, Ort... I think that Ort may be gay because everytime I go to the bathroom he follows me. When I am standing at the urinal, Ort is always trying to see what I've got. Sometimes I let him see it, but most of the time I zip it up and go wash my hands. Ort then follows me outside (I think that in his hurry he doesn't wash his hands) and trails me to my office. But I digress, the punk hairdo would work on Ort if he was giving us the news in the morning, but it doesn't work very well on John Mercurio. But in any case, I am very happy to have a HUGE celebrity in our gym... and I got to see his feet!!

The owners of BeBar, the newest homo bar in the Shaw area of DC...

3) I got into a fight with the owner of the new homo bar in DC, the BeBar. He is an aerobics instructor at my gym who teaches body sculpting with weights and short bars. I made the mistake of informing some of his students that according to the 2006 August Chiropractic Newsletter (which thanks to my last job I still receive), such reckless activity with the weights could result in a condition akin to scoliosis, a condition that involves complex lateral and rotational curvature and deformity of the spine (it is typically classified as congenital, caused by vertebral anomalies present at birth, idiopathic, sub-classified as infantile, juvenile, adolescent, or adult according to when onset occurred, or as having developed as a secondary symptom of another condition, such as cerebral palsy or spinal muscular atrophy... or bad form during body sculpting classes.)

The disclosure of the hazards with this kind of exercise wouldn't have gotten me in trouble per se, but I sort-of kinda treated a few of them students (I learned how to adjust people's spines by watching Marc Behar, my good friend and chiropractor, perform the procedure on a few clients of his). That pissed the owner of BeBar (and body sculpting class instructor) off. He called me a charlatan and a quack. I called him an effeminate asshole. Things just went downhill from there. I wonder if I am banned from the BeBar for life...

Douchebag Jeff Trandahl ready to spill the beans about his procurement of children for lecherous pederasts in Capitol Hill.

4) I have been riveted by this Mark Foley thingy-thing-thing. Yesterday, Jeff Trandahl testified about what he didn't know about pimping underage teenage boys in Capitol Hill to sex-mad congressmen and when he didn't know it.

Our favorite future congressman all dolled up for his date with a priest...

And soon after his testimony, sixty-nine year-old retired catholic priest Anthony Mercieca confessed fucking Mark Foley in the ass forty years ago when the disgraced former congressman was twelve (I have to say this, poor Mark Foley; he was betrayed by someone he trusted).

"Let bygones be bygones," the sick neo-septuagenarian queen is quoted in the papers as saying.

Well babies, justice delayed is justice denied, I always say. I think that the whole lot of Republican deviant (and sodomite priests) assholes should be thrown in jail for a few years so that they will come to know what it was like for all those young boys to have to suffer buggery at the hands of disgusting old queens. Although I suspect that Trandahl and Fordham already have an idea of what it's like to give up the brownie for a pack of cigarettes.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

Put on your raincoats babies, there's a shitstorm approaching...

2006-10-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

A pimple-faced, 15-year old future Congressman Jim Kolbe during his days as a Congressional Page...

Oh, my precious babies,

You better wear your raincoats today because it's raining buckets of shit out there... Yes, it's true. There are new allegations, surfacing during these Congressional Ethics Committee hearings, that Rep. Jim Kolbe (R-AZ) buttfucked underage male pages during a camping trip to a nudist colony back in 1996.

Well, maybe the graphic nature of what took place during this camping trip hasn't been revealed yet, but pleeeeez... You got a homosexual congressman taking a couple of underage male pages out into the woods, now that's a recipe for disaster. What the fuck was this retard homo thinking?

Now, I am flummoxed here. I live in the district and I could pick up the Washington Blade homo newspaper any day of the week and I would see in the back section of the classifieds a plethora of escort ads by male-whores. Some of them whores have their gimmick up and running: "21 year-old page type, looks 16. Full service. 9 inches thick uncut, hungry bubblebutt. Republican." Now babies, I beseech you. You got these working boys trying very hard to look like underage pages, offering their services to closeted lawmakers at the Hill. Why would the Mark Foley's and Jim Kolbe's of the world go after the real underage deal when taking a 21-but-looks-16 9 inch dick up your ass is scandal-proof?

That's what we need here in our nation's capital, babies. More common sense from our GOP leaders. That and more barely-legal-but-looks-like-jail-bait male whores with 9 inch dicks and hungry buttholes.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Providers of Engorgement in Capitol Hill

2006-10-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

"... it's virtually impossible to maintain a soft dick [in Capitol Hill]..."

Hello my precious babies,

If you babies wanna know why our lawmakers in Congress are running this country with their peckers in their hands, go here and you will see that it's virtually impossible to mantain a soft dick with so much hotness around... After all, it's not enough to have a sharp mind and the best interests of the country at heart in order to work in Capitol Hill. You also need to have a bitching body.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

An Interview with Mark Foley

2006-10-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

Ex-Congressman Mark Foley

Good Moaning babies,

Here at the Moaning Club we have scored the interview of the year. Realizing that it would benefit the public at large to hear the other side of this Mark Foley polemic, we contacted the Palm Beach Rehab Clinic where Mr. Foley has spent the last couple of weeks in seclusion, and we were able to convince the ex-congressman to fly up to DC for a vis-à-vis chat with the Moaning Club.

Moaning Club: We are sitting here with the former Congressman from Florida Mark Foley, who resigned on September 29 after what many call lurid and inappropriate emails Mr. Foley had sent to teenage Congressional male pages surfaced. Thank you for taking the time to talk with us. It must have been very difficult for you these past couple of weeks with all the unwanted attention your forays into internet chatrooms and your communication with pages have brought you.

Mark Foley: Oh yes, very difficult indeed. If it wasn’t for the wonderful support that I’ve received from my family and friends I don’t think that I would’ve made it this far.

MC: We understand that you have sequestered yourself by checking into a rehab facility, what is all this about?

MF: Oh, alcohol is the devil I tell you. I wouldn’t be gay if I didn’t drink so much.

MC: Now, this is a bombshell. You are saying that your homosexuality stems from a drinking problem, is that correct?

MF: Yes, the drinking. I was also molested by a priest when I was thirteen years-old, so that must also factor into this homosexuality thingy-thing-thing.

MC: Oh my, so you are saying that the sexual assault you endured in your early teenage years coupled with the drinking led you to become a homosexual, is this correct?

MF: Oh yes, also when I was twenty-three years old I was abducted by aliens and rectally probed for days. I think that had something to do with this gay thing as well.

MC: This is shocking. Alien abductions, child molestation, alcohol abuse, all these things contributed to your sexual orientation, am I correct?

MF: Oh yes, very much so. I was also breast-fed until I was ten, which put me off tits, I tell you. You can suck on something only for so long before you get sick of it and never want to do it again.

MC: I see, is this your way of saying that you are giving up on fellatio?

MF: What is that?

MC: Fellatio? You don’t know? That’s when one performs oral sex on a male. You said that you can only suck on something for so long before you get sick of it and never want to do it again, so are you giving up on fellatio then?

MF: Dear boy, no, of course not. The prospect of sucking dick is the only thing that keeps me getting up in the morning and checking out the teenage chatrooms in AOL. I was talking about tits. I don’t want to suck on tits anymore. Unless you’re talking about young tender boy-nipples, I wouldn’t mind sucking on those.

MC: I don’t know what to say to that….

MF: Say, you have a pretty big chest there. How old are you?

MC: Forty-three.

MF: Oh, sorry, I don’t mess around with old folk.

MC: Ok, then let’s move on. Many people call you a one-man Republican wrecking crew because of the precarious situation into which your behavior has placed the GOP. Do you have any response to this accusation?

MF: As if! You think I am the only one getting it on with the pages? Pleeeez… Besides, this page thingy-thing-thing is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve fucked them all: U.S. Marshalls, House clerks, janitors, tourists, my entire staff, even that fattie Kirk Fordham had to bite the bullet on a couple of occasions. That is what the GOP does, my friend. We fuck people in the ass. The fact that I am a homosexual makes my job easier, but we all do it.

MC: I had no idea…

MF: Listen here boy, we are the Republican party. We are winning the war on terror, we are making this country strong and safe, we are upholding traditional Christian values and writing them into law. This country has never been safer or more prosperous. The least you could do is grab your ankles for us.

MC: But, but… isn’t sexual restraint a stalwart Christian value?

MF: That may be, but you pick up your bible and you will encounter some pretty hot stuff. Sometimes I get so horny reading the old testament that I have to jump on the internet and find myself a sweet young thing.

MC: I see. Do you feel that now that you are no longer a congressman you have more freedom to engage in, er, cybersex?

MF: Oh, I’ve never done that cyberthingy. Sometimes I jerk off into the keyboard while I am IM’ing some hot chicken-boy, but I never done the cybersex thingy.

MC: Well, that is what cyber… never mind.

MF: Say, who’s that in the picture?

MC: Which picture? This one? That’s my nephew.

MF: He’s a hottie. How old is he?

MC: Eleven.

MF: Does he have an AOL screenname?

MC: I think this will be all for now. Thank you for sitting with us and sharing some of your thoughts on this GOP polemic.

MF: Oh the pleasure was all mine. Don’t forget to give me your nephew’s email before I go.

MC: Yeah, right.

Peace and Love,

Cesarin

The culture wars

2006-10-17T06:20:00.000-07:00

Good Moaning babies,

Here's today's quote, quite illuminating for those on the right:

"The culture war is supposed to be about morality, but really it's a crusade to compel Americans to follow certain norms of private behavior that some social and religious conservatives believe are mandated by sociology, nature or God. Republican officeholders have paid lip service to this crusade, all the while knowing that the human family is diverse and fallible. They know that the gravest threat to marriage is the heterosexual divorce rate. They know that Republicans drink, swear, carouse and have affairs, just like Democrats. They know that homosexuals aren't devils."

-- Eugene Robinson, The Decatur Daily

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Soccer rules!!!

2006-10-17T05:24:00.000-07:00

Hunk of the day: Craig Gallivan, from the BBCAmerica show "Footballers' wives"

Mark Foley, Kirk Fordham, Jeff Trandahl, and other GOP deviants

2006-10-16T07:41:00.001-07:00

"Kirk Fordham, the former chief of staff for the disgraced Mark Foley."

Good Moaning babies,

I had been meaning to write for a while now about this Mark Foley thingy that has taken over DC these past few days. I had been reticent to say anything until I had all the facts sorted out. The most important thing here to remember is that the age of consent in the district is 16.

Yes babies, that's right. I know it's hard to believe, but High-School sophomores are fair game in our nation's capital. No wonder Mr. Foley went bonkers. Imagine yourself surrounded by a bevy of young chicken boys so willing to obediently follow orders and serve their country that they will blindly do whatever you tell them. What would you do? I know what I would do, I'd get the hell out of there pronto. One must know oneself; one must be able to look in the mirror and see the person reflected back without the rosy spectacles of affectation. If you're a nasty sick queen with pederasty tendencies who can't keep his pecker zipped up, then for God's sake stay away from kids.

There's no shame in admitting the truth. Mark Foley should've known better.

But I digress. The point I wanted to make is that there is a number of people emerging out of this affair with a certain aura of celebrity, or should I say notoriety, who are making the most of this whole mess. One of them is Kirk Fordham, the former (openly homosexual) chief of staff for the disgraced Mark Foley.

The other day I was invited to go to a gay party called "The Blowoff" at the 9:30 Club in DC. My friend Lester the Molester called me up to get me out of my apartment as I had been kinda reclusive lately. I have been enjoying my solitude of late, coming home tired from waking up with the roosters, working all day, then working out at the gym, and finally making it home to pass out on the sofa in front of the TV. But spending so much time alone is not good for the soul, so I said yes to the Molester's invite to the Blowoff party. I had been to the 9:30 Club in the past to see concerts, the most recent being UB40's "Reggae, Shmeggae" tour of North America, so I figured that a gay party at that venue would be a fab affair.

So off we went to JR's on 17th street for some drinks before the Blowoff party. I met a young boy named Mario while we were sipping Appletini's and watching Justin Timberlake bring sexy back on the video monitors (what a weenie, I can't believe Cameron Diaz is letting that skinny wimpy boy take her brownie). We had all noticed Mario earlier, but each of us had different reasons for checking him out. My friend Rooney, who was downing 7&7's like they were going to outlaw them in the morning, was certain to have seen Mario before. The Molester also had a vague recollection of this Mario boy. I finally decided to end the debate and simply walk up to him and get the 411. As it turned out, Mario had been a dancer at the now-defunct Ziegfield's dick bar. No wonder everyone recognized him but couldn't remember where from. It's a common occurrence for a dancer, I take it.

While I was chatting Mario up, Jorge appeared. Jorge is a tiny little Latin boy with a body built for punishment and a disposition for sin. Jorge and I had had a couple of moments at Chaos, the faux-Latin bar of choice for 17th street queens, but it never went anywhere since I always chickened out at the last moment. I suppose that it's expected for the older man to call the shots in a situation like this (Jorge is considerably younger than me, but then again, who isn't?), but sometimes I just wish I could meet a go-getter kind of man who is not waiting for me to do all the work.

So there we all were at JR's, with Mario on the right, Jorge on the left, and your humble servant stuck in the middle not knowing which way to turn. Then the Molester came over and announced that it was time to go to the Blowoff. So I got Mario's number, said goodbye to Jorge, and walked out the door thankful that I didn't have to juggle those two Latin boys much longer. That's just way too many balls in the air for your humble servant.

"And then, the subject of this moaning showed up."

Once we made it to the 9:30 club, I noticed that this was an unusual gay party. Instead of the customary shirtless steroid-queens tripping on ecstasy that you see at every circuit party that there is, I saw an eclectic crowd of mismatched demographics. There were bears (not the wild savage beasts, but rather them fat hairy gay people with a penchant for denim and leather and an abhorrence to cologne and deodorant) mixing it up with upwardly-mobile skinny lawyer types; gym bunnies dancing with drag queens; A&F wannabe's making out with gay hippies. All of this with a pulsating hardcore beat and a shirtless fat Dee Jay spinning records in the center of the room (I tossed an empty cup of gin and tonic at his fat ass during a particularly wretched song interlude, and I had to bolt to the bathroom when security began searching for the culprit).

And then, the subject of this moaning showed up. I ran into Kirk Fordham later in the evening during the Blowoff crescendo (they wait until the X kicks in to play the really monotonous songs, apparently a constant tempo is the key for a good trip to X-land). Kirk Fordham is a lot shorter than you would think by looking at him on TV. He is also balding pretty badly. And fat. He was wearing a baseball cap at the party, but he took it off a few times to reveal a shiny translucent dome. It was like a beacon in the middle of a sultry night, and it was a very successful one for queens of all walks of life were drawn to it. It was eminently apparent that this whole Foley affair had made him extremely horny. He was chatting up all the pretty young things and following them to the bathroom. What is this? A learned trait? Emergent behavior? Who knows...

I was being badgered by one of his cronies, a dark-haired man in his late twenties or early thirties who obviously thought that being so close to notoriety would open doors (back doors perhaps?) in the predatory world of gay disco's. But it only showcases the man's poor judgment that instead of abusing his power (and covering it up afterwards, which is so GOPish I daresay) to get young dick, he was chasing after your humble servant. This episode buttresses the GOP's colossal lack of common-sense. It's almost like a biblical parable. No wonder things are so royally fucked up in this administration.

"'Do you know Jeff Trandahl?' I asked him."

"I live only a block away," the lecherous gay Republican said to me as I was moving his hand away from my crotch (note to self: do NOT wear a size 28 pair of stretchy jeans again; you are not 19 anymore).
"I can't go," I said.
"We can be back in no time," the GOP dick-head said.
"No," I repeated.
"You'll have a good time," he said.
"Better than right now?" I said drolly.
"Much better," he said.
"Can Fordham join us?" I knew I was taking a tactical risk here, but I figured that Mr. Fordham's erect penis would not be pointing at me.
"Um, I don't think..." he began.
"I am more than happy to open my legs for you as long as Fordham goes in first," I said.
"Forget him, it's just you and me," he began to regain his composure.
"I want Fordham in this. I want to lick his bald head. Can you make this happen?" I said.

You babies may think that I am perhaps embellishing the tale, but this is all true.

After a long back and forth with the GOP degenerate, it became apparent to him that your humble servant would not be surrendering his peachy ass to anyone unless Kirk Fordham was there to be the first one to raise the flag up the pole, sort of speak. With some trepidation, this GOP'er went up to Mr. Fordham and said something to him. Mr. Fordham looked up to where I was and then made some reply. The GOP'er then came back looking a little worse for wear.

"It's not gonna happen with Fordham," he said.
"Pity," I said.
"But you and I can have a really good time," he said.
"You're like the consolation prize?" I asked him.
"If you want to think of it that way," he said.
"Do you know Jeff Trandahl?" I asked him.

Eventually the GOP man went away. I too decided to leave the Blowoff when someone turned me in to security. I saw them coming straight at me, so I ran for the door. Better to leave than be thrown out, that's what I always say. I made my way back to JR's. I was hoping Mario was still sitting there at the bar. Or Jorge. I bet they are Democrats.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

2006-09-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

Frida nudges Agnetha

Hello babies,

Here we have a video of a "live" performance by that super group ABBA. They are my favorite group of all time, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

However, it wasn't always a bed of roses for the members of the group. In the end, the two couples divorced and eventually disbanded, putting an end to an amazing run of hits... Here you will see something quite interesting, as the older and brunette Frida puts the younger and blonde Agnetha in her place for trying to fool around with Frida's husband's piano keys (is that a euphemism?)...

Enjoy....

Video of the Day, part trois

2006-09-07T09:05:00.000-07:00

Take That - Do what you want (Uncensored)

Yes babies, this is the gayest video made by a straight boy band.... from 1992, it's Robbie Williams and company... enjoy

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Video of the Day, part deux

2006-09-07T06:24:00.000-07:00

Abba - Mamma Mia (1975)

Well babies, here's another video... I was watching this new PBS documentary on the career of Swedish popstars, "Abba-dabba-doo, I see you," and I got inspired and motivated and went to iTunes to download 300 Abba songs. Yes babies, I got them all: from the obscure "Pick a bale of cotton" medley to the never-before-heard "Just like that" from their Opus 10 unreleased 1984 album... My my, how can I resist them?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Video of the Day

2006-09-07T06:16:00.000-07:00

Justin Timberlake's Sexyback Video

Yes babies, this is the number one song in the whole country... I like it just fine. It is better than Fergie's fucked-up song "London Bridge (is falling down)" and Beyonce's blubber-fantasy "Deja vu," but don't take my word for it... play the fucker and you tell me what you think.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

My Neighbor, the Trailer Park Artist

2006-08-31T05:17:00.000-07:00

"An Andy Warhol-ish nightmare of prosaic and mundane objects reimagined for the common man..."

Good Moaning babies,

I have decided to take a week off from the gym. Yes babies, I said it. I need to rest. Just the thought of me having to go down to DC and workout at that gym full of fags makes me wanna puke. But this is only a temporary thing. I have felt this way before, and a good vacation from the workout is a fine remedy that always manages to jump-start my gym-bunny-ness. We all need to take a little time off, no?

"I will not hold a person's upbringing against them..."

Which explains why I have been home every day this week by five PM instead of my usual arrival time of nine PM. Funny the things you miss when you are in the gym instead of home. On Monday, when I got home, I noticed that my trailer-trash neighbor was shoveling sand on his front lawn in order to make a sandbox for his daughter. When I got home on Tuesday, I saw that he had placed an old refrigerator on his front lawn. Now, I will not hold a person's upbringing against them, for I run the risk of the same being done to me. But when you put your old fridge on your front lawn and think of it as fine decor, then I will feel compelled to start judging, especially if my house directly faces yours.

When I lived in New Orleans, I had a very eccentric neighbor who was also a very eccentric artist. His art would've been considered modern back in the day, that is back in the pre-post-modern days when he was making a name for himself. But now, elderly and established and living in an antebellum house across the street from me, he had taken his method of modern art to such an extreme that it left no doubt in an observer's mind that the poor dude had gone bonkers. Let me elaborate. In 2002 I saw him on his porch, directly across the street from my house, joining together a bunch of Clorox bottles with a string. He then took one end of the string and tied it to the left column on his porch, extended the string so that the Clorox bottles would be straddling the entire width of the porch, and then tied the other end of the string to the right column. So, when you walked to his front door, you had to pass under ten bottles of Clorox hanging by a string. That was his fucked-up way to express "cleansing oneself" before entering his abode.

That, my precious babies, was the nature of his art. An Andy Warhol-ish nightmare of prosaic and mundane objects reimagined for the common man.

"... his wife was younger than your humble servant..."

How do I know the meaning of this art form? Well, I spoke with his young wife (the man must've been like 90 years old, but his wife was younger than your humble servant), and I shared my dismay at the kind of shit the geezer was hanging in his porch. She tried to be sympathetic and explained his reasoning for the bottles, but she was not to be manipulated either. Her husband was an artist, albeit a weird-o artist from another fucking planet, and his artistic fancy would be tickled. Period. And I had the choice of either closing my eye-lids if I didn't like his art or moving to another house, but the old fucker was not gonna be stopped. Shortly after that, the old man hung an oversized gold stuffed swordfish on his porch. The fish was so big, he had to move the Clorox bottles to the front lawn where he hung them on an oak tree. His next project was to pile kitty litter trays one on top of another in the left corner of his front patio. I am not exactly sure what emotions he was trying to convey with the cat-crappers, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to say something about your humble servant.

Last I heard, Katrina blew into town and sent the old man and his art flying back to the planet where he came from.

So, here I am, now living in Chevy Chase and being subjected to something similar. My trailer-park neighbor is not the artistic kind. He would not think that he is expressing anything in his endeavors. He is building a sandbox for his young daughter, which is an admirable thing in itself, but the sandbox does not represent anything. The man has also appropriated property that does not belong to him by extending his fence (using cheap-o pre-fab fence-posts he bought at the 7-Eleven no doubt) outwards beyond the perimeter of his house, and enclosing within it his daughter's huge-ass toys (a life-size Barbie doll? What the fuck?) and the above-mentioned sandbox.

"My trailer-park neighbor is not the artistic kind..."

It just looks nasty. The discarded fridge is outside this enclosure of his (not the best plaything for a young kid, I daresay), but it is still prominently featured among the tacky toys and the sandbox. Then Ernesto dumps a bucketful of rain on Chevy Chase and the fucking sandbox becomes a fucking mudbox. The little girl loves playing in the mud (a portent of things to come? Mud-wrestling? Jello-wrestling? Stripping?), but more than that, the little girl loves running all over the place after playing in the mud. She particularly loves knocking on doors. I found muddy handprints on my front door and my glass-door.

At least my old neighbor from New Orleans was too arthritic to come to each house in the neighborhood and share his art with us.

Oh well, what is one to do? Right? On the one hand, trailer-parks and their dwellers represent and untapped source of Americana and we must embrace their cultural contribution to our American psyche. On the other hand, why can't they just stay in their fucking trailer-parks contributing from afar? How would my bald-headed trailer-park-raised neighbor like it if I started decorating my patio with giant-sized black dildoes and renderings of stretched-out buttholes? Would that be art if I am expressing something? I rather think so. But I don't do that because I am a sensitive guy who always thinks of others, no? I just can't help myself. Everytime I see that trailer-park asshole I smile at the pigfucker. I am sweet that way.

As to my vacation from the gym, I think that I will cut my vacation short and start working out again tomorrow. By the time I get home it will be dark and I will not have to see the new and wondrous lawn decor my neighbor has come up with.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Fuck me Jeremy Piven!!!!

2006-08-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

When did Jeremy Piven get so fucking hot?

I remember watching Mr. Piven on that dyke-tv show, "Ellen," and he never really did a thing for me back then. Now and then I would see him in b-movies like "PCU" and "Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde" and never once gave him a second look (or even a first one).

But enter "Entourage" and I am fully engorged for thirty minutes watching his manic performance of Ari Gold, the uberagent in charge of finding work for the talentless Vince Chase.

And it is to my delight that Mr. Piven has exploded into the scene and become a gets-me-wet-in-one-second sex symbol at the ripe age of 41.

Go Jeremy!!!

Pictures of Maria's Birthday Party

2006-08-29T07:22:00.000-07:00

"This is a real fire hazzard..."

2006-08-29T07:20:00.000-07:00

"Hey!!! Stop looking at my chest. Can I get some eye-to-eye contact here?"

2006-08-29T07:19:00.000-07:00

"Hey! Who set the cake on fire?"

2006-08-29T07:14:00.000-07:00

"Now, tell me exactly how this rentboy.com thingy-thing-thing works... do u think I can get a lot of money for Josh? I want a plasma TV for Xmas...."

2006-08-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

"Bottoms up... oops, I shouldn't say that with so many fags around, he he he... *burp*"

2006-08-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

"Mmm.... no.... I really.... shouldn't"

2006-08-29T07:08:00.000-07:00

"Mmm... no... I really... shouldn't...."

2006-08-29T07:07:00.000-07:00

A mi me gustan mujeres con las piernas flojas...

2006-08-29T07:06:00.000-07:00

"I can see gay people, they're everywhere, and they don't even know they're gay (yeah right)"

2006-08-29T07:05:00.000-07:00

The homosexual community is very well represented at Maria's party in the person of Ozzie. Alas, most of Maria's and Josh's fag friends have fled the city. Your humble servant moved to DC to escape an immorality charg... er, ahem, to seek new employment, yes, that's right. And Raja is living it up in Fort Lauderdale with his mom and sister.

2006-08-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

"Enough is enough! I've had it with these motherfucking snakes in this motherfucking plane!"

2006-08-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

OMG!!! Take a look at that GORGEOUS cabinet behind MariaEugenia... Look at that glassware... Them Panamenians have got good taste, no?

2006-08-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

The happy couple, Josh and Maria. I don't presume to know much about the way of the heterosexual, but, purely from an aesthetic perspective, I have to comment: That Josh is a lucky bastard, no?

2006-08-29T06:13:00.000-07:00

COME TO THE DARKSIDE.... WE HAVE COOKIES

News recap

2006-08-29T04:17:00.000-07:00

Is it my imagination or are terrorists getting way too hot nowadays?

Good Moaning babies,

Coming to work this morning at 5 in the AM with my iPod's batteries exhausted, I had no choice but to put the radio on. As all they play in American radio stations nowadays is Hip-Hop shit (you can't spell crap without rap, rap music is an oxymoron, etc...) I found myself turning the radio knob until I found NPR, all news. I have found that in my old age I enjoy listening to the news in the mornings. I remember when I was a kid and used to ride the car with my dad in the mornings as he was taking me to school. All I wanted to do was listen to Lou Reed, and the Velvet Underground, and disco on the radio, but my father, as the "capitan" of his ship, would only tune in to the news. I hated that so much, it actually hurt. But here I am, thirty-five years later, doing exactly what my father used to do. Scary, babies.

So this is what I learned this morning:

Howard Fish, a 21 year old hottie college student from Connecticut who was arrested for carrying dynamite on a flight from Buenos Aires to Houston, has posted bail and gotten out of jail, presumably to continue his studies in pyromania. Mmm, I find this disturbing babies. This Howard Fish dude is hot alright. I mean, he is so fucking hot, the boy is about to burst into flames. Which is why it is imperative that he be prohibited from carrying dynamite anywhere in his person. It is only fitting that he would be released by a judge in Texas, the home of our Down-Syndrome-afflicted president. Seriously babies, that boy should not have been set loose in America. Send him to my house.

What a drag queen will do to get a little publicity nowadays...

John Mark Karr, the prime suspect for JonBennet Ramsey's murder, had all charges against him dropped. Well, yes, we knew that he was not guilty of murder from day one. This queen couldn't have possibly killed that little girl, especially so since he was in another state at the time of the murder. So why did he confess to it? Well, apparently he had read somewhere that several inmates of the Colorado prison system were given gender-reassignment surgery to treat gender-dysfunction maladies. In other words, Mr. Karr wanted to get his fun parts made even more fun, at the state's expense. Geez, you couldn't work for a few years and save ten grand to have your dick cut off? You oughta watch LOGO my friend, they give you the 411 on these things.

I bet George W. was a lot more fun when he was smoking crack and drinking moonshine...

President Georgie Bush celebrates the one year anniversary of Katrina's buggery of New Orleans. Mr. Bush pledged one hundred and ten billion dollars more for the rebuilding of New Orleans, and he expressed hope that the money appropriated for the city would be enough "until the next period of time." That is our president babies, eerily precise. I normally don't make fun of mentally challenged individuals, but I always make an exception when they are elected officials. What a moron.

Well babies, that's all I learned in a fifteen minute drive from my house to my workplace. If I come across something new and exciting I will let you know.

Peace and Love,

Cesarin.

Pluto's demotion

2006-08-28T04:45:00.000-07:00

Pluto, that stalwart whirl of ice and rock, has been unjustly demoted.

Good Moaning babies,

As many of you may have read by now, the International Astronomic Union voted last week to formalize a clear definition of what a planet is. Such a vote invariably ended in the demotion of Pluto, the ninth planet discovered by Clyde Tombaugh in 1930, from a full-fledge planet to what is now called a "dwarf planet."

Needless to tell you babies that this development has caused great sorrow for millions of second-graders around the world who have been told of this distressing news. You go to bed one night after learning at school that there are nine planets in our solar system, only to wake up with eight. To yank the rug from under their tiny little feet was a most egregious act on the part of the IAU. On a personal level, Pluto has always been my favorite planet as it is so far out in space it has always served as a metaphor for your humble servant's life.

But the most offended party are the denizens of Pluto themselves. Upon hearing of his planet's demotion, the Plutonian Ambassador to Earth requested an emergency meeting of the IAU in order to air Pluto's grievances. Here at the Moaning Club we were able to get the Ambassador to sit with us for five minutes and talk to us about this cosmic turn of events.

"Who the fuck do those assholes of the IAU think they are?"

Your Humble servant: "Thank you for agreeing to this interview Mr. Ambassador."

Plutonian Ambassador: "Thank you very much for having me. I am only too happy to be here and to be given a chance to set some things straight. I find the internet a most accessible forum."

YHS: "How are your people back home taking the news about your new planetary status?"

PA: "They are hopping mad. Who the fuck do those assholes of the IAU think they are? I mean, were we consulted about our demotion? No. What did your founding fathers say before they threw them tea bags overboard? Taxation without representation is tyranny. Yeah, that's right. Sure, we don't pay taxes, but that's beside the point. We should've been consulted before this was decided. Motherfuckers."

YHS: "I would like to clarify to all my readers that when you talk about throwing tea-bags overboard you are not referring to British subjects. You are making a reference to the Boston Tea Party, right? I wouldn't want to give the people of Earth the impression that the Ambassador is xenophobic."

PA: "Yes, that's right. Although it has come to our attention that some of those despicable buttholes on the voting committee for the IAU were British, so fuck them anyway."

YHS: "Yes. Well, I can see that there is plenty of bitterness on the Plutonians' part about the decision. But what do you think of the IAU's rational for downgrading your planet's status to 'dwarf planet'? You don't see any logic in it?"

PA: "It's complete bullshit! I tell you, we are looking into legal action here. It's all so fucking Freudian, as most of the IAU members who voted for this travesty were men, and we in Pluto are very well aware of the human male's macabre fascination with size. They think that bigger is best. Really? Take Jupiter. Have you set foot on that shitty behemoth? No? Well let me tell you, that fucker has nowhere for you to stand on, you just keep on sinking and sinking and sinking until you are crushed by the pressure and heat. It's nothing but stinky gases and wind, like the IAU convention I daresay. Fuckers. Shitmotherfuckfuckshit!"

YHS: "Yes, yes. But don't you think that delivering a formal definition of a planet was long overdue? Without a definitive set of requirements describing them, we could theoretically end up with hundreds of planets in our solar system."

"Just take a look at those so-called 'giant' planets. They are nothing but a bunch of flaccid softies..."

PA: "And what's wrong with that? It's discrimination, that's what it is. Earth is intent on being at the helm of an exclusionary planet club. Well FUCK THAT! We are small, so they call us a dwarf. That is so fucking politically incorrect! We are small, but we are rock hard. Just take a look at those so-called "giant" planets. They are nothing but a bunch of flaccid softies who don't do anyone any good. But you come to Pluto and you will see the meaning of the word 'rigid.'"

YHS: "Yes, I see your point. But, without an official definition of a planet, you could end up with large asteroids and even moons being called planets. Don't you think that it was time to define what a planet is? According to the IAU, a planet is an object orbiting the sun, with enough gravity to shape itself into a sphere, and with enough momentum to clear out all other objects off its orbit. Don't you think that is an admirable definition?"

PA: "Enough is enough! We've had it with those motherfucking astronomers in that motherfucking convention! Well, Neptune hasn't cleared its orbit as we [Pluto] cross it once in a blue moon, don't we? What are those hoseheads in the IAU gonna do now? Strip Neptune of its planet status? This so-called definition is arbitrary and doesn't hold water, and we are not gonna take this lying down. We are currently seeking legal representation and we are gonna sue them assholes for all the money they got."

YHS: "Well, you do make a good point there. Well, thank you very much for sitting with me and talking about this very controversial decision by the IAU."

PA: "You're welcome, and to all those fucking retards at the IAU, I would like to leave you with a quote from a very famous American: Don't fuck with me fellows, this ain't my first time at the rodeo."

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The New Christians

2006-08-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

Tim LaBouf, the HOT HOT HOT Pastor of Watertown, NY, Baptist Church... too bad he's a male chauvinist pig...

Good Moaning babies,

I am up to my nipples in work nowadays, so I don't have much time to moan... but, after seeing this bit of news last night at home, I just had to say something.

Tim LaBouf, the pastor of a Baptist church in Watertown, NY, has fired 81 year-old Mary Lambert (NOT the director of Madonna's "Like a prayer" video, lol) from her post as Sunday school teacher, a post she has had for 54 years, because she is female.

A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, she must be silent. Timothy, 2 11-14.

I would call Pastor LaBouf a Neanderthal, but then again, the Neanderthals actually valued women.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Mel Gibson's latest movie

2006-08-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

Giving up on Straight Boys

2006-08-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

Yes babies, this is the end of the road for your humble servant and his harem of straight boys... from now on it's nothing but queers queers queers for this former het-bait

Good Moaning babies,

I was supposed to have a date with my Baltimore straight boyfriend Steve last night, but he was a no-show. At around 10 pm he called to let me know that he had been detained by his girlfriend and was not going to be able to make it to my house that evening. He apologized profusely and said that he would make it up to me by coming over the following evening.

I couldn't believe it. I got home early to clean up and take care of things and be ready for him, and he pulls this on me. You mean to tell me that I stuck a garden hose up my ass for nothing?

Anyway, no more of that. I knew it was a bad idea to agree to see him this week, or ever again for that matter. He came over last Saturday and, when he left the following day, we had made plans for Wednesday evening. But being the "other woman" in any relationship is a tough thing, babies. You have to share the fucker with his legitimate squeeze, and that just pisses me off. I am not getting the attention I deserve. Plus I hate sucking a dick and tasting pussy. Besides, adultery just doesn't suit me well. Is it adultery if you're a gay guy who fucks a straight boy who has a girlfriend? Or is the adultery angle only valid when it involves married people?

My friend Stevie Wonder is of the latter opinion. When he and I used to discuss religion (a topic we sidestep nowadays due to the controversial, and some would say intolerant, viewpoint I have embraced concerning faith), I would point out all the inconsistencies inherent when it came to Catholic homosexuals, their lifestyle, and their worship. I would tell him that men having sex with other men was a violation of the ten commandments, in particular the whole adultery thing. Stevie would then retort with the way-over-used and predictable cop-out: that particular commandment (the sixth) says that "thou shalt not commit adultery," and in order to do that you have to be married. So, as long as you are single (and gay) you can fuck all the people you want for as long as you want. With Jesus' blessing.

Mmmm... I don't think that is quite what the Catholic church has in mind when they teach you the ten commandments in catechism. To be sure, when I lived in El Salvador and went to Catholic school (for eleven fucking years), the Spanish wording on the sixth commandment (the one dealing with adultery) was actually: thou shalt not fornicate. Fornicate, babies, not "commit adultery." When, years later, I was confronted with the American version of the sixth commandment, "thou shalt not commit adultery," I got it right away: you can only fuck within the confines of marriage. It doesn't matter whether they call it fornication or adultery, the position of the church, and of Christianity in general, was quite clear: you are allowed to have sex only in the context of marriage. Single people are not to have sex.

Which means that gay men will always be sinners in the eyes of the church, for as long as we are never able to secure marriage rights, either secular or otherwise. Since the church itself will never allow us to get married (under the patronage of the Holy See), and furthermore, since the engine at the center of the anti-gay-marriage movement in this country is religious in nature, it is obvious that the church is doing everything in their power to ensure that gay men and women remain sinners for ever. And I thought that the job of the church was to save souls, but now it seems that they are branching out. Nowadays they trade in the consignment-of-heathens-to-hell business as well.

So no matter how I spin it, whether my date is straight or not, single or not, it will always be wrong for me to lay down with him, if I believed in that kind of religious stuff that is.

Maybe I am not committing adultery when I have Steve from Baltimore over. But I am definitely fornicating. And that's a sin. I guess I am going straight to hell, babies.

I will save a seat for Stevie Wonder when I get there (just kidding Stevie baby, we all know there is no hell...).

P.S. It turns out that now Dustin, Steve's straight (and married) buddy, has called me to get together with him. I met Dustin at a poolhall in Wheaton when I was supposed to clandestinely go meet Steve at a neutral place. The dumb do-do brings his buddy Dustin to our secret rendezvous and now I have another het-breeding boy wanting to take a walk on the wild-side with your humble servant. New Orleans was never this wicked.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

Weekend Recap

2006-08-07T11:37:00.000-07:00

My new living room: I got a sofa (which fucked up my arm) and new art on the walls.

Good Moaning babies,

How was y'all's weekend?

Mine, not so great. I had to move furniture on Saturday morning which left me in agonizing pain due to the fucked-up arm I have, which in turn caused me to consume large numbers of Vicodin tablets that left me in a stupor for most of the weekend. All in all it was an uneventful weekend.

Except that I had a date on Saturday night. Yes babies, your humble servant had been avoiding this straight boy named Steve who lives in Baltimore, MD, for the better part of a month now. Everytime he called I let the voicemail take the call. Whenever he emailed me, I archived the email without looking at it. And since he lives in Baltimore, he couldn't just drop in on me whenever he wanted. Or so I thought.

He knocked on my door early on Saturday afternoon. He was in town and wanted to see me. As I was taking heavy medication, my mind was not at the sharpest it could've been and I ended up agreeing to go out on a date with him that evening. I did feel bad for blowing him off all that time, but I just had enough of them bisexual/straight boys who keep on calling me. Yes babies, this Steve dude from Baltimore has told me from the very beginning that he is straight. So what gives? If you're straight then go chase after some pussy.

My Living Room wall. This painting is called "Moses Airborne" and is on loan from the Xiomara collection.

If I were some slender, hairless, silky-skinned, big-assed, effeminate, dainty, girlish, pretty young boy then I could see why some straight-but-thick-as-a-brick-in-the-head studpuppy would want to bury his bone and hit it deep with your humble servant. But as I am not hairless nor slender, far from dainty or pretty, and definitely un-girlish, I cannot, for the life of me, understand why this straight boy Steve would want to see me.

I met Steve about two months ago at the Springfield Kaiser Permanente medical facility. He was there delivering medical supplies to the orthopedic department while I was sitting at the waiting area. I had come to see Dr. Kaplan who was going to operate on my right elbow. Steve sat next to me while the staff was verifying the equipment and we got to talk. He lived in Baltimore, he worked as a delivery man (he was a big muscular guy), and he had just moved in with his girlfriend. I was nice to him, but I didn't do anything else other than be polite. After the office manager had signed Steve's invoice, he left.

When I was done with my doctor's appointment, I came down to the lobby of the Kaiser building and to my surprise I found Steve sitting in the lobby. I came over and said something to the fact that he must've had a lot of deliveries that day. He said that he didn't. His last delivery was for the orthopedic department and he was just done for the day.

"You're done for the day and all you can think of doing is sit here?" I asked.
"Well, my girlfriend is at home," he said, "And I am not ready to go see her just yet."

So I suggested we had lunch since it was one in the afternoon.

The rest happened quickly. I saw him about three times that week, but then I decided to end it quickly. This would have been the second guy I pair up with who has an annoying girlfriend at home and escapes from her by taking the skin-boat to Cesar-town. William R was my other "straight" boyfriend, and I had just had it with the closet-loving, reluctant-homo's who were looking to set up shop inside my sugar walls whenever they tired of pussy. What? Their girlfriends didn't take it up the ass? I swear them Catholic girls don't know how to keep their men happy.

I have been taken to task by some moaners for suggesting (nah, what suggesting... I said it outright) that bisexuality doesn't exist. That is a bold statement to make, but I think I can make a good argument for it. I could bring in these two yahoos, William and Steve, and put them on the witness box. I can see it clearly, your humble servant badgering them until they admit under oath their addiction to dick in general and to the Cesar in particular. What exactly goes on in the mind of a straight man who has sex with other men?

I was looking at this website, Active Duty (if you want to go there, I can loan you my password and login), that features straight military men getting hot and heavy with other straight military boys. I can see straight boys playing the skin flute for money. I can see straight boys grabbing their ankles for a fix (drugs are bad, babies, don't do them). Heck, I can even understand jailbirds taking care of each others' peckers in the absence of women. But a straight boy without an agenda who goes off and finds himself a much older (and yet way hotter) man to replace his girlfriend cannot in good conscience use the label "straight."

And I don't accept the bisexual angle either. These two Nabisco dudes didn't just fuck me. They fucking devoured me. They did everything babies: suck dick, munch butthole, suck on toes, bite on nipples, ear-tongue-fuck, ass-dick-fuck... everything. I was shocked. And dismayed. There is nothing remotely straight (or for that matter, bi) about the things these two boys did (separately, that is; I haven't even thought about suggesting threesomes with these two homo-deniers).

This is another wing of my art-ful Living Room. You can see a picture of your humble servant when he was one year old. The woman with the beehive is my mother.

It's not as if I wouldn't mind having an LTR with either William or Steve. Sure, Steve would be a better choice since he doesn't have a gambling problem (like William does), he is closer to my age (28, that's Steve's age not mine), and he has a job that keeps him in incredible shape. Plus he is cute. A little dumb, but he is a vast improvement over my last lover who had the IQ of a salamander. But until my pursuers admit to their homosexuality and fully embrace it as a thing to be happy about, I am not getting emotionally involved.

Steve and I had spoken earlier in the week (he finally got a hold of me at work), and we were supposed to have a date on Thursday but I blew him off and instead went to Chaos with some friends. When he showed up at my house on Saturday afternoon, he laid a guilt trip on me so bad that I said sure, let's do something tonight... so we did. Dinner (at Red Lobster), movie (the AFI showing of Saraband, Igmar Bergman's Swedish epic thirty years in the making... my date hated it, but the things he will do for nookie, no?), and then a quiet time at my house on my sofa in front of the television.

After he left, the following morning, I took some Vicodin for the pain (in my arm, not my ass), and spent the entire day on the sofa watching TV... Ah well babies... Maybe this week will bring more exciting stuff for me to talk about, in the meantime take care.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

Angels

2006-08-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

"... Touched by the presence dear of an angelic entity..."

Good Moaning babies,

I saw an angel. Yes babies, it's true. He had wings on his back and a halo over his head. He was blonde, in his early twenties, with blue-ish eyes and a body made for sinning. I saw him at Results, the gym.

Ok, so he didn't come from heaven. From what my friend Len The Man was able to find out, Angel came from Miami. He is here, we suspect, doing some kind of internship. We doubt that he has moved to DC permanently. That would be too much. It would take a, ahem, miracle for such an angelic figure to dwell among us for too long.

But all kidding aside, we all have our own idea of what is beautiful and what is not. Prior to Angel making an appearance at my gym, I held Alexander the Great (not the Macedonian king but the erstwhile best-looking-man-in-the-world-before-Angel-showed-up young man who works out at Results, the gym) as the epitome of male beauty. Those of you who have been fortunate enough to bask in the light of his gaze will witness to my testimony. Alexander the Great was the most beautiful of them all, until an Angel vanquished him.

"A tsunami of bliss engulfed me..."

Oh, but such is life. No matter how pretty you are, there's always someone prettier than you just around the corner. However, before the arrival of Angel, I had decided that I could die happy for I had seen the best that nature could do, in Alex. It didn't matter that I could never be with him. It didn't matter that he didn't even know I existed. These things were of no consequence. What mattered was how he made me feel, unbeknownst to him, of course, but my feelings were real. But what really had me puzzled more than anything was the resistance with which my initial proclamation of Alex as the Modern-Day Adonis was met. Wasn't it self-evident? Could these people who resisted his charms not see what I was seeing? Were they jealous and letting their jealousy rule their heads?

I felt somewhat validated when the Nightcrawler backed me up on Alex's hotness. But taking a perfunctory survey around town yielded wildly differing opinions.

"Good Lord dude, the boy is so skinny!" The Molester said. The Molester and I had become friendly with each other of late and had hung out a few times. You know you've heard people say things like you don't need to be a rocket scientist to..., right? Well, The Molester is actually a rocket scientist, so he's pretty smart. He is one person whose opinion I value and who's always surprising me with his insight and general intelligence. So, in order to write this moaning, I enlisted his help while we were at (yuppie gay DC bar) JR's and asked him two questions: Was Alexander the Great the best looking man in the world? And if not, who was it? I knew that his answers would be dripping with acumen and vision. So imagine how startled I was with his response to the former. But it was the answer to the latter that completely threw me.

"See that guy over there?" The Molester said, pointing at one f-ugly Latin man so muscular that he looked like a kidney, "I would do things to that boy that would make Bill Clinton blush."
"That ugly thing?" I was outraged that he would place such an aesthetic affront alongside the magnificence of Alex, "You can lift a rock in the desert and find better looking things underneath it!" I had forgotten how obsessed The Molester was with Latin men.

The Molester didn't seem to be reasonable nor particularly helpful in my quest for the truth, so, the following Monday at the gym, I moved on to TexasBoy. T-B was a young man who worked out at Results with me and who always had a friendly smile ready for your humble servant. I always enjoyed chatting with him. Now, I knew right off the bat that T-B was going to be more of an iffy survey subject than my previous one as he was even more of a Smegma-Queen than The Molester, but I figured that if you are beautiful, you are beautiful in the eyes of everyone. Even in the eyes of Latin-obsessed, Nachos-bound TexasBoy.

"He's way too young," T-B said. Well, it was clear to me that my current survey subject was a Necrophiliac as well as a Latin-freak. I mean, who fucks the dead? Too young indeed! As if that were a polemic for anyone. But I had noticed that T-B liked to date (as well as hang out with) older men. A grave-robber he was, that Texas dude. What the fuck was I doing asking him about Alexander the Great anyway? Admiring Alexander the Great would be a 180 degree shift for my young Necro Queen. Alex was the fountain of youth, the treasure of Sierra Madre, the morning star, the exalted one, the bearer of light, the sun and the stars that illuminate our dark journey in this life, the sea and the heavens meeting in the horizon. How could Geritol-Queens appreciate such things? They simply couldn't. All they do is hang outside nursing homes hoping for a runaway wheelchair to come their way. People are sick in this town babies.

But I digress. TexasBoy was not representative of mainstream tastes, so I continued in my search for the truth.

"His presence was palpable and irresistible..."

Next I spoke with Don JoseLuis. He was more likely to agree with me where Alex was concerned as he was an Anglophile. Alexander the Great wasn't particularly mired in whiteness, but he was definitely a Caucasian boy, and you babies know how Latin boys go for the Nabisco Crackers.

"Oh yes, he is good-looking, but he's not the best-looking man in the city. He's not even the best looking man in the gym," Don JoseLuis said.
"Then who is the best-looking man here?" I asked. We were at Results, the gym, and checking everyone out, like we always did.
"That guy over there," he pointed at this dude who towered over everybody. The man Don JoseLuis was lusting after was a fucking giant. Yes, he was goodlooking, but didn't hold a candle to Alex. The giant was about six foot seven or so, older than me (or at least looked older than me), with cobalt-blue eyes that sparkled, and a body that made you pucker-up and lay on the floor on your back with your legs in the air.

I studied the giant for a second and decided that Don JoseLuis was a Macrophiliac (as well as an Anglophile), someone who is aroused by the sight of huge-ass people. Giants. Nothing wrong with that, but being as Don JoseLuis was a little munchkin four feet ten inches tall, and a top to boot, his attraction to this dude conjured up an image in my head I saw as a child: a Chihuaha male dog trying to fuck a Doberman Pinscher bitch in heat. It ended badly.

"He looks like something out of a Jonathan Swift novel," I said.

A blank stare from Don JoseLuis.

"I mean, don't you feel like a Lilliputian next to him?" I asked him.

The blank expression didn't leave his face. I moved on.

By now I was doubting my own judgment. How come nobody could see in Alexander the Great what I saw in him? Was I so off the mark? Three different people gave me three very different answers. I decided to ask one last person. So I found Scooby-Doobie-Drew and asked him what he thought about Alexander the Great.

"I've seen better," Scoobie said.

I was crushed. I asked him who he thought was better looking that Alex. Scoobie looked around and zeroed in on an impressive bodybuilder. This dude was a mountain on legs. He was also dressed like a hoochie-mamma. The bodybuilder's get-up barely covered anything. His workout gear was made of black spandex and looked like a speedo suspended by black dental floss. You could see the vast musculature on his topside, and the tiny appendage in his crotch. He gave us all gym-bunnies a bad name as the mere sight of him implied that we were all trying to compensate for a very unfortunate shortcoming.

"You gotta be kidding me," I said. "The man is ridiculous."
"No he isn't. His outfit is a little over the top, but it is appropriate for the gym," Scoobie said.
"That outfit would be inappropriate at a gay bath-house in Sodom and Gomorrah," I said.

That was it. I didn't need to ask anyone anymore. I realized that the only opinion that mattered was my own. So what if everyone else had gone mad? So what if the tastes in this town ran from Abasiophilia to Vorarephilia? Who cared? Was mine the only sound head in a land of madness? I knew the truth, and the truth was self-evident to anyone who wasn't fucked in the head: Alexander the Great was the summit of creation. Period.

Then Angel showed up. Wrapped in the sun, his glorious countenance radiating beauty and infusing the entire gym in a heavenly glow that permeated every inch of the place. His presence was palpable and irresistible. I heard trumpets. I saw stars. I felt dizzy. A tsunami of bliss engulfed me and took me to the clouds and back. I felt electricity race through my skin as I landed on earth a changed man, a better man, a man touched by the presence dear of an angelic entity. And Alexander the Great was no more.

Yes babies, I saw an angel.

And I lost Alexander the Great.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Our Moron in Chief

2006-08-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

This is Preservation Month. I appreciate preservation. It's what you do when you run for president. You gotta preserve.
--George w. Bush

Nashua, NH, 01/28/2000
Speaking during Perseverance Month

Admiring Latin men

2006-08-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

Salvadorean men are hot... Don't ask me who this cutie-pie is, I ain't telling...

Good Moaning babies,

My Bolivian pre-op transexual friend Mata Hari (who, despite butchering the English language with her heavy-accented patois, insists on speaking in English with me) invited me the other day to a "Verbena for Latin Men and Their Admirers," as the flyer put it. Now babies, a verbena is nothing more than a Spanish hootenanny with lots of tropical music like salsa, bachata, merengue, and regeton. The fact that it is for "[l]atin men" is nothing more than superfluous redundancy. But the interesting part of the flyer that Mata shoved in my face was the "[t]heir admirers" thingy-thing-thing.

I knew instantly what to expect: a whole bunch of lily-white gringo men (no offense meant to my northern-European-American friends), most of them older and wealthy, leering over a bunch of young Central-American hotties and more than ready to finance said Latin hotties', how shall I put it, enterprises (with these Latin hotties more than willing to take the money). Funny thing that. I have mentioned this a few times before, but it bears repeating: my gay compatriots turn to prostitution once they step inside the Beltway.

"See dose bois? Dem horse," Mata said.

We were standing with our backs against the wall, facing the dance floor at this warehouse in Southwest Washington, DC. Mata and I had arrived rather early, before the place got overstuffed with spics and gringos, so we were better able to cruise around and enjoy the sights of Latin cutie-pies shaking their bon-bons to the soothing sounds of Shakira and Wyclef-Jean.

"They're horses?" I joked, having understood her speech the first time.
"No, seelee. Dem horse. From horse-haus," she repeated.
"Oh, whores from a whorehouse, I get it. Why do u say that?" I asked.
"See dat boi derr? He horr. He get foked een hees ass lie horse for mah-nee. Hee horr. Hee oh-glee horr," Mata opined. And I could see her point.

A good (non-Latin) friend of mine once commented on the lack of appeal that Chaos (a Latin-friendly gay bar in Northwest Washington, DC) had for him, since all the people there were "ugly" with "flat faces" and whose professions were more likely than not to be as "dishwashers." Now, I never took these words as racist or xenophobic. They were unkind words to be sure, but no one could accuse this friend of mine of being inaccurate. Yes, the kind of Latin man one is likely to find in Washington, DC, is the indigenous-heavy mix of mestizo or criollo. My own family tends to lean towards the native-American side of the DNA double-helix, but, in my own particular case, I happen to favor the Iberian Spaniard more than the Latin-American kind.

Back in El Salvador, this was an asset. My nickname for most of my childhood, before I was pegged with the moniker of "faggot," was "Chele" ("whitey"). This was not an epithet. El Salvador is shadist to a certain degree. Dark skin color is considered beautiful, but a (relatively) fair complected person is a rare thing in my country, thus desired even more.

But here in Washington, DC, fair-skinned boys are a dime a dozen, and those "admirers" of "Latin men" are not interested in Latin boys like your humble servant. These fuckers are looking for exotic boys with, as my friend would put it, striking indigenous features, thick hair, dark skin, and short stature. I see it at Results, the gym, as well. Butt-ugly Latin bastards (and I mean that in the best possible sense) are being followed into the locker rooms by horny white men who wanna indulge in the sight of uncircumcised dick. These Latin-crazed freaks don't even give me the time of day (even though my dick is much bigger than the average Central American, but I am not blowing my own horn here, even though I could easily do that), but they go ga-ga over the Inca-prince-kind of Latin boy. I am not complaining. I am not envious of such attention. But it just pisses me off that I am completely ignored because of my skin-color.

Which brings me back to Mata's comment about the boy-whores of the Latin verbena. It is a shame and a scandal that these Latin men have decided to become, as all evidence attest to, hookers. I see it everywhere. Sure, my brethren may not rank high in the KKK's list of the 50 most beautiful people, but it was plain to see at the verbena that they worked-out something fierce and had chiseled bodies of iron and steel. But instead of using their looks (and their effect on white men with Latin fetishes) as a springboard to a better life, they stick to old-fashioned prostitution. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing bad about prostitution (some of my best friends are whores, like Mata, but don't call her that; she prefers to be called "love-technician" best), but is that the only option a Latin boy has in this town? Why is it that all the Latin men at Results, the gym, are whores? (Ok, I will admit it, not ALL the Latin boys at my gym are whores, but there is quite a large percentage of them who get free housing, free cars, free credit cards, free clothing, and disposable cash from their "friends," and to avoid the risk of being sued I will not mention names, but they know who they are).

"Ay see chu lookeeng," Mata says to me.
"What? I am not looking at anyone in particular," I protested.
"Hees name ees Fre-dee. Hee from Watemala. Hee qyut, si?" Mata said.
"Yes, he's cute, I admit it. He's also very young," I said.
"Hee twentee too. Hee gu-ork een keet-chen. Hee gu-ash deesh," Mata said.
"I thought he might," I responded.

Well, Freddie was a young dishwasher. But he was not a whore. And, after an attempt from your humble servant to talk to him, I found out that he was not interested in half-white Latin dudes either. He had a thing for full-blown Aryan boys with blond hair and blue eyes.

It seems that I get no respect either way. I am too dark for Latin men and too fair for white men. Maybe I should've offered money to Freddie, his non-whore status notwithstanding. Ah well, maybe next time.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Sultry Sharan's BBQ

2006-08-02T06:15:00.000-07:00

Sister Helen Prejean, of 'Dead Man Walking' fame...

Good Moaning babies,

On Saturday night I went to Sultry Sharan's BBQ hootenanny in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, DC.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Smurf, Mel's girlfriend, said.
"The pleasure is all mine," I said, lying a little bit.
"I have heard so much about you and have been given strict instructions to stay away from you," she said.
"Oh, really? Who said that?" I asked.
"Melly, he said that I should be prepared to be outraged," she said.

Now, babies. I don't know how to take that. An outrageous personality and a potty-mouth is just my means to take center stage. I am, after all, a Leo. But I certainly did not want to be regarded as a polemic figure either. I want people to be happy, that's all.

"Well, do you know very many gay men?" I asked her.
"Yes, I work in the Senate," she responded. "By the way, what's with the gays' obsession with leather?"
"What do you mean?" I asked her.
"Why is it that most gay men wear leather? They wear leather even in the summertime, why is that?" Smurf asked.
"Because chiffon wrinkles easily," I said.
"Really?" she seemed to be taking me seriously. That's when I knew I could have fun with Smurfy here. A gullible straight Republican chick who was dating Melly Mel was like Mana from heaven.

"How did you meet the Nightcrawler [ed.]," she asked.
"In prison," I said.
"Oh, you were in prison?" she asked.
"No, he was," I explained, "I was volunteering with Sister Helen Prejean, you know her, the one from 'Dead Man Walking' fame. She was ministering to the damned at Angola prison in Louisiana at the time. This was back in 2002. She was going to bring her roadshow to the sexual predators wing of the prison, so she needed a male escort. I had volunteered with the diocese before, and I was mostly working with deranged kids who bit their caregivers. So when I was asked to join Sister Prejean at the sex wing of Angola prison, I jumped at the chance. I mean, anything to get away from those little anklebiters. Plus, I figured that if I hung around a bunch of locked up horndogs, I could come out of it with at least a six-month supply of dates. After they were released, of course."
"Of course," Smurf said.
"So Sister Prejean and your humble servant were first sent to the colossally disturbed section, since they were the ones most in need of spiritual guidance," I continued with my tale, "and that's how I met Nighty [ed.]. He was doing a one-month stint in the big house for flatulence in public."
"Really? That doesn't seem to be criminal behavior," Smurfy said.
"Oh, you would think otherwise if you had been on the receiving end," I explained, "He would do these heinous acts in closed areas like elevators and confessional booths. He was quite sick, I must say. But with close monitoring and a lot of praying, he was able to overcome his mental illness and become a productive member of society. He also learned how to be a hugely accommodating bottom in prison."

Now, by this point I expected Smurfy to wise up and see through the tissue of lies I had just laid on her. But to my delight, she bought the whole thing.

"You must not mention this to Nighty, as he gets embarrassed. But feel free to let everyone else now about it, so that they can be considerate and treat him with kindness," I suggested to her.
"Oh, absolutely I will. It breaks my heart to hear about his hardships," Smurfy said.
"Oh, it's all in the past now. He avoids raw vegetables and is now heavily medicated, so life is fun for him," I said, "Besides, the skills he learned in prison come in handy in his profession. If there's anything a lawyer should know how to do well is fuck people in the ass, don't u find it so?"
"You don't have to tell me that. I am dating a lawyer and that's all he wants to do. Why is that?" she asked.
"Straight men are mired in homosexual fantasies, I tell you," I told her, "they spend their whole lives chasing after pussy, but once they get it, they stick their willies in another hole. How ironic. Maybe they want more friction."
"Maybe," she said.

After this exchange, I moved on to Sexy Gina's boyfriend.

"Is it true that Nighty [ed.] was in prison?" he asked.
"Who told you?" I tried to sound sincerely outraged.
"Oh, Smurf did. But is it true?" he said, sheepishly.
"Yes, but mum's the word," I admonished him.

By the end of the evening Sharan had confiscated the bean casserole dish and thrown the raw vegetable plate down the trash chute.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Annoying Things

2006-08-01T04:49:00.000-07:00

Skateboards are NOT annoying, especially when the skater bois are rolling around topless...

Good Moaning babies,

This week is only beginning and yet I am thoroughly annoyed by events that have transpired over the weekend. Some of these events you babies may be aware of already, and others you are about to learn today. Let's get on with it.

Mel Gibson, the anti-Semite. Yes babies, it's true. Those of you who are fans of the homophobic, Christianist, sexist, misogynist, anti-Semite, racist, ageist, atmokinekic Gibson might want to skip this paragraph. Otherwise, let's just get to it: on Friday night, Mel Gibson was joyriding in Malibu with Jose Cuervo riding shotgun when all hell broke loose. Apparently he was doing about two hundred miles an hour on a twenty-five mile zone or something outrageous like that. When he was finally pulled over by the cops, Mr. Gibson was given a sobriety test and he failed it miserably. Did I tell you babies that I was in a similar situation? I was driving the Nightcrawler home one night after imbibing something fierce at the (premier gay bar) Nation's Madonna party in Southwest DC when we were pulled over by the cops. It was Nighty's fault as he was telling me where to go to get home from Nation's (since I was way too hammered to think straight, no pun intended) and was doing a bad job of it, but blame the cider for that one, thus causing me to go this way and that, giving the impression that I was swerving. The police officer came over to my window and said, "Where are you coming from?" and I said, "From the Madonna party at Nation's." "Really?" the cop said. Then he proceeded to unbuckle his pants, unzip his fly, and pull his dick out. "Oh, shit," Nighty said, "He's gonna give you the breathalyzer test."

Mel Gibson's mug shot. Boy how has the mighty fallen. This dude used to be smoldering hot back in the day... now he's just fugly...

Needless to say that I passed the sobriety test with flying colors. But I digress. Mel Gibson was not happy to be given the breathalyzer test neither. After he failed it, he made a run for his car but was quickly apprehended. He got really belligerent and began to berate the police officers with claims of "owning" Malibu and threatening the officers with making them sorry they were ever born. Once he was handcuffed and in the back seat of the cruiser, Mel Gibson tried to argue his way out of this predicament by trying to put some sense into the heads of the officers: "The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world." "Fucking Jews." "Hey, are you a Jew?" Yes babies, it seems that Mel Gibson was speeding like the dickens because he was running away from the Jews. After all, they were bombing Lebanon. It was just a matter of time before they moved on to Los Angeles and dropped them bombs on his alcoholic ass. Now, I am not saying that nuking Mel Gibson's 50 year-old ass is not a good idea. I am just saying it's not likely to come from the Jews.

But mind you babies. The hypothesis that the Jews are the source of all the evil in the world is not a Mel Gibson original. I've been hearing that one ever since I was a little boy. My late partner Lowell and his family would sit down during Thanksgiving and give thanks to the lord for not being Jewish, then they would put on their white robes and pointy hats and go down to the Fisher projects in Algiers for some good old cross burnings. Did I go on a tangent again? Anyway, had I known (before I married him) that Lowell was an anti-Semite racist white boy, I would've made sure we had a threeway with Lenny Kravitz (a black Jew) before I partnered with him. Just to cure him of his affliction. But we were talking about Mel Gibson. The man is derivative even in his bigoted rantings. Anyone who has seen "Braveheart" and "The passionate Christ" will attest to it. The following morning he issued an apology for all the "despicable" things he said. But I am still annoyed. I am not a Jew but I am not that far down the laundry list of hated minorities in Mr. Gibson's catalog of prejudices neither. Where do u babies think homosexual spics rank? I would say number two.

Paris Hilton's song rebounds in the top 20. Who would've thought the bitch could sing? Yes babies, I am as flummoxed as can be. I find myself compelled to recommend her single, "Stars are blind," despite my feelings for the wench. At the risk of being compared to the Dixie Chicks, I am ashamed that Paris Hilton is a carbon-based lifeform. I can't stand her. I think that she is human debris. I think that she is ugly (and getting fat quick). I think that she has the IQ of a dachshund (no offense to canines anywhere). But one thing I am is a fair man. Talent is a funny thing, sometimes you find it in the most unlikely places. Sometimes the most despicable buttholes are bestowed with inexplicable artistic abilities. Take Russell Crowe for example. That loathsome Australian thug can act. Or Mel Gibson. That Jew-hating, gay-bashing alkie can direct a movie just fine. And here we have Paris Hilton. That detestable rich bitch can sing.

Couldn't they have gagged her also?

Oh, don't get me wrong. She doesn't have the angelic thrust of Mariah Carey. She doesn't even have the range of the new-and-improved-since-Evita Madonna neither. But she's better than Britney Spears and Ashlee Simpson. Her voice is not meaty or substantive, but she imbibes it with plenty of character and, shall I say it, wanton longing. The song itself is a gem. It is a reggae-tinged pop ditty that sounds a lot like "Kingston Town" (the UB40 version). Paris' voice fits neatly into the song and services the song instead of the song being a vehicle for her. The little tune keeps chugging along and delivers a blissful 3-minute doobie-ready time. Like Mel Gibson and Concerned Women for America would say about homosexuals like your humble servant: love the song, hate the singer. But it is nonetheless annoying that Paris Hilton has now rebounded back and is climbing the charts again. The song originally peaked at number 18 in the Hot 100, and due to increased airplay in markets like DC (them gay boys will listen to anything, no?), the bitch is back.

Cobalt, the youth-leaning S&M (Stand & Model) disco in DC, is now not welcoming women. Yes babies, Cobalt is no longer admitting women inside its sodomite walls. I know what you are going to say, it's illegal to discriminate based on sex. But it is not illegal to refuse admittance to people who are wearing high-heels. Well, as long as you are a woman. The Nightcrawler, Sexy Gina, and your humble servant were planning on going to Cobalt for a few drinks and some good dancing on Saturday night, but alas, our night was almost ruined when we got to the hateful gay bar. Sexy Gina was wearing sandals with a very tiny heel, but she was refused entrance anyway. Apparently there is a new club policy that bars any patrons who are wearing women's shoes with heels. It is not clear why this is so. I can't imagine why Cobalt is so much different than any other bar in the world that they would have to enforce such a fucked up policy. Are their floors made of gingerbread? We decided to have a seat at a table in the bar next door, which was not gay and thus not discriminating against women, and have a few drinks. While we were sitting there we witnessed the Cobalt bouncer turn away almost all the women who were trying to get in the club. It didn't matter how low the heels were on the women's shoes, they were not admitted in. The men, however, had no such problem, even though some of them had heels much higher than the women's.

When Nighty pointed this out to the bouncer, his response was: "Well, they are not women's shoes."

Could this be any more clearer? Cobalt is trying to limit the number of women who get in. Sure, some women will not wear high heels and thus be admitted, but it will be a far lesser number than normal. And eventually Cobalt will figure out a way to exclude ALL women from coming in. I don't get this. I enjoy the company of women, especially a saucy dish like Sexy Gina. Why would she be denied entrance? She would brighten up any club. But at Cobalt the emphasis seems to be on drugs and sex. And apparently you can't get high and get fucked if there's a woman around. That is so fucking annoying. Let's boycott this bar babies.

Fat people who think they're hot. Yes babies, you have former fatsos, like Star Jones, who upon losing half their body-weight become enamored with their anatomies and turn into bloated monstrosities, albeit good looking ones (not so Star Jones, the bitch is so ugly only a gay dude would marry her). But I am not talking about these people. I am talking about current porkers who think they're hot. There is this guy at Results, the gym (my gym), who's about five foot one and weighs around a hundred and ninety pounds. He's not ugly in the face, but that body of his was made for rolling. He is round. He looks like a beach ball. For some morbid reason, I have become fascinated with the man. I look at him work out and run on the treadmill. I see him dripping with sweat. I see him panting and red in the face, about to have a stroke after working out so hard. And I see him get fatter by the day. Sometimes you have to accept the fact that some people are destined to be fat forever and ever no matter what they do or how little they eat. It's Karma babies. These people were bad in a past life and now they're paying for it.

A composite picture of ButterBall Guy... this is how he acts around me now... Lucky me!!!

Anyway, Butterball Guy, as I call him, noticed me looking at him. Mind you babies, I was not lusting after him. I was simply observing the guy, like I do with just about everyone. But Butter Boy got the wrong idea. He obviously thought that he gave me a woody, and promptly copped an attitude. Yes babies, this hairy fat short dude is walking around thinking that he's Brad Pitt. Whenever he sees me, he acts like a peacock spreading his feathers. Sheeeeeezzz... dude, you are so fucking wrong!!! And soooooo annoying. I better stop looking at people.

Anyway babies, let's hope that the rest of the week gets better...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Ivan's feet

2006-07-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

So You Think You Can Dance S02E14

Hello babies,

Here's another performance by Ivan.... You can see his feet...

Cesarin

Ivan Koumaev is God

2006-07-28T08:28:00.000-07:00

Ivan shaking his thing

My dear precious babies,

I can't get enough of this boy Ivan... God is great indeed...

Peace and love
Cesarin

Ivan Koumaev and his body of work

2006-07-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

Ivan Freestyle

Hello my precious Babies,

Here's another look at Ivan Koumaev doing God only knows what with his nimble and goody-good-good body... He would be a lot of fun if you catch him doing the above routine in your bed.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Ivan the wonderful

2006-07-28T05:37:00.000-07:00

"So You Think You Can Dance" - Alison and Ivan

Hello my precious babies,

Here's a sample of why I love to watch this show, especially after having taken a few Vicodins...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Video of the Day

2006-07-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

Open Your Heart - Madonna

Hello Babies,

This is the video of the day. Madonna's "Open your heart." I think this is her best video ever. It has everything: sex, intrigue, underage boys, and there's a plot twist at the end....

Enjoy...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

My nights in white Vicodin

2006-07-27T06:42:00.000-07:00

Ivan Koumaev, the only reason why I watch "So you think you can dance?"

Good Moaning babies,

How are you all doing? Me, I am peachy, popping Vicodins like they were M&M's.

My ruined right arm. This picture was taken only a few days after surgery. Yes, it is as bad as it looks, and you haven't seen the other side yet. On the upside, I have a four-week supply of Vicodin.

Last night I sat in front of the TV while I was strung out on Vic's, and I watched the most exciting show I have ever seen in my whole life. Actually, it was a rather obvious American Idol knock-off, but the boys were cute. The name of the show is "So you think you can dance?" and the irony of the show is that the contestants actually do think that.

Well, all the contestants in this show can dance, in the same way that all the contestants in American Idol can sing. The difference is, when the you-can-dance boys and girls end their competition, there won't be any albums or singles put out for us to buy. The winners of this show will go on to their careers quietly. I don't know what you do when you win a dance competition. Back in the day, when I was in college, you could always become a Solid Gold dancer.

The Solid Gold dancers in all their gaudy glory... I think I may have slept with the white dude, but I am not sure. That hairstyle was awfully en-vogue back then.

But I digress. I was watching this fascinating show last night. The emcee was a woman called Cat Deeley (sp.) or something like that (her first name is an allusion to pussy, did u babies get that?). She had a snobbish British accent that got on your nerves after a while. I reckon that America is putting up with her (the show boasted ten million votes cast the night before) because she is so fuckable, if you like pussy that is. There were a few other American Idol-isms that I could see:

1) The annoying British judge, Nigel Lythgoe. This dude doesn't sink to the depraved depths of derision and debasement that Simon Cowell does, and as far as catty judges are concerned, he appears to have been declawed. But last night they showed some clips of Nigel chastising some of the contestants for sucking so bad during the competition. Granted, if you suck you suck and there's no way to pretend that you didn't when you got a camera up your ass during the whole dance routine, but I think that if you are cute and thin, you should be given some slack. Simon knows this, but he is way too hetero for his own good (I mean, couldn't he have given Ace some of the slack he gave Kellie?).

2) The whack-job at the judges' table. In the case of American Idol, we got Paula Abdul. There is an internet rumour that posits the reason for Ms. Abdul's incoherent rantings and monosyllabic catatonia during AI's broadcast: drugs. Or alcohol. Take your pick. I hope the rumors are not true; I have always liked Paula Abdul. I consider her debut album one of the best of the 80's and the only reason why I did not do ecstasy during my disco days; tripping on X while listening to "Forever your girl" would be like pouring sugar on Frosty Flakes. Alas, "So you think you can dance?" could not find an 80's diva of Ms. Abdul's caliber (or stupor) to serve as the spoonful of sugar that makes the British medicine go down (I mean, you couldn't find Stacy Q's number? What about Regina? Debbie Gibson is out of work, they should've given her a call). Instead we get Mary Murphy. The shrill bitch sucks. And she's fat too.

3) The two-day dance/elimination bit. Yes, I caught the second day of the weekly competition, which means I missed the actual dancing. However, I did get to see the dancers doing the "Cellblock Tango" from "Chicago" during the opening sequence... the boys were wearing wife-beaters and no shoes. So I got to see Ivan's naked arms and feet. Damn that boy is fine! Ivan is 18. Did I tell you boys that I had an 18 year old boyfriend for a little while? It only lasted about four days. I put him on a Greyhound bus and sent him down to Florida (which is where he was headed to when he and I hooked up). Let me tell you one thing babies, never embark into a brand new LTR right after you've been discharged from the hospital (after you've had surgery and you're still whacked out on morphine and God knows what else). I was operating under unusual conditions, what with the haze of narcotics I was floating in. The 18 year old and your humble servant had a great time while it lasted. Those teenage boys have great stamina. Five minutes after the dirty deed and he was ready to go at it again. It's a good thing I was pumped full of pain-killers, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to take it. But take it I did babies. For four days, all day long. But regrettably, when the drugs wore out and I realized what I had done, I put an end to it. So off to Florida he went, my 18 year old hook-up. But damn that Ivan is fine, no? I mean, 18 years old. Did I tell you babies that I had an 18 year old boyfriend for about four days? What? I did? I guess the morphine hasn't quite left my body yet....

Ivan giving it to his dance partner good... Look at that boy; he's nimble, ain't he? And he's got big feet. And he's so tall... I wonder if he's big everywhere.

4) The annoying guest performer. Busta Rhymes was "performing" last night. This show is all that American Idol is, except in a lesser level. The judges have less bite. The emcee has less charisma (well, maybe not... but the charisma-free Ryan Seacrest doesn't have a smug British accent, and that helps). And the dancers don't sing. But they dance. And they're far cuter. And THERE ARE NO FAT CONTESTANTS. Yes babies. No Ruben Studdard. No Mandissa. No Kelly Clarkson. This show is not the whaling season that American Idol can be. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the fucking guest performer. Busta Rhymes "performed" last night, but by then the Vicodin had kicked in and I was sleeping in the merciful arms of the sandman.

Well babies, I woke up this morning at one in the am in front of the TV. I don't know who was kicked out of the show, but I did find out that it wasn't Ivan... damn that boy is fine, no?

P.S. Go to www.TheMoaningClub.blogspot.com to see a video clip of Ivan dancing.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

James Blunt Wannabe

2006-07-26T14:49:00.000-07:00

Hey babies,

This is something new I am trying here. I will be posting videos from time to time... Check this one out. It's a mother's tribute to her son, I think... Anyway, I like the song. So if you wanna see this, make sure your computer has the sound on and click on the play button in the middle of the video...

Peace and love,
Cesarin

Oh, to have been a groupie back then....

2006-07-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

When I come out, I come out full blast...

Hello babies,

Lance Bass, the former baritone voice of that archetypal boy-band group 'NSync, has declared his homosexuality at the top of his lungs... This was the worst-kept secret in music biz as Mr. Bass had been an internet slut for the longest time (hey, I am just relaying the rumour, I never had the opportunity to give it to Mr. Bass). He even showed up at Oz and The Pub, the two main gay watering holes in New Orleans, sans disguise nor beard a couple of times.

Personally, I liked him better than the other members of the band on account that he was the one who sang less. He never was the lead singer featured on any of the band's singles, and his deep baritone voice kept him on the low register so often that he was inaudible during those Justin Timberlake/JC Chasez bubble-gum epics. Now, being the non-singing member of an annoying boy-band has its advantages, and the fact that he was playing the skin flute during those symphonies of love that must've been the backstage at an 'NSync concert should not be a detriment for an 'NSync reunion neither. We always appreciated Lance Bass for not defiling our ears.

You have to wonder if while Justin, JC, Joey, and Chris were banging broads on the road while strung out on ecstasy Lance snuck in dressed like Britney and gave his bandmembers something to keep quiet about. Hey, that would make for a billion selling memoir...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The bitch is back... stoned cold sober as a matter of fact...

2006-07-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

Once again, the US and the UK have gone unilateral on us...

Good Moaning babies,

I know it's been a while since you heard from me. I have been meaning to write more moanings, but for some reason I found myself without anything to moan about for the longest time.

But that has changed. I got lots to tell you, but I am gonna dispense your humble servant's musings in the course of several postings as my right hand is kinda weak (and before you assume the worst -that your humble servant has gone hog-wild with self abuse- let me tell you that I had a second surgery, this time on my right elbow) and I need to let it rest.

But first things first.

George W. Bush executed the first veto of his presidency last week when he killed an attempt from congress (a bipartisan effort, who knew?) to expand federal spending on stem-cell research. His reasoning is that on "moral" (i.e. religious) principles, he is opposed to the destruction of innocent lives (and blastocytes are destroyed during the extraction of stem-cells).

Well, that statement sort of kinda goes against anything that he has done in the last five years, don't you babies find it so?

Let's tackle his line of reasoning on religious grounds first. His main assumption is that babies are innocent. Mmm.. I don't want to sound like a despicable butthole, and as I identify myself as a secular humanist (no a complete atheist), my counter argument may sound disingenuous to some, but hasn't our president heard of the concept of "original sin"?

For those of you who are non-Catholics, Catholic dogma holds that we are all born inheriting the sins of our first father, Adam, who ate the forbidden fruit at the cajoling of Eve and was thus, along with the wicked Eve, expelled from paradise and forced to work the land to survive. No more freebies for them bums. I mean, you live under my sky, you live under my rules, period. God has spoken. The original sin is washed away, I think but if I am wrong please educate me, through the cleansing waters of baptism. So until babies are baptized, they are all in danger of going straight to hell to pay for the sins others committed before they were born. We are not born innocent. We are born guilty. So by vetoing the expansion of funding for stem-cell research, our president is not saving innocent lives. He is saving guilty lives.

Not that the embryos are gonna get a get-out-of-jail-free card anyway. They are going to be destroyed. The bill that was passed in both the Senate and the House only applied to embryos that were about to be discarded by fertility clinics. So if Bush really wanted to save these so-called innocent lives, wouldn't it make more sense to force fertility clinics to keep these embryos frozen indefinitely?

I know what you are gonna say, babies. Not every Christian denomination believes in the original sin. Pssst... As a former Catholic, I have an answer to that: APOSTATES! Yes, whether you believe in the original sin or not, it makes no difference. It is a fact of life. Like evolution.

But that was my religious take on Bush's argument for his veto.

How about a more practical one? Bush wants to spare innocent lives. Doesn't he know that when you drop bombs on Lebanese civilians, it will kill them? Now, these civilians may or may not be innocent. I am sure that some of them are guilty of something. But some may not be. If he truly wanted to save innocent lives he may want to join the rest of the world in the calls for an Israel-Lebanon ceasefire, no? Well, NO. I am sure that there are two sides in this conflict. Lebanon should've disarmed Hezbollah a long time ago. Imagine the United States and its two-party system with one of those parties having an armed branch. I get dizzy when I think of all the wicked things the Republicans would do if they had a militia (the KKK doesn't count). That's not the way to run a democratic state. So Lebanon should've found a way to defuse this ticking bomb a long time ago.

On the other hand, destroying Lebanon doesn't seem to be stopping Hezbollah much, is it? The US war on terrorism has shown us that brute force will NOT stamp out terrorism, it will only make things worse. And things cannot get much worse than Lebanon right now.

But I digress. Back to Bush. Much is said about this very first veto of his presidency. But the thing is, he has never needed to veto anything before because of his darn executive signing statements. He signs bills with the caveat that he has the privilege of not abiding by them, thus bestowing the executive branch with power not seen since before Nixon and his Watergate debacle. Under those conditions, vetoes are not necessary. But he vetoed this one. Why? He couldn't find a way to weasel himself out of this?

It all comes down to the same thing, doesn't it? Bogus religious arguments and a dubious culture-of-life stance aside, what Bush is doing here is presenting his backside to the religious right on the eve of a mid-term election. Yes babies, Bush is about to take one for the team. It's very interesting to me that the very same people who are pro-life are also pro-death-sentence and pro-abortion-clinic-bombings (well, maybe that last one is not quite true). Bush never commuted a death sentence when he was governor of Texas, and he didn't blink an eye when he destroyed Iraq. And apparently he gets a boner from watching Lebanon getting wiped off the map. But try to extract some stem-cells from something that looks like a tadpole in order to cure grandma's Alzheimer's and he's on the warpath.

But whatcha gonna do? Right? Well, I'll tell you what... vote democrat.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Reaching beyond the realm of stupidity...

2006-06-05T08:20:00.000-07:00

This is the kind of miracle you don't see anymore...

Good Moaning babies,

It has been a week since I wrote anything. I know. I have been a bad 'blogger for keeping all thoughts to myself, instead of spreading them around as I spread everything else, no?

But this week began with a story so juicy as to make it impossible for me not to get in front of the computer and write a little something to provide some perspective to those conservatives reading your humble servant's rantings.

I am talking about our venerable president, George W. Bush.

Yes, what would we do without him?

What? What is that you say? Save our economy? Save our personal freedoms? Save untold lives in Iraq? Well, yes babies, all those things we could do without him. But we would not have the opportunity to laugh so hard at the news if we didn't have him, would we now my precious babies? No we wouldn't, that's right.

And isn't a genuine guffaw at George W.'s expense worth a trillion dollars in deficit, facism, and the lives of thirty thousand Iraquis and four thousand marines? See? Just as I thought.

On Sunday, George W. decided to reignite that ages-old controversy of same-sex marriage. It is the righteousness of moral fortitude that wins elections babies, not the resolution of real issues affecting real people. You can forget all about gas prices soaring to near five dollars a gallon (a bargain compared to Europe's seven dollars per liter); or you may want to turn your back to the neo-totalitarianism of our new fascist regime as they raid Capitol Hill, listen in to domestic and international phone calls, and torture political prisoners in Guantanamo; and you may even forget the bleak future that awaits us when the dust of this "war" on terrorism settles and we find ourselves with a gazillion dollar deficit and no possible way to pay it. Yes my babies, all these things are of no consequence. What really matters is sodomy.

If there is one thing that conservative, Christianist (thank you Andrew Sullivan for the proliferation of that term) Republicans can't stand is the sound of testicles smacking against a hairy ass. An unbound deficit is not the problem. The real menace to this country (and world civilizations in general) is all them men with their legs up in the air and puckering buttholes hungry for big, wet, thick, hard, uncut, dark penises to ravage them. Furthermore, the judicial branch's obstinacy in trying to not only decriminalize such behaviour, but also to give it legitimacy by granting it government-sanctioned status via a state contract, i.e. marriage, is, simply put, the work of Satan.

We will put a stop to these evil machinations by the hellbound, fag-loving liberal left.

Praise Jesus!

What we have here is your Capitol Hill version of them old-fashioned tent revivals that are so popular in the country-side. You have your charismatic (and way too lecherous) evangelical minister who works his faithful into an orgasmic frenzy of religious/sexual fervor, with the praying and foreign-tongue-speaking going on until midnight, and the field-fucking and anal-lingus going on until well after three. The GOP has decided that they are in big trouble, with a capital T. And something must be done, pronto. Let's get our political tent-pole out and about, and let's turn these unsuspecting voters into glassy-eyed zombies ready for the anal probing. We must divert attention from the unspeakable ineptitude that has taken over the upper echelons of our government, and instead focus on the naughty shenanigans that are happening behind closed doors and between consenting adults.

Hey, it worked in 2004. Maybe it will work again in 2006.

And boy are they getting America worked up. Nothing like pointing out the evils of homosexuality and the threat they pose to families everywhere to get the GOP base itching to cast a ballot their way. Yes sir, thank God, the Virgin and the Pope for them extra chromosomes in our constituents; it keeps them from seeing what's in front of their noses. We must encourage more cousins marrying, by the way.

But I think that people are being way too unfair to President Bush.

Now, by all accounts, this president of ours has an IQ barely above that of a person with Down syndrome. Considering this handicap, we must not begrudge the colossal imprudence of reviving the same controversy he used to win reelection last time around.

He sounds like a broken record, yes. He knows that pushing for an anti-gay ammendment in the constitution is an excercise in futility, yes. He knows that his actions are way transparent and everyone can see he is just trying to divert attention from his ineptitute at the helm, yes.

But, we can't blame him for going ahead with this affront to Americans' common sense. After all, you would not blame a man in a coma for wetting the bed, would you?

But what can I say babies? This is the same shit that's gonna be flung our way everytime that there is an election year. Whenever the GOP is in trouble, they will drag out of the closet their best weapon against common sense and basic human decency: the malignment of homosexuals. It works in most of the country, so why not use it?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Will the real Clay Aiken please stand up?

2006-05-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

A reader has this to say:

Clay Aiken... Clay Clay Clay I say... I say I say I say Clay. Damn that dude is sexy!

Clay Clay Clay I say. Who knew he was soooo sexy? Clay Clay Clay, I would have loved to have seen Clay and Ace Young and Bucky and Chris Daughtry all shirtless wearing micro shorts and sandals singing Madonna songs. Now that finale would've attracted a zillion viewers.

Clay Clay Clay... damn that boy is sexy.

Bizarre love triangle (everytime I see you falling...)

2006-05-25T05:13:00.000-07:00

Now, that's what I call sexy...

Good Moaning babies,

Well, this week certainly has had its share of Fellini-esque surrealism for your humble servant.

First I become seriously aroused during a screening of the Da Vinci code when Tom Hanks makes his onscreen appearance in a dowdy, wrinkled, demure suit and sporting a hairstyle from hell.

And then, last night, my jaw drops to the floor when, as I watched the finale of "American Idol," I see a sexy Clay Aiken come out and do a homoerotic duet with some male Clayhead dork who goes into multiple orgasms and paroxysms of pleasure at the sight of His Holy Gayness.

Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh... push it in baby... deeper, harder, shoot! shoot!

I really do mean this. I actually felt a stirring in my loins when Clay stepped on the stage and looked at his groupie as one would an insect in the bathtub. With supreme disdain and loathing, Clay took over the "duet" the two of them were singing and clutched his microphone as if it were Jeff Stryker's dick. Mr. Aiken had dyed his hair brown and was wearing a very nicely cut Donna Karan suit that showcased his boyish body. I could not believe it: a Sexy Clay Aiken. Who would've thought?

Shake your money-maker, but don't brake it...
wrap it up and maybe I'll take it...

For those of you who don't know, Mr. Aiken has been the subject of a very nasty sex scandal involving porn stars and barebacking. Barebacking is the alarming trend for young gay men nowadays to take it up the ass from strangers without making them wear condoms and squeeze DNA straight out of the source with their sphincters. Yes babies, Clay Aiken has not only gotten sexy, but he's gotten radically sexual. Well good for him, and I'll be sure to make a donation in his name in lieu of flowers at the funeral (just kidding, I wish nothing but the best for Clay, that barebacking bastard!!).

Ooooh baby... pucker up and plant it right here...

But, I digress. Clay Aiken with his milky white skin and neo-Rick Astley looks, has a big voice. The way that he was presented on stage was bizarre as well: The emcee, Ryan Seacrest (the patron saint of mediocrity and lameness) was giving out awards to all the failed contestants in the show. One of the awards given was "Best Impersonation." The winner in this category was this weird dude who tried to channel Clay Aiken during his auditions. You weren't sure if the man was a dork, a homosexual, or both. He came out prancing onstage to accept the award, and Ryan asked him to sing for the audience. The weird dude began to sing in a not-that-bad voice, and then suddenly the real Clay Aiken came out from behind a screen and began to sing along in an impromptu duet. The weird dude nearly crapped himself and went into an attack of conniptions when he saw his Clayness on stage, singing along with him, looking sooooo sexy and delivering an Elton-John-via-George-Michael rendition of "Don't let your son go down on me." The homosexual quotient of the show immediately went through the roof with all this gayness: Elton John, George Michael, the gay-themed song, Clay Aiken, the gay-dork-weird guy. They all conspired to turn the season finale show of "American Idol" into the gayest thing on tv since Grace Jones' apperance on Pee-Wee Herman's 1988 Christmas Show.

Those milky white legs are making me lactate...

I was on a Clay Aiken high by then. But it all came crashing down when the new American Idol was announced. Taylor Hicks won. The man is the worst choice for an American Idol since Ruben Studdard. He looks way older than his 29 years of age, sings like your drunken uncle at a Bris, and has the sex appeal of Clay Aiken before his sexualization... which means there is hope yet for this Hicks.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Tops and Bottoms

2006-05-24T04:35:00.000-07:00

I had a date last night...

Good Moaning babies,

Last night I had a date with a twenty-four year old boy from Costa Rica. His name is, oddly enough, Fabian Arce. His brother's name is Juan Arce, which is, coincidentally, my old boyfriend's name from 1974. Alas, this Costa Rican Juan Arce is only 32, so he couldn't be the same Juan Arce that used to munch on my neck when I was eleven, as he would have to be forty-seven years old by now.

But moving on. Fabian Arce, my date from last night, is a real cutie pie. He is the stereotypical Central American boy: short with small hands and feet, round plump face, dark smooth hairless skin, and a backside made for climbing volcanoes. As usual with my dates, this one ended in some pillow-talk (with my face being pressed against the proverbial pillow). The thing that struck me about Fabian was his affected machismo. Pleeeeeez. He acted like a total macho schmuck in bed, and his act did not fool me in the slightest. Once you put a dick in your mouth we can dispense with the gender mindfucks, thank you very much. Not that Fabian was a fan of that particular activity. He did it because I asked him to, but you could tell that his heart was not in it.

Fabian, my date from last night...

He was also not a fan of kissing either. But he did it also, and if you are a latin boy who kisses another dude on the lips, then no amount of posturing or buffalo stancing will persuade anyone with a brain to think that you are nothing more than an unadulterated fag. Sure, you can have internal conflicts. Sure you may resolve these conflicts by limiting the number of "gay" activities you do in bed. But the moment you choose to go to bed with men, that's the point where you can drop the macho act; we know where you're coming from. A fag is a fag is a fag and a big fucking fag...

So, if Fabian didn't like to suck dick and kiss boys, what did he like to do, you may ask? Well, do u really have to ask? For a 43 year old fag like your humble servant that barely has an ass, it confounds me when nearly all my dates jump right on it. Yes babies, Fabian was a top, and as such he went for the fuzzy peach. It's a good thing I took the time to groom, wink wink. But imagine my disappointment when I saw that Fabian's little willie was commensurate with his body. "And I shaved the crack of my ass for THIS?" was my reaction.

Now, let's talk about tops and bottoms. For many years I was a top, going up and down the east coast stretching buttholes and massaging tonsils. However, at a certain point seven years ago, right after Lowell died, I decided to give that a rest. Why should I jeopardize my lower back's well-being to pleasure some queens who are not as appreciative of all my hard work as they should be? All the while you are pumping as hard and as fast as you can, trying to put on an "American Idol"-worthy performance, you know the dainty queen under you is judging you and dying to go back to his cronies to spill the beans about you. "When you talk about this, and you will, please be kind," is the kind of Bette Davis line that pops in your head the whole time. And who can perform under such duress? I beseech you babies, fucking should not be that nerve-wrecking.

I can understand the allure of having intercourse under the influence of drugs. You will only get rave reviews if the boy on the receiving end is whacked-out on ecstasy or crystal or even Nyquil. He'll love the pounding he's getting and will tell all his friends about it. But call me old fashioned if you will (or maybe over the hill), but I much prefer to have sex with live people, not strung-out zombies. So with all the performance-anxiety and the fact that I had been a top for nearly twenty-five years, I decided to give it a rest and try being the one having fun for a change.

So that brings me back to Fabian. He is not a bottom. He is a top. He will NEVER be a bottom. He will ALWAYS be a top. Because he is a big hirsute macho man. Really? REALLY? The one thing about tops, and granted this is a generalization and there may be many exceptions to the rule, is the way in which they view bottoms. Actually, bottoms get a bad reputation from everyone, gay or straight. Most people view bottoms as passive, submissive, wimps, and all-around pussies. Right?

Well babies, let me tell you one thing. After seven years of taking it up the ass I have come to the conclusion that bottoms are tough and resilient. Yes babies, it takes a real man to take it up the ass and smile. Think of it: you are on your back, with your legs on some guy's shoulders, with at least one hundred and fifty pounds leaning on said legs, taking a dick up your ass, and the whole time you have to enthusiastically engage the other dude or they'll label you a frigid queen. It is the tops who are usually the pussies. The reason why most of the tops I have met are tops is because it HURTS them too much to take it in the rear.

So who's the macho schmuck now, Fabian? The dude who can't bear a little pain in the backside or the one who is taking the brunt of the encounter? Bottoms are tough manly men who can take some major punishment and smile about it. Heck, sometimes we even like it.

Oh, btw, Fabian and I have a second date planned for this weekend. And his little willie didn't even hurt a bit. Pity.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

2006-05-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

Like Jesus' mother...

Hello my precious babies,

Madonna is being heavily criticized by Christian leaders for her latest show's antics.

Apparently, in order to convey immediacy to the plight of Aids sufferers and raise awareness of world poverty, she used a very well known image of agony, anguish, and redemption to drive her message home.

Moronic Christian leaders did not take into consideration the context of the image and took an idolatry stance in which the effigy becomes holier than the concept behind it. It is akin to kneeling before a statue and thinking that it is alive.

But this riles me more than that:

You know, Christianity has been lambasting and damning homosexuals to hell for centuries... and here we have our own gay icon, showing irreverence to that monolithic institution and they are now up in arms and outraged. Can they point that outrage inwards? Can these Christians look deep within themselves and realize that what goes around comes around?

Here we have a woman who is unafraid to point the finger at the most egregious perpetrators of injustice and malfeasance; a woman who utilizes her art and talent to raise social awareness of institutionalized pogroms, not only at a religious level but also in the highest echelons of political power.

Yes, you fundamentalist zealous Christians have a lot to worry about. Here we have a woman who is unafraid of your death threats and evil deeds and will speak out against the moral genocide commited in the name of Jesus. Yes, be afraid.

The Da Vinci Code and two birthdays

2006-05-23T04:29:00.000-07:00

The Catholic Church is at it again: burning books and destroying works of art... when will this madness stop?

Good Moaning Babies,

It's been a week since I wrote anything, and while I was agonizing about the impression my silence will have on you babies, I realized that if you have nothing to say then you should keep silent. Last week was a quiet one. And the weekend even quieter. Nothing happening at all. Well, actually, there were a few things happening that have prompted me to pick up my laptop and bang away at the keyboard.

1) Happy Birthday Josh and Raja!!! Yes babies, Josh had his birthday on May 20th and Raja had his on May 18th. Raja was traveling all around the world when he hit 41, but Josh was anchored down in New Orleans when he turned 29 (gee, I hope I have the ages right... there's nothing scarier than a scorned queen pissed at you for getting her age wrong; not that Josh is a queen, he's a King, right Maria?). I hope they got lots of presents and nice toys to play with; I know that Raja likes them rubber toys in particular.

2) I saw "The Da Vinci Code," and it was a revelation. Yes babies, I finally know the truth. I can't believe that the Catholic Church thought they could get away with this colossal subterfuge for this long. It is a shame and a scandal that they should withold this information from us the faithful for two-thousand years. I am shocked and dismayed to learn that they had resorted to murder and mayhem to keep themselves in power. It took the sleuthing prowess of Dan Brown and Ron Howard to expose them bishops and cardinals and popes for the necromancers that they really are. No longer shall we walk in darkness thinking that everything is honky-dory and peachy-kin, because once the truth is learned it cannot be unlearned. Now the task is at hand to find a more truthful and forthcoming religion that does not commit murder nor lie to its followers. I am thinking Secular Humanism. Or Atheism. Or Flying Spaghetti Monsterism. Are the Hare Krishna's compelled by doctrine to wrap themselves around those dowdy curtains or do they have a choice on the pattern? Even the Pope wears Prada (them ruby slippers of his are just to die for!), so why couldn't the Hare's wear D&G pastel-colored florid-patterned table cloths around their waists? I'll look into this.

Tom Hanks' new appearance gives me a woody, as disturbing as that fact is...

3) Am I getting old, or is Tom Hanks looking cuter? Yes babies, this is a cause for concern for your humble servant. I saw his Da Vinci movie, and I thought to myself, now that's a good-looking man. The dude was sporting a most uncool haircut and wearing dorky and wrinkled clothes the whole time. Plus he was unshaved and puffy-faced. And yet I found myself strangely aroused. It was his voice, really. And his gravitas as a learned professor of symbology (these universities are coming up with the whackiest branches of science, no?). Which goes to show you that sexual attraction has nothing to do with physical appearances, a fact that I am banking on as I embark on a quest for a boyfriend.

4) What's with this religious bullshit about boycotts and book-burnings? I saw several news reports about calls for boycotting the Da Vinci movie and saw scenes of Da Vinci book burnings by the clergy. Most upsetting babies. In the preceding centuries, the Catholic Church has been responsible for the destruction of ancient knowledge and entire civilizations. The church destroyed the patrimony of the entire indigineous cultures of the Americas, the works of the classical writers of antiquity, and the output of the gnostic writers of the first century. They killed women by the millions on the pretext of witchcraft because these wiccan women had esoteric knowledge that healed the sick (the so-called "old wives tales," a mysoginistic term coined by the Catholic Church). They burned scientists at the stake on the pretext of heresy. They almost killed Galileo and Issac Newton. They have been attacking Darwin for nearly two hundred years. And now they're at it again. To be sure, the Da Vinci book represents different ideas to the church orthodoxy on the life of Jesus, but instead of engaging in dialog, these Catholic warlocks want to destroy the book, ban the movie, and generally suppress anything that does not follow in step with their teachings. Exactly what the Da Vinci book exposes. It's time that we took a stand against the perpetuation of ignorance for the sake of monotheism. Let's go see this movie.

5) The seduction of my hairdresser continues. Yes babies, my hairdresser's name is Patrick. He has a big nose and some fatness, and yet I am fully engorged everytime he puts his fingers on my scalp and massages my temples and cuts my hair. Alas, he gets to do this only once a month. I'd cut my hair more often, but I am afraid it will not grow anymore if I do. But Patrick, despite his big nose and fatness, is a hot cutie-pie. I shall take a picture of this boy and post it so you can see what I am after. When I visited New Orleans, I got him a little souvenir: a miniature effigy of Irma Thomas clutching a microphone on one hand and a lamppost on the other. It costed me like five dollars, but it went a long way in endearing myself to Patrick. The problem is, Patrick is involved in a freakshow of a relationship with this man. This older man. Patrick is 28 but he is 'dating' a 40 year old marine. The marine has repeatedly told Patrick that he does not want a boyfriend. So they have not labeled their relationship as such. The marine wants Patrick around, and definitely wants him in his bed. This asshole wants all the benefits and fun of a boyfriend but none of the responsibilities. Having a boyfriend means being miserable, how come this despicable asshole doesn't realize that? This is what I am up against babies. A marine. Patrick is a catholic who purposely fell asleep at a screening of the Da Vinci movie. I was shocked. With a nose like that I was sure he was jewish.

That's all I have for today babies. Keep on reading them heretic books and watching those anti-Catholic movies. It's all for a good cause.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

What the Republicans are doing to the country...

2006-05-11T11:12:00.000-07:00

When will America Learn?

2006-05-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

You have to marvel at your average Republican's deluded view of our President...

Hello my precious babies,

This CNN article reports on the President's response to USAToday's story on the NSA efforts to assemble the largest database in the world. What would this database contain, you ask? Well, simply all the calls YOU have made within the USA since 2001.

Yes babies, this Republican administration is spying on YOU. They know what numbers you call and they have stored this information on a database.

This is The United Facist States of AmeriKKKa, babies.

Bush says that only those calls pertaining dealings with Al-Qeada are intercepted, but considering that over 200 million people's calls are being stored in this monolithic database, it would suggest that the entire fucking country is involved in terrorist activities with Al-Qeada, no?

What are we, morons?

Does our President think that we are idiots?

He is spying on us.

WAKE UP AMERICA!!!

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The American Idol Edition

2006-05-11T04:16:00.000-07:00

Today is the beginning of my three-day weekend... whooo-hoooo!!!!

Good Moaning babies,

Some random thoughts this Thursday morning as I contemplate the weekend before me:

Bye bye Chris... You were the second hottest contestant that American Idol ever had... and probably the best singer too...

What a Shocker!!!! I can't believe that Chris Daughtry is out of the running on American Idol. That screaming bitch Katherine should've been ousted long ago (and most definitely should've been given her walking papers last night), but it looks like America will choose yet another woman as the American Idol. Let's recap: Kelly Clarkson, awful; Fantasia, better than Kelly but not as good as Jennifer Hudson who got voted off early in the third season; Carrie Underwood (the best female idol yet), better than Kelly but without the vocal power of Fantasia. So where does Katherine of season five fit here? Somewhere between Kelly and Fantasia... But I would prefer Katherine to win rather than Taylor Hicks, who reminds me of everyone's archetypal uncle who likes to put on a lampshade on his head and sing pop tunes at family gatherings... And people say that this dude can sing? Pleeeeeeezzzz... My butthole can whistle a better tune than this gray-haired monkey. The only hope we have is for Elliot to pull an offset and win this thing.

It's party time with PISCO

My sister sent me a recipe for making Pisco Sour and Piscolitas (Pisco with Coke and lime). My friend Eduardo from Results, the gym, has invited me to a house-warming party this Saturday and I have volunteered to make Pisco Sour. I had Pisco way back in 1986 when I was working as a computer programmer at ATP and my boss was from Peru. I threw a party at my house and my boss showed up with the ingredients for the concoction. We danced to Madonna tunes and drank Pisco until five in the morning. I don't exactly recall the taste of it, but it sure was a good time. I don't know who Eduardo has invited, but I am taking Nighty as a beard since I don't want to show up stag at this particular hootenanny as many people from the gym are likely to show up. I am especially anxious that Number 32 or Modeling Alex will show.

Modeling Alex's body... YOWSA!!!

I saw Modeling Alex last night smooch it with some old (but muscular) dude at the gym. It is a shame and a scandal that such displays of affection among men should be thrown upon us unsuspecting gymbunnies. I was shocked and dismayed. What is the world coming to? And why couldn't I be the old muscle-man the kid was smooching? Modeling Alex is probably the best eye candy I have ever indulged in. Just looking at the boy from afar stimulates the endocrine system and gives you paroxysms of carnal pleasure. It's pure bliss. Not even halitosis (which he has, I could smell it from where I was) nor a small endowment (the boy has a tiny pee-pee and yet insists on being a top man) could ruin it for me. Isn't that a sign of true love?

English class at Montgomery College in Rockville, MD...

And lastly, good luck to my cousin Xiomara who has finals today... Poor girl called me this morning to review her material on the Crusades... I told her to watch "Kingdom of Heaven" and hope for the best.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Number 32

2006-05-10T04:27:00.000-07:00

Number 32, the only number for me

Good Moaning babies,

To err is human, but it takes a 43 year old salvadorean papi to really foul things up. I think I am having a streak of bad luck lately. It all began last Sunday when I went to JR's on 17th street with Nighty and ended up making out with a 24 year-old boy with a cute face and a Michelin tire around his waist. I also got to meet Number 32, came on to several members of my gym who were at the bar having Happy-Hour vodka drinks, and ended up making a date for Friday night with a dude who answered the wrong number.

But let's talk about today first.

Things were fine this morning while I was still in my bed wearing my "Hamster Huey and the Gooey Kablooie" pajamas and dreaming wonderful dreams. I dreamed that I was a contestant on American Idol (a recurring theme in my REM's) and was waiting to take the stage along with Elliot, Taylor, and Chris (that bitch Katherine had been voted off due to her horrendous rendition of two of Elvis' most beloved tunes... not to be misogynistic or anything, but don't let a Mariah wannabe sing an Elvis tune... EVER!), and while I was warming up my golden tonsils to take the night (my songs that night were "Englishman in New York" and "It's gonna take a miracle" -- the Laura Nyro version), Ace Young showed up and began making out with me.

Imagine wrapping your lips around THIS hottie!!!

Oh babies, you should've been there (actually, Dr. Casey, you were there watching)! Ace Young and I weren't simply making out, no sir... it was a pawing, groping, nibbling wet dream. Damn! Why can't I have dreams like this one everynight? I not only got to find out how big Ace's tool is, but my performance sent Taylor packing (that grey-haired monkey) and all but made my win certain.

Then the fucking alarm went off and everything went to hell.

I was rushing to get out of the house, and while I was driving through The Blair Witch I realized that I had left my contact lenses at home. I always wear them when I work out nowadays because of the hottie quotient of Results, the gym. Leaving my lenses behind wasn't so bad, but it meant that I had to do three things today at lunch: have pupusas with my cousin, buy Pisco for the Saturday night housewarming party I had been invited to, and go home and get my contacts...

I decided to forget about the lenses for the time being and just enjoy the drive through The Blair Witch and listen to some car tunes. When I put on the headphones and turned on my iPod to listen to the soothing sounds of early 80's punk, I realized that the fucking battery was dead. Say what? Damn, I had to listen to DC's early morning radio instead, which is like taking a detour into hell on your way to work.

I arrived at my parking lot and got off the car and headed straight for my coffee emporium. When I got to Starbucks, I recognized the fag behind the counter. For the last five months I had seen his ugly mug every Wednesday and Friday and pretended I didn't know he was gay. However, on Sunday I saw him at JR's. And I know he saw me. At JR's he pretended not to have seen me and avoided looking in my direction the whole time, which is ridiculous really. Someone as old, fat, and ugly as he cannot afford to also be an asshole. When life has dealt you such lousy cards, the only hope you have is to be nice. But add putrid personality to his list of liabilities. And please put "Bad Barista" as a footnote to his curriculum vitae: when I normally ask for my Hazelnut Blend Venti Skinny Whirlaround coffee, I get a delicious drink that wakes me up in the morning. But when I got to my desk this morning and took a sip of the thing in my to-go cup, I wanted to die! What did he do? Take a crap in a shoe-box early in the morning and dispense the shit when needed? AND my turkey-bacon, egg-white on whole wheat sandwich was frozen. This bastard remembered me at JR's alright, and obviously he had decided that I was not worth having as a customer. Well fine and dandy asshole, see if I care. Next time I see you at a gay bar with your gut hanging over your belt and your turkey wattle flapping in the wind I'll give you the finger... sheeeeeeesh!

Yes babies, even though it's only six a.m. on a Wednesday morning, I am haunted by the events that transpired at JR's on Sunday evening.

Nighty called me on Thursday last week and asked me if I wanted to go to JR's on Sunday with him to have a drink and see if we could bag an old-but-still-viable man for your humble servant. Seeing as I hadn't been laid since Cas... er, ahem, since a long time, I said yes. Now, you babies know that once you give me alcohol it's every fag for himself. And it was a two-dollar vodka drinks night at JR's... cheap vodka, the kind that knocks you on your ass after taking a whiff of it. By my second drink I was already circling the airport.

Our friend Saul showed up with his friend Scott. Now, Scott is a laconic sort right off the bat, but apparently I offended him so much that he had to go stand in the opposite side of the large bar in order to avoid hearing me talk. At the time I didn't know what it was that I could have said that pissed him off so, but now I think I do: I told him that I got a really cheap apartment near the Silver Spring metro stop and I had just moved in that week. He asked me why it was so cheap in such a prime location. I told him that the reason why it was cheap was because one old guy with a dog died there. I told Scott that the old man was dead for about a month before they found him. The dog didn't die, but the pooch had no food so he had to eat the old man little by little... he kept on drinking water from the toilet, which was constantly running and thus supplying him with an endless fountain of water (not to mention the all-you-can-eat buffet lying on the kitchen floor... rancid but still good eatin' if you're a dog). Because of such a scenario, the apartment went cheap. ("Oh, but no worries, they removed the body and cleaned the place up and found a home for the man-eating dog. It's just that people can be funny about things like that," I said).

In hindsight, I can see why such a tale could make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. But it was by no means necessary for him to have to go stand in the opposite side of the bar... sheeeeesh!

Then, surprise of surprises!!! Nighty tells us that he has to go say hi to his friend Zach who was nearby. I was drunk and chatting up this 24 year-old boy with a cute face and enough fat to survive a nuclear winter in the south pole, so I paid no attention to what Nighty was saying. When Nighty returned, he was alone and drink-less. He said that his friend Zach was getting him a drink and would be joining us soon. I said, great! Another asshole-DC-type who will be annoyed at my colorful character and knock-you-off-your-socks anecdotes. That's what I need tonight, another tight ass who will go join Scott on the other side of the moon. Well, bring him on, the bastard, I am ready for more derision from two-faced prigs, yada yada yada... and then Zach shows up. Oh noooooo... Is that him? Could that be him?

YES.

It was HIM....

Number 32 from the gym, the man who made life worth living, the man who single-handedly turned Jeffy-Boo into a thing of the past, the man with whom I had been so in love for the past year... HE was Zach. And HE was a friend of Nighty's. And I was SO FUCKING DRUNK. Dear God. Guess what I did babies? I fucked up this situation in the inimitable way of your humble servant's. I told him that at the gym we called him Number 32.

"Why do u do that?" He asked.
"Because we saw that once you wore a t-shirt that said #32 on the back," I said.
"Who is 'we'?" he asked
"Oh, you have a fan club at the gym," I said.
"Oh," he didn't sound too amused, "are you the president?"
"Oh, no... I am the janitor," I said.

Well babies, Number 32 is actually a nice guy who works as a waiter at a salvadorean restaurant near the gym. He has a thing for latinos (he told me that he had the hots for two guys at the gym, Eduardo --a 33 year-old panamenian dude with a 41 year-old whitey-white-white gringo boyfriend and a new apartment for which we are throwing a housewarming party-- and this other skanky latin dude who, unbeknownst to Number 32, is a 200-an-hour-charging escort), and even though I would think that having such a latin-man fetish would put me on easy street as far as Number 32 was concerned, I know very damn well that the kind of latino he likes looks more like Monctezuma and less like an Italian-Spaniard-Indigenous-Pipil mutt like your humble-servant.

When I got home that evening, I was still drunk as a skunk. I knew I had fucked it up with Number 32 and wanted so desperately to make it right. I also wanted to serve Nighty a knuckle sandwich for not telling me that Number 32 was his friend. But I was gonna deal with Nighty later, at that moment my main concern was to mend things with Number 32. So I googled him and got his phone number. I called the number and waited with anticipation as the phone rang.

"Hello," a voice said.
"Yes, may I speak with Zachary Price please?" I said.
"Speaking," he said.
"Hi Zach, this is Cesar," I said. There was silence on the other end of the line. "We met at JR's and I work out at your gym."
"Ok," he said.
"I was just calling because I wanted to apologize if I said anything inappropriate to you," I began my litany of apologies.
"Ok, no sweat," he said.
"And I was wondering if you would like to go on a date with me this Friday night, maybe a movie and dinner, if you want," I went ahead and asked him out.

Silence.

"Hello? Zach?" I said.
"I am here. Can you send me a picture to remind me what you look like?" he said.

While I had him on the phone, I got his email account and sent him a picture of your humble servant doing his Dick Nixon impersonation. I waited for a couple of minutes while he went to check on it.

"Ok, sure thing, I'd like to go on a date with you," he said.
"Cool, then. It's settled. I will pick you up at eight, we set?" I said.
"We set," he said.

When he hung up I felt better. A little while later I got the "YOU GOT MAIL" message on my aol. I went to see whose it was. It was an email from Zach with an attachment. It was a picture of himself. I opened it. I looked at it.

"WHO THE FUCK IS THIS???!!!" I screamed.

Apparently there is more than one Zachary Price in Washington, DC.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

2006-05-05T07:46:00.000-07:00

HAPPY FRIDAY BABIES!!!!

It's time to go dancing...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Wednesday from Hell... or was it?

2006-05-04T04:35:00.000-07:00

Fucked up days like yesterday make me wanna put on my ruby slippers and dance the Macarena...

Good Moaning babies,

My car broke down yesterday. I left the lights on all day and the battery died.

It all began in the morning when I drove through Rock Creek Park in order to get to work. I have renamed the park as The Blair Witch because that's where that movie was filmed... or at least that's where it looks like it was filmed. The Blair Witch jams your cell phone so that you can't call anyone when she's pulling your teeth out (movie reference, go rent it) or making you stand facing the wall before she does her evil witchy stuff, which could possibly be worse than what the bishop does to you when you have your confirmation in the Catholic church (hint: don't bend over). But I digress... driving through the Blair Witch in the mornings is the stuff that monsters-under-the-bed are made of. There's fog. There's evil looking animals (bunnies, deer, bluejays, butterflies). There's aliens (Jesus and Maribel). And worse of all, there's fiendishly evil trees. That's right. Trees.

HR Pufnstuf, he's your friend when things get tough; HR Pufnstuf, you can't get a little 'cause you can't get enough...

Have you babies ever watched H.R. Pufnstuf (Witchie-Poo anyone? Damn, I am way too old...)? Well, the living trees in that show, the ones that constantly tormented Jack Wild and were at the service (cervix?) of the Witch, were modeled after the trees in the Blair Witch...

Jack Wild, HR Pufnstuf, and WitchiePoo...

Yes babies, every fucking morning I drive through the Blair Witch incomunicado, through fog, being watched by evil creatures, and having grotesque trees reaching at me with their twisted limbs. So of course, I put on the high-beam. It's my only defense against the forces of evil. But by the time I get to work, the sun is out bright so I don't realize that I have the car headlights on. Sure, the car alarm goes off to let me know that the lights are on, but I am usually wearing my headphones and listening to '70's tunes in my iPod (Paper Lace's "The night Chicago died" or Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods' "Billy don't be a hero" are favorites), so I don't hear the fucking alarm. Most days I do have the sense to check for things like headlights-on or pedestrians-under-my-car before I walk to my office, but yesterday I simply took off and went straight for Starbucks...

Imagine my surprise when, after I got off from work, I put the keys in the ignition and the fucking thing didn't start. Nothing. I realized then that the battery was dead. I ran all over the mall looking for someone with jumper cables, but there was no one who would fess up to it. I finally went to the Mall's security office and (to my utter horror) them assholes did not have a jumper kit or anything at all to help motorists, which is bizarre since they have a huge parking lot and you would think that there are plenty of hapless cretins like your humble servant who leave their keys in the ignition, leave their lights on, or leave their children strapped to their car seats in the back without the benefit of a cracked window... sheesh.

Since them hoseheads didn't have jumper cables, I made the security guard (tall, dark-haired, big muscles, big bulge in his pants, wanton lust in his eyes...) push my SUV while I engaged it in second gear and tried to get it going. No go. Fucking computers have ruined everything. Back in the HR Pufnstuf days you could simply roll your car down a hill and the thing would jump like Mary Lou Retton on the parallel bars. But since the advent of computers in car engines, the fuckers aren't going anywhere without a jolt of electrons from a power source. And to make things even more difficult for us nicompoops who kill their batteries like they were Iraqi civilians, the steering wheel locks up. Read this babies: do not attempt to steer the car if the engine is not on. While my security-guard-future-boyfriend was pushing the car, I was steering it trying to get it going. Since the wheel was locked, the steering wheel fluid was pushed out from the pump rendering the vehicle undriveable.

I gave up and called a tow truck.

That sucked since I had a potential date for that evening, but spending my evening trying to get the car fixed ruined it. I ended up spending time with Rosey Palmer and her five sisters... By the time I got home, it was very dark out there and I could hear the HR Pufnstuf trees in the Blair Witch beckoning me to come over and have my teeth pulled out...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Gasoline

2006-05-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

Hello my precious babies,

Magma Hot Josh, fellow moaner and friend of your humble servant, is fed up with all the misinformation about gas prices floating around. Just like Nighty's discourse on detainee justice, I found Josh's email (which he sent to me today) very informative, so I am posting it.... read on and learn a little bit about gas companies....

With all the misinformation and misdirected public outrage with recent price increases at the pump, I thought it was a timely to send out some real answers. These FAQ’s were prepared by Shell, but if you have more questions, I’d be glad to discuss. Forward this on to your friends and help dispel some widely held myths. The bottom line here is that the oil and gas companies do NOT determine the price of gasoline at the pumps. The base price is primarily determined by the price of crude oil on the market, which is influenced by market forces beyond the control of any corporation.

The basic economic principle of supply and demand along with effects from commodities traders speculating on the spot market based on both real and imagined threats to either supply or demand determine the prices of crude oil. The remaining cost of a gallon of gas is the result of the cost of refining oil into gasoline, the cost to meet the various gasoline blend requirements of different markets, taxes, distribution and marketing. Gas stations make minor adjustments to daily prices to stay competitive with neighboring stations, but this usually amounts to pennies on the dollar.

Boycotting any specific company, coordinating a community to not buy gas all on the same day, and many other recently proposed measures will not reduce the gas prices. If you really want to see gas prices drop, start conserving gas. Buy a hybrid vehicle or a vehicle that gets excellent gas mileage, use public transportation, carpool, find ways to accomplish your daily chores with the minimum travel required.

When driving, accelerate more slowly and don’t accelerate when you know you have to stop a hundred yards ahead. A large-scale movement towards reducing energy consumption (demand) is the only way to bring crude prices and gas prices down. You want to make a difference? Start with yourself, then encourage your neighbor. You may ask yourself, why is Josh, who works for an oil company, encouraging me to conserve fuel? Well folks, oil and natural gas are limited resources and if we don’t get our consumption under control, we are facing a lot higher prices at the pump that $3.00 per gallon.

Although there has been much focus and investment in renewable energy sources, much of which has been invested by the oil companies, progress is slow and no market-ready solution has yet been discovered that could replace gasoline as a transportation fuel on a large scale in the short term. Ethanol and biofuels hold great promise, but we all need to work together to conserve our precious natural resources for our environment and our children.

Best Regards,

Josh Etkind

Shell Reservoir Engineer

Question Why has the price of gasoline risen in the last few months?
Answer Prices of both crude and finished products are the outcomes of the basic laws of supply and demand, with the price of gasoline at the pump largely dependent upon the price of crude oil on the open market.

According to the Department of Energy, in mid-January of this year, the price of crude oil averaged about $58 per barrel, and the average national price per gallon of regular unleaded gasoline was about $2.30. On April 24th, the price of crude was about $75, or about 29 percent higher than in January, and the price of regular unleaded gasoline was about $2.88, or about 25% higher than in January.

Worldwide demand for crude oil and finished products has increased rapidly in recent years, led by the rapid growth of the economies in China, India and other Pacific Rim nations. While overall supply of crude has also increased during the same period, it has not kept pace with demand. Some also suggest that crude prices are being elevated by geopolitical tensions and, possibly, by financial speculators. To whatever extent such factors do exist; they are beyond our ability to control. We must deal with the market as it is, and in this regard supply and demand prevail.

Question What is Shell doing to increase domestic supply?
Answer Our Upstream staff are working diligently to restore Gulf of Mexico production and achieving major progress as shown by the spectacular recovery of Mars, and, along with our Motiva partners, we are looking at expanding Motiva’s Port Arthur Refinery capacity to market by an additional 325,000 barrels.

Long-term plans are extensive and capital investment levels are robust. In fact, globally Shell capital investment for 2005 was $15 billion and 2006 is expected to be $19 billion. In the near term we are producing as much as we possibly can while addressing future prospects with as much speed as reasonable.

Question Other than the cost of crude oil, what are the other components of the price of gasoline?
Answer Other than the cost of crude oil, the price of a gallon of gasoline is basically comprised of three additional components: the cost of refining; distribution and marketing costs; and local, state and federal taxes.

When you adjust for inflation, today's pump price is actually lower than the peak retail prices of 1981. The relatively lower costs over the past two decades can be attributed largely to lower crude oil costs. Manufacturing, distribution, and marketing costs have also declined. Only taxes have increased.

The federal gasoline tax is currently 18.4 cents per gallon. State and local taxes vary widely by jurisdiction. For example, in Texas they total to 20 cents per gallon, while in California, they add up to 40 cents per gallon.

Question Does Shell set the gas prices at its stations?
Answer We set the street price at approximately 10 percent of Shell-branded stations, including those owned by Motiva, in the U.S., and we work hard to maintain competitive prices at the pump.

The remaining sites are operated by independent retailers and jobbers who make their own operating decisions and, who by law, have the right to set gasoline prices as they believe appropriate. They must compete rigorously against other stations, c-stores, grocery stores, and hypermarts in order to stay in business, so it is in their best interest to price competitively at the pump.

Question What about allegations that finished product prices have been manipulated by intentional supply disruptions?
Answer We do not condone or participate in price manipulation by any means. Shell and Motiva staff are working safely, professionally and diligently to produce all the product that our facilities can produce.

There are regularly scheduled turnarounds that secure the future of our facilities by virtue of maintenance and improvements. During turnarounds, which typically happen during the more temperate first quarter season in the Gulf States, output is diminished. We are communicating all of these facts about supply and demand to government leaders, stakeholders and the public in a variety of ways.

Question Has the shift from MTBE to ethanol affected the price at the pump?
Answer The price of ethanol has increased significantly due to increased demand and tight supply, making ethanol a more expensive oxygenate, at least for now, than the product it replaces, which may affect the price at the pump.

However, we are assisting our wholesale and retail networks to meet the needs of consumers as cost effectively as possible.

Over the past six months, our supply and distribution staff have been planning and implementing for the conversion from MTBE to ethanol. We anticipated the challenges of this complex conversion involving supply, distribution and logistics systems and it is now complete.

Question What do oil companies do with the profits they make?
Answer At Shell, the vast majority of the profits we earn are plowed back into our business: the finding of new oil and gas reserves, the development of new and improved technologies that are so critical to our success, the expansion of our downstream assets and research into alternative energy sources.

Key objectives include more Gulf of Mexico exploration and production, gas exploration and production in multiple states, our re-entry to Alaska, and the development of unconventional oil. We are looking at the possibility of expanding our Downstream manufacturing capacity, where the study by our Motiva partners is progressing well, supported by Shell global manufacturing experts. And, we are continuing our efforts in alternative energy developments such as LNG, Coal Gasification, solar, wind, bio-fuels, and hydrogen.

Question What about allegations that oil companies aren’t paying their fair share of taxes?
Answer Shell has always paid its share of taxes. We fully intend to cooperate and respond to any inquiries as appropriate.

The Park

2006-05-03T04:58:00.000-07:00

My neighbor, Bambi's father...

Good Moaning babies,

I have been having problems with my cable, my shower, and my laundry. When I lived in Arlington, VA, I had Comcast as my cable service provider; however, on the advice of my cousin, I switched to RCN when I moved to Chevy Chase (non-sequitor: why the hell did this city decide to christen itself after a B-rated actor? It boggles my mind... I mean, they could've named themselves Rita Moreno or James Cagney or Tallulah Bankhead or even Marky Mark... but Chevy Chase? Ridiculous!); I made the change because of my cousin's exaltations about RCN's pricing and the Nightcrawler's solid recommendation. But so far I can't even get the proper info on my cable box as all the channels have "To be announced" as their scheduled programming (thus preventing my DVR from recording anything since it doesn't know what to record)... Not to mention nil technical support at midnight when the moon is full.

And my showerhead is just not spitting any water neither. At first I thought that the water was not included in the rent as I was led to believe and, since I had not contacted the city's water and sewage board, it had not been turned on. But that was not the case. The shower head was just not working. I had to get a bucket and scoop water from the toilet bowl in order to give myself a bath this morning. And it was cold babies; if that wasn't enough (and believe you me when I tell you that bathing in cold water is too much to put me through so early in the morning), I had to flush the fucking thing about a million times in order to get enough water to wash everything.

And lastly there's the laundry problem. I no longer have a washer and dryer in the house, so I have to go to the communal laundry room, which is just a few feet down from my front door. However, whenever I get to the laundry area I always find that people have left their clothes in either the washer or dryer... and what ugly clothes they are. Many times I have thought about simply picking up the clothes in the washer/dryer and taking them to the dumpster... I would be doing them people a favor, but then I think about my own clothes: my D&G Paris and Hong Kong shirts, my A&F shirts, my Versace pastel-colored tight pants, my fuchsia running micro-shorts that I wear with my purple platform shoes and neon-yellow tank-top on Sunday mornings when I go for brunch at Julio's on New Hampshire avenue by the park... and I think how devastated I would be if I could not dazzle my gay brethren with my sartorial sensibilities. So I leave them rags in the machines and go back home and wait around for the owners of those offensive garments to pick them up so that I can wash my precious gems...

Rock Creek Park, where they found Chandra Levy's dead body... and which it's in front of my house (not the body, silly, the park) :)

So, last night, with no TV to watch, smelling funky due to the toilet water I used to bathe, and with no clean clothes, I stood on my patio and looked into Rock Creek Park (which is just outside my door) and, wonder of wonders, I saw a deer. I am not talking Bambi here, more like Bambi's father. A big giant buck with huge horns and a big ass... he looked at me and then went back into the foliage. I, having nothing to do, followed him into the park to see what was what. I saw racoons, rabbits, woodchucks, bobcats, and aliens... yes babies, I saw aliens. Jesus Ochoa and his wife, Maribel, walking their Bichon Frise, Monctezuma. Jesus and Maribel are from Panama's Caribbean coast, which means I could understand perhaps one out of every five words they spoke. But they were happy to see another latino in their neighborhood. They told me to watch out at night in the park because it is haunted. I said, uh? And they said, yes, it is haunted. They see pale creatures drifting in and out of the woods late at night. I thought about this for a second and then I remembered that there is a Levi's/Leather gay bar just down the street on East-West Highway. I explained to Jesus and Maribel that the pale creatures they see drifting in and out of the woods and hear moaning at night are not ghosts but whitey gay gringo men cruising after an evening of drinking and watching all-male porn movies on the giant plasma screens in the backrooms of the Maryland gay bars.

Somehow this bit of news did not lift their aprehension as they seemed happier before when they thought ghosts roamed the woods. Knowing that it was horny gay men that made those moaning noises made the whole experience creepier. Oh well, the gays hear the call of the wild just as well as White Fang did in Alaska.

After strolling through the park with my new alien friends, I went back to the house. I noticed that my cable box was flashing a number... Finally, some TV. One down, two to go... I was dreading having to get up in the morning again and dousing myself with cold toilet water. C'est la vie, non?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Cesarin as a child... not too long ago neither!

2006-05-02T06:32:00.000-07:00

I loooooooove Calvin and Hobbes...

Did you babies know that Calvin was named after the founder of Calvinism, John Calvin?
Did you babies know that Hobbes was named after 17th century philosopher Thomas Hobbes?

Weekend Update

2006-05-01T04:41:00.000-07:00

"Jack," Stevie Wonder's new dog

Good Moaning babies,

A few things happened this weekend that bear mentioning:

1) Stevie Wonder stole a dog. Yes babies, my good ole friend Stevie Wonder has now sunk to new lows by stealing a beagle. "But Cesarin, he looked abandoned and followed me home." I can't tell you babies how many men I have slept with based on those two criteria, but this is the first time I hear such an excuse to steal a dog. Stevie Wonder already has one dog, Teddy. Now, to be honest with you babies, Teddy is an insufferable beast, in my opinion. But Stevie loves him. Teddy is some kind of mutt of indeterminate age (Stevie also "rescued" the dog when he found it walking around in his neighborhood nine years ago) with a cantankerous and irritable character and no sense of fidelity or loyalty. But Stevie loves that beast. The beagle has been christened "Jack" (Stevie has a boner for the Kennedy's: Teddy is named after the senior Senator from Massachusetts, and Jack is named after the slain president) and he is a puppy, which bothers me. Stevie has a nice but small one bedroom condo on the West Bank. It's too small for one person, smaller even for one person and a large grumpy dog, and even smaller for said person and dog plus a brand new beagle puppy. But in any case, Stevie Wonder now has two dogs at home, plus two bitches at his mother's house (Agnes and Michelle --his mother and sister respectively). Even though I can't condone theft (it's against the ten commandments), I wish Stevie, Teddy, and Jack all the happiness in the world.

2) Your Humble Servant moved to a new apartment. Yes babies, I am now living alone as I should have done in the first place when I moved here nine months ago. My new apartment is very nice: a one bedroom garden apartment on the bottom floor overlooking the park, right on the border of Silver Spring and Washington DC, off 16th street (within skipping distance of downtown SS and DC). I am making it look very hip by putting art all over the walls (alas, three of my paintings broke when moving, shitmotherfuckfuckshitfuck) and keeping it minimalist, which is in sharp contrast to my old apartment in New Orleans which was cluttered to the max thanks to my late lover Lowell, who was a pack-rat and a betraying bastard, but y'all knew that. No sense in talking ill of the dead, after all he is dead and I am not, a fact which in itself speaks volumes about justice. But I digress. My new apartment is very nice, have I mentioned that? I wanted to christen it by having an orgy of horror and madness in every room this weekend. I could not manage to plan one (or find willing partygoers), so instead I had my cousin Xiomara over and we pigged out on Reese's Cups and Sneaker Bars and passed out at midnight on Saturday night.

Bachannalia

3) Talking about orgies, The Nightcrawler attended a classic Roman Bacchanalia this Saturday night. Nighty helped me move my TV on Saturday morning, as I purchased a non-lcd non-plasma 32" flat screen monolithic TV. Them things are huge and weigh about as much as Beyonce and Mariah put together, in other words a LOT. I got Nighty out of bed at nine in the morning and took him to my old house in Arlington, VA, to load up the TV. It was hell getting it out of my basement apartment (btw, Nighty had a cow when he saw my living conditions... no wonder I have been wallowing in the mire --to quote the Doors-- for so long), but once it was out, bringing it in my new one was a zinch. After the deed was done, I took Nighty fabric shopping. He wanted to buy fabric to make a toga for the Roman party he had been invited to. After much cajoling on my part, he chose this leopard print stretchy fabric that had the potential of placing the spotlight on our teleporting floozy. And it did. Nighty at first did not quite believe me when I cautioned him about the dangers of toga parties. At 43 years old, I have been to a few toga parties in my life, and every one of them ended up with someone getting the shaft. Most of the time it was me (I was born with a body made for sin), but the point is that toga parties, with tens of young gay men wearing nothing but loose garments that could fall on the floor around their ankles at any minute, are ripe for the carnality what with all the food and drinking... bottoms should abstain from eating anything for at least 24 hours (and nothing at all during the party) as nothing kills an orgy like an inadvertent bowel movement... it's the gods in Olympus letting us all know that the anal portion of our party is over. Anyway, Nighty was pleasantly surprised when your humble oracle predicted the future. He claims that no anality occurred, but I find that hard to believe. In any case, Nighty did film some of the buggery and I am still waiting to get them flix!

4) The Justice Department is routinely closing Columbia Road in DC (an area with a predominantly hispanic --salvadorean-- population) and raiding all the businesses, looking for illegal immigrants that they can send to the electric chair. This has never happened before, babies. If anyone out there thought that the xenophobic bills being pushed in Congress were nothing more than smokescreen for the next elections, you have a nasty reality check coming your way. The Republicans are dead serious about rounding up illegal immigrants and sending them to the big house on felony charges, and both sinners and saints are paying for it. If you happen to be a hispanic man with an accent carrying only a driver's license, you will be in trouble. Them asshole Republicans demand that you show them your green card. If you tell them that you are a citizen, they scoff at you and demand to see your certificate of naturalization... when you tell them that it's ridiculous to expect a naturalized citizen to carry that damn big and cumbersome certificate everywhere he goes, they harrass you, take your name, and accost you with xenophobic and racist vitriol. I have lived in this country for 26 years, more than half my life. I have been a citizen for 15 years. I have an American passport and an American mentality. And yet, to Republicans I am nothing but a despicable spic stealing jobs from real (read: white) Americans. Fuck them xenophobic homophobic racist sexist mysoginist ageist Republicans.

5) Illegal Immigrants and their supporters are boycotting the country today. No one is going to work, shop, or do anything that will stimulate the economy. For one day, this country will be immigrant-free. Stay tuned babies.

Well, that's all I got: I have a new apartment, Stevie Wonder stole a dog, immigrants are being harassed by Republicans, and Nighty woke up on Sunday morning with a butthole the size of the Lincoln Tunnel.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Worming of Religion into Science Classes

2006-04-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

George W. Bush's War on Science

2006-04-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

(CNN/Reuters) News reports have filtered out early this morning that US forces have swooped on an Iraqi elementary school and detained 6th Grade teacher believed to be a member of the notorious al-Gebra movement. Sources indicate that, when arrested, he was in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a set square, and a calculator.

US President George W. Bush argued that this was clear and overwhelming evidence that Iraq indeed possessed weapons of math instruction.

Chimeras

2006-04-26T04:35:00.000-07:00

The only thing missing here is George W.'s head on the rear...

Good Moaning babies,

There are naive people. There are stupid people. And then there are people who cross into the realm of supreme idiocy.

I am talking about George W. Bush, our clueless president.

Why, you may wonder, is our humble servant stating the obvious? Well, I will tell you babies why.

The other day, in his State of the Union address, George W. pronounced that chimeras, human-animal hybrids, are "the most egregious abuses of medical research."

What the fuck??!!!

Somebody send that asshole back to school!!

Chimeras have been a staple of medical research for years. In the 80's, lab rats were stripped of their own immune systems and replaced with humans' in order to determine if HIV actually caused AIDS (which, it turned out, it did). Implanting human tumors in mice helps determine the causes and possible cures for certain cancers. Animals with severed spinal cords can regain mobility after they are implanted with human fetal brain stem cells. Researches are looking into growing human organs in sheep and pigs for transplant with much reduced chances of rejection (and thus allowing the recipients to keep their immune systems intact).

Shall I go on?

This moron that red-state America put in charge of the country simply has no idea of what he is talking about. And he doesn't care neither.

In the summer of 2005 he advocated the teaching of intelligent design (creationism) in schools.

That should give us a clue of the kind of machinery that operates in his cotton-pickin' mind. It's a religious clockwork I tell you. The man is waging a war against science, from his attempts to curtail medical research (banning stem-cell research, condemning standard medical procedures, etc...) to his efforts to replace science classes in public schools with religion.

I have always regarded science as my own brand of religion, but I would be wrong in calling science just that. It is not religion. It is not a myth. It is simply the search for the truth. Religion does not search for anything since it already assumes it's got the truth by the balls. Whatever tasks remain for such a monolithic institution are all in the service of forcing this truth on everyone else. Religious institutions have never wielded as much power as they do today (to the point that it is in control of the ruling party in government), and that is ironic since science can now explain so many things that were mystifying not even twenty years ago. People in this country are afraid. They get a glimpse of what's really out there and they go running and hiding under the bed with a bible.

And they don't mind if we go backwards a few thousand years. George W. Bush doesn't mind at all if Alzheimer's is never cured, but don't expect a quick end to your suffering either as he is unwilling to allow you to smoke pot to alleviate your pain nor to end it all via euthanasia. You must suffer and die slowly. That's the way God wants it.

Our founding fathers knew the dangers of religion. At the time of the American Revolutionary War, the Great Awakening was sweeping the thirteen colonies and becoming a dangerous powder keg for the illiterate masses. The founding fathers had the example of the French Revolution as what NOT to do. So they devised a way to maintain democracy and yet protect the country from religious freaks who would have everyone crucified. They created three branches of the government, a two-chamber parliament (House and Senate), checks and balances, and the electoral college (so that cool heads would prevail instead of zealotry).

But after more than two hundred years of trying, it seems that the Great Awakening has won. And our Founding Fathers have lost.

And our president is also wrong about chimeras. After all he is half-human, half-horse's-ass.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

Random Pictures from The French Quarter Fest in New Orleans, 4/22/2006

2006-04-25T05:35:00.000-07:00

Josh, Josh's mother, Nighty, and Josh's sister at the pool...

2006-04-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

MariaEugenia displaying the Latin American superiority...

2006-04-25T04:59:00.001-07:00

Raja and Stevie Wonder...

2006-04-25T04:59:00.000-07:00

MariaEugenia and the Nightcrawler all shnookered up and bombed out of their minds...

2006-04-25T04:58:00.000-07:00

Moaners at the Quarter Fest: Josh's sister, Josh, Josh's parents, MariaEugenia, Stevie Wonder (in the back), Raja, and the Nightcrawler (at the far right)...

2006-04-25T04:56:00.000-07:00

Cartoon Josh having a splash...

The Go-Go Boy

2006-04-21T12:15:00.000-07:00

Hello my precious babies...

If you babies have not gone to visit The Go-Go Boy's blog, then you are missing some pretty salacious stuff...

Don't believe me? Here's a picture of the go-go boy as he was featured at a birthday party (where he was playing the part of the birthday cake):

Anyway babies, this is my last posting for the weekend as I am going to be in New Orleans partying hard with the moaners...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

TGIF!!!!

2006-04-21T04:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I am just shining my balls and getting ready for some serious hardcore partying this weekend...

Good Moaning babies,

As things stand right now, Nighty and your humble servant will be arriving in New Orleans tomorrow, Saturday 22, at eleven thirty in the morning.

Oh, what fun we'll have.... We'll drink; we'll eat; we'll dance...

We may even do some of them illegal activities that are so prevalent in 'Nawlins:

Yes, despite me being the biggest gimp in the bunch, I am more than determined to keep up with Nighty. I have never seen such steely resolve in anyone's eyes as I have in the 'Crawler's to have a good time. I can't blame him. It's gonna be tough to witness all the ravages of Katrina, so we are steadfast in our resolve to do what we can to help with New Orleans' economy:

1) Art. My 'blogging colleague Go-Go Boy will not be working in New Orleans this weekend, which means that we will help the local performance artistes by patronizing such staples of the old New Orleans such as The Corner Pocket and The Wasted Seamen (that's an old gay bar in Westwego that nobody goes to, but I just love that name), and we will be dropping big time dollars in them g-strings to get them circulating in the local economy. That's just good strategic planning.

2) Alcoholism. We will be visiting the Pub/Parade and helping the city by purchasing and consuming copious amounts of cider from the bartenders, especially Davy The Bartender. You guys know him? He is the little short (about 4'11") and cute Pacific Islander bartender who makes a killer Cosmo and knows how to squeeze a peach into a Peach Martini (has Whole Foods opened?). Davey and I worked out for several weeks just before I had to move away. I heard from him during the Katrina debacle and he told me that he and his significant other lost everything. I offered my house in DC to them, but in the end they stayed and rebuilt their home... So let's visit him and tip him generously.

3) Sex. There seems to be very many free-lancing professionals offering their services on the streets of the Quarter at night. Competition is stiff and they are willing to bend over backwards to provide full satisfaction. I have never heard of such professionalism and dedication to one's craft since my visit to the Brazilian saunas back in 2004:

4) Jeffy-Boo... Yes babies, we will no doubt run into my old boyfriend from those four wonderful months back in 2005, the incomparable Jeffy-Boo. I saw his profile on one of those nasty sex sites (yes, I was disappointed to see him there, but what the fuck, they boy has needs and the pickings are slim in New Orleans... which means Nighty and I will make like bandits with all the sex available, yay!), and in said profile he mentioned that he was single again and looking. Say what? When was he NOT single? He was definitely single when we were going out. It wasn't an exclusive thing, at least not for me. While I was sucking face with Jeffy-Boo at the bars, I was also making out with Wayne (the 19 year old boy I dated for two months) at the movie theater (he was dispensing popcorn at the Clearview Palace and he got me in the movies for free). So I don't know what the fuck Jeffy-Boo was talking about when he said that he was single again. Maybe he dated some poor asshole in the aftermath of K. No matter. If I run into him I will be cool and collected, maybe I will sing. I used to have a song for Jeffy-Boo (to the tune of "We love you Conrad" from Bye Bye Birdie):

"I love you Jeffy-Boo/
Oh yes I do/
My love for you is true/
Jeffy-Boo/
When you're not near me/
I'm blue/
Jeffy-Boo/
I Love You."

5) Food. Yes babies, Agnes of God (Stevie Wonder's mother) has offered to cook jambalaya, gumbo, cochon du lai, and alligator for your humble servant and all his friends. Agnes of God doesn't cheat on the cooking neither. The good woman cooks the oysters, anduille sausages, shrimp, pepperoni, chicken, pork, okra, and all the other ingredients in the jambalaya separately. Then she lets the rice soak in the wonderful and secret Agnes of God's spices overnight before cooking it. Then she mixes everything together and presents the jambalaya in her best Depression Glass plates, because it's depressing to think of all those people in DC who can't eat this good (me me me me). And don't get me started on Agnes of God's gumbo. She personally goes to the bayou and fishes out the best mutant crabs she can find for her prized gumbo. Yes babies, she has promised a feast for the senses... Say what you want about Agnes, but the lady can throw down a culinary hootenanny something fierce.

I am all excited about this trip... It is gonna be the best ever... Well, it would be if I didn't have an arm that looks like it should be hanging from the Elephant Man's shoulder socket... but what the hell, at my age I can't expect to look pretty anymore... If anyone is gonna wanna fuck me, they're just gonna have to deal with the gimpiness of your humble servant...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Louisiana Women are FUCKED!!!!!!

2006-04-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

Sorry, this position has been filled...

Hello babies,

All of you women who live in Louisiana are so royally FUCKED....

Yes babies, this here article reports on a bill that has cleared the state House and is headed for the state Senate. This gem of a bill forbids all abortions, except in the case when the mother's life is in danger. However... head cunt in charge (HCIC), Sen. Diana Bajoie, wants to ammend the bill to forbid all abortions... no exceptions whatsoever...

This is your Catholic Church talking:
"Your pregnancy will get you killed? Sorry whore, no abortion for you. Have a nice funeral, slut... Hopefully whores get preferential treatment IN HELL!!!!"

Cesar is hoppin' mad...

This sounds a lot like the way things are in El Salvador, where women are forced to NOT use birth-control (the Catholic Church, that hotbed for pedophiles, forbids its use), and abortion is a felony... you must carry that baby to term only to see it starve to death in this third-world country... yessirree... we are God's chosen people...

Wake up Louisiana!!! Y'all need a good ole fashioned lynchin'... how about we get the HCIC and hang her up by her tits in City Park? I am game. I'll bring the rope...

Peace and love,
Cesarin

A bad day

2006-04-20T04:18:00.000-07:00

My ruined elbow... you can see the scar running up, and just above the joint you can see where my tendon should've been...

Good Moaning babies,

Yesterday I had a very bad day: I found out that I had torn the tendon in my left elbow, I could not find a gas station in the entire Pentagon City/DC area and I was running on empty, my friend JoseLuis Perales told me that he was gonna bag GoldenBoy (more on him later), and Ace Young was booted out of American Idol... what a fucked up day.

Bye bye sweet Ace :)

I haven't decided on whether to have another elbow surgery or not... Probably I will. My coworker Steve said that at my age it's better to fix anything wrong with my body that is fixable, because in the not-so-distant future I will suffer from ailments for which there may not be an easy remedy and it would not help to have a lame arm when the time comes. I agree with him. Besides, I still do have medical coverage [albeit a crappy one]. So while I was pondering this dilemma on my way to the gym, I realized that I had no gas in the car.

There is construction on the bridge between Virginia and DC, so the onramp to the bridge is usually backed up about five miles, taking on average about twenty minutes to actually make it onto the bridge. My damn-you-peckerwood-go-get-yourself-some-gas-pronto light came on just as I was pulling up behind a yuppy-mobile at the end of the long line leading to the onramp. I was gonna be stuck behind some lawyer-type in his expensive Audi for at least twenty minutes while my gas-guzzling SUV was running on fumes. I was having a cow... I did NOT want to run out of gas at that particular place and time. So I got off the line and drove all over Pentagon City looking for a fucking gas station. Can you babies believe that there wasn't one? Frantic, I sped away towards the George Washington bridge (another entry point to DC from Virginia) and found it surprisingly moving along quite nicely. The little bell that signals the death-by-empty-gas-tank in my SUV began to ring. If I didn't find a gas station soon, I was gonna be walking home.

I made it into DC and ended up on Independence avenue. Not a single fucking gas station anywhere there, babies. I drove from Independence to Constitution avenue. Ditto on Constitution. Not one gas station. I then made it to Massachussetts avenue. Nothing. On to Dupont Circle and down to 22nd street. FINALLY! I was about to tear my hair out when I saw this gas station right in front of APEX, the fag bar. I looked at the prices: $3.05 per gallon, BASTARDS! Anyway, I put about twenty dollars' worth of gas in my car and drove to the gym.

Once I got to the gym I saw every boy I liked: Number 32, Nebraska Josh, Modeling Alex, and my all-time favorite: Golden Boy. Number 32 is a Jeffy-Boo-ish type with a fratboy aura about him that has proven to be irresistible for your humble servant. Nebraska Josh is a corn-fed, farm-raised fine young specimen who seemed out of place in the political hell that is DC. Modeling Alex is nothing short than sex on legs; you can see for yourselves (this is his modeling gig at Universal Gear):

Modeling Alex in all his glory...

And then there's Golden Boy. Golden Boy is the winner in the overall package category. Sure, Number 32 out-Jeffy-Boo's Golden Boy; Nebraska Josh is tops in wholesomeness and goodness; and when it comes to a killer body, angelic face, and carnal desires... well Modeling Alex has no equal. But the one boy that everyone, men and women alike, would be more than happy to take home to meet the parents, or go to a party and be seen with, or simply build a barn with a couple hundred of your Amish friends is Golden Boy. He is the total package. I had suspected that Golden Boy had a thing for spics as he had been checking me out for a couple of weeks. I also noticed that all the fags he hangs around with at the gym are spics as well. But finally, yesterday, my friend JoseLuis confirmed by suspicions. Golden Boy has a thing for latinos, so I thought maybe I am in.... yay!

Not so.

Golden Boy has been making the rounds and bedding every spic in the joint. Apparently sex is what's on that boy's head. Sure I could fuck him when it came to be my turn (and seeing as how he's been busy lately, or so JoseLuis tells me, my turn was coming up very soon), but then why should I? There is nothing that the boy can do that I haven't done ten-thousand times before. There is nothing that the boy can teach me that I don't already know. And there is no thrill that the boy can give me that I haven't experienced already. So why should I fuck him? That's not what I am looking for, the carnality of it all just doesn't appeal to me as it did not too long ago... I was looking for a boyfriend, and Golden Boy doesn't seem to be the kind you go steady with.

So, feeling a little sad about the news on Golden Boy, I went home to watch American Idol. And would you believe that Ace Young got booted off the show? America just doesn't know talent when it sees it.

So, to recap: torn tendon, panic attack at the wheel, potential boyfriend a cheap floozy, and Ace Young on his way back home...

Bad day babies... bad day...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Back under the knife

2006-04-19T07:42:00.000-07:00

Another torn tendon... The perils of quackery...

Good Moaning babies,

This is how I feel today:

Yes babies, it turns out that I actually tore the tendon on Monday by handling thirty lousy pounds. Even the doctor was surprised. "This should not have happened, I wonder why?" he said... well doc, how about bad medicine, eh? Maybe that's what happened. Perhaps Kaiser Permanente should not be hiring doctors who fail medical school. That's why you have Chiropracty school, to accomodate those ersatz physicians.

But all venom aside, I have to make a decision. These are my options:

1) Have surgery again. The doctor can pencil me in for mid-May. He said that he will drill holes in the bone to thread the tendon through, and use tougher nylon sutures and staples and industrial-strength three-inch wide steel and adamantium nails to secure the ligaments this time. He will restrict me further from working out, and he will instruct my cousin Xiomara to use an electric cattle-prod on me whenever she sees me lifting things. I will be out of commission for a lot longer than before.

2) Not have the surgery. It is only the middle muscle in the tricep that is not attached to the elbow. It will eventually scar into the surrounding tissue and not recede any longer. The other muscles are securely attached to the joint and I have not lost any strength or mobility. I don't have to have my muscles attached to bone, apparently, but it does help if I do.

3) Have the surgery done but not by him. I have been thinking about going to see another doctor (I should've had a second opinion in the first place). When I come down to New Orleans on Saturday I will have every one of my friends who is a doctor to look up my elbow. That includes you Doug. I know that you are not an MD but a PhD, but fuck it, a doctorate is a doctorate so you're looking at the damn thing and you will give me a learned opinion.

4) Wait and see if the torn tendon interferes with my daily activities. If I can work out, drive, whack off, do cartwheels, and basically be my fabulous self without the need for reattachment, then all is honky dory. Otherwise, if I experience any kind of disability because of the torn ligament, then I would have the surgery. However, I can't wait that long. The longer I wait, the chances for a full recovery decrease.

So, what do u babies think? I think that I need to recharge my anti-lycanthrope amulet. I have a feeling that my 22 year-old ex-boyfriend from Brazil, Isaiash, has put a curse on me and my amulet was not able to combat it. Why do I think such things? Well, he has been calling me on my cell. I recognize the international number that appears on the caller id to be from Brazil. Usually, when I answer the call, the caller hangs up. However, this week the caller remained on the line long enough to say something in Portuguese. I think it sounded like "Maleficio" which means "malfeasance" or "Evil things" or something like that. That's pretty heavy stuff coming from Rio. I think I have been cursed [our breakup was not amicable].

First thing I will do when I get to NOLA will be to visit Esoterica and get myself a super-duper all-purpose charm amulet that will vanquish any fiendish evil that's sent my way. Isaiash's black magic is powerful and vast, but New Orleans' voodoo is nothing to scoff at either. I will get my peeps to conjure up the devil himself if needed (I met the devil once... he used to work out at Elmwood and he was going to MedSchool at Tulane, I think... or was it LSU? Not sure about that, but he was the devil and he had a rich art-gallery-owner boyfriend who bought him a condo in New York... I will call this devil and use his power against the dark forces from Brazil.)

Anyway babies, that's my news for today. I am fucked. With a big dick. Up the ass. No lube. Ouch.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

2006-04-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

She's BACK!!!!

Yes babies,

Our MariaEugenia is back from France, got a real job, and now has taken up blogging again....

Oh what fun!!!

Don't forget to stop by at her site and say hello....

Witch Doctors

2006-04-18T08:43:00.000-07:00

Yo babies,

Good news, the despicable quack that mutilated me has agreed (after much yelling in my end of the phone conversation) to see me tomorrow morning at 8:30 to see what irreparable damage his ineptitude has caused my left limb. Where is the Fiendish Dr. Casey when you need him?

Hey Dr. Casey, r u gonna be in NOLA on the twenty second of this month? This coming Saturday? Can you spare a few minutes and fix my elbow? Er... I assume that you have already done your orthopedic rotation... oh, what the fuck, even if you're still lancing boils you have got to be better than the witch doctor they assigned me to at Kaiser Permanente...

Anyway babies,
Wish me luck.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

Tom kills Oprah, eats afterbirth

2006-04-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

Say it isn't so!

Tom Cruise is going to eat Katie Holmes' placenta and umbilical cord for dinner.

What a wacko....

Let's recap:

He's dating a woman nearly twenty years younger than him.

This woman is his beard.

He impregnated this woman by using an International Male catalog, a dixie cup, and a syringe.

He is a devout scientologist who believes in Xenu and has it in for psychiatrists.

He likes to dress in leather and drive around West Hollywood in his Fatboy looking for slim young latino boys.

Oh, yeah, and he killed Oprah by channeling L. Ron Hubbard:

The man is insane. He is unbearable. He is a complete asshole. Please stop the insanity.

If it looks like a quack and sounds like a quack, then it's Kaiser Permanente

2006-04-18T05:03:00.000-07:00

"Wimp... Shut up and suck my dick!"

Good Moaning babies,

ShitFuckMotherfuckFuckShitShit!

Yes babies, your humble servant is profanely expressing his frustration. I was working out yesterday afternoon at Results when I heard something crack and rip in my elbow.

I know what you babies are gonna say.

"Cesar you shit-for-brains-asshole! Why can't you just take it easy?"

Well babies, I was taking it easy. I was pressing a wimpy thirty-five pounds over my head in a military-press-like motion to work my shoulders. That's wimpy. Decorating Rodney, the little munchkin who weighs half my weight and has no legs (but does sport a twelve incher if rumours are to be believed) can lift seventy pounds (on each hand) over his head. So as you can see, by any standard that you put me against, I was lifting very lightly.

Besides, YOUR BONES SHOULD NOT BREAK WHEN YOU ARE EXERCISING!!!

Yes babies, I am operating under the assumption that an adult male can confidently handle at least thirty-five pounds without the fear of his body crumbling down into a pile of broken bones.

Is that such an unrealistic expectation? My broken elbow is supposed to have mended. The joint didn't break. What broke was the bone spur jetting out from the joint, and in breaking it severed the tendon. Once the bone spur was removed and the tendon reattached, it was just a matter of letting the tendon heal... I followed the doctor's instructions and waited three months before working out again. But now here I am, in the same predicament.

These HMO doctors are a bunch of quacks. I tell you. I get the feeling that I was not properly cared for. I broke my elbow on a Monday but they waited until that Friday to actually operate on me. In the meantime I was driving around town with a broken elbow to have dinner with Nighty... now that's fucked up I tell you (not the dinner with Nighty but the fact that I had to wait a whole week to get treatment).

Every Republican that opposed President Clinton's universal health coverage plan made it a point to mention how horrible the free health care systems of Britain and Canada were. These GOP assholes kept on saying that people had to wait for months to get proper care and that here in America we were better off because we had a super-duper quality private health care system that delivered the goods.

Say what? Obviously these Republican assholes did not have Kaiser Permanente as their HMO. Would someone in England wait a whole week to have a broken bone mended? Will someone in Canada who underwent orthopedic surgery break his bones because he exercised? Do u babies know that I am in a waiting list for having my other elbow's bone spur removed and that this waiting list is one-year long? ONE YEAR! When Nighty mentioned this fact to some of his friends in Miami, they all thought I was on Medicaid. Not so. I am paying about $100 a month for this coverage, and that's just a small portion of the total cost of coverage. My company pays the remaining $600. So for seven hundred dollars a month I get a quack to operate on my elbow rendering it useless and incapable of lifting thirty five pounds... not to mention leaving it brittle. I get the feeling the bastard did not remove the bone spur attached to the elbow and simply cleared out the boney debris, which is NOT what he said he did.

And don't get me started on this bureaucracy. Or the medical insurers' penchant for not paying claims.

I will take England or Canada over Kaiser Permanente. At least they don't have to pay to be treated by quacks. They get that service for free....

Peace and Love (and wish me luck, it looks like the elbow did not break, tear, or get sprained... it was just a bad sound coming from it, but I still can't get to see the doctor until the 26th...),

Cesarin

Cirque du Soleil... NAKED!!!!

2006-04-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

Zumanity, oh the Humanity!!!...

Yes babies, I was watching Glaad's 17th annual Media Awards on Saturday night, where they give trophies to all the shows on TV that feature gay people, no matter how grotesquely they are depicted ("Will and Grace" or "Queer as folk" anyone?). I disagree with Glaad's penchant for only giving kudos to shows that portray gay people in a good light or as the heroes (trust me, as a gay man I can attest to the fact that there are plenty of gay assholes in this world who don't deserve an award, except if the award is for the world's greatest asshole that is), but watching the show was fun.

Bruce Vilanch

One of the big moments of the show was when Bruce Vilanch came out on stage and told Oscar-reject jokes (he's a main writer for the Oscar show).

Zumanity

And another BIG moment was when two [hot] male performers from Cirque du Soleil came out and did a number from their adult-themed show.

The Glaad awards are shown on LOGO. Don't miss them.

My big fat American idol....

2006-04-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

Behind those hazel eyes and that big fat ass of hers....

Don't u babies hate Kelly Clarkson? I saw her perform at the Brit Awards on BBCAmerica this past Saturday, and I was outraged. The bitch can't sing to save her life. She was performing her big single, "Since you've been gone."

On record, she sings it like this: ...since you've been GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

Live, she sings it like this: ...since you've been GONE!

And several times during her performance she would point the mike in the direction of the fans so that they would sing portions of the lyrics for her. I fucking hate that... If you have a lame stage act, you get a singing/performing coach or you try other things, but you don't let the audience do the singing for you.

I fucking hate Kelly Clarkson. Such a fat no-talent whale... she should join Mariah Carey and Beyonce in the school of musical cetaceans.

The Streets, the Brits, and my high school reunion.

2006-04-17T05:02:00.000-07:00

The British Eminem, with a mockney accent but without the homophobia...

I was watching the Brit Awards on BBCAmerica [and got a glimpse of Mike Skinner, the British Eminem] when I received an email from Todd Kaer...

Good Moaning babies,

This past weekend I got an email from someone I hadn't heard from in a quarter of a century: my old high school boyfriend, Todd Kaer. Todd and I dated for about five months during my senior year in high school, from August of 1980 until January of 1981. He was the president of the math club at East Jefferson High School in Metairie, Louisiana. His twin brother, Christian, was the president of the physics club. They were both very competitive and always ended up fighting over stupid things like winning science fairs, and stealing each other's boyfriends. Yes babies, both Christian and Todd were gay.

Actually, maybe they weren't. I think I better tell the story.

When I moved to New Orleans in late 1979, I first attended Bonnabell High, in Kenner, Louisiana. That didn't turn out very well as both the student body and the faculty seemed not to care too much about the fate of gay students, especially if they were immigrants from a war-torn country who could not speak English very well. I got called all kids of names, from spic to fag, and the abuse kept on getting more violent everyday, to the point where I began to get death threats. So I decided that I was going to change high schools for my senior year.

Changing high schools was not so easy, as I had to live in the school's district in order to attend for free. At the time my junior year ended, I was already living alone in the French Quarter and working as a dancer at the Corner Pocket. I asked the other underage go-go dancers working with me where one could attend high school in the city without having to worry about getting beaten up for being gay [my English had improved a great deal by then]. Almost all of them said the same name: East Jefferson High. That school was in Jefferson Parish, but I lived in Orleans Parish so, in order to attend East Jefferson High, I had to lie to the school administrators about where I lived. I also had to lie about my parents [they had left me and returned to El Salvador, and I was living alone with no parental supervision which would mean a foster home for your humble servant if anyone at the school ever found out]. With much clever storytelling and doe-eyed pity-fest, I managed to get myself in the lunch and bus plan as well, thus I got my meals for free and got to ride in the schoolbus at no charge. This presented a problem though. The schoolbus picked up kids in Metairie and I lived in the French Quarter, so every morning I had to take two city buses (twenty five cents and a transfer) early in the morning in order to travel from the Quarter to the bus-stop in Metairie where I was to be picked up. And vice-versa when I was dropped off after school.

I met Todd Kaer the first day of school at East Jefferson High. I was sitting down outside my homeroom working on my class schedule. Todd spotted me and came down and sat next to me. He was one of them nutty Christian types who are always proselytizing, but at the time I was not as cynical as I am now, so I gave the boy a chance. When Todd asked me if I wanted to hang out with his bible study group in the mornings before classes started, I said sure thing. I would go to Todd's bible study gathering every morning at six a.m. and hang out with him and his group, which included Christian, his twin brother. I didn't much care for the bible study as they spent most of the time with their heads down chanting in foreign tongues, but they always brought scrambled eggs and donuts every morning, plus orange juice and coffee, so I never missed a meeting and had a good breakfast along the way.

Both Todd and Christian were fighting over me. Todd wanted me to join his math club, and Christian wanted me to join his physics club. Anni Ferrara was the editor of the school newspaper and she wanted me to become a Latin American correspondent. And the band club needed a tuba player and asked me to audition. So I was pretty big news in the school those first few weeks of the semester: a gay, immigrant kid from El Salvador who needed to find his place in the world. I turned them all down. Most of the clubs met during the weekend and after school, and I could not spare any time as I was working full time at the Corner Pocket. I would, however, spend my study periods at the physics club because I liked what they were doing, discussing Guth's inflationary theory. Christian was very happy about that because he felt he had beaten his brother in getting the new kid to join his club, albeit just in an honorary capacity. Todd was not about to let his brother win, so he did him one better. He asked the new kid out on a date.

Todd was eighteen and had a car, a huge-ass Buick with a comfortable back seat. One time after school, while I was waiting for the bus to pick me up, he came over and offered me a ride. I was a little nervous because I didn't want anyone to find out that I lived alone in the French Quarter, but I felt I could trust Todd, so I accepted. He was horrified when I told him where I lived: on a tiny little attic room on Bourbon Street, next to Cafe Lafitte's Blacksmith shop, a decadent [but not gay] and notorious bar in the city. He took me home and I invited him upstairs to my tiny apartment. I had a little black and white television set, and for dinner I went to the Clover Grill and bought two hamburgers that he and I ate while we watched "Laverne and Shirley" on the tv set. Then we had sex.

Todd and I dated for a little while, but he became way too possessive. He wanted me to quit my job at the Corner Pocket and instead get a job at the MacDonald's by his house. He offered to talk to his parents so I could move in with them. He then brought me college applications from UCLA, where he was planning to attend [with me!]. So I broke up with him. It was bad enough to have to go to his non-denominational Christian church every Sunday and bible study group every school-day, but I was not about to quit dancing so I could flip burgers at a greasy joint. And I was definitely not going to move in with him and his family. So I told him I didn't want to be his boyfriend anymore. He took it badly, but it got worse when I started dating his twin brother.

Christian came to visit me one Friday night at the Corner Pocket a couple of weeks after his brother and I broke up. Even though they were twins, you could tell them apart. Christian was taller and beefier than Todd, although both of them had practically the same face. Christian had the bigger dick too, but he was clueless as to what to do with it. I had the feeling that Christian was a virgin all along; it was Todd who was always surrounded and pursued by girls, and he was the more popular of the two. That was something that Christian could not bear, to have his twin brother be more popular than him, and thinner, and a virgin no more. So one night Christian came over to the Corner Pocket and put a few dollars in my g-string. I got down from the bar and sat with him for a few minutes. I told him that my shift did not end until two in the morning, and he said fine he would wait for me. We went to my place after I got off from work. Just like it happened with his brother, I went to the Clover Grill, got two hamburgers, we ate them while we watched a James Cagney movie in my black and white, and then we had sex. Christian was floored when I sucked his dick; the thought of doing something like that had never crossed his religious and physics-obssessed mind. But when I turned him over for a rusty trombone he stopped me. He wasn't sure what I was about to do, but he preferred to be looking at me while I did it.

So I decided not to do the rusty trombone and go for a straight missionary-position buggery scene. That freaked Christian out also, but at least he was watching what he was doing. Christian turned out to be more passive (and gentler) than Todd, and I really liked that chubby kid way more than I liked Todd.

I dated Christian until we graduated. Todd stopped talking to me (and his brother), and after graduation both he and Christian went away to college. I stayed in New Orleans and attended UNO. Then I moved to DC, met Lowell, moved back to New Orleans, buried Lowell, got laid off, got a job in DC, and moved back to the nation's capital.

So imagine my surprise when yesterday I get an email from Todd Kaer. My old boyfriend. It seems that the East Jefferson High class of 1981 is having its 25th class reunion this May. Damn... that's a long time to pass... And guess who are the organizers? Todd and Christian Kaer. Yes babies, what a thing to happen! I still don't think that either of them is gay; it was case of sibling rivalry taken to the extreme. I hope that they are getting along better now. I haven't responded to Todd's email, but I would be more excited to see Christian again than Todd. That fat boy was such a gentle creature and had a huge dick...

What do u babies think? Should I go to my 25th high school reunion?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

HAPPY EASTER !!!

2006-04-14T10:37:00.000-07:00

Why does the Easter Bunny hide his eggs?
So that people will not find out that he is fucking a chicken...

Well my precious babies, another Easter has come... let's all shout "Hallelujah!" for Jesus Our Lord has risen... and he's royally pissed...

He's pissed that George W. Bush has managed to fuck everyone in the ass with such a small penis...

He's pissed that "Bareback Mountain" did not win the Oscar for best picture...

He's pissed that crazed freaks use his name in order to justify their evil actions...

And he's just basically p-o'd about the state of this fucking nation, the curtailing of our personal freedoms, and the shameless and criminal squandering of the country's resources by a Republican government...

You GOP'ers better watch your asses for Jesus is coming...

Colin Farrell's best performance ever

2006-04-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

Hit refresh to see this award-winning documentary from the start

The Immigrant (sad) song

2006-04-13T10:43:00.000-07:00

The Best American Idol contestant... EVER!!!

2006-04-13T05:02:00.000-07:00

The American Idol resilience...

Good Moaning babies,

Some random thoughts for today:

(1) I don't know why I continue to work out... I should simply go to a tattoo parlor and have the words "Pussy Cuntboy" tattooed on my forehead. It is a complete waste of my money and time to go to the gym while I am the king of gimpdom with this lame broken elbow. Brace yourselves for the sorry sight of your humble servant when you see him next week babies...

(2) Is Ace Young, from American Idol, gay? He's a real cutie-pie. The best looking boy to sing in that car-wreck of a show. I also liked the long-haired blond boy, Bucky. He has a twin brother who is yummy too. I said that I "liked" Bucky because the poor bastard got booted out after singing a country version of "Fat Bottomed Girls" on Tuesday night, which seemed like an unfair outcome. I mean, there are only three music genres in which that song can be rendered: Jazz, Rock, and/or Country.

(3) So, is Ace Young gay or what? He looks a hell of a lot sexier with his hair short, as depicted in this picture. He would look a lot better than that naked, of course. And he would look even better with his hair short, naked, and with Bucky on top of him.

(4) I hear that Ace is gay from my girlfriend Mata Hari, the Bolivian pre-op male-to-female transexual who works out with me at Results, the gym. Mata claims to have inside information as she is friends with the hairdresser on the show who tells her all the gossip about the Idols. But then, Mata also told me that she was a biological woman who had a congenital condition at birth that caused her vulva to come outwards, thus giving the impression during her delivery that she was a boy. She told me that she does have a uterus and ovaries, and that her "penis and scrotum" are actually malformed clitoris and labia, respectively. Yeah, right. I know someone who had sex with Mata, and, according to him, the "malformed" clitoris measures at least nine clitoric inches long and at least seven round. Damn, don't u wish you had that "congenital" condition?

(5) So, is Ace Young gay or what? He's twenty-five years old, six-plus feet tall, with a bitchin' bod, awesome hair, and a stunning set of teeth in a mouth that was made to suck dick, no? The boy can sing a little bit. He is no Jimmy Sommerville or Sylvester (to compare him with men of similar sexual orientation), but he is a hell of a lot better than the other two dorks still in the show with him, I'll say.

(6) Last night I had a dream that I had a different face. It was a better looking face than I have now, with no scars on it and a much better complexion. However, I had a big fucking nose. Something like Ace Young's nose. On him it looks good, but on me it looked like Pinnochio after a truth-or-dare marathon. Funny, eh?

(7) So, is he gay or what? I mean, not that it matters. What are the chances of Ace Young making it to Washington, DC, anyway? And even if he makes it to DC, will he have a fetish for aging Latin boys with broken elbows? Is there such a fetish? I am gonna google that and see. If they do have a club of aging-latin-boys-with-broken-elbows worshippers, I'll see if I can start a chapter here in the nation's capital.

(8) So this week it was another lucky break for our boy Ace at the American Idol show. He keeps on getting dumped into the "bottom three" of vote getters week after week, and week after week he keeps on making it by the skin of his (undoubtedly awesome) ass. This week the poor assholes competing on AI had to sing the songs from Queen. The week before it was a country themed show, and the week before that it was a 50's themed show. Next week is a standards theme. The producers of AI are determined to kill this program come hell or high water, no? I mean, please... What about an Abba theme? Or a Madonna theme? Or a Partridge Family theme? Or a worst-songs-ever theme (I'd like to hear Ace sing "Billy don't be a hero" just so I can hear him say: "...come back and make me your wife...")? Or a Flock of Seagulls theme? Or a Japanese Mariachi theme?

(9) So, is he gay or what? He dresses like those homosexual streetwalking hustlers you see around the White House on Saturday nights... Yes babies, if you want to hire male prostitutes in the nation's capital, you have to go to Pennsylvania avenue nowadays. Sometimes you see them at Halo, a trendy homo bar on 14th and P here in DC. About three weeks ago I went to Halo alone as I had been grocery shopping at Whole Foods, which is right across from the bar on 14th street. Since I had bought some peaches at the store, I walked across the street with one nice ripe and glistening peach determined to get the bartender to make me a peach martini a la New Orleans. When I got inside Halo (it was six o'clock in the afternoon), I was surprised to see a bunch of whores hanging out. Yes babies, I was up to my nipples in male prostitutes who were seeking employment. I mean, these whores were obssessed with paying rent, obviously. And all of them were dressed like Ace Young, with their faded jeans and see-through t-shirts. One of these prostitutes (a young, good-looking, muscular, and fresh-faced kid) came over to talk to me (I was dressed in my work clothes, and I looked like a lawyer or lobbyist):

"Hi, I am Jeremy," he said.
"Sorry Jeremy, I don't have enough cash today," I responded.

Jeremy looked at me funny and walked away. I tell you, these male prostitutes have no business savvy. Even if you don't score today, you should still try to make connections.

(10) Ok, ok, ok... We never figured out if Ace Young is gay or not. What does it matter, right? He is some nice eye-candy that sings and dresses like a sex-industry worker... plus he's got this Miss America hair and a mouth that Jenna Jameson would envy... not to mention a body made for sinning...

Well babies, that's it... today's moaning did not have a unifying theme as I was simply expressing my random thoughts... better luck with the next moaning...

Peace and love,
Cesarin

A His-Panic Attack

2006-04-12T10:07:00.000-07:00

Latin boys go to hell...

Yes babies, we are hellbound, first class, no return ticket. The Republicans are calling us liberals/Democrats/radicals names. They are saying that we showed a lack of compassion and that's why the hatefull Republican-sponsored bill that would turn millions of hard-working, abused and tormented illegal families in this country into felons who would share jailspace with rapists and murderers had to be enacted. Say what? How does that follow? How did these Republican hatemongers figure that they could blame us peace-loving, make-love-not-war liberal radical Democrats for the venomous bill they authored and are trying to pass?

Bill Frist and Dennis Hastert have made a joint statement trying to deflect blame for the prejudice and ignorance displayed by their xenophobic, vitriolic Republican asshole-y brethren. In their statement, they blame Democrats for everything that's wrong with the country. Heh? One thing that the Democrats have done in these past six years is... NOTHING!!! We can't. We don't have the votes in the house nor the senate to stop anything evil from happening, and we don't have the White House to veto any hateful law from passing neither. So how can this shitstorm be our fault? In their fucking dreams!!!!

To be fair, a moaner berated me for being overly simplistic about this immigration bill. He told me that illegal immigrants ARE breaking the law. Noted. I understand that. But turning these illegal immigrants (and those who aid them) into felons is the product of a xenophobic, homophobic, Christian, hateful, baleful, demagogic Republican House and Senate. And White House.

The Grillfish

2006-04-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

I feel a sin coming on...

Good Moaning babies,

Last weekend I had a very nice visit from charter moaner Doug Meffert. He was in town for a three-day fund-raising event, and after the beg-a-thon was over with, he and I decided to meet for drinks and dinner at this place called the Grillfish, on New Hampshire avenue in DC. After squeezing dimes out of the wallets of tight-wads DC types, Mr. Meffert was in dire need of a stiff cocktail. Actually, my changing the happy-hour meeting time in midstream without informing Doug (i.e. being way late for our dinner thingy) contributed to Doug's alcohol needs. But we did meet and had some fruity martinis while we waited for the rest of our troupe to arrive.

Nighty was to meet us at Grillfish, and he was bringing with him King Saul (a friend of his from the gym) and Immigration Dave (a lawyer friend of Nighty's). Our waiter turned out to be this (seemingly) straight twinky type who had a very liberal policy on engaging in homosexual coquetry, perhaps for his tips' sake. Hey, when I get fed alcohol I am not to be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth or what my hands do on their own accord, so if I was behaving like a lecherous Marquis de Sade and being unpropitious with the waiter, it was the alcohol that made me do it... :)

And to my defense I should point out that if you are going to press your crotch on my elbow as you lean forward to pour wine into my glass, I am going to cop a feel (btw, the waiters' endowment was commensurate with his tiny little fingers)...

The last time I had such a libidinous encounter with a Grillfish waiter was back in August of 2005, when King Saul, Nighty, and your humble servant had dinner in honor of my birthday. Nighty was wearing his Beyonce pants, so tight on the back that he displayed his bottomness to sensational accuracy, prompting stares from the nuclear family sitting next to us. However, Nighty's time in the sun ended when your humble servant walked in wearing his D&G's two-sizes-too-small Paris shirt. At the time, I still had a chest (this was before my unfortunate accident that has left me doing Mickey-Mouse workouts at the gym, when will this nightmare end?) and it was something to look at (my sisters would've killed for just half my cup-size). And that's just what this waiter, John, did: look at it with glee. Later that evening, Nighty went to the local S&M (stand & model) disco, Cobalt, and he coincidentally met John the Waiter at the upstairs dance room. I was on my way home when I got a call from Nighty.

"You gotta get back here to Cobalt," Nighty said.
"Why?" I was wondering what would be so important that required my attendance at DC's top craddle bar.
"That waiter from Grillfish is here and he wants to hook up with you," Nighty said.

Hook-up. There's that word again. They way it's used, a hook-up actually means intercourse. "We hooked up three times last night at my place," Nighty has said on (way too many) numerous occasions, meaning that he got fucked in the ass three times during the course of the evening. What an insatiable bottom he is, no?

But I digress. I decided to throw caution to the wind and go to Cobalt to see what was what. When I got there, I found Nighty making out with random boys in the men's room... that's my friend, class all the way. The Nightcrawler then took me upstairs to the dance room to meet John the Waiter, who was lit up like Baghdad during the invasion. John the Waiter was a nice looking fellow, blonde with a good body devoid of fatness. He also had a nine inch dick. He showed me. Flaccid, that thing reached all the way to his belly button. And he wanted to use that thing on me. In me. He had specifically asked Nighty if I was a bottom, and Nighty responded with a resounding YES HE LIKES IT UP HIS ASS. Well, John the Waiter was only too eager to put his dick to good use and he wanted to come home with me pronto. I, on the other hand, was non-plussed. I liked John the Waiter well enough to take him home and show him a few things (he was twenty-six), but then he began to talk about looking for a daddy. A daddy. A fucking father figure. The last thing I want when I go home with someone is to be reminded that I am old. Even if they say that I am a hot older man, the word "old" is ever present in my mind. So, at the first chance I had, I made my getaway and got the hell out of Cobalt and went home to watch "That 70's Show" in my DVR and pig out on Reese's cups.

I was a little concerned that John the Waiter was gonna be working at Grillfish last weekend, but as it turned out he wasn't. Instead we got Twinky. Did I tell you babies that I felt his dicky? Yes I did? Oh well...

After dinner, King Saul wanted to go to Omega, an afterhours disco that used to be called The Frathouse back in 1986. Omega is considered a trashy joint by the more trendy DC homos, but there is something to be said for trashy bars. The people you meet there are more human than the steroid automatons you are likely to encounter at Halo or Cobalt. Or Apex for that matter, although I saw some more down to earth people at Apex the one night I was there. But this being Doug's night, I wanted to show him things that he was not going to see in New Orleans, so off we went to Halo to gawk at the come-to-life mannequins that go there.

"I have never seen so many muscle boys in one room," Doug said.

Yes, I could see that would be the case as Doug lives in New Orleans. At Halo all you would see is muscle-boy after muscle-boy, walking around being fabulous and young and wanted by lesser beings. Even the old people who go to Halo look like they have been ingesting steroids through a garden hose. You will not see such sights at any of the bars in New Orleans, except during holidays when lots of out-of-towners come to the Crescent City, like Haloween and Southern Decadence (although for SD we only get aging barebackers from Atlanta who love to take their shirts off). But generally speaking, the gay crowds in New Orleans are all pretty normal people who drink, eat fried food, sleep, drink again, dance to Zydeco music, eat more fried food, drink some more, and get laid. There's a few people who do work out, but we never took it to the extreme that I've seen here.

"I used to have a hard time finding dates when I lived in DC," Doug said, "but even when I lived in Los Angeles I never saw this kind of narcissitic display."

When did DC become more plastic than LA?

Alas, King Saul never made it to Halo. He must've found something he liked at Omega. Nighty and Immigration Dave left early on (they were tired from all the lawyering they've been doing lately), so Doug and I stayed and had a blast drinking and talking and taking in the sights. After a while, I took Doug to his hotel and said good-bye.

Going home I kept on thinking about John the Waiter. So what if he was looking for a daddy? I should've brought him home anyway. You don't get nine inches every day, no matter how much steroid you take.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

Oh, the perfidy of gossip journalists...

2006-04-12T04:32:00.000-07:00

Did you hear the one about...

This here article is a fascinating report on how printed and broadcast gossip is manipulated by the powers that be. True babies, if you thought that what you read in the supermarket tabloids and what you hear on Entertainment Tonight was the work of well-meaning gossip columnists and their sources, then you have been duped.

You only hear what the publicists and their clients want you to hear, and the corrupt journalists that give in to the bribes and the sex-for-a-good-story goodies are to bear most of the shame.

But you babies need not worry about such profiteering and shadiness here at The Moaning Club, no sir. We are not to be bought by money or sex or drugs or shoes. You shall get nothing but exceptional journalism on salient topical issues. Yes babies, we here at The Moaning Club pride ourselves in our unwavering and veracious work ethics.

And in keeping with our meritorious standards, did you babies hear that Jim Nabors has a ten inch dick? He's also a top... go figure...