January Jones has to be the worst actress of the century. If you agree with me, thank you. If not please keep reading.

In 2008, the aforementioned putrid actress was the main guest star on Law & Order which, unlike JJ, is very fun to watch play out on the boob tube. Anyhoo, January played a con woman who fakes a real estate scheme, kills her boyfriend and somehow, to avoid being incarcerated by NYPD, becomes the only lead in some federal terrorist investigation. Pretty good story, huh? It was, but JJ’s acting wasn’t. She delivered her lines like a fembot from the Austin Powers trilogy, had the body language of a body double for the title character in Weekend at Bernie’s and actually had me hoping that the power would suddenly go out in my condo so I wouldn’t have to watch her butcher a seemingly enjoyable script. It was the worst episode of Law & Order ever and almost deterred me from ever watching the show again.

I guess Lorne Michaels was out getting his back waxed the night the Law  & Order episode aired because in 2009, JJ was asked to host Saturday Night Live. I didn’t watch the program as I’m usually in a martini-induced coma by 11:30 on any given Saturday night. BF did watch it and he said that it was probably a good thing that I didn’t see it. JJ was awful and, I’ve read in some columns and blogs that it was considered the worst episode of SNL ever; even less enjoyable than Sinead O’Connor ripping up a picture of JPII. I wanted to check it out for myself, so I went to YouTube to see what I could find. Can you believe that in all of the YouTube database there isn’t one clip from her stint on the late night sketch comedy show? If that doesn’t tell how much it truly smelled, nothing could.

If you still don’t believe me that JJ has less acting ability than my left testicle, check out X-Men: Origins on Netflix. Instead of the mutant ability she was given in the script, they should written a character just for her that made people’s eyes and ears bleed because her acting was so bad. I love and respect the X-Men franchise to say any more.

So, how can I hate a person’s acting ability, or lack thereof, so much but love one of their characters?

I’ve watched the first four seasons of Mad Men and I think it comes down to three things that make me love Betty Draper.

Number One: She always looks amazing. There were a few episodes after she kicked Don out of the house when she wallowed around the house in her nightgown, her hair was unkempt and she did nothing but yell at her children and suck down cigarettes. She did this and still looked like a Miss America contestant. Normally, this would upset me about an actress, but for her and the series, I think it helps accentuate the fact that in the 60’s women were supposed to always look their best, even when they felt their worst.

Number Two: Perhaps it’s her Grace Kelly type beauty, her statuesque figure or her perfect smile and thick blond hair, but January Jones looks the Betty Draper part. She looks like a spoiled rich bitch who married a stud, had two perfect children while maintaining a perfect figure and lives in mansion in the New York suburbs. I imagine this is why Matthew Weiner cast her in the role. It certainly wasn’t because of her screen test.

Number Three: She’s gorgeous when she smokes. In the sixties it was glamorous to smoke, and Betty Draper epitomizes that. I don’t know if it’s the effortless way she inhales, gently pressing her perfectly plump lips around the filter or the way she exhales as if she’s simply exhaling a breath, but something about her smoking makes me wanna turn straight for about fifteen minutes.

Despite these three accolades that only apply to her one character, I still think JJ is the most abhorant actor to show up on the celluloid radar since Pauly Shore.

My advice to January Jones:

Go ahead and legally change your name to Betty Draper, drink continuously from the time you wake up until you fall asleep, smoke while you’re pregnant and prepare celery stalks filled with cream cheese for party appetizers. It suits you more than your real life.

My advice to everyone else:

Do what I do and limit your January Jones acting exposure to any series on AMC that revolves around the advertising profession in the 1960’s. You’ll thank me.

So, like most weekends I spent this past break from my Monday to Friday grind at the movies. After I bought my $15 ticket and obligatory $6 popcorn and $5 mega soda, I traveled the long, obnoxiously carpeted hallway to my theater. About halfway there, I saw an ad for Meryl Streep’s newest film, Iron Lady. It’s a biopic about Margaret Thatcher that, I’m sure, will be amazing. Meryl will nail the accent, the body language and even master the idiosyncrasies that people from the UK insist make them superior to us, their less fortunate cousins across the pond.

I just hope there are no scenes where Meryl has to cry.

Meryl Streep is arguably the most talented actress alive today. She has been nominated for more Academy Awards and Emmys than any other actor in the history of acting, winning two fro Kramer vs. Kramer and Adaptation. So, you must be asking yourself why the title of this post is “You suck, Meryl Streep”. It’s because, despite her proven acting talents and prowess on the stage and screen, Meryl Streep is a sub-par actress because she’s not ugly when she cries.

Think about when you cry or when people you care about cry. It’s never pretty. There are swollen eyes, runny noses and those awkward moments when you try to talk, but all that comes out is a wailing shriek that could rival any sea harpie or scorned mother-in-law. So, why oh why oh why-oh is that that Meryl Streep, queen of stage and screen can’t muster enough acting prowess to make herself ugly when she’s pretending to be sad?

It’s not that she’s overly gorgeous. Granted, Meryl isn’t ugly, but pretty isn’t the first accolade that I think of when her name is mentioned. If you take other star-studded actress on par with her prowess, ie Elizabeth Taylor, Angelina Jolie and Ingrid Bergman – they are all considered “beautiful women”. Meryl is not.

And it’s not because she hasn’t had enough acting opportunities. It seems in almost every one of her of her roles, she has an opportunity to cry. Even in Devil Wears Prada, when she played the most heartless, soulless, life sucking bitch cow from hell, she was able to parade her lack of talent for shedding a tear.

If you look at other modern actress with credentials to back up their celluloid competence, you have to admit that their crying scenes are more convincing than Ms. Streeps’. Whenever Julianne Moore cries on film, you know, or at least believe, she’s in pain; Ellen Page actually looks like an alien when she sheds a tear; and Julia Roberts positively looks like Mr. Ed when she hears, in a movie, that her latest husband has come back from the grave to murder her or whatever ridiculous plot twist screenwriters use to get people to see her films.

So, I have to say, or in this case, write to you, Ms. Streep, that even though you have achieved so much in your illustrious career as an actress, that you have missed the mark on the simple fact of making yourself look like an ogre when you cry.

My advice you Meryl Streep

Take a cue from your fellow actress and, the next time you film a scene when you’re crying, don’t wear make up, channel your inner lesbian, and, when you’re told to find your unhappy place, think about your daughter being raped by Hitler while, at the same time, being exposed to all the horrific roles you passed up as a young actress, filled by talentless hookers with big boobs and no talent.

My advice to everyone else: When you watch Iron Lady and you come to the seminole scene where Margaret Thatcher breaks down in front of the British Parliament, or her husband, or her gay best friend, ask yourself “Is Meryl Streep accurately portraying the pain of one of the most handsome women in UK governmental history?”

For BF and me, there have been several events that signaled to me “Hey, this guy is really awesome and you should scratch out the eyes of any other gay boy who wants a piece of him.” Here are just a few:

The first time we met was in a crowded bar in Atlanta. I was there with my roommate at the time who was friends with BF’s realtor. They introduced us and before I knew it we were talking about Madonna, dissecting the gay boys in Atlanta and how they differed from the boys in our home towns and comparing the consequences that had led up to us living in Atlanta. We found out that we both loved Madonna, especially her “Vogue” years, had a fine appreciated for the corn-fed southern boys in Atlanta and had each moved down south to attend graduate school; me for architecture; him for business school. After a few hours and more Red Bull and vodkas than I’d care to admit I found myself searching for my roommate, wanting to make sure that my designated driver hadn’t abandoned me. We searched the bar with BF eventually pointing and asking “Is that he?” The fact that he properly used the pronoun “he” instead of “him”, like most other people would have said, made me instantly fall in love with him and, because of the amount of alcohol I’d consumed, I planted a big wet kiss on his lips.

Next was the following evening on our first date. The drunken kiss I smacked on his lips the night before hadn’t scared him away, and BF decided to see me the next night. We started the evening at a pool party where we stood on the sidelines, made fun of all the older men in banana hammocks trying their hardest to look twenty-two and got to know each other. Later, we went to a dance club and hung out for a couple hours. We decided to slip outside and I bought a pack of gum from the vending machine in case BF wanted to make out. Unfortunately, he didn’t. I popped a piece of gum in my mouth anyway, just in case and fiddled with the silver wrapper. I wrapped around BF’s finger and said something totally stupid like “I guess this means we’re married.” Without missing a beat, he turned to me and said “I have to warn you. I only marry for money.” I think that’s when I started to fall in love with him.

I totally fell in love with him on my birthday about six months later. BF threw me a surprise birthday party and invited all my favorite chums from grad school. But it wasn’t until he led me to our bedroom that I was really surprised. I opened the door and there was Homo Honey sitting on my bed. Knowing that I was totally obsessed with her, BF arranged for her to come down for the weekend to be part of my birthday celebration. It was the sweetest present anyone had ever given me and I still get goose bumps when I think about it nine years later. And the icing on top of the cake is that Homo Honey and BF totally fell in love with each other that weekend, too. They are so close, in fact, that they’ve been on vacation without me.  It’ magic when the two people you love the most love each other.

The final and probably most significant unspoken turning point that forged our relationship forever happened a few months after my birthday. I was lying in bed, reading a magazine while BF slept beside me. All of the sudden, he ripped a fart that would have startled Helen Keller. I looked down at him just as he was waking up. The fart was so loud that it actually woke him up. He looked at me and I looked at him and, as if we were twelve years old, we both erupted in a fit of laughter that must have lasted at least two minutes.

BF is probably going to kill me for writing that last paragraph, or maybe give me a Dutch over, but I’m willing to pay the price. It’s a cute story and one that we still laugh about to this day. So, the next time you’re with your friends swapping relationship stories, forget the tired clichés and tell everyone about the time you caught your honey picking their nose or the first time you went number two in front of them. I’m sure it’ll make the conversation a little more interesting.

My advice to BF: Don’t be mad. It’s a cute story and I didn’t use your real name.

My advice to everyone else: Savor those small, seemingly inconsequential moments in your relationships, whether they’re with your parents, you’re loved on or your besties. Those are the things that, over time, that you’ll remember.

Since graduating from college I’ve only really had three professions: a video store clerk, a graphic designer and my current career as an architect. And with every one, that ubiquitous, ice-breaking question has haunted me.

I was living in Miami Beach, dating my loser ex-boyfriend (see Facebook and Ex Boyfriends for more information) when I worked as a video store clerk. That was when I was in my early twenties, which meant I ate nothing but McDonalds without ever gaining a pound and was able to go out every night of the week until 3am and still make it to work the next morning. Miami Beach in the late 90s was a hot bed of hot guys all high on something, which meant they were usually pretty chatty and nice. Night after night I’d go out and meet new people. Inevitably, they’d ask what I do and, when I told them, they’d instantly blurt out some schpeal about a late-movie fine on their account and ask if I could take it off for them. That, or they’d ask if I could give them free popcorn the next time they were in the store. Sometimes, if they were really cute or had a job that I could use to swap favors (waiters at good restaurants or bouncers at the hottest clubs) I’d say yes, but mostly, I’d just sit there and listen to how so-and-so wasn’t good in this movie or how everyone thought they shouldn’t have to pay for a movie they rented but didn’t like.

A little over a year of working in that job, I fled Miami for the oppressive suburbs to New Jersey to live with Homo Honey and work as a graphic designer in medical advertising. HH has always been extremely social and well-liked which meant we went to a lot of parties. As she is the cat’s meow and desirable in every aspect of the word, HH would disappear throughout the night talking to random girls or cute boys and I’d get stuck talking, usually, to the only other gay person at the party. I’d stand there, waiting for the question and when the homosexual would ask “So, what do you do?” I’d tell them that I was a graphic designer for a pharmaceutical company. Then, as if they were at a confidential doctor’s visit, they’d start asking me about what medication they should take for whatever ailed them. One guy asked me about the best fungal cream to remove athlete’s foot. At one party, this very homely lesbian asked about how to get rid of her chronic halitosis which was really, really bad. And one guy who, after several cocktails I imagine, asked if I had and Viagra on me. It was like they asked me what I did and then totally didn’t listen to the answer. I said I was a graphic designer, not and effing doctor, or even a medical scientist.

Although the parties sucked, living with HH was a blast, but like all good things, our time came to an end and I moved down south to become an architect. After three years of sleepless nights and horrible design reviews by my Ewok professor and his stupid role of playing the devil’s advocate, I graduated and started my third career. In that same time I met BF and made some good friends. My friends have friends and those friends have friends, which means I’ve met a lot of people. And all those friends of friends of friends only ever seem to be interested in one thing: what I do for a living. When I tell them I’m an architect, I don’t get asked for favors like when I was a video store clerk, or asked for medical advice when I was a graphic designer; instead I get one of three responses. The first is “Oh my God. I love Frank Lloyd Wright. He’s totally my favorite architect.” To that I ask “Who’s your second favorite architect?” Usually they can’t name another. The second response is “Neat.” And that’s it. I don’t know if they’re waiting for me to ask them what they do for work or if they don’t know exactly what an architect is, but that’s all I get. We stand there for a few awkward seconds until I excuse myself to get another drink or go to the bathroom. The third response I get and, this one fascinates me the most, is just a blank stare, like I just told them I was Jeffrey Dahmer’s cousin.

It’s taken fifteen years, three careers and a millions times beings asked “So, what do you do?” for me to realize a universal truth: people don’t care what I do. They ask me that stupid question because: 1) They think they’re being polite. 2) They don’t understand the concept of comfortable silence. Or 3) (and I think this one is usually the case) They only ask me, thinking I’ll ask them, so they can talk about themselves.

So, I’ve decided, the next time I’m at a party and someone asks me “So, what do you do?” I’m going to smile and say either “I’m a phone sex operator” or “I work in sanitation.”

My advice to those of you who feel the need to always ask “So, what do you do?”: First, stop asking that. Ask “What do you do for work?” Second, don’t ask unless you really care and are willing and able to follow up their response with at least two questions related to their career. And third, if you’re just asking so you can talk about your job…get a life. No one want to hear about your stupid job.

My advice to everyone else: The next time you’re at a party and some d-bag asks you “So, what do you do?” follow my lead and think of the most obnoxious career and see what happens.

On the first day of our sophomore year I sat down at the lunch table with Kevin who, for a reason that still eludes me, pretended like he’d never met me. He never spoke to me again which prompted Michael version 3.0. That year I joined the show choir, Pizzaz, and found solace amongst the other “choir fags” in particular, two guys named Michael and Clint. Between late night practices and travelling throughout the tri-state area, we spent weekends watching teen angst movies and challenging each other to piano duels. But, like my friendship with Kevin, Clint and Michael ultimately decided that they liked each other more than me, and made our trio a duo.

That left me alone again at the beginning of my junior year and which meant Michael version 4.0. Thank god for Christie McMurtry. She was this super-fly, silver-tongued goddess that I met in an advanced writing class. She sat next to me on the first day of school and by the time the bell rang to end class, we were bff’s, planning our first trip to the mall. We spent all our time together. She taught me all about how to judge people up and down with just a glance and why Stevie Wonder is the greatest entertainer in the history of music. But, sadly, at the end of the year Christie graduated and left me forever.

So, there I was at the beginning of my senior year with just a handful of acquaintances and an empty dance card. That was, until I met Amelia. Her real name isn’t Amelia. I call her that because in one of my screenplays “Henry and Gil” I used Amelia as the inspiration for a character of the same name. We bonded one night when, by sheer coincidence, we ended up in the back seat of the same car on the way to toilet paper the house of a mutual nemesis. I basked in her awesomeness as she referred to said nemesis, not as a slut like everyone else, but as a hooker. It was a classier description, but equally as biting.

We successfully completed the toilet papering and ended up at Amelia’s house until 3:00AM the next morning. That night she taught me how to play Asshole, how to steal vodka from her dad’s liquor cabinet without him noticing and that her dog was the direct descendant of a dog once owned by Bruce Lee. That night, Michael 5.0 was born and I can truthfully say that, almost twenty years later, I’m still the same version.

For the rest of the year Amelia and I didn’t spend more than a few hours without seeing, talking or thinking about one another. We’d speak for hours on the phone every night critiquing our classmates, dreaming of going away to college and thinking of clever nicknames for the butt faces that seemed to find infinite joy in making fun of me.

We’d spend every weekend at her house ordering pizza, playing in her basement and torturing her cat named Shitty Kitty. She’d indulge me and rent “Heathers” and “Elvira: Mistress of the Dark” every couple weeks and sit through them as I quoted every line.

And it wasn’t just her quick wit and clever quips that I worshiped…she had the grooviest sense of fashion. She had a few pair of patterned tights that she’d wear with the confidence of a super model on the catwalk. But she wasn’t a fashion snob. Every couple weeks we’d make a trek to all the local Salvation Army’s to peruse through their piles of cloths in the hopes of finding a discarded Gucci purse or a pair slightly worn Guess jeans.

With Amelia by my side, my senior year flew by and, before I knew it, we were both packing up for college. I’ll never forget the last night we hung out before she left for school. As usual, we stayed up at her house until an obscene hour of the night, gossiping about this and that and watching a movie of my choice. She walked me to the door and we shared a few pleasantries, both not wanting to say goodbye. Eventually, we hugged, she shut the door and I walked to my car. Once inside my black Camaro, I broke down sobbing so hard that I was unable to drive home. I sat there for fifty minutes before I could compose myself enough to drive the few miles to my parent’s house.

It’s been almost two decades since that night we parted ways and, even though we haven’t seen each other for over ten years or ever really talk (except for the random Facebook message), every time I think about Amelia calling someone out as a hooker, or screaming at little Shitty Kitty, or sitting through a bad movie just to appease me, or sashaying down the school hallway in her patterned tights a huge smile cracks across my face and I thank the person that put me on the path of becoming who I am today.

Thanks, Amelia.

My advice to Amelia: Call me. I miss you!

My advice to everyone else: We all have a person in our lives that we wish we had never fallen out of touch with. Call/text/e-mail that person right now and reconnect. I will if you will.

When I was young my teeth were seriously jacked up.  I’m not talking about a minor gap or that my eye teeth stuck out. I mean my mouth looked like I was the half-brother of Sloth from “The Goonies”. I never smiled in pictures and, when I talked in school, always had one hand covering my mouth. It got to the point where I’d cover my face with a bandana at the dinner table so my family wouldn’t have to look at my Frankenstein grill.

Thankfully, when I was thirteen, my parents decided to have me fitted with braces. Being the precocious brat that I was and because they were totally vogue, I demanded I get the new translucent braces. My parents acquiesced and I went to the orthodontist, Dr. Ronk, for my fitting. Although he said I was a perfect candidate for the new clear braces, he informed me that my upper jaw was too narrow and did not line up with its lower counterpart. He gave me two options: break my lower jaw or expand my upper jaw. Without hesitation I opted for option number two.

A couple weeks later I sat in Dr. Ronk’s chair, my mouth wide open, waiting to begin my dental transformation. From out of a drawer he pulled a shiny metal device that looked something like a spider, but with only four prongs protruding from a flat center.  Figuring he made a mistake, I informed him that I had ordered the clear braces. He assured me that the braces he would install were clear, but that, before the braces, he needed to install the palette extender he held in his hand.

Other than being a way of slightly expanding one’s jaw, a palette expander is basically a torture device. Twice a day I had to stick a small metal key in the expander, twist it half a turn and move my upper jaw apart a fraction of a millimeter. It was uncomfortable at first, then painful, then more painful and, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, more painful still. Every time my tongue moved around my mouth or touched my teeth, I winced in pain and prayed to God that she put me out of my misery. The only thing that helped was if I gently rested my tongue on top of my bottom lip. It made me look a little bit “duh” but I didn’t care; as long as it subsided some of the agony.

That same year I started public high school. Up until that point, I attended a small, Catholic school with a total of 110 students spread throughout nine grades. It was quite a shock went I went from an eighth grade class of thirteen to a freshman class of 300. Being one of the “catholic kids” on top of being painstakingly gay made me very undesirable to be around, so I threw myself in my studies, especially English. My teacher’s name was Mrs. Henderson. She was one of those teachers who married rich and chose teaching so she could have summers free to spend at her family’s summer home on the lake. But she was a good teacher and fairly respectful of her students, until…

One morning in class, right after I had turned the key of my palette extender, we were discussing George Orwell’s seminal classic “1984”. Knowing that I’d have the answer to her question, Mrs. Henderson called on me to discuss the dangers of Communism and its long term effects on society.

I sat there, my tongue resting on my lower lip, panicked that any explanation was going to cause my mouth great pain when Mrs. Henderson stuck out her tongue at me and demanded “Stick your tongue back in your mouth, Michael. You’re not a caveman.” The class erupted in a fit of laughter and I slinked down into the bottom of my seat cursing Dr. Ronk and the genetics that caused my crooked teeth in the first place.

That night at dinner, my mom (for more information on her, read Mom) knew something was up. After a few rounds of her asking me what was wrong and me saying nothing, she dragged the truth out of me. I had barely finished my story when she bolted from her chair and marched to the phone in the hallway. Knowing her intent, I followed her, begging her no to call Mrs. Henderson, saying that it would just make things worse.

She flipped through the phone book, found Mrs. Henderson’s number and punched it in on her phone. “Mrs. Henderson,” she said in the fakest voice she could muster “this is Michael Phillips’ mother.” She gave me a wink and continued “We were just eating dinner and Michael told me the most ridiculous story.” She laughed one of those canned laughs they use for sitcoms not filmed before a live studio audience and continued, “He said that you actually stuck your tongue out at him today in class and called him a caveman. Now, this can’t be true, is it?” Mrs. Henderson said something to her that I couldn’t hear; probably her version of what happened. “I guess you’re not aware” my mom shot back “but Michael has a serious orthodontic condition that requires him to wear a substantial piece of metal equipment in his mouth that causes him great pain.” My mom smiled as, what I can only assume, was Mrs. Henderson’s most embarrassing apology. “I appreciate that” mom responded, “But I really think you owe that to Michael.”  She hung up, looked at me said “That’s one teacher that’ll never mess with you again.”

The next day Mrs. Henderson apologized to me in front of the entire class.

My advice to Mrs. Henderson: None. She learned her lesson.

My advice to my mom: Keep up the good work. There are plenty of assholes out there that enjoy making others feel bad about themselves. I’m glad you’re out there to stop them and I’m even gladder that you’ve got my back.

My advice to everyone else: Although I’m a huge fan of making fun of people, watch out. You never know who has a protective mother ready to strike.

Among his other talents (See My Superhero Boyfriend and his One Weakness for more information), BF is an amazing cook. It’s great for my taste buds, but bad for my waistline. In the last few years I’ve gained more weight than I care to emblazon for all to read, but let’s just say it’s too much. So, in an effort to decrease my remorse every time I step on a scale, I’ve ramped up my workout routine and started myself on a diet.

As if starving myself isn’t bad enough, I’m now responsible for cooking my own meals. Every day after work I head to the grocery store and try to find something low calorie, low carb and still flavorful…not an easy task.

I was in the produce section a few weeks ago debating between brussel sprouts or broccoli when the most glamorous woman I’ve even seen walked by me and picked up a red pepper. Everything about her was flawless. From the hair, through the makeup, around the outfit and even down to her designer eco-friendly shopping bags, she was the complete package of what a classy woman should be. If they were alive today, Princess Diana and Jackie Onassis would both have bowed down and acquiesced to her superiority as a woman of style.

Enamored by this goddess who had graced me with her presence; I abandoned my food shopping and followed her throughout the store. I wanted to know what a woman of such high caliber ate. I stood behind her as she ordered two pounds of Alaskan king crab legs from the seafood department; I hid behind the mylar balloon display as she rifled through the exotic fruits section for pomegranates, star fruit and kiwis; and I almost blew my cover when I knocked over a mid-aisle display trying to see if she was buying Perrier or plan bottled water…it was Perrier.

As she pulled up to the checkout lane I found myself fantasizing about where she lived, what she and I would talk about if we were friend and what might be her favorite color. I was obsessed with this woman with whom I’d just seen a few minutes before. But, like all fantasies, it did not live up to reality.

When it was time for my new obsession to pay for her groceries, she plopped her name brand, all leather purse on the cashier’s stand. She reached in and pulled out her matching wallet. She unbuckled the brass lock with her perfectly manicured fingernails and grabbed a credit card. I leaned in, expecting it to be a black American Express…

I was wrong.

Instead she pulled out the all-too familiar green and orange Georgia Compass Card. For those of you who don’t know what that is, the Georgia Compass Card is basically and electronic version of food stamps. They give it to families so they don’t have to suffer the social embarrassment of using old-fashioned food stamps.

As the cashier swiped her card, my heart fell down to the soles of my shoes. How could this picture of poise and womanhood possibly be using food stamps, especially when her outfit had to cost more than my monthly mortgage? Then, as I stood there dumfounded watching this Food Stamp Fashionista pack her bags full of high-priced food, it hit me. Of course she can afford all those great clothes because she doesn’t pay a cent for food.

That whole night I kept getting more and more upset. Not only did this decepticon of a person obviously not need food stamps, she was probably stealing them away from someone who did. Although I have some issues with public services programs, there are some people that really need them and sincerely appreciate how they increase their quality of life. The fake woman in the store only used them so she could buy expense perfume and high quality hair extensions.

I planned my revenge and waited every day at the grocery store after work for that Food Stamp Fashionista to return. It took a couple weeks, but I finally saw her one night leafing through the pre-made gourmet meals adjacent to the deli counter. Again, I followed her through the entire store, but this time I had a different motive.

When she pulled up to the cashier and handed him that green and orange card I said, loud enough for everyone in the adjacent two aisles to hear “Is that a new type of credit card?” She turned around to me, lowered her Gucci sunglasses and shot dagger at me through her eyes. The cashier, who I think was onto what I was trying to do, held the card up and said “This? No. It’s her food stamp card.” Embarrassed, Food Stamp Fashionista pushed up her sunglasses, turned up the color on her fur-lined leather jacket and skulked out of the store. It was a small victory for me, but a huge win for tax payers state wide.

My advice to Food Stamp Fashionistas: 1) Don’t apply for food stamps unless you need them. 2) If you do get food stamps, don’t try to hide them behind a nice wallet and an expensive purse and 3) Watch out the next time you’re at the grocery store for a disgruntled architect on a diet because he’s mad.

My advice to everyone else: Don’t the let hypocrisy of Food Stamp Fashionistas continue. Call them out for stealing your hard-earned tax dollars.

The result?

When people meet me they usually don’t remember it.

BF, on the other hand, has a super groovy name that everyone remembers. Again, I won’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you that he shares a first name with a famous television actor from the 80’s and a character in the wonderfully amazing movie “The Fifth Element”. People always remember him, because of his first name. They always say “Hey, I remember you. You’re (BF’s name).” but they only remember me about half the time. Basically I’m like the “y” vowel…and sometimes Michael.

Even though my parents didn’t have the foresight to give me a memorable name like Grover or Finn, I am thankful that they didn’t choose a first name or weren’t burdened by a last name that would paint a giant bullseye on my forehead for the overly judgmental people of the world, like me.

Jason Hoar...dont' belive me? Click the image, log into Facebook and search for "Jason Hoar". It's a public profile.

In high school, I had an over-developed crush on this guy that was several years ahead of me. He was gorgeous with piercing eyes, rippling muscles and a hair line that rivals Robert Downey Jr’s. He was the star of the football team, endlessly popular and was one of those guys that could jump out of bed, throw on a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt and be New York Fashion Week runway ready. In spite of all this wonderfulness, there were two things that got in the way of the two of us sharing a life together. One: he was straight. I mean, terminally straight. Not even with a fifth of Jack Daniels and a pound of pot could I have influenced him to pinch hit for my team. Two: he had a last name that could not be taken seriously…Hoar. Yes, pronounced the same as one who frequents in sexual escapades. And even though I would have rolled in the sheets with him for days and days, there’s no way I could have ever seriously dated someone with that kind of last name. There was even a joke around school about it. Everyone said that he had two aunts named Ima and Youra. Get it?

High School ended and I left for college where I met Homo Honey and Bob (for more on Bob, read “Catch Phrase Thieves”). We were like the Three Musketeers  but, instead of fighting crime, we made fun of people. And among our favorites was a girl named Kelly Shubic. Naturally, with a name like that, being the caddy bitches that we were (and still are) we labeled her Kelly Pubic. I can’t tell you the amount of fun we had with her. We’d see Pubic walking down the quad between classes and laugh so hard that we almost peed our pants. Immature, I know, but you have to find something to keep you entertained between classes.

Homo Honey and I were talking about Pubic a few weeks ago, so I decided to do a little internet sleuthing to find out what she was up to. We always thought that, with a last name like hers, she’s end up running a satellite office for Heidi Fleiss. I was surprised to find the Pubic was not a call girl, but a real estate attorney in Baltimore. I was impressed, until I saw that she had married and, like so many modern women of her time, had taken two last names. Her name now: Kelly Shubic Weiner. I seriously almost fell out of my chair.

Kelly Pubic Weiner...don't believe me? Click the image.

Now, I know that Homo Honey, Bob and I weren’t the first people the attach her maiden name to her nether regions so, why oh why oh why oh would she even first, consider marrying a guy with that last name and, two, add it to her own, exacerbating her own unfortunate moniker? I know they say love is blind, but can it not word associate as well?

The final target of my f-ed up version of the name game is Nikki Chester. Nikki was a seriously unfortuante girl who travelled the same bus route home as I after school one year. Since I attended private school and she public, I didn’t know much about her. All I knew I learned from the scuzzy guys who sat one row behind me on the bus. Between their burping contests and fantasy lists of women they wanted to have sex with, I’d hear them talking about Miss Chester and an activity she allegedly enjoyed with frozen hot dogs. Rumor had it that she’d have her way with the frozen dogs then stick them in a bun and have her dinner. Disgusting, I know. That rumored activity earned her the title “Nikki Chester, The Hot Dog Molestor”. I’m sure it wasn’t true (or at least I hope it wasn’t true) and that Nikki Chester was, and still is, a very nice person, but whenever I’m back home and I see her I can’t help but dry heave a little and turn to walk in the opposite direction.

My advice to Jason Hoar: If you have daughters, please force them take their mother’s maiden name. They’ll thank you for it one day.

My advice to Kelly Pubic Weiner: Burn your proverbial bra in another way. Just take your husband’s last name or keep your maiden name. Together, they’re a disaster.

My advice to Nikki Chester, The Hot Dog Molestor: Since you still live in out same small town and everyone around our age knows about your unfortunate label, don’t buy hot dogs when you’re at the grocery store.

My advice to everyone else: Think long and hard before naming your children, taking your partner’s last name or branding yourself with a  nick name because there will always be superficial, caddy, immature people like me to make fun of it.

One of the many, many, many stupid things that failed vice-presidential nominee, Sarah Palin, said along the campaign trail was a pathetic attempt to passive aggressively condemn homosexuality. She said, and I quote “I am not going to judge Americans and the decisions that they make in their adult personal relationships.” Then she talks one of her best female, lesbians friends saying “…she is one of my best friends who happens to have made a choice that, um, isn’t a choice that I have made.” I’m sure SP left that interview thinking that she had really stuck it to the reporter and flown her anti-homosexual agenda just under the radar. Not to burst SP’s bubble or anything, but not only is homosexuality not a choice, but for some of us, your truly included, homosexuality is our destiny.

As I look back and take stock of my life there are sevel defining moments that, in retrospect, are signals from the cosmos telling me to be attracted to the same gender.

When I was in third grade, my small Catholic school decided to put on a live-version of The Stations of the Cross. For any of you who don’t know what The Stations of the Cross is, it’s a mind-warping portrayal of the days leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion that involves readings, prayers and moving around the church staring at old, boring paintings. It’s basically “The Passion of The Christ” without the high production quality and soundtrack.

Naturally, the most handsome and well-built eighth grader was chosen to portray Jesus. His name was Chris and in my naïve third grade view of the world, he was the coolest thing on two legs. He played electric guitar, could break dance like Joey Lawrence on “Gimme A Break” and had the coolest Trapper Keeper in school.

me, circa 3rd grade

The powers that be decided that two male students from third through eighth grades would play one of the twelve apostles. When it came down to the third grade, there were only two apostles left: Matthew and Judas. Not knowing anything about Matthew, I figured he’d have a smaller part of the two, so I auditioned for the role of Judas. Naturally, I won the part, as it was part of my destiny.

On the first day of rehearsals, we were at the point where Judas reveals Jesus to the Roman guards in the Garden of Gethsemane. Chris stood at the altar of the church, preaching to the other eleven disciples, while I stood back with the guards, waiting for my big scene. I flipped to the page with my dialogue to find the following lines and direction:

JUDAS: The man I kiss is the one you want.

Judas and the guards walk up to Jesus, Judas kisses him on the cheek and the guards take him away.

My hands sweat and my knees knocked as my line approached. When the time came, the director pointed to me. After a brief pause a calm came over me as I realized that God must have wanted me to play this part, deliver my line and kiss that cute boy on the cheek in front of the altar of the church.

“The man I kiss is the one you want.” I said with the aplomb force of a veteran stage actor. I led the guards down the aisle, planted the most passionate kiss a third grade nancy-boy could muster on Chris’ cheek and played out the rest of my character with the confidence that only comes from the knowledge of divine intervention and predestination.

The next ambrosial sign I received, confirming my admittance to The Friends of Dorothy club came the summer before my freshman year of high school. I joined a summer theater organization that was reviving “Bye, Bye Birdie”. “Bye, Bye Birdie” is the story of a popular, Elvis-like rocker who’s being shipped off to war. As a publicity stunt, he chooses one lucky girl to kiss before he leaves for combat.

Like my portrayal of Judas in third grade, I was chosen to deliver one very important line of dialogue. At the point in the play when Conrad Birdie, he’s the Elvis-like rocker, rolls into town I was to run across the stage, skipping and screaming “He’s coming. He’s coming. Conrad Birdie’s coming”. Honored that the director chose me to deliver this seminole line, I practiced at home for hours at a time. It wasn’t until several weeks into rehearsal that another cast member pointed out that my line was probably originally intended for a girl. Mortified, I went to the director and found out that, yes, the line that I had coveted so much was meant for a chick. They decided to give it to a boy because there weren’t that many male speaking roles and they were trying to even out the playing field.

me, age 13

Opening night arrived sooner than I thought and as I stood behind the curtain, ready to run across the stage and belt out my one and only line of dialogue Conrad Birdie came up to me. He was a handsome twenty-something with thick black hair, piercing blue eyes and a smile that melted my thirteen-year-old heart. He smiled at me, placed his hand on my shoulder and said “You ready to go? Cause I’m ready to come.” It was then that I knew that fate had chosen me to deliver that line. It wasn’t a gender mix up or a matter of cast limitations, it was the proper alignment of time and circumstances that afforded me an opportunity to share that brief, albeit powerful, moment with Conrad Birdie.

I ran across that stage and delivered an Academy-Award-winning performance, knowing that I was doing exactly what destiny had planned for me.

My advice to Sarah Palin: Maybe you should take the ideas you have about adult personal relationship choices and convey them to your single-mother, whore daughter and her bastard child.

My advice to whatever force predestined me for homosexuality: Thank you.

My advice to everyone else: The next time you’re faced with a difficult situation, take a step back and ask yourself “Is this the cosmos trying to tell me that I’m gay?”

1994

In my post “Fag Hags, Fruit Flies, Flame Dames and Homo Honeys” I introduced you to the social and emotional hierarchy that all straight women are classified by in the lives of any gay man. Subsequently, in “Baltimorons” and “Holiday Cards” I gave a few morsels of why my HH is basically the most amazing friend on the planet. But I think it’s time to fully convey HH’s amazing-ness to you and explain why anyone who isn’t friends with her should basically curl up in the fetal position and cry their eyes out.

1996

When we were juniors in college, Pope John Paul II, or JP2 as he was affectionately called on campus, made a trip to The United States and had a stop in Baltimore. At the urging of our parents, HH and I joined the Pope Patrol along with our friend Dana. Pope Patrol was basically a group of college students from the Baltimore/DC area who walked around in obnoxious yellow t-shirts showing over-zealous Catholics where to find plastic rosaries for His Holiness to bless and point them in the direction of the nearest port-a-potty. It was pretty dumb, but it made my mom happy and I think it allowed me an excused absence from a whole day of classes.

1997

The night after the Pope made his way around Baltimore in the Pope mobile, I was lying in my bed, unable to sleep. I don’t know if I was filled with The Holy Spirit or just tired of living a lie, but I decided to march on over to HH’s dorm room and come out to her.

1997

We sat on either side of her bed, chain smoking when I said “HH, I think I’m in love with Dana.” She exhaled a plume of smoke and said “No, you’re not.” “How do you know?” I asked, knowing that she was going to say what I could not. “Please, you’re totally gay.” I cried a little. She held me, and then it was like nothing had happened. We resumed our normal activities of consuming apples and making fun of anyone in eye shot.

1997

And she was there the night I popped my cherry. Well, not exactly there, but she was with me when I met the guy. She approved, gave me a condom, kissed me on the cheek and sent me on my way. The next morning I returned back and there she was, waiting for me outside, having chained smoked the entire night, not able to sleep. I’m not going to go into any more detail on this one as my mother is probably reading this and there are some things a son just doesn’t want his parents knowing.

1998

After college HH moved to Philadelphia and I moved to Miami Beach to live with UJR. She talked me through my obsession with Hector (see “Man Whores and First Loves” for more information) and even helped convince me that I needed to dump my mooching boyfriend (see “Facebook and Ex Boyfriends” for more information), leave Miami and move up to New Jersey with her where she had found a great job and made some groovy friends. So, I did and it was amazing. Within two months of arriving there, I landed a great job and was having so much fun playing house with HH. But then, I lost my job. I came home that night, scared out of my mind that I was going to end up in some homeless shelter, rifling through trash cans for left over hamburgers. HH came home, I told her what happened and, instead of feeding into my anxiety, she took me out celebrate. She said that I didn’t need that stupid job and that something even better was going to come up. And it did. Three days later, I landed a permanent freelance design job and a pharmaceutical company that paid me almost twice what I was making before.

1998

We lived together in NJ for almost five years and I can truly say that I have nothing but fond, fun memories. We has some ups and downs, but through everything we knew that we were a family and that, no matter what happened, our first priority was that we cared about one another. But, like all good things, our time together had to come to an end. Though we never said it out loud, I think we both knew that we needed time apart if either one of us was ever going to find a boyfriend. You see, when two people are as close as HH and I are, there just isn’t room for anyone else. Think of Will and Grace, but less pathetic and clingy. So, I moved to Atlanta and HH eventually moved back home to Philadelphia. Not too long after we parted, we each found someone (see “My Superhero Boyfriend and His One Weakness” for more information) who filled that void left because we were no longer in close proximity.

1999

We see each other about every three or four months now and when we do it’s like picking up right where we left off. Within minutes of seeing each other, we’re finishing the other’s sentences, running to the refrigerator to split a diet coke and reminiscing about all the amazing things we’ve seen and done in our 17 year relationship.

2000

My advice to HH: There’s really no advice since, like Mary Poppins, you’re practically perfect in every way.

My advice to all gay men: If you don’t have a HH, run out and find one. You’ll never be the same. But don’t try to steal mine…she has her gay husband.

My advice to everyone else: Although you may not have a HH, everyone has that special friend who knows more about you than anyone else. After reading this, call them up and reminisce. It’s always fun.