Hail to the Gaurdians of the Watchtowers of the North! I invoke thee… now wash up some dead whales on Brighton Beach for me and gimme some powers and shit.

Look into my eyes.

I spend 364 days a year supressing the demons inside me. On Halloween, I let them all out and invite them to dance. This year I went dressed as someone financially secure and emotionally stable. No one recognized me.

What were you?

UPDATE: 100 cool points to all who caught my The Craft reference. Also, I ended up making out with 4 cute girls tonight. A lot. And a straight guy (who couldn’t keep his hands off me). Those eyes of mine were fucking hypnotic, dudes, or maybe the Gaurdians did give me some powers afterall. Halloween rocked me like a gulf coast hurricane.

One of my best friends in the free world, Miss K (whom I have mentioned on here once or thrice), got hitched over the weekend to a luckass guy in her hometown. When she left the city 2 years ago I couldn’t understand why; the idea that someone could NOT find what they were looking for here in New York just didn’t make any sense. I’m one of those folks who thinks life ends once you leave the island, or that if you leave you’re just gonna end up coming back once you’re tired of settling for a life less interesting in a boring town. For me, the city still and always has held such a magic presence over me, like a spell, but for her the spell was broke — she’d had enough of the rent, the slow acting work, and the shitty boyfriends — and she was ready to try her luck in Seattle. Now she’s got a new life, last name, and love that’s changing everything she imagined for herself. I couldn’t be any happier for her, b/c I know she’s just delirious with joy right now.

Miss K Star

She took this picture the other day before heading down the aisle and promising herself to someone forever. She looks fabulous, doesn’t she? and I normally hate that word. I normally find myself dismissing marriage as something I’ll never want or ever really understand. Even when I was mostly dating girls I just never pictured myself being anyone’s husband, guy or girl… yet I can see myself as a dad someday. Ugh, it’s so weird to be only 26 and thinking about this stuff, I just… I dunno. I look at that picture and see the distance she’s travelled, knowing what she’s been through and gotten over and left behind, and I just begin to wonder if maybe I’ll have this too one day. I know that I do want it. I do.

I’m proud of MIss K. Part of me knows she will never change, that she probably still loves 60’s nostalgia and going to TARGET and making mixed tapes and eating Burger King with her friends, and that when I see her again we could totally do it all just like before. Part of me hopes she never even thinks about those things b/c she’s moving ahead in new directions that she fully and genuinely deserves, and that her new life blows her mind and rocks her world. And part of me just can’t believe how different our lives are now, and I hope that one day, if needed, I’ll have the same courage that she did to let go of everything that makes sense here and go find something else.

Congratulations, friend. If no one else has told you this, I’ll just say it: you deserve this happiness. You’re going to be a fabulous wife. Make your own rules with the person you love, keep talking about your feelings, and be sure that you made the right choice. I love you.

I’ve been doing a lot of stuff with my apartment these days, little things. Things with rugs and mirrors and Clorox wipes, new shelves and clean closets. Laundry gets done faster lately, I sent out 4 bags of old clothes I no longer wear. Floors are shiny. There’s always 2 liters of iced tea in my fridge and at least two tupperwared, pre-cooked dinner options that I can pop into the microwave. My computer is streamlined, secured, defragmented, organized and optimized for quickest access. I’ve deleted files and programs I don’t need anymore, my iTunes playlists are perfect. Cellphone, camera, and iPod are all charged up, my dog’s dishtray is full of food. I work on this stuff, setting some order up in my court, establishing a routine… just cuz I’ve never really tried to have one before. Building a better me. Heh, this is life when there’s nothing especially interesting going on. I feel like I’m waiting. For something. Somebody.

How many clicks does it take?

At the risk of losing any cool points I might have left, I’ll just admit that my life has suprised me and gotten quiet and still as of late. Nothing very cool to report. I actually got one of those sleeping machines the other day, plays 6 different sounds. This excites me in a small way. Also, I’m not sure how or when it happened but it appears I have developed a superpower to become invisible. I’m like Jessica Alba in Fantastic Four, except that big lips looks normal on her and not me. You see, I’m noticing that iif I’m not posting on this blog or standing in uniform behind the desk of a modern hotel, I can dissappear. No one in the world can see me, it’s like I vanish altogether. Kind of nice, actually. Kind of.

The Color Purple - Miss Celie’s Blues

A damn anthem for life.

On a rare lull of downtime @ work this afternoon, I snuck away from my little desk and swung by PARTY CITY to pick up a bundle of helium balloons I’d ordered to place in a hotel guests room as a birthday suprise, just one of the thousand little things I do each day. But I didn’t mind this cuz the family I was doing this for had been really nice and were totally not expecting anything special, and I love when people give me free reign to be as creative with their stay as I want. Plus it was gorgeous outside today and I wanted to get some air. The girl @ the counter handed over the bundle of balloons, taped together by their ribbons @ the top to make carrying easier, and I just barely squeezed out the front door without popping one. With my cluster of gleaming red balloons in tow, I carefully made my way back to sunny Union Square, weaving playfully through the cattle herding down 14th Street. It was my favorite part of today.

I hope they make the birthday girl smile. She’s turning 15 so maybe she won’t even care, since not caring is what you do when you’re 15. Doesn’t matter. I felt 10 years old just carrying them, and my smile was stuck on all day.

Every damn gayblogger and their mother is posting about Will Wikle on the cover of Insitnct this month and fine, I’ll say it, too: the boy looks hot. Coming off Big Brother and moving into hosting that travel show on LOGO, then his little stint on Bravo’s Battle of the Network Reality Stars and that Real Gay special about reality tv homo’s, he’s blowing up. And good for him. I’ve actually met him a few times, seen him @ the gym, know some of the same people, he’s was at my end of the summer BBQ party, he’s in my cell (don’t be impressed, he never remembers who I am), and yeah, he’s a totally nice, genuine guy — and a hottie. I like Will Wikle, ok? God bless him and that sexy little Southern drawl. My issue’s not with his fame, his adorable blond haircut, or his cute on-the-air tee’s.

Here’s what makes me roll my eyes: “Me and my FRIEND Will Wikle!” Your friend? Your friend who you silently gawked at from across a bar for 20 minutes and convinced to take a picture with you on your camera phone? Seriously, ANYONE in NYC who reads HX every week can show up @ “exclusive” parties, whip out the digicam, and claim to know Will, or Jai Rodriguez, Lady Bunny, Amanda Lepore, the Heatherette kids, or virtually ANYONE with minor celebrity-cred — it’s impossible to be in New York and not know these people!. These club/reality kids work the scene like skilled mofo’s, they’re all everywhere you look… hosting this, appearing at that, promoting here, partying there, and just steady cultivating a following and building their names like anyone with half a brain would do in that position. This has become a profession for them and shit, I’d be working it too! It’s the whole fuss around spotting them just irks me; this uber-viva-la-GLAM kick so many bloggers are on. The shiny, sparkly, sensational stories are FUN to read and I can get really into that shit, that’s what my US Weekly subscription is for. From what I’ve been seeing over the last year or so, the majority of these fashionblogs are all pretty much all the same content: wannabe fabulous “Hot” lists, and layouts that look like a 10yr old did it AOL homepages. These aspiring writers are all racing to the top of a cyber hill every day all to wind up the one with the most comments, highest stats, and best links from the cool people — but what’s new, revealing, or interesting about this? Can’t I find all those same glitterati pics by doing a Yahoo! images search? Tell me about YOU! Did you end up grabbing mango mojitos with Ashlee Simpson after you saw her on the Boulevard? Did you and Jake Shears shoplift from the dollar store together? Is Adam Brody calling you up the next time he’s in town so you guys can swap tracks off your iTunes? Cuz that’s the shit I’d love to read about, shit, even if it’s a lie.

I miss blogs that have something to say; clever journals from people like Bradford, Andy Towle, Kurt, and even (wow. hell freezing over) Toby — guys who have always written about their interesting, exciting daily adventures in ways that can make you read and go, “GOD what a fabulous life this gorgeous guy must have”, but also managed to have something real to say. Half-hearted, silly, and sometimes-poignant sidenotes and observations from their unique viewpoints on life: as a student, a traveller, a professional, a rebel-rowser, WHATEVER. They set a precedent, at least for me, with entries that provoked some thought, or merely reflected an honest moment in the author’s day. I don’t see a lot of this anymore. My own blog doesn’t stand much in contrast from the other sites I bitch about. Lord knows I’ve done the whole “Look At HOT My Life!” post once or a hundred times, and probably not as well as others have — and hey, to their credit, at least most of them have a theme. I hardly stick to a format up in here, rarely spell/grammar check, and my posts are constantly uneven and random. But I sure as shit always try to share something on my mind, and to me that’s what makes a great blog different from a gimmick page.

I guess all I’m saying is that I hope this trendy pop-glam blogging hype starts to fizzle out soon, cuz I’d love more interesting things to choose from. Just some variety, ya’ll. I woud love to read some quirky nonglamorous webjournals written by funny folks who don’t have the energy to be fabulous or in the loop. Overworked bitches who haven’t been to a party in months and couldn’t care less what Lindsay Lohan wore last week. Completely interesting writers totally better than me who wouldn’t feature Comments, haven’t logged into AIM in over 3 weeks, don’t own a MySpace account, and will never EVER claim to be friends with Will Wikle.

In my opinion there are 2 kinds of people in this world: the ones, like me, who love Claire Danes, and the ones who can go fuck themselves. As I’ve professed on this here site many times, Claire Danes stole my heart 11yrs ago on a Thursday night, August 25, 1994 as Angela Chase on My So-Called Life; after watching the trailer to Shopgirl, I may be falling in love with her all over again.

The movie, based on Steve Martin’s actual book (I saw him do a reading of it once) is basically Lost In Translation but set in L.A., which fits cuz it’s probablier lonlier than Japan. It’s this lonely older guy infatuated with this wallflowery young girl who works the glove counter @ a fancy boutique, but there’s also this awkward indie sensitive boy who gets her, and she has to choose. My favorite part of the trailer (and it’s a gorgeous trailer) between the clips of the laundromat and the department store and the city at night, is when you see each of them in their homes @ night— Steve Martin staring at his big empty pool, Jason Schwartzman hanging upside down aimlessly on his sofa, and Claire Danes laying in bed staring at the ceiling while “The Sound of Settling” by Deathcab for Cutie plays — and she voice-overs, in total Angel Chase mode, “So, I can either hurt now or hurt later…” I have so many moments and nights like that. I’ll bet a ton of people do.

Then there’s that shot. That last shot in the trailer where, right before the title flashes up and the song fades out, she turns and looks @ the camera over her shoulder, her hair sweeps into her eyes, and she smiles that smile that I fell in love with when I was 15. My eyes welled up with tears right away. Happy ones. I didn’t even think about it. It’s been so long since I’ve watched Claire Danes in all her plain-prettiness emoting my inner thoughts so honestly onscreen, I just couldn’t handle it. Funny, cuz she hasn’t been famous or successful for awhile now, and the last thing I semi liked her in was Igby Goes Down, but that was so long ago. I’ve actually seen her around town a lot since I’ve lived here, but I never get that excited about it. Now I totally am. Maybe it’s the red hair on her again that’s got me looking so crazy right now. I just love her. Not even Jason Schwartzman and his stupid hair will keep me from this movie.

Deep down, I always kinda wondered what I’d look like with a fuller set of luscious lips. Just some bigass smackers. One of those sexy Ryan Phillipe pouts where you’re making out with somebody and they just wanna chew your lips off cuz they’re so delicious and big. B/c I’m pretty shallow like that, I’ve actually checked myself out in the mirror after a really good cry — you know how your lips get really ripe and plump — and I think, “Yeah, I’d look hot with bigger lips.” Turns out, actually? Not so much. Freakish. The word freakish is better fitting.

I don’t have any shame. My life sucks. Keep reading.

No, what you are seeing is not a botched collagen job. It’s a picture of my MUTANT DUCK LIPS, a spontaneous allergic reaction I had the other day that turned me into a human blowfish. Still have no clue what brought it on. I showed up @ work the other morning feeling great, looking fine, fresh-scrubbed and smiley. An hour or two into my shift, the inside of my upper lip starts bothering me. 20 minutes later, BOOM! my lips swelled up so huge that they didn’t even look real. They looked like a set of those candy wax lips, only I couldn’t even lick them. I started popping Benadryll tablets like they’re chiclets and trying to go about work as normal, doing whatever I could to keep my abnormally large mouth out of sight. When you’re a Concierge and your whole job is interacting and TALKING with people in front of you, this proves to be pretty fucking impossible when you look like you’ve got lemon wedges shoved against your gums. A normal person would have gone to the manager right then and there and been like, “Look, I’m having a reaction to something and I don’t know what it is, I think I need to leave and see a doctor.” Not my ass. I was too fucking humiliated and I just stood there in uniform looking like one of the Simpsons. Guest after guest came up to me at my desk, asking questions, needing directions, and I straightup I kept my head down and my hand over my mouth like I was in deep thought. Or I’d take the phone receiver and shove it like a sheild over my mouth and make like I was on hold. At point I even tried just smiling really really big and wide so that my mouth looked semi-normal (as normal as you can look with a glazed grin plastered across your face), but by that point my lips had swollen so large that you couldn’t even see my teeth. No, I’m serious, and It’s not like I have the most common features anyway, me with these bigass cartoon eyes and the tiny stature and now freakishly large mouth: I looked like a discard sketch from a bad Pokemon episode. Hotel guests tried really hard to be polite and not stare at my face, but you can only fake so much before it becomes ovious that somebody’s lips are about to explode all over your suit. Finally, I was sent home for being so damn disgusting.

I called the hotel doctor b/c my health insurance hadn’t fully kicked in yet and as a courtesy he agreed to see me for free. I actually thought I was brave enough to walk to his office — bad idea; I got more double-takes and stares on that walk up the dreaded East Side than I was prepared to deal with. Grown women were screaming in terror, little kids were running away from me, doorman of fancy buildings were rushing inside and locking up the doors. It was horrible. The doctor and I went through all the obvious shit and ruled everything out. I hadn’t eaten anything weird so it wasn’t a bacteria thing, hadn’t cut or bitten into my lip so it wasn’t an infection, and I sure as hell hadn’t been getting frisky with anyone so it wasn’t an STD. The only thing we could conclude was that it was an allergic reaction to something I’d been exposed to recently, which still didn’t really narrow it down, but at that point I was just ready to kill myself so I just left. It started raining out. I tried to catch a cab but the Columbus Day Parade was starting and there was nothing around, so I ended up just cutting through Central Park instead.

That’s around the time my Benadryll kicked in and suddenly the whole world got foggy and real damn trippy. Not in a fun way. There I was, bewildered and drugged, stumbling in the rain through thickets of the Park I’d never been through before (who goes to the upper east side?!), half asleep and looking like a refugee from the Land of Bad Botox. I think I fell down at some point, cuz there’s a grass stain on my jeans, but I’m not sure. I got home eventually and crashed into my bed, but not face first. I’ve spent the better part of two days completely locked up in my apartment, popping Benadryll, dousing myself with holy water, and praying for my pretty face to back to normal. Now I’ll never be a teen model. Today is National Coming Out Day and my ass ain’t going nowhere.

Angelina Jolie. Amanda Lepore. Spriteboy. It’s a sad, scary, UGLY reality. Gross. Be careful what you wish for, dudes.

UPDATED:

Even though I’m still not sure what brought it on and though I have not fully recovered from my humiliation, my lips have thankfully gone back to normal. They’re sore as hell from being so stretched out, though. I think this is what Star Jones’ skin feels like.

… and yes, these are actual pictures of my lips that I took, cropped, and posted. Cuz I’m just that self-absorbed. Yeah. And? JEALOUS? Don’t hate. You LIKE it.

Lower Manhattan on a Rainy Day

The remedy for an emotionally shitty day @ work: Meetup with your Inner Circle for lunch in Soho at a place you’ll probably never eat at again. Hit Pearl River Mart and buy cheap insense sticks - Cinnoman, Coconut, Strawberry and Fizzy Pop (10 for $1). Walk aimlessly in the rain up 6th avenue, gawk at the West Village apartments you will never be able to afford but appreciate anyway. Get home, take a really HOT shower, heat up leftovers and indulge your Gloomy Playlist. You’ll find your day somehow, for some reason, has gotten better. And things are okay afterall.