Respect Authority

Gay bars, no matter where you are in the world, are no place for politics. Even if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. No, in fact, especially if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. A lesson I tend to forget. And admittedly, the more drinks I consume the faster I become the cynic, as I was tonight with the intelligent remark, “Honestly, James, I’m going to get an absentee ballot, but it doesn’t mean anything. It just doesn’t. I’m from New York, Obama will get New York.” My roommate, Bridget, doesn’t like this.

Cut to twenty minutes later and I’m phoning my straight English mate, James, who is now standing outside Heaven in Charing Cross. James doesn’t seem as nervous as he should over the phone, as he is about to descend into the depth of trannies, glitter, bad music, and perhaps, date rape, and I’m trying equally hard to sound calm as I bury the fact that I am completely lost in central London. Bridget has left me, and she’s the clever one who knows London, whereas I know nothing. I am about to start my second year here and I’m lost. I had been home in Brooklyn for most of the summer and this was my first night out since touching down in The Big Smoke, as they call it. (Incidentally, I thought this “Big Smoke” thing meant Heaven when I originally heard the term and replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe in Heaven, so I can’t answer that question.”)

I was drunk… a bit high, yes, but also completely flustered by the argument I had just had with my roommate as a result of my callous opinion on the upcoming election. Ultimately, it ended with a shove and one of us storming off, but that’s not important. After the kind old man helped me up, I was off to save James from the impending doom that awaited him. I was right off Picadilly Circus, so that meant if I walked in the direction of Leicester Square and Charing Cross I would be at Heaven in no time. Read More ›

John McCain and Barack Obama went head-to-head last night in the second presidential debate, which was tense as all hell but still seemed to pale in comparison to the Palin/Biden madness that was last week. In the interest of mixing up my so-called “coverage,” I decided to document my debate commentary in blog-form, with timestamps, and after a few bowls … of … Cheerios. 

9:01 p.m. Tom Brokaw should consider a second career as an announcer for wrestling matches, or maybe as a stand-in for that guy who voices all the movie trailers. 

9:02 p.m. McCain takes a few notes as soon as he sits down. Perhaps “Obama not wearing flag pin” or “Forgot to take Ginkgo biloba today.”
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Denzel’s ragtag posse of inner-city students ain’t got nothing on America’s heartland. Last night, representatives from two of the least relevant states in the country duked it over, well, everything. I find it increasingly ironic that people from Alaska and Delaware—the former no one’s been to, the latter I’m not even positive is a state—continue to argue about which of them better represents the everyday American. Listen you two; in everyday America things are way different than they are in either of your respective homelands. For one, most of us don’t see polar bears every, or sip the morning’s coffee while gazing at the gigantic fucking pipeline outside our window. And for two, most of us have sales tax in our states, Joe, those being states you also can’t drive through in less than 20 minutes. Read More ›