Archive for March, 2012

The melt down of a Jet Blue pilot yesterday was likely caused by the recent activity upon the surface of the sun.

Just a few days ago, a stewardess on American Airlines lost touch with reality right before she handed out peanuts. Who can ever forget the big queen who quit his gig on Jet Blue by grabbing a beer and exiting the plane down an emergency shoot that he activated? These incidents are related and are being caused by invisible residue of the recent storm upon the surface of our star.

As one who once was carried away by the men in white and injected with God knows what, I am outraged that charges have been brought against the innocent pilot. Will these charges prevent others from losing their minds or are we simply mad?

It’s only a matter of time before we all see God. We should not cut the heads from our prophets just because they made it to the kingdom first—remember “the violent take it by storm.”

Don’t forget to wear aluminum foil when flying.

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Peep World has closed its doors. For more than 20 years, men have dashed inside the sprawling Wall Mart of moans and triple x videos to get off on their way to work. Today, a hand-written sign on the door reads — “closed”. 

I started to cry as I stood outside the smudged glass doors reading the sign. Wind howled down 33rd Street and straight up my Polo coat. I shivered in disbelief. I remembered how grand the place once was, and now, I’m told, the place will be converted to a Burger King. 

A fat gay dude named Brian told me they were closing Peep World when I was in there last summer. Of course, I didn’t believe him and expressed, “That’s impossible. This place was around when I was still a gay virgin.” Brian laughed, “No seriously,” I said, “I used to come here before I started taking it up the ass. All I could do when I was a young gay man was suck guys off, and that was my thing, blowing straight men,” I explained without even cracking a smile. 

Brian couldn’t stop laughing. I wondered how he could even fit inside one of the so called “private booths” inside of Peep World. He just stood there in the store and watched the men come and go—as if he were trying to capture the essence of the historic landmark before it fell to modern commercialism. 

“They had one of these places in Queens,” Brian explained, “The place was so cool. There were booths for straight men, gay men, and transgenders,” he boasted, “You know this place is closing soon. It’s going to be a Burger King. Can you believe it?” 

“It’s those fucking China Town buses that load up outside,” I reasoned. “Men are afraid to come inside here now with all those out of town hicks hogging up the entrance to this place. They need to outlaw those buses before another one crashes,” I explained to Brain, wondering how it was that I survived so many years frequenting places like Peep World and not catching the bug that killed almost all of my close friends. 

“Isn’t it funny how bitches don’t come into these places?” Brain asked. 

“Thank God! It’s the only place left on the planet for men” I replied. Brian laughed even louder. 

The knees of so many of my work pants were ruined inside of Peep World—I’d strut off to work praying no one would ask what was on the knees of my slacks. I was once pick- pocketed inside of Peep World—caught with my pants down, so to speak. 

I would have given the shirt off my back in order to keep Peep World open, or dropped to my knees and begged. We don’t need another Burger King. What’s a queen to do? 

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Skip Pratt is a senior executive with Morgan Stanley who would never exploit or make fun of investors despite the millions the firm has effortlessly squeezed out of the general populace and a government controlled stock market.

The old man was certainly one of the kindest rich men to ever cross my path here in New York City. He gave until he could give no more and then, he somehow managed to convince his rich friends to give to the Jewish charity for which I worked.

It’s such a shame the endowment of the Youth Counseling League somehow disappeared following the Bernard Madoff scandal. It seems the decades of service that Pratt gave to the Board of Directors was a waste of his time.

A tense meeting of the Trustees of the Jewish Board of Family and Children’s Services had just ended and Pratt called me aside—

”Young man,” he said, grabbing my shoulder as I was cleaning up after the meeting—putting aside bowls of egg salad for the maintenance staff who often came into the conference room following the disappearance of powerful men like Skip Pratt—”I must say, I read the minutes you wrote from our last meeting and I wanted to tell you that your writing skills are excellent.”

”Thank you, Mr. Pratt,” I said, turning quickly away from him, not wanting my boss to see me mingling with the power players who ran the state funded agency for which I worked.

I lost my job, several weeks following the meeting in which Mr. Pratt praised my writing. I told my boss, Joan Adams that I no longer wanted to take minutes for Board meetings.

”Why?” Joan Adams asked, her bad breath once again causing my face to distort.

”Because, I don’t like rich people. Skip Pratt is cool, but those other old, rich cunts on the board need a German dick up their ass.”

Ms. Adams was shocked. My statement went way beyond normal insubordination, and I knew it.

The meeting in which I wrote the minutes for which Mr. Pratt praised was not a comfortable meeting. Joyce Cowin, the Board Chair screamed like a mad woman several times. I thought for a while my life was in danger. It seems the agency had misappropriated several million dollars in the Youth Counseling League’s endowment fund. Paul Levine, CEO, insisted that money was not missing from the endowment, it was just that it had been incorrectly reported on previous financial reports.

I captured Mr. Levine’s concerns in my minutes and somehow made the missing million dollars seem so trivial. Mr. Pratt was relieved and I was fired two weeks later for referring to the entire Jewish board as a ”Bunch of Money Grubbing Whores” in a mass email I sent out while eating an egg McMuffin at my desk overlooking Park Avenue.

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Skinny Soup

An entire head of cabbage is working its way through my small intestines. Steamed in salt water for 30 minutes, the leafy vegetable is cleansing my system as if it were a saint. St. Patrick’s Day is Saturday; a local supermarket is selling the heads of Irish tradition for just seven cents a blow. 

Unable to afford corned beef, I steamed the entire head in a shallow amount of salted water for breakfast, several days before all the snakes are driven out of my interior Ireland. 

There is a joy to being poor and eating like a saint. 

The Italians who run all of North Bergen, NJ have little German in them. Their supermarkets are staffed by fake blondes from Sicily who wouldn’t know what to do with a cheap head of cabbage. There is absolutely no German bratwurst upon the shelves, just that sweet Italian sausage that causes demonic heartburn. 

Bratwurst and cabbage go together like Catholics and exorcisms. If only those succulent German links of smoked sausage were available at Shop Rite today, a steaming pot of Central Pennsylvania Irish/ German soup would be boiling away. 

Fat girls in Pennsylvania Dutch country make this soup all the time—they call it a born-again cleansing and refer to the soup as “skinny soup”. 

Skinny soup is made from fried Bratwurst, simmered in a pot with cabbage, onions and potatoes. It is boiled for about an hour and doused with a cup of milk and a cup of Swiss cheese. 

Real skinny soup is made with a head of cabbage purchased for just fifty cents and a little bit of tap water. If only there were a four leaf clover for garnish. 

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As the weather turned warm yesterday, the Mexicans and other South and Central Americans were outside in the back lot of our tenement building, sanding and painting furniture. It seems there is a tradition in these cultures, similar to ‘spring cleaning’ performed for generations by North Americans, that calls for the destruction of perfectly fine wood furniture and ruining it with a coat of black enamel spray paint.

These people exhibit symptoms of hoarding, similar to what is broadcast on the new hit television show Hoarders. Lucy, the Puerto Rican woman who lives across the hallway from me is the worst of these brown skin hoarders and it seems the smell of the paint in the air out back caused her ADHD to spin out of control yesterday. The woman with dyed red hair was up and down the stairs non stop, slamming the metal door that leads to the outdoor area of our property, causing a commotion as my boyfriend and I tried to get high in peace.

Lucy hasn’t spoken to us since late January. I told her to stop knocking on my door so often and that I did not need the plates of cooked food she often tries to give away to my lover and me. Lucy accepts donations from a group of church missionaries who run a food bank on Wednesdays across the street. The food they give out is from the trash bins of a local Shop Rite– the lettuce is quite wilted but that never stops Lucy from whipping up a type of coleslaw from the heads of mush. B and I both came down with a terrible stomach virus one weekend last summer after eating what we thought was a part of a chicken with a pork chop bone in it.

“We don’t need your food, Lucy,” was what I said firmly at the end of January, looking her right in her brown eyes and trying not to stare too long at a fake blue gem stuck into the left nostril of her nose. The face nose gem caught a fleeting ray of light just as she turned and walked back into her apartment filled with furniture the hoarder has collected from out back in the garbage.

“I will never knock again,” she threatened as she stormed away in January.

“So don’t ask me to carry up any more furniture from downstairs,” I insisted before her door was completely shut.

The Mayan couple who where out back spray painting a kitchen table yesterday threw away a wooden platform bed and a chest of drawers. We could see it all from our window. The heavy oak frame bed was placed neatly alongside a pile of black garbage bags. My lover suggested that I go outside late at night and sneak it into our apartment since our futon mattress rests on the floor.

No sooner had B made the suggestion than we heard the slam of the steel door downstairs. We glanced out the window and took note of the old red-haired woman slowly pulling the heavy frame into the hallway downstairs.

B started to laugh. “That bitch took our bed,” he said, loud enough, I’m sure, to be heard by Lucy downstairs. She took the chest of drawers too. How could she possibly fit that furniture inside their place? They have so much shit over there already. All of it came from out back, of that , I’m sure. Already she has been through three sofas, and your dumb ass carried them all up and down the stairs for her. Finally, I see something I want, and she’s out there putting claim to it. I don’t care. Let her have it,” B said, blowing a puff of smoke through the screen in the window.

“I’m going to take our trash out back. I’ll be back in a minute,” I said to B.

“Oh, Papi, would you please help me carry these things upstairs,” Lucy begged.

“Why not get one of these young men to help you, Lucy. My back hurts.” The black eyes of three young Spanish boys turned to onyx as I said this. Their glare was like that of the Virgin of Guadalupe upon a sinner, they did, however, help Lucy the hoarder to carry the bed and drawers up the stairs.

I awoke this morning to find a tinfoil ball of fried plantons hanging in a plastic bag to my door– a gift from a hoarder who has everything, needs nothing, and is willing to share all that she has with a man who will be her hoarder slave.

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Packets of flower and vegetable seeds are on display at a nearby supermarket. I long for a little piece of land to drop them in, or a sunny window to start an herb garden. Today, I simply examined all the little packets of seeds, and headed to the produce section where vine- ripened tomatoes are nearly $2 a pound. 

With a full moon hanging in a cloudless sky, the time is almost right to start tomatoes and pepper plants inside. Although the Home Depot sells tall, healthy tomato plants in early May, it is best to start private garden plants from seed; one grows attached to these vegetables that are called fruits just as one would his or her own child. 

In less than eight weeks, just as the moon turns to just one quarter its full size, the time will be right to plant the seedlings outdoors. 

Why must one plant when the moon is at a quarter its size? 

According to my grandmother, the gravitational pull of a full moon will uproot a little plant. She once planted potatoes under the light of a full moon, despite warnings in the farmer’s almanac that insisted the time was not right for planting potato pieces, but the bright light of the moon and the warm, spring air at night made the task of planting like a game. She awoke the next morning and all the potato pieces were laying atop the freshly tilled soil— “Never plant under a full moon,” was what she always said. 

Read more about Esther Taylor and her green thumb— 


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My lover purchased what he calls his “first white album”—a CD by the group Foster the People. I’ve lived with the gold tooth wearing thug for over 10 years, and with the exception of the singer Adele, he has never expressed interest in music by white people. 

At the beginning of our relationship when my lover was unemployed, he spent his days attempting to be the 97th caller to a radio station that was giving out tickets to the album release party for Jay-Z’s “Blue Print” album. My lover won the contest and invited me to attend the invitation only affair that was held in a small bar in midtown Manhattan. We were an early show to the concert, and were the only two people standing on the dance floor below the stage from which Jay-Z performed. By the time the second song was sung, the dance floor was crowded, but B and I had the best seats in the house, just inches away from the rapper’s swinging dick. 

Now that I am unemployed with nothing to do all day, I have found myself addicted to the second song on the Foster the People record—“Pumped Up Kicks”. I cannot get the bass from that song out of my head. Every time I hear it, I feel so relaxed. The song has an irresistible Belinda Carlisle feel to it, similar to the way songs by Michael Jackson once touched all our hearts. 

My lover informed me yesterday that the song was banned from the radio. It seems the lyrics are about a kid who, upon growing tired of being bullied, pulls out a gun and starts shooting all the kids in their “pumped up kicks”. 

“So what?” I asked to my black lover, “How many times has Jay-Z threatened to bust a cap in someone’s ass?” 

I realized while putting the song on repeat again, that perhaps the best songs in the world are poems that are sung in a way that are not easily understood by the listener—like “Our Lips Our Sealed” by the Go Go’s which I though for years was called “Alex the Seal”. 

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