So It's Come to This: A So I Like Superman Blogiversary

Last Halloween, I sat down at this sucky li'l 'puter and wrote a little story about growing up in Buffalo and being obsessed with the Man of Steel. I was enjoying Dop's blog so much I decided, "Hey! Why not me?" Well, today is my blog's first birthday. This morning, I gave him a squeeze toy. Later on, I will see how much of a mess my blog makes of his cake. When my blog grows up, he'll look back on the photo of his frosting-smeared banner and blogroll sidebar and think, "Was I ever really that little?" By then, his proud papa will probably have moved on to other, cuter blogs.

So thanks, everybody. Thanks for reading. I feel very grateful and blessed that anyone thinks that the life stories of a 26 year-old nerd in Astoria are worth reading for one second, let alone regularly. When I began this blog, I was in a comedy group, trying to make my life happen. Throughout the year, while Clark Kent struggled with the loss of his powers, I struggled to develop and hone mine. I got myself a TV audition. I had a meeting with an agent. I worked on a TV pilot as a writer's assistant. I played Caroline's. My group broke up. I shot four commercials. I turned down the opportunity to work as a writer's assistant on a TV series. Did I make the right choice? Were any of these choices right?

Well, today I can safely say that I did, indeed, choose wisely. This week, I will be signing a contract for the first season of a cable television series. Had I taken the assistant job, I wouldn't have been able to audition for this role, let alone book it. I'm too thrilled for words. Thanks to everyone for their words of encouragement and support. This blog has been a significant part of my life, and has helped fuel the ambition that got me this job. Hell, even you anonymous haters have done your part to encourage me to be the best I can be. So thanks to you, too. Keep up the good work!

For those just joining us, below is a crash course on So I Like Superman. Soon enough, you'll be caught up with all the cool kids. I promise that the next 365 posts will be even more awesomer.

Three Posts About Superman:
Greetings, Blogosphere (did I just type "Blogosphere"?)!
A Friend
Hey Mama, Welcome to the Sixties

Three Posts About Comedy:
You Should Put That In Your Comedy
Skeegin' It Up Part One: When Michael Met Skeeger
The Heartbreak of Hierarchy (with apologies to psoriasis)

Three Posts About Being A Gay Guy in NYC:
Social Grace I Have Yet To Master #48B: The Look-Back
Sort of Like My Left Foot, Except Backward
Um...Sir? That's Not Mountain Dew

Three Posts That Are Kinda Funny:
I Heard That
Big Google Is Watching
An Open Letter to People Missing Parts of Their Face

Three Posts About Growing Up:
Awwww, Nuts!
That One Time Where I Grew Up A Little
But Then She Learned That, While Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go Everywhere

Three Posts I Dig Just 'Cuz:
Learning To Fly
And For Once, Sleep
X-Men: The Last Stand, Interspersed With Scandalous, Aromatic Flashbacks

Have a fun and safe Halloween, everybody.

Weikelworks: Three Plays In Concert

My friend Chris Weikel is an accomplished actor, designer, and mustache grower. It seems, however, that his one true love is playwriting. His new show for TOSOS II, Weikelworks: Three Plays in Concert, opens on Thursday night, directed by comic book and knitting nerd Mark Finley. And I've been fortunate enough to have a role written for me in one of these gems.

The three short plays that compose this night of theatre are Liebenstraum, "an unrequited romance between a girl and a piano"; Family Vote, "a domestic drama with political implications (or perhaps a political drama with domestic implications"; and the one I'm in with the fantastic Ellen Reilly, Making it Up As We Go Along: Two Lives Improvised in One Act, showcasing "a unique brother and sister team who can fabricate their way out of anything except each other's affections".

The show runs for eight performances at The Duplex Cabaret Theatre, 61 Christopher Street at Seventh Avenue South. You gays should know where that is. The dates are Thursdays and Fridays at 7pm on November 2, 3, 9, 10, 16, and 17, and well as on Friday and Saturday at 7pm on December 1 and 2. Tickets are ten smackereenos, plus a two-drink minimum. You gays should be able to handle that, too. You can call the Duplex at 212-255-5438 and make reservations. I would love to see some of you guys there. Most, even.

But What If It Was Three Men? And What's With The Backwards Bandana?

I sat at Dan's this morning, hating life.

I was trying not to think about how few hours I had slept, or the insane amount of booze I had inexplicably drunk, or the positively suicidal amount of money I had spent, or how the subway wasn't running, or how the coffee wasn't making me feel any better or more awake, or how the sandwich I had eaten didn't improve my condition either, or how the last thing I wanted to be doing was recording my voice for a sketch comedy podcast pilot at Dan's.

And then Dan played this.

And I felt better.

The Scariest Costume Ever

I don't work at a classy restaurant. Instead of a sommalier, we have specialty glassware. Instead of a maitre d', we have barely-out-of-college kids in sweatshirts shouting and waving menus in the faces of passers-by. And instead of an elegant, tailored uniform, we have dress-up days.

I'm not sure which was more embarassing: Dress Up As Your Favorite Disney Character Day or Dress Up As Your Favorite Rock Star Day. I'm still waiting for Dress Up As Your Favorite Suffragist Day and Dress Up As Your Favorite Athlete's Illegitimate Offspring Day. No ridiculous, ill-conceived dress-up day, however, could ever compare to the eyesore explosion that is Halloween.

I had choices to make on my first Halloween as a server. My planned costume, Clark Kent changing into Superman, involved my suit. Not a great idea, considering whatever I'd be wearing to work in would end up covered in barbeque sauce, creole mustard, and the sourest of creams. I gazed across the restaurant floor, wondering what the pint-sized Italian cutie would be wearing for his costume. Or the fascist Pocahontas lookalike trainer. Or the girl with the oddly overhanging belly who wore too much makeup...

...wait.

That was it. I had my costume. Using the unfortunate-looking (and very sweet, might I add) girl as a springboard, I began to plot and plan. That was the day Ramona was born.

To create a lumpy, misshapen effect befitting the World's Ugliest Waitress, I stuffed t-shirts into strategic parts of me, using a bathing suit I had worn in a production of Pageant as sort of control top to hold it all in place. I was especially proud of the giant FUPA I had carefully sculpted. Then I put my usual uniform over my makeshift fatsuit. One curly black wig that had fallen into my possession after a stint at Six Flags and a hideous makeup job later, and Ramona emerged from the upstairs restroom, ready to creep the crap out of all of her guests.

Ramona walked slowly and as though an invisible string was pulling her by the FUPA. Her heavily mascaraed eyes blazed widely with intensity when they weren't twitching open and closed in a spasm. Her lipstick managed to mostly end up on the lower half of her face, some even on the lips. Her lips themselves seemed carved into a permanent grimace, and she spoke in a hushed, masculine monotone normally reserved for child killers and carnies.

She terrified most of her guests. Some were foreigners who apparently didn't have Halloween in their native Kuzbekweshtan, some were Americans who hated being waited on by hideous bearded drag queens. And some, I think, truly just thought that they were being served spinach dip and sass by one of the ugliest bitches they had ever laid eyes on.

I later turned Ramona into a Skeeger sketch that kicked off both our Rootin' For Dirt show and our best-of show at Caroline's. She also showed up at both auditions I've had for sketch comedy TV series. I even Ramonaed out again the following Halloween, much to the dismay of my general manager and my guests. But she was never quite as funny and fun as she was in 2004, when her well-padded ass brushed up against grumpy Brits and her sagging breasts nauseated formerly-hungry Long Islanders.

This year, I went as a doctor. It's way comfier to run your ass off in scrubs than a fatsuit and a wig.

Music And Everything

ME: So what time should I meet you and Mom for breakfast tomorrow?

CAITLIN: Early. We want to get to the airport as soon as possible to avoid the storm.

ME: The storm's gonna be that bad?

CAITLIN: They're making a huge deal of it on TV. They're calling it "Stormwatch '06" or something.

ME: Wow. Do they even have a graphic for it?

CAITLIN: Michael, there's music and everything.

ME: Oh my god. Someone composed a score? This must be serious.

Spank Me, Tom Colicchio: Top Chef Week Two

-If someone's going to wake me up at 4:30 in the goddamn morning to take me to a stinky-ass fish store, I would hope that it's Tom Colicchio. An even better scenario would be him kicking me out of his room and sending me back to my room at 4:15 so that it would look like he was waking me up at 4:30.

-Hey, television: can we call a moratorium on the puking, please? I'm all kinds of over it. There were thirty different angles they could have shot Mia at to imply that she was vomiting. But no, they had to choose the one where she was bent down over a puddle of sick. Last time I checked, this was a show designed to make us hungry, not cause our dinners to repeat on us. Frankly, her gagging while Padma was describing the Quickfire Challenge would have done the trick too. If I wanted to see people vomiting, I'd live in a dorm.

-Mmmm, sushi. I'm glad Cliff won. He's kinda sexy. Again, Ilan's abalone concoction looked mighty tasty, as did Elia's tender vittles. Poor Mia's was a disaster. At least she didn't puke all over it. But if she did, I'm sure we would have seen every last gooey chunk.

-Otto, Otto, Otto...my favorite part is that he was clearly not the only one at fault. If Marisa was as righteous as she behaved for the rest of the episode, she would have demanded that the pilfered lychees be returned inside before they had even left the premises of the store. To be sure, Otto was right in his choice to bow out of the competition, but there was a lot of bad behavior on Team Korea all around.

-Speaking of Marisa, she's supposed to be the sexy one this season?!? Did any of those people see the faces she was throwing around this episode? I can think of two people who would kill to nail Marisa, and their names are Popeye and Bluto. Because girl looks like Olive Oyl. Plus, I don't like people yelling at my Elia in front of the judges' table.

-Can we talk about how much I heart Betty? She is just about the sweetest thing on two legs, and this week she wasn't even tittin' out all over the place. I just may have gotten misty when she received her special sushi knife. But I'd never tell.

-Team Korea's pork dish looked fuckin' good...

Next week: who could be on the chopping block? I smell some Michael, maybe?

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 10/25

Action Comics #844
Well, here it is. The moment we've all been waiting for. Superman: The Movie director Richard Donner and his former assistant, Geoff Johns begin writing the book this issue, joined by new artist Adam Kubert. They don't disappoint. Originally conceived as a screenplay, their "Last Son" storyline begins here. The issue reads awfully cinematically, and unsurprisingly has a vibe that captures the first two Superman films. The fortress appears, as does Jor-El, and an awfully cranky Jackie Cooper-esque Perry White. As far as who this boy is and what his whole deal is, I guess we'll just have to see. My interest is piqued, that's for sure. And Adam Kubert's art is the best I've ever seen from him. My opinion of his art generally ranges from hatred to severe hatred, but his work here is fresh and dynamic. It reminded me of a more reigned-in Carlos Meglia, with the loose and expressive lines and animation-like backgrounds. My only qualm with this issue is the continuing trend to have Superman covertly break the law. I understand it; he was obviously acting in the boy's best interests. But c'mon. He's been doing this like crazy lately. I think he could find another way. I'll give Mssrs. Donner and Johns the benefit of the doubt this time, but I'm watching them, dammit.

Deathblow #1
Brian Azzarello and Carlos D'Anda resurrect Michael Cray for this Wildstorm reboot, freeing him from a POW camp and delivering him into the hands of perennial baddie Ivana Baiul. Azzarello has some cool character moments in here, with Cray's torturer's monologue at the beginning, General Ruckus' philosophizing whilst shitting, and the cheesy-but-effective comparison of the US military and the "foreign" military. Carlos D'Anda's work here is sharp and gritty, but some of the action in the rescue at the end seemed unclear and muddled. I think Azzarello had a bit to do with it too. Did Cray shoot Greenie on purpose, or was it a ricochet? I suppose one question isn't so bad when you're dealing with the author of "For Tomorrow", the most impenetrably opaque comic book story ever told. I'll see how I feel next issue.

52: Week Twenty-Five
Every week, I feel like I'm waiting for the next one to finally knock my socks off. This issue is fine. The Black Marvel family action is pretty cool, we get to see more Ralph, and George Perez's Nightwing origin is pretty. But we're almost halfway through this thing, and there's no going back, but I really just wish I looked forward to this book more each week. The way it's designed, it should consistently be at the top of my pile as the book I'm dying to read first. But it's not.

Justice #8
This comic book is so beautiful. And it's a fanboy's wet dream come true. First, we see Superman flying over the earth. Gorgeous. Then the Flash does awesome speed tricks while Captain Cold does awesome ice tricks. Sweet. Then Plastic Man morphs into a C.C. Beck rendition of Captain Marvel. Wicked. Then comes a splash page of Hal becoming Green Lantern. Killer. Then the kickass spread of sexy Aquaman suurounded by the entire JLA, Doom Patrol, and the Metal Men. Gnarly. Then the evil sidekicks shot? Are you kididng me? If this issue didn't have a remotely interesting story (which it does anyway), I'd still love this book. It's pretty friggin' amazing.

Planetary #26
So, I think that's it. I think it's the end of Planetary. And, not to be a dick, but that's it? Issue #1 came out in January of 1999. It's averaged a little better than three issues a year. And I'm sorry, but for that kind of wait, I expected not only to have my socks blown off, but the rest of my clothes and several layers of skin as well. And this is merely quite cool. I guess I should re-read all my old issues; in one sitting, I'm sure it's more satisfying. John Cassaday's artwork, as always, is quite eye-popping. But my overall fondness for this book, like the three archeologists of the impossible themselves, has drifted off into The Bleed.

Seven Soliders of Victory #1
Wow. JH Williams was on a short list of my favorite artists before this book hit the stands. And now that it has...Jesus. This book really shows off Williams' versatility as an artist. The framing sequences highlight his unusual, layered panel compositions, and the flashbacks prove he can ape Jack Kirby as well as Charles Vess. Then, once the meat of the action begins, he flawlessly and seamlessly incorporates the style of each of the artists who had drawn the various Seven Soldiers' mini-series. His Shining Knight captured the Charestian hyper-detail of Simone Binachi. His Manhattan Guardian mimicked the classic draftsmanship of Cameron Stewart. His Klarion the Witch Boy recalled the feathery lines and colors of Frazier Irving. His Mister Miracle suggested the simple, funky styles of Pascual Ferry and Freddie Williams III. His Bulleteer exuded the Adam Hughes-light voluptuousness of Yannick Paquette. His Frankenstein honored the the gritty quirks of Doug Mahnke. His Zatanna even somehow homaged Ryan Sook, who in turn was clearly channelling Promethea-era Williams. Stunning, stunning artwork. Now, if anyone can tell me what in the name of Christ was happening in the story, I'd love to know.

Superman/Batman Annual #1
Too bad this was such a throwaway. It could've been cool. But I'm also glad it didn't negate the Post-Crisis story in which Superman and Batman guess each other's identities. Joe Kelly's story was dependably funny, and the various artists' work was dependably inconsistent. As always, Ed McGuinness' pages were clean, dynamic, and iconic. Paco Medina's work on the book's latter pages suggests that he's starting to move from aping Humberto Ramos' style and has moved on to being a McGuinness clone. Ryan Ottley, whose work on Invincible has won him so many raves, really didn't impress me. I don't hate exaggerated, cartoonish work, obviously. But it's done so much better even within the issue itself that his looser, less refined pages left me a little cold. Sean Murphy, someone I've never heard of, doesn't fare much better here. His wonky style reminds me of Paris Cullen's work. Not a good thing. Makes me want to go re-read Superman #76, though.

The Trials of Shazam! #3
Against all odds, Judd Winick and Howard Porter are keeping me interested. What's really compelling here is Freddie's thoughts about Captain Marvel's role in his crippling injury and his grandfather's death. I don't know if I've ever read anything so revelatory of Freddie's motivations. Really nice stuff. The book is still totally kooky and weird, but in a good way. I dig the new world of magic that's being established here, and I giddily anticipate the rest of Freddie's trials and his inevitable graduation into Captain Marvel.

Ultimate Spider-Man #101
First of all, Stuart Immonen is replacing Mark Bagley next year as penciler! Woo hoo! A worthy successor, I say. I hope he sticks around for a while. Anyway, on to the issue itself. Brian...c'mon, man! You posed, like, sixty million questions last issue. The least you could have done is answer at least one of them. Instead, we get an issue-long fight sequence co-starring the Fantastic Four, cluttering up the book and prolonging the development of the Richard Parker subplot, the Aunt May subplot, the Gwen-as-Carnage subplot, and the clone mess itself. Cliffhanger? Pretty cool, I have to admit. But c'mon, man! Let's get into this! Huh? Huh?

It's Like Miami

Pitch day was always the most stressful. It was the periodic rehearsal where my sketch troupe, Skeeger, had to decide which sketches would be picked for our next show. New sketches would be pitched. Old sketches that didn't make the cut the first time around would be pitched. And some sketches that hadn't been written yet would be pitched.

For October's show, Dan wrote "A White Girl Is Missing", a three-beat news report on the kidnapping of an adorable, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl whose whereabouts were much more important than the various black, Latin, and Asian children who were also missing. He also wrote "Spinning Class", a sketch based on a loose idea by Meaghan, lampooning snobby soccer moms and also bringing up issues of race. To call Dan the Dave Chappelle of Skeeger would be an incredible overstatement.

I wrote "The Break-Up", about a guy who breaks up with his boyfriend despite never having a single fight. In the middle of writing it, my actual boyfriend called me and broke up with me. Meta, huh? I also wrote "Uncle Denny", based on an exercise where we told each other personal anecdotes and wrote a sketch loosely (or, in my case, nearly to the letter) based on someone else's (or, in my case, Dan's) story. It was my first character piece written for someone else to play, and, though not entirely successful, still got laughs. Here and there. Maybe.

Dave wrote a sketch called "Three Very Sad People", a completely bizarre and brilliant piece where depressed men moped around while recounting the action-packed movie cliches they had just lived through. That synopsis doesn't do it a shred of justice. Dave also wrote another sketch. If memory serves correctly, we didn't even vote on it on pitch day. It was so universally beloved, it was automatically granted a slot.

About a month prior, Dustin wanted us to try something new: he had us pitch sketches that existed in title only. Then we'd try to build a premise around it. We had a bunch of material stockpiled, and he figured it'd be a fun exercise. After my shout-outs of "Marsupial Disco" and "A Spinachless Easter" failed to set the room on fire, Dave grew extremely adamant about his non-sketch sketch: "Pissfuck: The Quickening". Dustin wisely dismissed it quickly. But Dave persisted. "'Pissfuck: The Quickening!' 'Pissfuck: The Quickening!' C'mon, guys! 'Pissfuck: The Quickening'!" Despite the fact that the title was merely a completely gross made-up curse followed by the subtitle of the Highlander sequel, Dave held fast to his convictions.

I don't remember who it was, but someone leaned over and looked at Dave's notebook, on which he had been doodling. "Who's that?", they asked, referring to a figure Dave had scrawled into the upper right hand corner of his paper. Nonchalantly, he replied, "That's Gunbutt." "Who?", one of us asked. Even more nonchalantly, he replied, "Gunbutt. He's got a gun sticking out of his butt."

The four of us pondered this statement, almost as if it had unlocked the secrets of the universe for us. Finally, I bellowed, "And you've been pitching 'Pissfuck: The Quickening'?!?!?" Clearly Gunbutt was where it was at. The ideas came fast and furious from all of us: Gunbutt was a cop. He used the gun sticking out of his butt to shoot criminals. He obviously had compromised aiming abilities. The only person who seemed to notice this was the Mayor. A theme song was quickly written. By the end of it, all of our heads hurt from laughing so hard. It was the silliest, most ridiculous thing we had ever come up with. And one of the most purely funny.

So yes, Gunbutt's inclusion in October's show was inevitable. Particularly because we had decided to call the show Five Sketches That Aren't Gunbutt (...and one that is).

I miss that.

A Small Sliver of Justice

Today, Superman Returns crossed the $200 million mark domestically, easing the minds of drooling psychopath fantatics everywhere who took seriously the grumblings that a sequel would not be greenlit by Warner Brothers if it hadn't done so.

I guess I can rediscover what sleep feels like.

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Hey there! Are you a stocky blond gay guy in Astoria who people constantly call a redhead because of his red beard? Are you obsessed with comic books and sketch comedy to the point where, once you start talking about either, the people who formerly referred to you as a redhead no longer want anything to do with you? Have you ever wished for a seven-day period so full of entertainment for you, that it will literally make you cream your increasingly-tight jeans?

Well, have we got a seven-day period for you!

First, on Tuesday, November 28th, the Superman Ultimate Collector's Edition is released on DVD. That's right, Beefy Pseudo-Ginger! This 14-disc collection includes a four-disc presentation of Superman: The Movie, a two-disc Superman II, and single-disc (but still packed with never-before-seen extras) versions of Superman III and Superman IV: The Quest For Peace. Sounds great, right?

But that's not all!

It also includes the two-disc DVD debut of Bryan Singer's Superman Returns, a disc of Bryan Singer's video journals about the making of the film, his documentary, Look Up in the Sky! The Amazing Story of Superman, and the brand-new You Will Believe: The Cinematic Saga of Superman. Pretty...well, super, right?

But that's still not all!

It also includes what perhaps is the most long-awaited film in Superman-fanatic-losers-like-you history. That's right, Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut is also included in the set. Finally, Superman II, the way it was meant to be seen, before Richard Donner was foolishly fired by the Salkinds. Superman II is already awesome as it is. Can you effing imagine how much awesomer Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut is?!?

So? Are your jeans filled with baby batter? Are angels singing? Has a beam of light shone on your cherubic face? If they have, imagine when I tell you...

...that's still not all!

Because the very following Tuesday, December 5th, sees the release of something you never thought was possible. All those musical guests, all those Muppets, all those rights to acquire...but it's here. Yes, just seven days after all of your fanboy loser dreams come true, they'll come true all over again, with...

SNL: The Complete First Season.

Hey! Kid? Kid?

Kid?

I think he's had a heart attack. We had better re-strategize. I mean, we don't want to kill these dorks...

Seriously, On Notice
Put your own douchebags (and douchebaggy things) on notice here. Thanks, Michael. I'm loving your blog. Ba-da, ba-ba-ba.

Spank Me, Tom Colicchio: Top Chef Week One

And here it begins. The show that convinced me that Project Runway was worth checking out has returned for season two. I know even less about food than I do about fashion, and yet, like a flaming car wreck with half-naked musclebear hypnotists dancing on top of it, I cannot look away. Some thoughts:

-New host Padma Lakshmi is stunning, exotic, and, unlike last season's host, seems capable of uterring a single scripted sentence without looking like she's having a difficult poo. Here resume also seems to indicate that she knows a damn thing or two about food. But my favorite part about her? That huge-ass scar. My friend Leah and I kept trying to figure out what it was...a tuh-too? A metal rod? We finally settled on "huge-ass scar". What can I say? I dig Tina Fey, I dig Padma, and I dig Jeremy Irons' character in The Lion King. I like scars. But above all else, I like hearing "Please pack your knives and go" from someone I'm positive isn't an android.

-I am loving this Betty lady. She seems sweet as a pecan pie with Pixie Stix dumped on top of it, and she was the only chef so far to have really impressed the judges in both the Quickfire Challenge and the Elimination Challenge. Two things, though: Betty, put the kids away. They're big, round, and beautiful, sure. But do you really want to accidentally char-grill your left areola? Didn't think so, Kitten-Pants. Also, she seems to be kind of tipping her hand a bit by giving away that her dish was inspired by dishes she already makes where she works. Doing what you know is all well and good, but what's going to happen when you're forced to truly improvise?

-Ilan has quickly proved himself to be one of the most talented fellas in the game. The fact that he's also inexplicably adorable helps. The escargot jammer he whipped together looked really exquisite, despite the presence of the only cheese disgusting enough to be called American. He seems like a smart cookie, too, and a tough competitor. My fear: that he's going to let this Marcel character get to him a little too much. C'mon, man. Don't worry about Frodo. Worry about your food, and about looking a little too Williamsburg with those glasses.

-Sam, Sam, Sam. You seem like something of a punk. Not in a bad way. In kind of a hot way. With cocky, confident swagger, you totally aced the Quickfire Challenge. If it's good enough for Harold, it's good enough for me. And let's not forget your stubbly face and plethora of tuh-toos adorning your forearms. Furthermore, you're respresenting the East Coast. And, more importantly, New York City. So it's up to you to show those West Coast prisses what's what. And that name! Sam. Sam. That's so butch. "I'm Sam. I've got tuh-toos. I cook stuff. I'm awesome." Love it. Just don't let all of this adoration go to your head, you arrogant hunk of shit.

-Carlos, the opposite of Betty, struck out in both the Quickfire and Elimination Challenges. Which begs the question: how long can it possibly be until this queen packs up her knives? The other chefs who were faced with American cheese as an ingredient wisely incorporated it into sauces or in other subtle ways. He made it the focus of the dish. I suppose that's a deft move if you're looking to make Happy Meals fly off the shelves, but as far as creating anything edible, not so much. The judges even had a hard time getting his dish down. "I don't think it was crap on a plate." Maybe not, Carlos. But it was a hell of a lot of semi-melted, congealed pasturized processed cheese food on a plate. And I'm with Harold: I'm not about non-functional garnishes.

-Michael is currently somewhere in the grey area between love and hate. He kinda reminds me of my brother Charlie, which I like. I also like that he has managed to be a competitor thus far, despite being one of the more inexperienced chefs on the show. What I'm not wild about is his gross drinking, his spilling of said gross drinks all over his shirt, and his doffing of said drink-soaked shirt and parading around the apartment with his far-from-fuckable ass hanging out. His harsh criticisms of other chef's food also makes him look too big for his already impressively-sized britches. There were nicer ways to tell Cliff that his chicken livers left something to be desired, Michael. Plus, Cliff is kinda big and humpy. So there.

-There is no grey area for Marcel. He may be a little smartie. He may be bringing a discipline all his own to this competition. But he's a little twat. He's the Stephen of season two. And someone's gonna kill this little hobbit before he stands a chance of winning. He should be paying some sort of eyesore tax for subjecting us all to looking at his hair. And that scene from an upcoming episode where Frank threatens to kill him? Awesome. I look forward to that. By the way, Frank? A little sexy. I know, I know...but yeah. A little.

-And dare I forget the main reason to watch the show in the first damn place: a big, beefy, bald, sexy daddy by the name of Tom Colicchio. When he was telling the chefs that he wasn't their teacher, and he wasn't their mentor, I was wondering if perhaps he'd still find it in his heart to teach the little chef in me a thing or two. There's nothing hotter in the world than steely blue eyes on a guy who looks like he will possibly kill you. Chef Tom is worth the risk.

Oh, and so long, Suyai. Now at least Malan has someone he can comfortably communicate with.

Flights of Faggotry: Project Runway Finale

I was totally rooting for Uli.

-OK, so is anything in the world more adorable than seeing Tim Gunn getting choked up? Even an infant in a puppy costume sleeping in a basket with a bunch of actual puppies ranks a distant second.

-I'm glad Jeffrey was able to compete. I'm even gladder he was forced to ditch those profoundly retarded wigs. Of course, maybe I'm not. Maybe idiotic Swiss Miss wigs would have stirred the judges' sugar-free cocoa the wrong way, and Uli would have won. Man, do I ever wish Uli won! Plus, "They're like Sanford and Son" was pretty fuckin' funny.

-Laura's about-face after Jeffrey's exoneration was so lame. As was her shock that Jeffrey would be upset with her for such an accusation. C'mon, Clowpussy. You can't have your cake, throw eight thousand ornate beads on it, and eat it too.

On to the runway show:

-I must say, Jeffrey did a really great job with his collection. From that very first number, the sassy, stripey, and strappy red dress, his collection really stayed true to his own point of view without being a slave to it. Of the two pieces the judges thought were complete disasters, I only agree with the one. That solid blue thing looked like Violet Beauregarde became a librarian. I didn't think the long, split gown was so terrible; although I will admit that it probably would have made me personally look hippy. Jeffrey should have placed second. I wonder how his son Harrison will feel when he grows up and realizes that both of his parents are Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream.

-Uli knocked the unlaut out of the weinerschnitzel. The prints were there, the new colors were there, and those sass-tastic tooth button jobbers were there too. That silver backless mini-dress? Hot. That swimsuit with the wrap thing-a-ma-doo? Hotter. The dress her model wore? Hottest. I don't think it was wrong of her to embrace that Miami sensibility; these collections were about putting one's best foot forward, not innovating for innovation's sake. I think she created the most consumer-friendly collection, as well as the most plain 'ol beautiful. She will have a big career. Not like Vincent big, but, y'know...big.

-Laura actually did a really wonderful job with her collection as well. That first dress with the gradual beading was absolutely stunning. I also loved her model's dress, though I wasn't wild about that thick-ass green belt. It looked like her model was wearing an oversized fanny pack backwards over her otherwise exquisitely beaded dress. There were some old lady frocks stuffed in the middle, but overall, I think Laura tried valiantly to skew younger without compromising her commitment to glamour and elegance. I still would have loved a turtle poop swimsuit, though.

-Michael sure is a young'un, ain't he? I think I'm biased because I am so not a fan of gold, but his line was just really disappointing. Every look that walked down the runway looked like it would fit perfectly into some heinous hip-hop video where hoochie mamas herd like buffalo. Fuschia booty shorts might work when you're redesigning Pam Grier, but not so much when you're designing for an every day woman. Some of it was hot, but most of it was a tad tacky. I still think that he is a hell of a designer, but if he wants to design for anyone other than, like, Baby Phat, he needs some reigning in.

So that's that, I guess. I'm already looking forward to next season, and hope that Michael Kors will still be orange, Nina Garcia will still be miserable, and Heidi will be seventeen months pregnant.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 10/18

The Authority #1
In the late 90's, Warren Ellis set out to change superhero comics forever with the "Change or Due" storyline from his amazing run on Stormwatch. It didn't quite happen, but then spun into Stormwatch Vol. 2, which introduced Apollo and The Midnighter. That series, too, was canceled, but again spun off into The Authority, and the nearly-forgotten promise to reinvent the superhero book was fulfilled. Since then, the Authority has lost its way somewhat. Its mission statement has been muddled. They've been poorly written, and drawn even worse. This is technically the fourth volume of this team book, now written by Grant Morrison and drawn by Gene Ha. And nobody on the team shows up for a panel in this issue. A government agency is called upon to look into a strange object detected on a submarine. That object is the Carrier, the shiftship that houses the team, which has come through an interdimensional gate known as the Bleed. All very cool, and strong storytelling. But it felt more like a prelude or a cold open than a first issue. Ha's work, though elegant and detailed, sometimes clearly relied too heavily on Art Lyon's coloring where some hard linework would have been preferable. I'll be able to better review this series when...oh, I don't know...the Authority shows up.

Desolation Jones #7
The crazy sort-of dead, sort-of not book continues into its second storyline with a new artist and a not-as-porny theme. A fellow ex-spook, supposedly under protection in Los Angeles ends up dead. Jones, also an ex-spook supposedly under protection, doesn't take this lying down, and sets out to investigate. This book, though plotty, works hard to establish mood above all else. And it works. Danijel Zezelj delivers a stunning issue of artwork, gritty and expressionistic at once. My chief complaint is that his faces aren't as distinct as they should be, which isn't helpful at the beginning of a new storyline that introduces new characters.

52: Week Twenty-Four
The artistic bar is once again raised with Phil Jimenez's hyper-detailed work this issue. Andy Lanning again proves what a kick-ass inker he is, both on the main tale and over Dan Jurgens' pencils on the back-up. I like where this issue takes the series: we see Ollie, J'onn, Firestorm, the Black Marvels, and Ambush Bug! Sweet, glorious, meta Ambush Bug! Yes, DC's superheroes are returning to the book, and I couldn't be happier about it. We totally need to figure what in the name of eff is going on with Skeets, huh? The one thing I'd say about Jimenez's work here is that it doesn't quite work in the comical scene where every joe off the street doffs their civilian clothes and jumps into action with their Lexcorp-derived super powers. Come to think of it, that's a little too silly to make sense from a writer's standpoint too. But another artist, say, Stuart Immonen, could have really made the comedy of that scene work.

The Flash: The Fastest Man Alive #5
More fairly interesting story, more fairly lame art. What is happening here? Does DC realize how badly the ball is being fumbled with this book? Do they realize that if I'm not blown away by next issue's conclusion to the first arc (which promises to flashback to Bart's fight with Superboy Prime in the Speed Force), I will drop the book? And I think I'm one of the few hangers-on left. I like the introduction of Inertia, I like Jay's kidnapping, and I like Cyborg's cameo. What I am still having trouble with is Bart's characterization. Though we get a lot of Flash action this issue (which would look spectacular if someone remotely capable was drawing it), Bart is virtually unrecognizable as the young man who was once Impulse and Kid Flash. So I'll finish this storyline out, and take it from there. Dazzle me, Bilson and DeMeo. And for the love of Christ, don't let Ken Lashley, Ron Adrian, or Sal Velluto anywhere near this book.

Savage Dragon #129
Dragon, Superpatriot, Mighty Man, and Vanguard take on Universo. She-Dragon and alternate Earth Angel battle giant man-eating worms. Solar Man pulls a Brandon Routh. Lots to look at here, and a lot going on. I just wish there was some twist, something edgy, something up Larsen's sleeve beyond the straightforward slugfests that fill this issue. He seems to be trying something different with "The Network" series of panels that are scattered throughout the book, but it's unresolved, like the She-Dragon subplot. Sure, it appears that Dragon and Co. have been zapped by Universo at the end, but where's She-Dragon and Angel? As always, the artwork is kinetic and lively, and Larsen is coming into his own as a colorist issue by issue. I just wish he didn't insist on having not-ready-for-prime-time pencilers draw the back-up tales. If he's not careful, he'll be seen as the Rob Liefeld of the aughts.

Ultimate Fantastic Four #35
I have to reread this issue. I honestly don't have a fucking clue about what is going on. It's very pretty to look at, and very spectacular things are happening. But I must say it's just not drawing me in. I hope very soon to like this book again.

Wildcats #1
Wildstorm's second Grant Morrison-penned reboot this week aims to return the Wildcats to their covert action team roots. This one is superior, drawing upon the history of the Wildstorm universe to propel the story. I love Voodoo, and I love Spartan, and I love that Voodoo, a human, and Spartan, an android, fuck like bunnies. Zealot and Majestic show up here too, as does The Grifter, who, grim-'n'-gritty 90's holdover that he is, nonetheless is always badass. Still waiting for Maul and Warblade to return, and judging from next issue's cover, we'll get at least one of 'em. Lee's work here is as strong as his work gets. I look forward to reading these monthly (yeah, right) adventures from them again.

Not To Be Confused With the Crown Jewel of the East Coast Family

Today on the subway, I finished the last entry in From Boys to Men, an anthology of stories in which gay men recount their childhoods. The last story, Jason Tougaw's "Aplysia californica", hit me in that way that reading Jonathan Franzen does, where I go, "Shit, man. This dude knows a hell of a lot about two completely different things, both of which I know nothing about". I like going like that.

The tales in this book, like gay childhoods themselves, are at once sad, sweet, and very funny. What's even more striking than the eerie similarities between various writers' work (apparently a lot of kids weren't allowed to watch game shows for some reason, and soap operas, for a reason I understand, but didn't experience; I think my Mom was kind of miffed that I wasn't sucked deeper into the world of Erica Kane and Adam Chandler than I was) were the vast differences. While to some extent, we gays have a shared history, these stories show just how different these scared and wonderful boys were.

The first tale is by Dogpoet's Michael McAllister, called "Sleeping Eros". On top of learning quite a bit about Michael's fascinating upbringing, my appetite is also now whet for his eventual memoir, of which "Eros" is an excerpt. Joe also has an entry here, a really beautiful piece about a friend he made in college after coming out. There isn't a truly weak link in the bunch here, and all of this reading about fascination with body hair and sucking at sports has really informed my writing lately on this here blog-a-ma-doo. You may have noticed. In any case, pick this puppy up.

I just hope the follow up anothology isn't called Coloring Me Badd.

Crash Into Me

It happened in slow motion, the way people say these things happen that I, until today, didn't quite believe.

I was wearing a costume. I won't tell you what kind. I don't want to jinx this. But the costume was awkward. It protruded in places I'm not used to protruding. The extension of myself it created wasn't immediately tactile. Not until it was too late.

I was making my way in front of a camera. I won't tell you what for. I don't want to jinx this. Forgetting the new pieces of me, I hit a light. A huge light. The kind on a big stand. The big expensive light with a really big stand. The stand began to fall. And in the first five minutes of the fall, everyone sucked all the air out of the room.

Ten minutes into it, we started to make noise. A half hour later, I resolved to reach for the light. I had the best chance of catching it, despite my new limited mobility. Mid-reach, four hours later, I thought about the sound guy, and how sexy the ink on his arm was, and how his features were so hyper-masculine as to be cartoonish, and how sexy that somehow also was. Nine weeks later, I finally reached the light, inches from the ground. I had saved the day. Or at least that split-second.

On its way down, somewhere between the 28th and 29th centuries, the light hit the stand that the monitor rested on. So while I was three-quarters of the way through my millennial reach, the monitor began to fall as well. The air would have been sucked out of the room again if there was time to take another breath. The sound guy, he of the inky arm and Dick Tracy face, dove. For six long weeks he let out a moan so desperate, it was as if a mother had dropped her newborn in a room with a spiked floor. He didn't make it. The monitor landed on the ground. He was fourteen years too late. Or a fourteenth of a second. One of the two.

Everyone screamed "fuck". If the newborn was there, he/she would have said "fuck" too. It was horrifying. I felt like a pariah, or worse, Larry David. The apology poured out of my mouth like a bottle of ketchup you underestimated. Hastily, I was reassured that it wasn't my fault. I was not to blame. I had only been in the costume for a few minutes and we were in a cramped space. I had nothing to be sorry for. That having been said, they resumed fuck fuck fuckity fucking all the way to Motherfuckville.

The monitor still worked, undamaged. The sweet smell of success had been replaced by the smell of the hot dump I just took in my tights. I won't tell you why I was wearing tights. I don't want to jinx it. Though I'm terrified that I've jinxed it already.

Five Things That Make Me Happy About A Sunday Afternoon In A New York Autumn

1. The crisp air, the slightly warmer clothing, and the impossible blue sky that presides over every nook, cranny, and unnamable color of every detail of every facade of every unnamable building. Maybe it's the change in season, or maybe it's the stuff of autumn itself that makes me feel like New York is not only my home, but that the best it has to offer is mine for the taking.

2. Rehearsal. For a play. That I'm, like, in. Sorry, I went to the Jason Katims School For Realistic Teen Dialogue (I hope at least Erik gets that one). Yes, for the first time in two and-a-half years, I'll be acting in a straight play. Good buddy Chris Weikel wrote it for me and another tremendously talented actor, Ellen Reilly. It's called Making It Up As We Go Along, and in it, I play a gay comic book lover with improv skills named Michael who tattooed his name on his arm in Kryptonese. To call it a stretch would be a complete and total lie. But it's harder than it looks. It opens in November at the Duplex. I'll tell ya more when it's close enough that you won't forget it.

3. A Sunday stroll with my kid sister. We looked for the perfect Christmas present for Mom, gosipped about the heinous weather in Buffalo (have ya heard?), and fawned over a beautiful baby with two daddies at a Mexican restaurant, minutes after Drew Barrymore passed by, possessing a beauty never captured on film. At Bodum we fantasized about the kitchen stuff I'd buy for my sister to cook me extravagant meals. At The Little Pie Company we fantasized about the hypothetical dates it'd be perfect to take there. Along Christopher Street, she broke out of her woman-of-few-words routine and spilled her guts in a glorious, stream-of-consciousness ramble that bled out of her mouth like a gash. Never before had I gone wordless for so long on one of our outings. For ten nearly perfect minutes, I felt more like her friend than her brother. Next time, I will go for eleven.

4. My new CDs. My taste in music is tragically unhip, and I know it. Hell, I just discovered Regina Spektor a week ago. Her Begin to Hope is so beautiful, it nearly breaks my hear-ar-ar-ar, ar-ar-ar, ar-ar-ar-ar-ar, ar-ar-art. And, despite mixed reviews, I'm loving Scissor Sisters' Ta-Dah. No, I guess there's no "Mary" or "Return to Oz" on this disc. But does there really need to be? I won't tell you the other two CDs I've bought as of late. Those two, at least in certain circles, make me seem to have a passing semblance of hipness.

5. A perfect ending. At Eckerd, I hoisted my twelve-pack of Coke Zero onto the counter, and, forgetting that some people at drug stores are personable and even friendly, muttered, "I don't need a bag" as some sort of pre-emptive strike. The cashier, a big 'n' sassy sister with orange hair and braces, said with a smile, "What makes you think I even wanted to give you a bag?" As I sheepishly joked with her for the fleeting seconds of our transaction, I remembered some people are nice just because. That's when she said, "I love your beard. It's a really nice color. I'm serious." It would be the first and last time I'd exit an Eckerd with a twelve-pack tucked under my arm, feeling like a million dollars.

Swipe of the Week

Not long ago, in the hallowed halls of the greasy spoon where I waitress, I took a break from the jersey-wearing guests so dismayed that we don't serve fruit punch and grabbed a quick bite of food in the mouse-ridden canned good and cleaning product depository that sadly also doubles for an employee break room. Already sitting there was Ryan, a harmless co-waitress who thought he looked like Tom Cruise but more closely resembled Tom Green. For some reason, I made an off-handed remark about my love for Lean Pockets, especially those dee-lish Meatballs and Mozzarella ones, when Ryan said, "Y'know, I've never once eaten a Hot Pocket and afterwards said, 'Wow, I'm really glad I ate that'."

"That's cool, Ryan. Do you often steal Jim Gaffigan's jokes and pass them off as your own?" was my admittedly cunty, but in my opinion, well-deserved response. Swiping other people's jokes is something that's supposed to stop in middle school unless you get held back or are Jay Mohr. Sure, I used to swipe from all of the great comics on MTV's Half Hour Comedy Hour. Then I'd return to my copy of Where the Red Fern Grows, because I'd have to be able to talk about Chapter Seven by fifth period. Now, as a grown-up (ish), I cringe when I hear people shoehorn in their own pre-written jokes, let alone plagiarize the work of others. C'mon, people. Isn't it better to be a first-rate you than a second-rate Mario Joyner (assuming that spot isn't already occupied by Joyner himself)?

On Thursday, I was at a call-back audition, unusual in that all of the auditioners in the waiting room were very friendly and chatty with each other. I found all of the witty banter relaxing somehow, placing me squarely in the zone of what I'd have to do a few minutes in the future, when out of nowhere, one of the guys took some nebulous mention of newspapers and threw out this nugget: "I love when I'm reading a story in the paper, and at the bottom it says, 'Continued on page 14'. Not for me. I'm done'."

Another swipe at Gaffigan. I couldn't believe it. Since calling him out on his bullshit would be bad audition karma (I, after all, was about to be doing some bullshitting of my own in the audition room), I instead quietly winced and blankly faced forward. So did some of the other guys. How this guy thought he could get away with ripping jokes from someone else's well-established stand-up in a room full of comedians is beyond me.

I will say this, though. If ever, in some shitty, sticky, schticky break room in some heinous restaurant in the middle of everything and nothing all at once, or in some waiting room for the next big break or the next big bomb, somebody who's nobody tosses out a Hartney original? That'll kick ass. It will, in fact, rule.

Crazytown

Robert works with me. He's incredibly handsome, intelligent, and funny. He also happens to be out of his fucking mind. Crazy. Like, "Oh sure, Michael. Of course I'll participate with you in a discourse about the rise of metaphysical post-modernism in satire, just as soon as I finish sharpening my twelve-inch fingernails and alphabetizing my urine jars BECAUSE I'M CRAZY!" Crazy. Did I mention he thinks he's a Jedi knight?

Until recently, Robert had a medium-length haircut, which seemed to accentuate his premature bald spot. It seemed a shame, considering how beautiful his eyes were and what fantastic shape he was in. But it wasn't my place to be like, "Robert, shave your fuckin' head, and you'd be smoking hot." Until he asked.I love insecure straight boys. Even the bat-shit insane ones. Especially them.

"What number guard do you use on your hair, Michael?"
"Number one."
"That seems too short."
"Does my hair look too short for you?"
"No."
"Then it's not too short. Have you ever heard of the Scientific Method?"

The next day, Robert walked in looking like a million bucks. With a freshly shorn head, the attention veered from Robert's now-invisible bald spot to his (crazy) matinee idol face and (crazy) worked-out bod. My work was done.Or so I thought.It seemed like Robert thought that once was all that was needed for a shaved-head lifestyle. That once his pate gleamed and sparkled, no hairs would ever dare grow there again. I suppose on Robert's home planet, where candied moons revolve around monoliths constructed from granite and the dreams of iguanas to honor The Great Igloo, such an idea wouldn't be outlandish. But soon Robert's locks grew into that uncomfortable no-man's-land between very short and not long. More porcupinous than human, Robert skulked across the restaurant floor with his former malaise, scaring patrons with his newly-apparent bald spot and vestigial horn. I had to intervene.

Explaining that his new 'do (did I seriously just type that? And did I type "bod" earlier? Do I write for YM now and just not know it?) was a bit more high-maintanence than before, I instructed him to shave his head every two weeks for that fresh, not-so-douchey feeling. He nodded, as if he understood, but seemed lost in thought. I figured he was just figuring a more ingenious stashing place for the bodies.Later, in the midst of post-work Irish carbombs (like I'm straight or something) at the bar, Robert came to me excitedly.

"I know!"
"You know what?"
"I know how I'll remember to get my haircut every two weeks!"
"Um...congratulations."
"No, no, I need to take a picture of you!"
"Of me?"
"Yeah!"
"Why?"
"Well, you'll be making a 'Time to get a haircut!' face, and I'll put it on my bathroom door, and then I'll remember!"

I, of course, refused to participate in such a silly, futile activity.

Flights of Faggotry: Project Runway Week Twelve

"I don't think I want any turtle poop!"

Does it get any better? How is it that Tim Gunn is the coolest creature on the planet, and yet can also run around and squeal priceless shit like that? So genius. I almost violated my no-rewind policy just to hear him say it again, once last, sweet time.

-Michael, I'm glad you have braces. Around week nine or so, I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, that boy had better check his teef." And is that neck tuh-too new? It has to be. Otherwise, I'd be calling Jeffrey Whitey McNeckTuh-too and Michael Neck Tuh-too McBrother. On to the collection: I'm nervous for this boy. In his desire to be ambitious and to try new things, it seems that he's designed a bunch of uber-busy pieces that don't seem to fit together, and rarely have practical applications on a real woman. Michael's family kicked ass. They didn't raise no Malan.

-Laura, you annoy me to no end. You live in, like, a 900,000 square foot apartment, and yet are not nearly as amusing as Chandler, Phoebe, or any of the rest of the gang. Oh, and by the way, I'm fully aware that I'm in the vast minority with regards to my dislike for Clownpussy. I get it, sure. She's "fabulously glamorous". She's also more sour than a pickled lemon. I will hand it to her, though: she is surely the only designer to have come up with a piece for the mayor of Emerald City, that is, if that backwards town will ever get with it and elect a female mayor. As for the Jeffrey accusations, I don't quite know how I feel about it. As a viewer, we're not getting the whole picture, and while that's fine for criticizing producer-created "characters" on a blog nobody reads, it's a different story when we're talking about innocent or guilty. I certainly understand Laura's point: as a competitor, it seemed like not only a smart move, but dare I say warranted one. Oh, and is the red dress with the sparkly spanglies in her final collection? I loved that one.

-Uli, we'll see, sweatheart. I love how two of the four final designers have decided to go with a safari theme; ugh. Am I missing something? Was Doctor Livingston more fashion forward than I thought? Her line looks like typical Uli; which isn't a bad thing, but hopefully she has more tricks up her sleeve, and, again, we won't have a true sense of what the collections actually are until next week. Which I can't wait for. But in another way, am kind of sad about because then it'll all be over. Anyway, one of my favorite parts of the episode was when Tim was at Uli's Miami apartment, and then she decided to take them to the beach. My mind began racing; Tim Gunn in Bermuda shorts? Tim Gunn in a Speedo? Tim Gunn in...(gasp)...sandals?!? Of course not. Tim Gunn, on the sand, in a dress shirt, dress slacks, and dress shoes. In what surely was at least 80 degree heat. God bless him. He makes everything work.

-Jeffrey, are you innocent? Because if you are, I'd be feeling pretty good right now. If you indeed did all of the stitching yourself, it means that you have a clear advantage because the other three were so concerned with the quality of your line that they decided to take action. I mean, if you suspected Michael to have gotten assistance with his Willy Wonka-meets-The Mummy dress, would you even care? The only work that mess would get him is as assistant bobby-pinner on The Scorpion King 2: The Scorpion Kinging. I must say, as much as I dislike the man, Jeffrey's collection really is cute and cool. If I was a punk-rocking prostitute on Pee-Wee's Playhouse, they would totally deck me out in Sebelia originals.

Next week: what in the name of all that's holy is going to happen? The editing of the Jeffrey decision seems a little too easy; there's obviously more here than meets the eye. But if so, why is Jeffrey crying? "Jeffrey, you have been found innocent. But unfortunately, your entire family was blown up by mad bomber Angela Keslar." "Jeffrey, you are cleared of any charges of cheating. But unfortunately, Laura's the winner, with her elegant turtle-poop halter-based line." "Jeffrey, you are the winner. But unfortunately, your mullet has split ends." In the end? This is still anyone's game. Let's see how these lines look on the runway.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 10/11

The Escapists #4
Although this issue didn't exactly set my spirit onto a cloud made out of caramel and unicorns, this is still a really fun and engaging book. What I love is BKV's juggling act of commitment to all of the various facets that make this tale work. We care about the creators themselves and the various predicaments they're all getting into, but it's just as interesting to read about various bits of Cleveland history, or to hear commentary about the process of comic book creation and the constant pressure to innovate in one way or another. It took this issue for me to realize that Steve Rolston's real-world work is far more cartoony than the so-called cartoon world of Jason Shawn Alexander's better-Jae-Lee-than-Jae-Lee artwork. It's a really effective juxtaposition. Oh, and the cop's name at the end may be Dan Toner, but he's nothing like the Dan Toner I went to high school with. I had to giggle.

52: Week Twenty-Three
Congratulations, 52! Nearly halfway through your run, you found an honest-to-God artist to draw an issue of your book. Drew Johnson's pencils here, though far from perfection (I mean, look at that panel of Sivana), certainly are of a caliber previously unseen in this series. Morrow's mad scientist island is delightfully bonkers, and almost surely guided by Grant Morrison's hand. I also kinda dig the expansion of the Marvel Family (if you can call it that) and the benevolent effect Isis has on Black Adam. It was great to see Jerry Ordway take on Wildcat's origin back-up, and I'm actually looking forward to next week for the first time in a while. Bring on more Supernova, bitches.

Gen13 #1
Is my weird e-mail address starting to make more sense to anyone now? Gen13 was a mini-series that, in 1993, blew my teenaged mind. Super-powered teens on the run, making pop culture references and finding time to skateboard, not to mention a homosexual team member...it was almost too much for me to contain myself. After key creators left the book, however, sales dropped and it was canceled. A short-lived reboot by Chris Claremont and the dependably-disappointing Ale Garza was so bad, even I stopped with the fifth or sixth issue. Now, however, it appears as though Gail Simone and Talent Caldwell are taking the book back to basics, returning to the original premise, with some new tricks up their sleeves. Frankly, reading this book was like being re-introduced to old friends. Something that plagued the original series was that the character's development seemed stunted in favor of fighting the next villain. This iteration feels far more character-driven, despite the presence of a fun and twisty plot as well. I'm excited. Simone has found these characters' voices quickly, and Caldwell's kinetic pencils have now exceeded the work of his mentor, Michael Turner. Oh, and Grunge is still totally sexy.

JLA: Classified #28
There's just something wrong to me about Kal-El flying around in a black suit and sunglasses, violating international law. It's a true testament to the creative team of Chaykin and Plunkett, then, that they make this a pretty good read despite such a major grievance. Here, we get some cool sercret identity moments with Bruce and Kyle, some dramatic conflict between Aquaman and J'onn, and a short-but-sweet fight scene at the end with an ominous cliffhanger. Not too shabby. I'm really loving Plunkett and Nguyen's art here. It's hard, especially with Wally and Kyle, to make their civilian faces distinctive and yet recognizable. These guys do it effortlessly.

Powers #20
I forget about this book sometimes. I guess it's not as tensely-written as a Brian K. Vaughan book, nor is it as artistically as lush as something Bryan Hitch would lend his pencil to. And then the next issue comes out, and I fall in love with it all over again. Brian (Jesus, there's a lot of awesome Brians in comics, huh?) Michael Bendis lends his pet project his famous ear for dialogue, and keeps each arc feeling like it all exists in the same universe without being repetitive. (Brian) Michael Avon Oeming's work is so strong, and his storytelling moves so well, I often don't even notice the art until I go back and look at his crisp lines, fluid action, and Pete Pantazis' moody, elegant coloring. I wish this came out as often as Ultimate Spider-Man does.

Ultimate Power #1
Was anyone clamoring for this crossover? I mean, I'm fine with it and all, but did anyone ever say "Man, it sure would be awesome if the Ultimate universe and the Squadron Supreme universe collided? Almost as cool as a Speedball/Wendy the Witch mini!" Despite being the mini-series no one realized they didn't want, the first ish is pretty sweet. Not knowing 616 lore very well, I have to ask: has Ben ever "chipped" like that before? I thought that was cool as hell, proving once again that I'm secretly still fourteen and am a total loser. I think Bendis did a great job not doing anything too Bendis-y; his run on Ultimate Fantastic Four left quite a bit to be desired, and I feared that the widescreen storytelling demanded by Reed and Co., not to mention the outstanding visuals by Greg Land, Matt Ryan, and Justin Ponsor, wouldn't be suited to Bendis' more conversational, character-driven style. I have no idea who any of the Squadron characters are, but that last double-page spread sure is a beaut. Oh, and how annoying was that X-Men: First Class ad stuck between the pages of Reed at the Negative Zone viewer? Boo, Marvel. Boo-urns.

Ultimate X-Men #75
Well, it was only a matter of time until Rob Liefeld's shallow, boring, once-popular creation made his way into the pages of this book. Yes, Ultimate Cable is here. And, save for the somewhat freakin' sweet last page cliffhanger, everything in Kirkman's story is more interesting before Nate Summers rears his bionic eyed head. I love issues like this; the "let's catch up on dangling subplots" issues. I think this is the second such issue in Kirkman's short run so far, which is kind of bizarre, but hey. Of course, for all of the nuggets we see from the Professor, Scott and Jean, Storm and Logan, and Rogue, I still would trade them all to see a few more pages about Colossus, the hulking homosexual mutant who can turn his body into metal. Homina, homina...what was I going to say? Ah, yes. Homina. And man, Ben Oliver's artwork looks a hundred times better when he inks himself. Of course, now that I've read Yannick Paquette is taking over the art chores soon, it's a moot point. The backup story, about Emma Frost's competing mutant academy and its rogue students, was actually pretty cute and cool. Mark Brooks' artwork, for what it lacks in originality, makes up for it in earnestness and charm. Paco Medina, eat your heart out.

The Trouble With Calves

Baby cows are just so goldurned cranky!

Actually, the real trouble lies in the part of the human leg, just below the knee and a touch above the ankle. In the back. Yes, terrible, terrible things happen to me under the right calfular circumstances. And yes, "calfular" is totally a word. James Joyce totally used it in his criminally under-appreciated novella, Tellmetale of Wicked Gams.

See, there are very few things on God's green Earth more sexy to me than a gigantic, muscular calf. The type of calf so large I can imagine myself hugging it and holding onto it for dear life without impeding its custodian's stride. A meaty, lightly-furred calf does more for me than any isolated abdominal muscle, veiny forearm, or pelvic fuck line (although those really are pretty awesome) could ever hope to.

This brings us to the predicament at hand.

Often, the wielders of mammoth, tree trunk-like calves are not quite as tantalizing from, say, the knee up. Frequently, in addition to lower legs I'd like to take a bite out of, the keepers of the calves also keep overhanging bellies, stretch marks, and the occasional manboob or two. Hopefully two. Nothing against these well-fed gentlemen; I appreciate their esoteric aesthetic more than most. But from a purely physical standpoint, I generally am not interested in anything on these men other than their glorious calves, dense and powerful from years of transporting their impressive heft.

Conversely, the men whose chests, arms, and shoulders cause me to foam at the mouth consistently fall short in the calf department. They trick me with their impossibly-defined triceps, thick neck, and meaty posterior, only to leave me longing once I reach below their fussed-over quads and behold less meat than your average Buffalo wing. Sigh.

I am confident that, one day, my gaze will fall upon a pair of calves with a circumference that rivals my torso, and that, as I pan up their figure, I will also see a sensational rear-end, lats for Jesus, and a waistline that doesn't crave elastic. I will ask that man to run away with me.

Sadly, he will probably be stupid, boring, and/or mean, and I will learn that I have to pick my husband based on other, better criteria.

It Was October

I remember because of the skulls. On top of each other. Stationary but somehow writhing.

July of 1996 saw me beginning rehearsals for a summer community theatre production of Grease. Though my Vince Fontaine left much to be desired, the experience became more about forging new friendships than developing stage prowess. There was Dave, an impish waif of a boy who looked more like a cartoon than a flesh-and-blood being. He had just graduated from Kenmore East, rival to my West. Dave wore little boy baseball caps and thrift store pants, and spoke with a juvenile rasp reminiscent of Billy from the shark-jumping season of Who's The Boss? Dave took me, the youngest of the principals, under his diminutive wing and made me feel welcome in a cast full of early twenty-somethings who seemed way cooler then. Soon, eschewing the clique-y post-rehearsal destinations, Dave and I struck out on our own, giving local Denny's, Perkins', and Friendly's a little touch of star quality. Not long after, we were joined by Chandana and Jen, who respectively vied for the affections of Dave and me.

The detailing on the skulls, and the placement of them, seemed like something Simon Bisley would draw or paint. Hyper-detailed, but unclean. Gristled. Grisly.

August saw the toe-tappin', hand-clappin' run of Grease at Kenmore West's auditorium. Dave's Doody rocked out to "Those Magic Changes", my Vince tried in vain to snag Marty, and Jen and Chandana sock-hopped across the stage in poodle skirts and bobby socks. After the pentultimate show, Dave and I were ready for some half-priced appetizers at Applebee's or some Cocoa Puff-crusted shrimp skewers or whatever the fuck they sell at Bennigan's, but Jen and Chandana seemed to have other plans. We went to Jen's house. Jen sat me down in her kitchen, while Chandana stayed with Dave in the living room. This was the night the girls had conspired to turn into a giant laying of cards onto the table. In cushioned comfort under mood lighting, Chandana confessed her crush on Dave, and her desire to run off with him into the smaller-than-average sunset. On a hardwood bench, under harsh lighting, Jen expressed her desire to be my doting girlfriend. At the end of the night, Jen ended up with a boyfriend, and Chandana ended up crestfallen.

I was fixated on the skulls. I couldn't look away. They were my anchor. My horizon.

September saw me entering junior year of high school with a popular, completely anomalous girlfriend. Coffee mornings and movie marathons with my haggish female friends were replaced by trips to the mall for sweaters and varsity football games. I now shared the hardwood bench of Jen's kitchen with her gruff father Phil at meals, marveling at his healthy hairline and biting my tongue when he pronounced my friend's last name "Shorts", not Schultz. Meanwhile, Dave began his freshman year of college at Niagara University, and the distance between us grew. It was clear he disapproved of my relationship with Jen; I resented him because I knew he was right.

The skulls were scary, but not in a Halloweeny way. They were incidentally scary, like how if someone killed your Mom in front of a TV set showing Growing Pains, Jeremy Miller would be scary to you. They were scary because they were present for me saying what I had never said.

October brought a frantic, angsty Chandana to my locker at the end of the school day. "Dave slept with a guy," she told me with a wrinkled brow. "He's gay." Well, that explained a lot. That weekend, Dave and I made plans to ahng out with each other, under the guise that everything was normal and the same. But us hanging out was no longer the norm, and it would never be the same. Over Burger King, he coyly asked, "So, do you have anything you want to ask me?" His eyebrow quivered wildly as he tried to hold his comical facial expression, one he came up with to mask his nerves. We went to his house to talk, where I expected to announce boldly and bravely that I'd be there for him during this confusing time. But it soon became clear that Dave was anything but confused. "I'm gay, and I like you, and I think you're gay too." I had not expected to be cornered; after all, these were feelings I couldn't afford to have. I had a girlfriend who was hot. And popular. And on the volleyball team. And was friends with a bunch of super-hot football players. And as I finally broke, and told him that I have sexual feelings about men, and that I had been to all the same websites as him, I stared at a little Halloween decoration Dave's mother, Divine to Dave's Glenn, had stuck underneath an end table. Skulls, piled on top of one another.

It was easier to look at the skulls than at Dave. In time, I got better.

When Keepin' It Real Goes Right

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MICHAEL - a New York-based actor/writer/comedian/(sigh) waitress who is kinda awesome
MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE - Michael's kinda un-awesome thought process
ESERA TUAOLO - ex-NFL player who stunned the sports world by revealing his homogaysexullality
ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE - Esera Tuaolo's perfectly reasonable thought process
BARTENDER - dude who mixes spirits and opens bottled beer

INT: the upstairs bar at Lower East Side dance club Element, where XXL, a party for big, hairy men and their admirers, is taking place.

LIGHTS UP on MICHAEL approaching the bar where ESERA TUAOLO is leaning.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Wow. He is fucking gigantic. He looks like someone took Dean Cain and/or Mario Lopez and inflated them with a bike pump. Jesus Christ on a pony.

MICHAEL (to BARTENDER): Two Amstels, please.

ESERA TUAOLO's INNER MONOLOGUE: Well, since I'm doing a performance here tonight, I guess it's my civic duty to be kind to even the lowest of douchebags to show up here.

ESERA TUAOLO (to MICHAEL): How're you doin'?

MICHAEL: I'm well, how are you?

ESERA TUAOLO: Good.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Oh my God! He talked to me! That is effing crazy!

BATENDER (to MICHAEL): That's fourteen dollars.

MICHAEL: Cool.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Fourteen dollars?!?

ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Sucker.

MICHAEL (extending his hand): I'm Michael.

ESERA TUAOLO (shaking MICHAEL's hand): Nice to meet you.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Wow. His hands are huge. Like ape huge. Like put me over your knee and punish me for being so consorned naughty huge.

ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Ick. I hate shaking hands. Especially with freaks like this. Such small lady-hands. I hope I don't catch it, whatever "it" happens to be. I wish I had brought my little bottle of Purell.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Hmmm...I wonder if I should go out on a limb and try to be funny.

ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Uh-oh. He's thinking...I hope he doesn't try to be funny.

MICHAEL: So I noticed all the ads for this party say you're doing a "PA". What does that mean? Are you going to get a Prince Albert? Is Pennsylvania somehow involved? Are you going to do announcements like the principal of a high school? Or does it mean "performance art"? Are you gonna squirt paint all over a canvas and then roll around in it?

ESERA TUAOLO: Ha ha ha ha ha! I'm actually going to be singing. "PA" means "public appearance". Ha ha ha ha ha!

ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE: He can't possibly think this is genuine laughter. I hope he gets the hint and leaves.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Wow. He's loving every second. I think the best thing to do here is to keep him wanting more.

MICHAEL: Well, I've got a beer to deliver. Nice to meet you. Have a good set.

ESERA TUAOLO: Thanks.

MICHAEL walks away.

MICHAEL'S INNER MONOLOGUE: Score.

ESERA TUAOLO'S INNER MONOLOGUE (simultaneously): Yes.

Lights.

When Peace Isn't Forever Held

Cousin Karen got married in a beautiful ceremony in an adorable church in the gorgeous state of Rhode Island. Father Fabian was flown in from Buffalo to perform a sweet and personal service. Karen's students composed a choir that sang from the balcony, as elegant beams of light burst through the stained glass and enhanced the blushing bride's already-substantial glow.

During a lull between the choir's previous hymn and Father Fabian's warm and well-chosen words, the church heard from Sarah, my cherubic four-year old cousin, who was cute as a button in her tiny fitted blazer and striped stockings.

She let out the loudest, most perfectly pitched fart I've ever heard.

I thought that someone had blown a raspberry on their arm, the sound was so flawless. But no. Sarah's face, a mixture of embarassment and unrivaled delight, gave her away. The first three rows of the church were trying valiantly to mask their laughter to no avail. The church giggles are, after all, the worst. Just as I had finally managed to regain composure, my face returning from fire engine red to a normal color, another lull in the service came.

And my father, still laughing, let out the sloppiest, most piecey fart I've ever heard. Again, the wedding guests fought with all their might not to disrupt the ceremony. But this was too much. The damage had been done. After I finished laughing my head off, I checked to see if liquid shit was running down my mortified father's pant leg. Luckily not.

It was the awesomest wedding ever.

Never Again

My cousin Karen is getting married today in Providence, Rhode Island.

My sister and I decided to take the trip from New York to Providence to attend.

My sister, frugal as a gourmet, insisted on taking the bus because it was the most affordable.

Deciding it wouldn't be so bad because we'd be together, I bought us bus tickets.

My mother told me on the phone a few days ago that my sister wasn't coming, and was afraid to tell me.

My sister is an intern at the Clinton Foundation, and needed to be there to prepare for Big Bill's press conference today.

Stuck with two non-exchangable, non-refundable bus tickets, I decided to suck it up and go Greyhound.

At Port Authority, two men were led away in handcuffs at my gate.

Aboard the bus, a trembling man sat down next to me, reeking of booze, despite the plentiful selection of empty seats, not to mention entire rows, elsewhere.

The man chugged from a liter bottle wrapped in a magenta plastic bag, and got off at every stop to take four or five desperate puffs from a Newport before carefully extinguishing the cigarette to save the unused half of it and return to his seat beside me now reeking of both booze and menthol.

Six hours.

Never.

Again.

Flights of Faggotry Extra: Project Runway Reunion

Well, this was cute.

-What was that girl eliminated in Week One's name? The one who didn't say a word until it got to the legalese of the contract, thereby proving her original Harvard background was her true calling? Anyway, she's a cutie.

-Malan, Malan, Malan. I'm happy for the ol' chap. He got to show at Fashion Week (oops...I'm sorry...Olympus Fashion Week) in Bryant Park (oops...I'm sorry...Doritos Bryant Park), and genuinely seemed to generate interest in himself as a commodity in the mere two episodes he spent on the show. Plus, I can't fault him for hopping on his soapbox (oops...I'm sorry...All-Purpose Cheer soapbox) and representin' the gays. Also, that laughter montage officially replaces The Exorcist as the scariest fucking thing I've ever seen. Hopefully he'll remember to save a dime or two from his newfound prosperity and fix those teeth of his. I think of that as less mean than thoughtful.

-I appreciate Katherine taking Vincent to task. Frumpy McDump (and/or Dumpy McFrump) showed a pair. It makes me wish she would have finished the dog lady's hoodie.

-You know that crazed fan who went up to Bonnie, said, "Oh my God, you're from Project Runway!" and then followed it up with "You suck"? Me.

-If Keith Michael's friends didn't write him off after his dismissal from the show, maybe they'll take a much-needed second look after his reunion appearance. "Waaaahhhh! Goblins magically made my books reappear in my room! Waaaaaah! A clueless production assistant told me I could leave! Waaaaaaahhh! I spit up strained peaches!" There's nothing in the world worse than bitter, humorless fags. Watching him sneer dourly at every funny moment, with his wrist slumped over his knee, made me think he was auditioning for John Glover's bad twin from Love, Valor, and Compassion.

-Bradley is awesome. On a similar note, I can't write a comedy sketch without making approximately thirty-eight unique fart sounds.

-Allison, faux-Madonna accent and affinity for Keith and Jeffrey notwithstanding, really is a doll. She did not deserve to go on recycling day. Suddenly Seymour did. And who knows? Without that major snafu, maybe she could have bumped off Laura or Jeffrey to be in the top four (or three).

-Robert...oh, Robert, I love you, ennui and all. On the reunion, you appeared confident and assertive, funny and self-deprecating. Your suit covered up a little too much of your nubile flesh for my tastes, but your boner for fashion can be seen from space, even through sixteen layers of kevlar. Plus, when you're married, you can serenade me with all of Mariah Carey's hits without having to drop down the octave.

-Angela, I still think that your handling of Jeffrey and his bullshit has been incredibly mature and professional. But let's face it: your mom did her part to be a snatch too. Do you know what she'd look terrific in? A tasteful, elegant gown with a rosette that eclipses the sun.

-Vincent, it's official: you are the most hated person on Project Runway. Your idiotic online rant about Tim Gunn, your incoherent, circular defense of it, and your downright violent and scary outburst about your fucking ugly bowling tournament clothes places you higher up on my shit list than Tuh-Too McNeck, Clownpussy, and Minstrel Kors combined. I hope Audrey II fucking eats you.

-Kayne, shine on, you crazy, gay, rhinestone-studded, blinking diamond. I'm so glad you brought up the overwhelmingly positive response to your couture dress. I'd buy it for my sister if you'd give it to me for fifteen bucks and a few comic books from the 70's. C'mon...that is a tempting offer, ain't it?

-I'm bored with talking about the final four, so I'll be quick. Congrats on the ten grand, Michael. Congrats on the accent, Uli. Congrats on the fart, Jeffrey. And congrats on the clownpussy, Clownpussy.

-I heart Tim Gunn with all my love. Mitigate that.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up 10/4

52: Week Twenty-Two

Ambush Bug.
Arrowette.
Gangbuster.
Julian September.
Kilowog.
The Newsboy Legion.
The Pied Piper.
Rampage.
Starman.
XS.

Off the top of my head, that's just ten obscure characters whose myths I'd rather see expanded than the Manitou family. Yawn. We finally get a new subplot, and that's it? Bo. Ring. I bought one book this week, and it bored me nearly to tears. Other than the awesome first three pages. I'd be silly to say those didn't rule.

Spin, Spin, Sugar

Let's see...

I've been totally outed and horrifically busted for mackin' it to my sixteen year-old underlings.

Spin.

Stop at resigning. That oughtta do it.

No?

Spin.

Stop at alcoholism. Yeah, that's the ticket.

No? Geez, this sure is a pickle.

Spin. No whammies, no whammies...

Stop at being molested. Not that it's an excuse or anything, but yeah. Totally molested. And now Fox News thinks all gay people are alcoholic pedophiles that were diddled by the clergy. Sweet. Congrats on that, America.

I'll pass my remaining spins to the girl with the Ogilvy Home Perm on my right, Peter.

Compuker

She's dead. Ding dong.

I am techno-tarded. Yes, I live in the electronic age, and use all of our modern wonders to some extent, but I have mastered none of them. My cell phone is the first one ever built. I try to ignore the smirks on the faces of passers-by as they watch me tilt my head so that the antenna on my helmet can pick up the signal better. I look the other way when I hear giggles at the crank I turn to keep the connection. I try not to cry tears of envy when I run into a friend of mine on the street who chit-chats with me while IMing, texting, checking their e-mail and stock updates, and putting the finishing touches on some Pixar film on the dime-sized super-computer in their hand.

And she's dead. My computer's dead. Long...live...my computer?

Do you know what's super-fun? Lugging a computer twenty blocks to Best Buy and cursing your life. I suppose I should have done something when my wallpaper was replaced by a blinking red light that said "Your Computer is Infected". I guess I should have mobilized when my internet started working slower than dial-up in 1994. And maybe, just maybe I should have acted when six slimy goblins popped out of my CD-ROM driver and exclaimed, "Memory! Sweet, delicious memory!"

So now I'm screwed. I have to pay the Geek Squad for a full-system restore. And another seventy bucks for diagnostics. Hilarious, considering I already know what the diagnosis is. I hope there's not a fifteen dollar surcharge for each letter of my name. I should have charged them a trip-to-the-chiropractor fee for making me carry it to their inconveniently-located store.

And, to add insult to injury, the Geek Squad guy opened my computer at the counter and exclaimed, "Wow, it's really dirty!" to the entire line of people. Thanks, PeachFuzzBeard McZits. I appreciate being scolded for not properly maintaining the inside of my computer, a place I didn't even know I had access to. Would you like to pull up my porn now too, so everyone in the store can know that Clint Taylor really pushes my buttons? Because that'd be great.

So now I have no compuker. For a few days, anyway. I wonder how I'll occupy myself at home. Maybe I'll pop in a Betamax tape. Or listen to one of my thrilling 8-track tapes. Or, I know! I'll telegraph people. I have unlimited morse coding after nine.

Goodbye (My Name is) Earl (spec script writing partner)

My roommate, writing partner, and general co-conspirator Dan flew the coop today. He has this weird notion that, instead of living with a burly, bearded gay, he should move in with his fiancee, the woman who completes him.

Chump.

We moved in together to get some writing done. And we actually kind of did. In the past year, we co-wrote three sketch shows, two spec scripts, and a "pilot" for a sketch comedy podcast. I shudder to think how much we could have accomplished if we ever were in the apartment at the same time ever. I will miss him like the dickens, but am excited at the prospect of likely seeing him more often than when we lived together.

Enter: Stephen, my new roommate. Another burly, bearded gay. Look out, Astoria. Thing I learned about Stephen #1: Obsessed with porn. "Want some porn?", I heard vaguely as a library of porn mags were thrown into my face (has he heard of the internet and/or DVDs?). A titillating sidenote: while looking through said porn mags (they were, after all, there), I saw a full-frontal pic of someone on my blogroll. Very interesting.

So farewell, Daniel. I wish you and Sarah the best. And welcome, Stephen. I will be borrowing Muscle Bear Motel. Exclusively for research purposes.