Blast of Silence

End of year lists are for fux.  What do I care what Dusty Pitchspin’s "Best 150 Freak-folk Nuggets of 2005" were?  Who says that Bloggy O’Newsday’s "Worst Disasters of 2005" is on point?  Where does Y.M. FitzCosmo get off with her "05 Textile Highlights?"  Today’s classics are tomorrow’s clay pigeons.  Take heed dipshits.  "The list" is some vh1 high fidelity hack shit 4 Real.  I don’t simper and waffle over a bunch of things that might qualify as *blank*.  I don’t write lists, playboy.  I make singular, cold, unwavering decisions that will resound through the annals of history as FACT.  Word is bond.  Ergo…

Here is my thing of 2005. 

1.  Face Transplants

Absolutely fuck everything else.  Goodnight everybody.

Last Wednesday night was awesome beyond belief.  I was privy to a show by the dubiously named DJ crew Flostradalmus, and their long-banged, bespectacled entourage.  The town hall pub was jacked by every club-rap fad of 2005 and beyond.  All the way from Houston screw, to Crunk, Baile Funk, Baltimore Club, Three 6 Mafia, Onyx, Freak Nasty, and …Gang of Four!?  Yes, it was a sexy nerd affair, so I pulled up my sock garters, tightened my Croakie, sprayed on some lavender body glitter and straight ground on some film-school drop-outs. 

When the room got shut down, my shirt may have been in the process of being waved like a helicopter, but it was my heart that has taken flight.

Two days later I was jet-lagged and sick: prostrate in the car of my wonderful mother, being driven home from the airport to spend Christmas with the folks.  I sang depressing Chiristmas Carols with my Granny, ate homemade chicken soup, petted my geriatric dog, and rocked out with my awesome Dad.

Christmas was a full repeat of Thanksgiving’s excesses.  I went into complete sugar shock on the 26th and hallucinated for 13 hours.  In my stupor, I was beset by an army of Elves and Reindeer who danced around me wildly to the strains of "Make em Say Uhh."  Joseph and Mary were turned away from the velvet rope at the Coloxxeum club, and had to spend the night at the Henhouse where Jesus was born in the DJ booth during the "Whoop There it Is/No Diggity " megamix.  Three wise guerrilla marketeers brought gifts of Axe Bodywash, Garnier Fructis, and Platinum Rims.  Linus had his blanket hanging on the left side, ahem, the Crip side.  Tiny Tim saw the Grand Canyon from the seat of his Rascal Scooter.  Santa Claus bled Grapefruit MD20/20.

Good Holidays.

Hey.  God bless us everyone.

This past Friday Chicago’s Metro played host to a sold out crowd of total lesbos in honor of the final performance of The Chicago Kings: Chicago’s premier drag king ensemble.  Sharing the bill was North Carolinian king troupe The Cuntry Kings, featuring the talents of my friend Carrie.  Such a night of hot sweaty Chicago-on-Carolina action was certainly not to be missed by this Male Gazer!  I arrived at 10:00 in the company of my aide-de-camp Irvin Lawrence Carsten III, whose woolly beard was the envy of all present.  We got standing-room in the mezzanine and tucked in for a H-O-T evening of gender performance.  The evening got off to a rip-roaring start with the classic butch-femme comedy stylings of Maxwell and Jessica.  Typical banter:

"Who likes vagina!????"

"That last act made my panties wet!"

"Who here majored in women’s studies!!???"

The acts themselves were honestly, very impressive.  The Chicago crew was hilarious, frequently rising above the boy-camp I was expecting, even lip-synching to The Avalanches crazy sample bonanza Frontier Psychiatrist.

The Cuntry Kings killed.  Every piece was like a candy-coated editorial cartoon fed to you by a wiccan pep-squad.

Criticism corner:  9 out of 10 Drag Kings still look like this guy.

After the show Irv and I met up with Carrie and his high School friend Sara.  We spoke for 2 minutes before we were promptly snubbed for hot bois and marooned on the dancefloor.  I spent the next 20 minutes trying to dance to ringtone techno and getting elbowed by snarly genderqueers who really should have excused xemselves.

At the end of the night Irv and I were voted 8th cutest couple right behind Dirk Thruster and Lil’ Toolbelt.  Such fun!

The Week in brief: Saw Los Olvidados with Emily, sang sea chanties with a Harvard man at a country/western bar, danced to Lynyrd Skynyrd, ate pie and drank Hot Toddies, saw MF DOOM perform his rapping, and made a spectacle of myself at the IO holiday party.

Last night my Portuguese-speaking roommate and I went to Sonotheque for a Baile Funk party.  I made that booty jerk 4 realzzzzzzz.  This 35-year-old dude with a fur coat and a perm kept trying to teach me how to do the robot.

Looking forward to another week end of breaking sweat/hearts.

It’s really interesting, the little nuggets of knowledge these office-drudge jobs impart.  For example in my last job at the Jenkens & Gilchrist mail room I learned that the value of a stamp (.37) when multiplied by a multiple of 3 produced a palindrome of the corresponding multiple of 3.  To wit:

.37 x 3 = 1.11

.37 x 6 = 2.22

.37 x 9 = 3.33

.37 x 12 = 4.44

.37 x 15 = 5.55

.37 x 27 = 9.99

It stops working after 27.  But holy shit, right?

I also discovered the numerical name of God, but was sworn to secrecy by a clique of Kabbalist Vampires.  Sorry!

That’s all over now. I got downsized from The Law Firm of Jenkens and Gilchrist, and guess what fuckers?  The whistle is about to be blown.

What follows is a list of 20 absolute truths about J&G:

1.  Productivity is managed by a bald-pated kettle drummer at the far end of the office.  All who do not work in time to his steady rhythm are tied to stakes, coated with tar and set ablaze to light the hallways with their amber glow.

2. Associate Attorneys, or "Omegas," can be recognized by their bejeweled codpieces. 

3. One can only make Partner after killing and eating the heart of a cougar.

4. One of the most prominent clients of the firm is the rap ensemble Cyprus Hill.

5. The firm employs no Irish.

6. Employees can only marry within the firm.  Those unmarried by age 30 are silently banished to the Labyrinth of Mists.

7.  There is a woman in the Dallas office named Tanis Lickholter.

8.  All the doctors on the company HMO practice Humeric Medicine.

9.  Everyone looks forward to the J&G Holiday Party at Wildfire Steakhouse, where new employees recite the Lord’s Prayer backwards at sword-point.

10. While virgin sacrifice is not "necessary" for advancement, it’s pretty much understood.

11. Regional Office manager Mike Arizzi is Benito Mussolini’s grandson.

12.  Those running over 20 minutes late must call in to the J&G Sickness Hot-line or be fed to Henry Gilchrist’s ocelots.

13.  The J&G office locations worldwide include New York, San Antonio, Pasadena, Washington DC, and Polar Deathbase Zero.

14.  Human Resources Director Dawn Dykshorn stays youthful by bathing in champagne and panda blood.

15.  The best part of the workweek is Cockfight Tuesday.

16.  Managing Attorney Bob Schwimmer’s face is hidden behind an iron mask which covers disfiguring burns from an childhood alchemical accident.

17. Harvey Jenkens’s office is kept exactly like it was the day he died on September 7th, 1983, in anticipation of his glorious return.

18.  J&G is a paperless office, but is responsible for the destruction of 50,000 acres of forest anyway.

19.  Administrative Assistant Adrian White is the niece of Illinois Secretary of state Jesse White, a fact reinforced by that medallion she always wears.

20.  On Casual Fridays, Office Services Clerks are free to wear their denim gimp masks.

I had a really great weekend.  I’ll tell you about it soon Dear Diary.  Swoon.

Guess what Planet Earth!?  I got a new job copying the entire file archive of an insurance company!!  Here ends my deadbeat holiday.  I’m back to waking up early, wearing shirts with collars/sleeves, and eating Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner at 1:30 in the morning.

I’m totally the life of my new office.  Every morning when I flounce in past the rows of cubicles, it’s just a domino effect of secretaries sliding their glasses down their noses to check me out better.  I promise.

I’ve started rereading Pat Barker’s Regeneration about the Craiglockhart Hospital were some of the greatest minds in Britain crossed paths against the backdrop of Great War.  I’ve also begun The Picture of Dorian Gray which is by a gay person. 

Dorian Gray was influenced by Against Nature and even came up in Wilde’s Sodomy trials.  Wilde went to Reading Gaol.  Huysmans became a Benedictine monk and had his eyes sewn shut.