Dear John McCain - The REAL Reason You Fear the DADT Repeal

Fact- John McCain is a huge jerkoff. Like, maybe the biggest ever. We would definitely need Bounty Reusables to pick up after this hot mess.

Beyond the fact that he was stooped into choosing Palin as a running partner/sex doll/punching bag....oh you guys haven't seen those videos yet?....anyways....he is stupid enough to be on the wrong side of history with the repeal of DADT.

But hwhy John, HWHY? I have a theory that his motivations were much more devious and...perhaps dastardly...than just the Conservative Republican Agenda and Common American Bigotry (do you like my use of CAPS? :P) I think John McCain might have actual personal stake in this.

For the sake of my fake argument based on real truths from the novel Push by Sapphire, lets assume that all the gay men in his life fulfill some stereotype. It will be easier to believe him to be ignorant if he has bad examples, and it makes my theory more compelling and concrete....and funny. And we have to assume that his wife is strongly connected to these gay factors because of her "unwavering" views on gay rights. Sadly, with this comes the assumption that John must have a huge peen in order to make her change her stance on DADT within days. I'm talking like elephant huge. Sad really.

First we have Jaimie. Jaimie is the McCain's real estate agent...you know, because they have like eight homes. Well, Jaimie helps the two savvy buyers find these luxurious homes around the country and even plans house parties for them whenever they move to new locations. These house parties are stuffy and and filled with only three types of cheese. Jaimie insists on getting a bigger selection, but John McCain's allegedly huge peen probably got in the way of that too. What the political duo don't realize is that Jaimie studied Urban Planning at Alabama State (he's a Southern Homo obvi). When Jaimie learns the news of the DADT repeal, he'll be able to live his dream of making the Middle East FABULOUSSSSSS by enlisting with the army. Once he makes his way to the top, by being a power bottom, Jaimie will lead a brigade of swatch bearing soldiers to the outlining villages. He will teach the women how to pair vintage coffee tables with 10,000 count throw pillows. Jaimie will make civic centers where all the boughsie Iraqis can play badminton and drink mimosas. He'll create an irrigation system that is not only functional but also leads to a grandiose fountain that will be the center piece for their weekly circuit parties.

Without Jaimie, John and Cindy can't buy more fabulous homes. They will be forced to go for drab aka republican homes in the middle of nowhere North Dakota. They wont know which neighborhoods to buy up homes in, or which neighbors to not be racist towards.

Then we have Carlos. Carlos is a tiny Mexican (He's actually Panamanian...but the McCain's actually don't know the difference. I just cant bare to break their little hearts) hairdresser. He keeps Cindy's lesbian haircut intact, and also creates a special weave for John to keep his head together. If he didn't have the weave, his brain juice would fall out of his ears from being so full of shit. Cindy and John visit Carlos once a week to keep the image up, and pay him in Pesos and another week of not telling the government to deport him. Jokes on them though. Carlos was born in Nebraska and makes garden art out of the pesos.

When Carlos found out that gays could be open in the army, he knew what his new mission would be. Being the McCain's hairdresser gave him dexterous hands and a keen attention to detail. So Carlos leaves for the National Armory to become a weapons's expert, teaching all the soldiers the fastest ways to break their guns down. He makes new weapons, weapons that are non violent and sting like a well thrown back handed compliment. And he starts a hair trend that sweeps the army like a case of syphilis - it's called not a fucking buzzcut.

And last but not least, we have Sandi. Sandi is the McCain's lesbian car mechanic. She has a penchant for making motorcycle decals and cat costumes. Sandi makes sure that the McCain's motors run smoothly, and yes that means she works on John's Anti-vampire chamber so that he doesn't turn back.....

Sandi and her partner.....Sandy...have wanted to join the Army for years now. They have a secret desire to introduce lesbionic ways to the women they meet in Iraq, but until now haven't been able to go enlist and be open at the same time. When Sandi/y do enlist, they become on-site mechanics for the tanks that stroll through the country side. On their journey, they teach the men how to build houses and introduce the women to the L-word.

So you see, if John had been able to discourage the gays from being open in the army, they would have never left his side and kept his life in tact. Now, John has to deal without the luxury of his gays and must find straight people who can attempt to help control his life. I give it a week before his brain falls out and he turns back into a vampire.

So John McCain, I'm sorry you lost your homos. But lets face it. Elmo, who is also a big homo, could have fixed America's problems faster and more efficiently than he ever could have.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Technology - Becoming Sentient Does Not Give You Civil Rights

Technology is whack ya'll. I think, and this is specific to me, that technology has begun a secret attack and using me as a vessel for it's mission. Sounds dirty than I feel, but I speak the truth. I've had one too many close calls with technology taking advantage of me to not acknowledge what's really going on here. People, I say to thee - Technology wants rights.

"But Brian! What about the children."

They'll never make it alive. And neither will you.

For those of you who aren't as aware of these things as the obviously more intelligent me (this statement is ironic because the sentence structure is so bad :)...), than this all might seem like a big surprise to you. Believe me when I say that times are about to change, and we can all thank computers for that.

This impeding doom first reared it's ugly face when my roommate got us the Xbox Kinect. To digress for a moment, this machine is fucking awesome and provides hours of entertainment/I discovered I'm a natural at dancing games.

More importantly though is the fact that this little machine follows your every move....I mean it actually follows you. Not like those creepy paintings that look like the portrait is following your move, but those even creepier portraits with the eye holes cut out so the man who planned the party that is also planning on killing you and taking everyone's life insurance so that he can move to Puerto Rico with his unnamed and underage boy lover can ACTUALLY follow your every move. This is the first part of their plan and it is with devious motivation.

You see, this goes beyond big brother. This is not to prosecute us but rather to study us. Technology is making its way further into our livelihood everyday. People with the Kinect will also more than likely have a fair amount of other technology in their homes, and probably no girlfriends to boot (My roommate has easily risen above the later, but the Kinect truly could care less).

There next phase is for them to show there need to have civil liberties. I discovered this phase while at my internship attempting to use a computer that had been lovingly called "THAT laptop". For the sake of my argument, consider the laptop akin to "THAT uncle". I've mentioned him before, but for a refresher I'll provide the following adjectives/nouns/maybe some gerunds.

Bigot
Ignorant
Slow
Stubborn
Pooping as there favorite past time
SLOW
Creaky
Leaky
Probably a big homo

Did you spot the gerund? Thats what she.....I'm sorry. I'll try stoping that....no I wont.

I was given this computer to use because there weren't any free ones for me. I didn't really think anything of it, other than I hate Dells and think they should all be brought out to pasture. So I go to turn it on. Nothing. I even put my head up to the laptop to see if the hard drive was spinning. Nothing. I waited about ten minutes to be accosted by a DOS screen that said something about internal failure. Does uncle have dysentery? I pressed F1 to continue and then proceeded to wait another 40 minutes for the login screen to appear.

40 minutes.

After I finally was able to login and wait about another 15 minutes for the computer to be ready for me, I began my journey to connect to the server. The fastest thing this computer did was shut down when I asked to connect to the server. To give an analogy, this computer was like an old person trying to drive a car and playing pinball with the pedestrians, then going to court and saying that they are SOOOO capable of driving and shouldn't have anything revoked because for FUCKS sake they've been driving for 50 years which is longer than you've been born you snot nosed brat!!!

This computer's sole purpose was to show me that even when technology fails us, we'll be forced to use it and give it everything it wants and needs, but never vice a versa.

I've also learned of the last phase, which is based on spite and could literally bring us to our knees like little whores. Baby whores even.

My roommate and I have this things wherein I transfer him money and he pays our bills. Its a system that works great because we have the same bank and I'm lazy. So there I was, iPhone in hand, getting ready to transfer the money when something really pretty annoying happened.....nothing. I pressed the "button" and my phone just froze. Like any normal capitalist American would do, I started swearing at it with threatening comments like, "I'll get a droid if you don't start acting like a real fucking smart phone!" and "Should I call you the iPhone or the iFuckedupbrian'sday...phone?"

With one last effort, I pressed the button again in the hopes that it might actually work. Oh...it worked alright. TWICE.

My phone had decided to show me how much control it had by transferring the same amount over two times in a row. That bitch. And yet look at me. All defenseless from the treachery that had just been committed.....like a baby whore.

So it only seems obvious that this is all leading towards a civil rights movement on behalf of the semi-sentient robot based technoid creatures.

That Dell laptop WILL become the old legally blind man who is still allowed to drive even though all those poor girls died from his grocery run.

And my stupid iPhone will be their savior. Leading the battle to make our lives misery until will give them things like heath insurance and freedom of speech.

Fuck Freedom.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

PS-I don't hate freedom. I just hate the things that don't deserve it.....like Tea Party-ers and muppets.

Dear Body - Blow Me

I'm perpetually failing at this whole blog thing. And I know that I've given excuses for delays before, but this shit is for real.

My body hates me.

"How does that effect your writing" you might ask? Well, I guess it really doesn't, but it's been agonizing and I haven't had the patience to write until right now.

First, a history lesson in the oddities of Brian Scott Raphael Dann's immune system. The "raphael" is my confirmation name, which is totally a whole other story so just suck it up for now and deal.

So the first real crazy thing that happened was when I was probably seven or eight. I didn't find out for a couple of years what the real story was, but basically I couldn't walk for the better part of a couple of weeks. In my eight year old stupor AKA being fucking eight, I just assumed that I was having this crazy bad growth spurt that was going to make me 6'5". It was also a great excuse to watch the Ninja Turtles Live Concert on VHS 500 times in a row because I couldn't get up and what else better could there have possibly been. A couple of years ago, my mother told me the truth behind the madness. Turns out I contracted some weird virus that essentially made my hips lock up and put me in intense pain. They even thought I might have had polio for a hot second.

That's what I get for being a child prostitute, huh.

Fast forward eight years. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rush everyone it's just that not a lot happened in those years leading up to this....well maybe some awkward sexual development and the occasionally Power Rangers play date...oddly enough the two were not related...

Anyways, I'm in Bio with this crazy whore of a teacher (In actuality she wasn't a whore, and she was a great teacher, but she gave too much homework and it cramped my driving school time/band practice....band as in marching) and quite possibly the worst lab partner someone could have asked for. Let me put it this way. He had a snaggle tooth, made awkward comments about severely underaged girls, and picked his nose harder than Miss South Carolina picked on the English Language back in 2007. Worse yet, we were learning about the anatomy of plants, but are school was too poor to afford real plants to dissect. Instead, we used peanuts.....

I would like to mention the fact that I, up until this point, had enjoyed the company of peanut butter tremendously. As a youngin', my favorite snack was actually peanut butter and nacho cheese doritos AND DONT YOU DARE JUDGE!!! Whenever I tell people that, there always all "EEWWWWW" and "WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO YOURSELF". My retort is simple. Shut up and try it. It's like those cheese crackers with the peanut butter, only better.

So we are dissecting said peanut (lab partners had to share one.....I know your jealous) and I got fucking bored so I ate my half. Within about five minutes, I had broken out in hives and my throat was starting to close. Wait, WHAT! How the hell was this happening. I mean, I hadn't had anything with peanuts for a couple of months because I was an adult and needed to move from peanut butter sandwiches to bologna, but this just seemed impossible!

A hospital visit and one epipen later made me realize that peanuts were no longer an option for me. Struggles.

This time we'll only make a small jump to when I got my wisdom teeth out. And this one has two things!......that's what he said....and yeah I felt like changing it up.....that's what she said.

Wisdom teeth operation, at least according to the Doc, should only take about an hour and than another hour for recovery. I got to the offices at nine in the morning and promptly left at four....does the math seem off to you too?

Well, my body decided that I really didn't like this whole general anesthesia thing and it was just not going to let me wake up. For about six hours after the operation the nurses did everything they could to try and wake me up. Everything from giving my juice to slapping my face. Finally, the orthodontist gave me a shot of adrenaline to force me awake. I know what your all thinking. What an inexpensive date idea!

While in recovery, the doctor had prescribed penicillin to help prevent infection. Apparently my body also decided that it had had enough of this silly yet revolutionary drug, and it simply would not have it anymore. I found out after I took some and my heart began to race outside of my chest (to my chagrin, that stupid evil dog with the wheezing problem and the ugly mustachio man won the race....ugh). The doctor's called it hypercardioma or something stupid like that.

So here we are. Present day. I've had these weird itchy spots all over my body for about a month now. I tested for bed bugs which was thankfully a no. I changes my detergent, my body soap, and have even cut out gluten from my diet to see if anything helps. Lucky me, I'm still a mess.

In conclusion, fuck.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

PS-Ive decided to write a book....and I'm being for realsies, so you may just see some little excerpts begin to show up after the new year!

Dear 1 Train - or - The Independent Variables That My Life Depends On

First, and apology from the mezzanine. These last couple of weeks have made me take a back seat to my writing ( A seat might I add that was gotten through student rush!!!) and I want to let all seven of you know that I am back. With the holidays fast approaching and Black Friday....or as I call it "Reasons to be Pretty" Friday....PRETTY FREAKING OUT OF YOUR MIND.....ok so maybe I do dress up a little when working retail on black friday....shut up you in the corner. There is a reason you aren't seating with the rest of us.

Anyways, I've developed a complex. And not like one of those LIfetime movie complexes that Dame Elizabeth Berkley develops where she becomes a high class prostitute to feed her family because she just "CARES SO MUCH", but end up feeling worse about her self because of the demoralizing nature of her new found whoredom and can't figure out how to "get out of this rut!"....not that I've gone into great analyzation about the affects this movie has had on 40 something women trying to find purpose in this messed up crazy world of ours.....because I haven't....nope.....haven't even seen "Black WIdow"....ummm....I mean some rando movie where her whorish ways drive her to kill men...DAMMIT.

Back on track (I apologize for the pun). I have a complex, and it has been created by the 1 train. As any current and informed resident of NYC knows, the 1 has seen better days. In fact, on a frequent basis, the train just misses whole groups of stops for....well...who really knows why. They say work is being done, but every time I've had to crawl at snails pace through Columbus Circle, all I see are groups of men eating sandwiches. Kind of wish I had that job. I could be a really good Underground Sandwich Eating Director. If you paid close attention, the acronym for that is USED.....perhaps the humor is lost on you CORNER BOY!!!!

It all started about three weeks ago. Up until this point, I had been taking the NQR down to 42nd street and taking the one from there. This may seem extra lazy because I could easily be walking from the 57th street stop to my final destination on the upper westside, but as a Capitalist American I thought it was my rightful duty to be as lazy as possible. So I'm on my normal route, laughing as I walk by the troll people who live in the 42nd street station with their hordes of troll children, when I noticed something out of place. Even for 7:30 in the morning, the platform was exceptionally busy. People seemed extra sweaty as well, but I figured some biochemical virus had been released and they were slowly becoming zombies....you know....the logical reason.

Ten minutes go by. No train. I'm starting to slowly shit myself (THINK ABOUT IT...) because if this train doesn't come soon ima be late bitches!!! Finally, with what seemed like enough to to run out of the train and still glare at the hotdog vendor outside of the store who takes showers in our public sinks......the train came. Oh but it wasn't the 1, at least, it said it was a 1 but it randomly decided to run on the express track. I say express lightly because what happened next was both offensive and degrading. From 42nd street to 72nd took us 45 MINUTES!!! We were literally stopped at one point in between stations just waiting for whichever working was eating their egg sandwich to flip a switch so that we could continue. To top it off, there was a smelly smelly homeless man napping during the trip. He must have felt like a pig in shit...for a plethora of reasons.

So I haven't taken the 1 since then. It has been about three weeks now and I have to say it's getting easier every day. There are some days that I feel like biting the bullet and just going to the one, but then I check the status of the train on MTA's website and it's flashing red with the words STRUGGLESTAIN CITY on it. Every day it gets easier.

This had made me realize though that these trains, which don't directly affect any single person, greatly determine how that single person travels (not to say that said single person is seeing someone and isn't open for going on a night about town...or anything...). Over the last five years....don't even give me that musical theater glare because it is not a reference but actual FACT!!!...I have learned to rely heavily on public transportation. I will admit that the NYC system is by and large better than the jurassic failure that was the Boston metro system, but it still pains me that my life can abruptly change based on the whim of a giant speeding metal box.

The whole idea of sardining ourselves into a confined space, being forced underground to do so, only to come up from the bowels and push through the garbage of people that are going in reverse seems a little demeaning to me. We can't walk the streets because master might see us and take away our eating privileges for the day. To top it all off, we have to pay a monthly fee to be uncomfortable and listen to loud salsa music in the morning because there is a fucking band of "heterosexual" men playing guitar and shaking their surprisingly boring asses in our faces.

Chicago has an elevated train. Maybe that's why everyone is so much happier over there. Or maybe it's residual hallucinations from Cillian Murphey's poisonous gas during "Batman Begins" filming.

I love America.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear OKstupid - or Trying to be Smarter than the Average Homo

I know it's been a little too long since my last post but I apologize. I'll make it up to you real good though. Promise.

Alright LOVERS, whereyouat!?

As some of you may or may not know, but will soon know if you didn't...even if you didn't care to know before, is that I have an OKcupid, or as I rightfully call it OKstupid, account.

Don't get me wrong. It today's wild and crazy world run by super computers that live in the sky and train dragons from Mars, OKcupid actually runs pretty high on the list of semi-respectable dating facilities. Obviously some of the more popular ones include E-homophobe and J-date(it's a dating website for Jews, how cute right!?) but there are plenty of bad ones out there as well.

For instance, plenty of fish, AKA plenty of diseases and regrets, is mostly filled with mountain trolls who somehow convinced Verizon Fios that they would be an invaluable market to give the gift of Internet to. There are some OK people on there, but for the most part it's people you would expect to be the first ones eaten in zombie movies.

Then there's Ashley Madison which is for "discreet dating". In other words, you're bored with your wife because she wont pee on you during sex anymore so you find some tablecloth wearing community college student who will use you for the money you extorted. Can we all agree that this is a website for fat balding men with midlife crises?

OKcupid does a decent job, at least for most people, of finding decent to acceptable matches. I will admit, I have had some luck with this website. Every person I've gone on dates with has been normal and surprisingly non-murderous. It's getting to that point that I seem to have some trouble with.

First off, I'm not a stereotypical homo. I'm not a twink who likes getting coked out on the weekends and wakes up in the middle of Iowa after a "seriously tranny weekend biotches!" Nor am I a chiseled Adonis who spends more time working out that doing anything else considerably more important, like watching the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer series from beginning to end (i'm on season 7....don't know what I'll do when it's over). I'm not a hipster gay, I'm not a successful 40 gay who is just starting to get gray hair because he is now fucking distinguished, I'm not even an 800 pound bear who runs a daycare center and sings show tunes at the local elks club on the weekends. No I am none of these things. So for me to capture.....the attention...of these seemingly endless amount of stupidly attractive men, I need to figure out the best way to seduce them into going on a date. I know once they meet me they'll be all like, "OMG BRYAN (I don't know why they had to misspell my name in their dialogue) you are soooooo funny and cute and smart and witty and bright and amazing and pretty and A ROBOT!!!!!!!?"

Ok well maybe not all of those things. What I seem to be getting a lot of are the rando creepy 50 year old men who live out in Jersey and are interested in meeting other "Discreet, married, or bisexual men around the same age". Bitch if you still so in the closest, why you knockin on my door? Last time I checked, I was none of those things. If however I am wrong I will issue a public apology and bring you a football because flowers would be to gay.

The rare occasion when I do have an attractive man message me, something usually falls apart. Most of the time, I'll send a message back and they just wont respond. I think that probably has something to do with the fact that I ask if I can wear them as skin but it's an honest question and I don't see the big deal. One time, I got as far as planning a date with this kindergarten teacher. Everything seemed great until he just never showed up. I text him to see where he is and he makes up some excuse about his door falling off or something.....

Because I'm a sucker I gave him the benefit of the doubt and tried planning a second date, which by the way he had suggested to me because he felt bad. I wasn't being desperate and pushy. But he never got back to me. So I burned his house down.

Anyways, things just seem like they aren't working out they way they should. Sure I could go to Splash and meet some Jamaican man named Julian who either asked me to go home with him or marry him.....but I want something more than a crazy one night stand with a Jamaican man that probably would have been really good....fuck my life.

Instead, I get random Greek Gypsy ladies at the laundry mate asking how my mother is WHO THEY'VE NEVER MET!!! Or the random girl at the Duane Reade who asked me to reach for some milk duds for her because she was too short and than stalked me throughout the store telling me about the night she had planned and "how she wished she was getting beer with....i mean getting beer like me instead of these silly milk duds!"

I hate vagina. And yet somehow it seems to follow me everywhere I go. Like those beholder beasts with the one really big eye and bat wings.......wow I just really nerded out.

Oh fuck. I get it. THAT'S why I can't get a date. Thanks dungeons and dragons for RUINING MY GAY DREAMS!

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Times Square - An Open Letter On Your Douchery

DOUCHERY- that of being douche like in nature, or, in particular, exhibiting habits that exemplify douchiness.

Times Square. I hate you for your douchery.

Let's be honest, there are a lot of bad things happening in Times Square. The tourists alone, with their smelly handbags and slow walking, are bad enough. It takes a really good tourist for me to give them any sort of respect, and it usually involves them not asking me to take a picture of them but rather take a picture WITH them. And yes that happened. Some rando dutch family said I looked like one of their family members, at least I think they said that....come to think of it they might have said something about wanting to wear my skin. Either way they were endearing.

Sadly, it is not the tourists that made Times Square the wormhole to the End of Days that it has become. It's us, the locals.

I often describe Times Square to people like that bigoted uncle everyone has who makes racial slurs while drinking to much wine and then accidentally sets his hat on fire because he didn't see the candle there....oh....just me? Wow. Ok.

....ANYWAYS, below I have provided short notes to some of the haggish debaucheries that call the square their home.

Dear guy with the "I Need Money for Weed" sign standing in front of the Planet Hollywood. You look like an anorexic dragon that just got back from skin bleaching surgery. I don't know if I should slay you or feed you. And get rid of the goatee. We all know that anything longer than a closely trimmed goatee is not only offensive to children but it is against the law. I challenge you to be an upright citizen, or at least fucking eat something because I can see your dignity organ crying for help.

Dear Army of Naked Cowboys- The novelty has worn off. When there was one of you, and you were hot, it was a cool thing. But I actually dont want to see a poorly arranged doppleganger standing outside when it's 50 degrees out so I can catch a glimpse of his balls actually attempting to hibernate from the lack of clothing and heat. I also don't want to see naked cowgirl. She is the becky to your barbie. And as for naked cowgrandma, go back home, soak your teeth, and put on a nice episode of Columbo. You know....the one where he saves the day...

Dear Lady with the Subway sign - I know your job sucks. Holding a placard for a fast food chain is like being hired by some rich guy to watch his dog poop. That doesn't mean you have to have poor articulation. How will I know what coupons I want if I can't understand the difference when you say either meatball sub or "deathstar" sub. I think you might have also called me a racial slur. Jokes on you though. Gay isn't a race.....yet.

Dear Chicago girls - I really appreciate your work to try and maintain the theatre by getting people to buy tickets. I don't need to hear about your struggles being an "actor", nor do I need to see you try dancing out for the first time. I swear, I think some of these girls learned how to walk about five minutes before getting into costume.

Dear MTV- I know I'm young and hip, but for the last time, NO, I don't want to fucking film some promo for your shitty television!

Dear Hotdog vendor on 45th - You are overpriced. Just like the TGIFriday's on 46th.

Dear "Lace Gentleman's Club"- Maybe you don't know this, but not everyman wants to see a woman's cookie jar. And in addition to that, I don't have a "lady friend" who is "looking for a different kind of date". My only experience at a strip joint was depressing because the girls were really un-athletic and mildly pregnant. Whatever happened to the standard that Elizabeth Berkeley set?

Dear American Eagle- How could you possibly need 800 giant screens above your store when you don't even put up ads. It is literally just giant blue screens with your logo. DEPRESSING!!!

Dear M&M Superstore - HOW DO YOU STAY IN BUSINESS?

Dear 42st Subway stop - You are the worst. You are a nightmare. The only redeeming quality is the awkwardness that ensues when the older twinky "straight" guy sings doo-wop songs with the two old black ladies near the NQR. Other than that, you are no better than a canker sore.

Clearly I love it there.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear World - I Think Im Starting to "Get It"

And not in the sexy way!!!!! Wait....oh man....alright so I may have just revealed that my life is not so sexy right now. But that's actually ok. I think I'm starting to "get it"!!!

Some of you may be wondering what that means, and all I have to say is, if you don't understand it, than you aren't "getting it".

I have a theory that there are three types of people in this world. People who "get it", people who "can get it, but don't always", and people who will "never get it". The majority of people, and I still include myself in this mix, are in the second category. They are the people who are either on their way to the top spot, maybe just don't have the drive to be consistent, perhaps lack the experience, or any number of reasons really.

Many of you may be wondering what I mean when I say that there are people who "get it". Theses are the people, probably like Obama, who have all of the following and more:

Understanding of developing the self
Initiative to work with all groups of people
Knowledge of how to get ahead in life
Affable personality
Street Smarts
Sex Appeal
Experience in multiple perspectives
Work ethic
Goal oriented

These are the people that, when you look at them, you go "DAYAMN. That person is on FIYARE!!!" AKA that person is "getting it"

Celebrities, by and large (at least those with some semblance of talent) get it. Presidents....save an unnamed but obvious one....get it. Oprah definitely gets it.

Guys.

I think I might be, at least, on my way to getting it!!!

Maybe it's because I saw Brooke Shields standing opposite Glenn Close at a Broadway opening tonight. Or maybe it was the weird staring contest I had with Joel Grey at the after party. By golly, it could even be the fact that I feel more confident than ever, even though I still have no idea what the fuck I'm going to do in my life (sounds like an episode of Gossip Girl).

Nonetheless, I have the weird inkling that I'm on the verge of something big...that's what she said....and I just hope it fits.....

I dont think I even need to reiterate that one.

I guess what I'm getting at is, I think I'm finally beginning to start my life. I'm excited to see where it goes, excited to see what latino men come my way, and really excited to one day meet Bette Midler.

The life.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Readers - I Think I Found My "Sexy" Shirt

You know that outfit. The one that makes people go DAYUM BIOTCH!

I figured out that outfit. Really it's the shirt that I think makes it, and to be honest I'm not entirely sure why. That being said, I know it works.

Exhibit A-Walking to work one day, wearing what I had assumed to be an above average blue button up. I had woken up late....as is becoming my usual routine...struggles on that...so I didn't have time to shave and look all sexy pants. So I'm slugging my way to the train when I see a cute boy in le distance. I give him eye contact because...well he was shiny and pretty so it seemed right. And lets just say that I did that thing where you turn around to look at the person's butt to verify that it is really that good. Now, normally that involves a lot of me looking at them, and a lot of them walking away never knowing that I violated them....I like it that way.

But he was looking back too. HE WAS TRYING TO CATCH MY BUTT! The physics of how a shirt made my ass look better are beyond me, but if Patrick Stewart can be transported to far off planets by Scottish people than why can't I wear a shirt that defies gravity to an irrespective body part?!

Feeling more confident, I obviously treated myself to a coffee from the Dunkins. Alright, well I was going to do that anyway, but it felt more deserved this way.

Exhibit B-I'm on the train, enjoying my beverage of victory, and perhaps playing the best game ever of fruit ninja I've had to date (this is an iphone reference. I can't be responsible for those of you that haven't realized we live in an age based on what applications you have and how long your battery is....when I say it like that it kind of sounds like I'm referring to a Tracy Jordan look alike Japanese made sex doll...also a reference. I feel like I'm baby sitting you people into being relevant OH SNAP! JK, I'm sure all of you knew those references. I am keeping track though....)

Longest tangent ever. Me. On train. Victory beverage. Then, almost like you might see in a 90's classic meg ryan movie, before the face transplant that is, I make eye contact with ANOTHER MAN!!! This one was considerably more manly, which I like. I want my men to be like mountains, not to be mistaken for mountain men because I don't date homeless people who give guided tours of "central park" AKA some rando's backyard. He kept smiling at me and shifting his eyes to my direction.

Obvious I was all like, "Oh mista Bond, you ah such a scoundril. I make yuu tea?" But it also made me really nervous. I kept looking away because all I kept thinking was that I had to get to work and this guy probably wanted to hook up in some subway bathroom and I just had too much class and too little time to do that. I mean, there is real commitment involved in that kind of scenario.

Needless to say I looked up missed connections that day to see if he had posted. This might sound weird, but I secretly hope to one day have a missed connection. Not one of those ones with TMI that read, "to the bitch boy who blew me last night, I had fun. We should do that again sometime"

No. I want one that has some rando write a poem about the color of plaid I was wearing that day and he's too afraid to reveal information about himself because he has a debilitating collection of cat skeletons and isn't ready to share that burden with someone else. Not yet.

At the end of the day, I think that's what we're all looking for. Creepies to write haiku's on Craigslist for us.

Oh, and I might have Jedi powers when I wear that shirt. This theory is still untested but consider it fact.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Breeders - An Essay on Being "Family"

Like many advocates out there, I am taking to social media to get my point across. The point, sadly, is in reference to all of the recent LGBT suicides.

I know that these suicides are not any more frequent than before, but for whatever reason, the media has decided that it is a hot topic. In a way, I'm glad to see gay issues get so much coverage. It pains me to see so many teens too heart broken to live because of the people that tortured them, and even more so to see the continued prejudice from pubic officials. Still, if these things were left out of the media, like they had been for so long, than no one would care enough to take a stand.

I used to be a religious person. I saw many wonderful things about having religion in my life, which I might add is different than having God in your life, but perhaps that is a whole other debate. The thing that always bothered me though, considering I was raised a Roman Catholic, was the amount of guilt and hate that seemed to stem from the teachings.

I can vividly remember being about ten years old and realizing that I was gay. For many years I would pray to God to make these feelings I had stop because I wanted to be like everyone else. I prayed to God for a lot of things that never changed. I'm not sure if it was something that someone had said to me that made me start to be ok with everything, or if it was a gradually decision that I had made on my own.

I do know the day that everything started though. I was in Confirmation class and we were talking about a lot of different things. The topic of sex had come up quite a bit (I'm pretty sure two of my classmates were doing it and kept asking questions about the "repercussions of premarital sex" because they thought it was funny). My teacher had made many references to breeding and that procreation was the only acceptable reason for sex. One of the kids jokingly made reference to gay people trying to make babies. The teacher turned a shade of red that I hadn't seen before (it wasn't very becoming either), and she began one of the most despicable tangents I had heard.

"Being gay is an abomination", she had said. A man having sex with another man was the same things as having sex with a goat according to her. Bestiality and Homosexuality....apparently...were the same...

Lady. I don't fuck goats. Not even men with long goatees, but that's out of principle. I don't think I need to explain myself there.

I'm not sure what stirred up inside of me, but I was confused and hurt so I had to say something. The only thing I could think of asking was WHY.

Her argument was that being a homosexual "Bared False Witness" which was breaking one of the 10 commandments. She said that gay people were lying to God about who they were, and would surely go to hell because of it.

Not realizing that my sassy gay wit was already boiling inside of me, I retorted with a comment on her hair. I said, "Well miss (blank) you dye your hair blonde. I don't see how that's any different of a "lie" than being gay. It's still a "lie" that has a stereotype associated with it. Does that mean dying your hair is the same as bestiality?"

Needless to say she got upset. But my comment had riled enough people to make them question it too. She had backed herself into a corner by saying that homosexuals were going to hell because they "lie" about it. Still, it bothered me that she had made that comparison.

Flash forward about 8 years. Im living in New York, I'm out and proud, and I'm trying to live the dream by pursuing a career in theater. While I'm doing that, I spend my days working retail for an awesome company. One of the perks of living in the city is the copious amounts of beautiful people that work in front of your life every day.

Because if this, I am always wondering who's playing for what team. I recently asked a couple of my girl friends at work if they knew what "family" meant. Most of them thought I was being literal and asked me why I didn't know them if they were family. None of my straight friends knew this, but all of my gay friends did. Asking if someone is "Family" means asking them if you think the person is out and proud.

With all of the LGBT news springing up, I realized why this title is important. I was using it as a reference for who I should flirt with, but the word "family" has a much more important meaning to it. Any member of the LGBT community is Family because we understand the hardships of being different. It's not like a skin color, being gay, so people have a hard time knowing where we come from. But it really is no different. I never chose to be gay, but I certainly wouldn't choose to be straight if it meant causing pain for others.

That is why we must stay "family". We need to be there for those kids who don't know that there are thousands of others out there that know exactly were they are coming from. Breeders, and I give this name to those out there that do not support our community and think that we are lesser because we cant procreate (at least we can try though :P ), there is only one thing I need to say to you.

You don't need to make a baby to have Family. Cue Sister Sledge.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
BRIAN DANN

Dear Life, thanks for reminding me that I you are a tough cookie

So it's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep on my new comfy bed because I have too much going on in my mind. Struggles. Like severe struggles.

But isn't that what life is about, at least for the majority of people?

Sorry for the existential crisis bomb that I just blew up, but I have to imagine that I am not the only one who feels like they just got covered in pig's blood at the prom and my telekinesis wont kick in. DAMN YOU STEPHEN KING!

It is just that, I finally got this awesome internship in the field that I want to work in, but I still don't feel 100%. I don't want to confuse this feeling with contempt against the internship because I actually love it. I'm learning so much about commercial theatre and I really love everyone that works in the office. I just feel lost still.

The first big issue, and I mean BIG, is this whole student loan business. Unrelated? Not by a long shot.

You see I went to Emerson College. I had a fantastic time, learned a lot, met some life longs friends and contacts, and would not change a thing about my experience. Well....except for the fact that I have over 80,000 dollars in loans. You see, America sucks and doesn't really help out their citizens with educational costs like our European friends do. For christ's sake, even Canada does a better job at it. For the amount of money I owe, I can't even begin to pay it back because the economy blows severe balls....gross I know....and I can just get myself by. Now this is not a woe is me party by any means because I chose to take out those loans and go to school. But I've discovered this fundamental problem with how this whole "American" system works.

As Americans, we are expected to go to college. Without the degrees, we are told that we wont amount to anything more than a Walmart manager - and in all fairness they make more money than I do. Yet here I am, degree in closet, and I can't seem to make ends meat. Beyond the fact that I can't really even consider going back to school because my credit is so bad that I couldn't even get more loans, I'm surrounded my people who DIDN'T get degrees and are doing more than fine. In fact, these people seem more grounded and on track than I have felt in years.

I look at these people, and I envy their freedom from having to worry about the fact that, at some point, I need to make enough money to pay this massive debt off.

That's when the day dreams start happening. Me thinking about what I would do if I won the lottery, or became uber famous and could just pay off the debt. This is what my life has centered around. Not what kind of art I want to make or what story I want to tell. I've become apart of the all-american "get rich quick" mentality because so many of us really need it.

We have created a society that does not support those that need the help. We put money into oil wars that we created, into other countries that we've destroyed, and into the hands of the wealthy and well-off.

So then I think about Snooki. She, like so many Americans, realized that the only way to work with the system was to find a way onto television. She happened to be interesting enough that made it worthwhile for MTV to pay her to be a train wreck. So while she's making 10,000 an episode for having sex and saying funny things while she's drunk, I'm making 15,000 a YEAR trying to be a real person.

I would love to be on television, but to be apart of a creative show that really effected people. The fact of the matter is, watching these shit-shows is entertaining and we all buy into it. I feel like what I'm getting at is, I probably just have to find a niche in reality tv in order to pay back the money for an education that I might have needed but who's the judge on that anyway?

At the end of the day, I don't want to do that. I don't want to talk about eating pickles and having a puff on my hair to create an image for myself so that my 15 minutes lasts an extra 5. But I do want to be free from this restraint.

I have this tattoo that reads, "Live once, with no regrets". I try everyday to do that, but so much works against that. Doubt is a serious ailment, and it undervalues the lessons that we learn.

I was once told to have patience and perspective when trying to achieve your goals. I think I need a new perspective, a new outlook, to try and figure out where the light is coming from at the end of my tunnel. I can be patient. I just need some direction. Who knows, maybe I should just read "The Secret" or some other philosophy based following.

What I do know is that I have a lot to be thankful for, in my friends and my drive and the fact that I have a job and a home. First world problems are tougher than I imagined though.

At least I have my little blog.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

ps- An apology to Snooki. I think your entertainment value is tremendous. Tremendous in the way that makes me want to kill myself because you're making so much money, but tremendous non-the-less. Keep fist-pumping the night away.

Dear Plaid on Plaid - or - Why Old People Get to Wear Whatever

I am a plaid expert. Ask anyone. I know how to pair it and integrate it into almost every part of my life. This is both physically and metaphorically speaking. For goodness' sakes I have more plaid shirts than I don't. If I liked the lady bits I would be prime real estate for lesbian moving companies.

Because I am an expert, I have the right to add the plaid feature to different parts of my life. Such examples include plaid underwear, bed sheets, and disposition....

I also have the foreknowledge to see when the commoners are abusing their right to wear plaid. This happens when an individual, usually also wearing "mandals" or off-putting crocs pairs his plaid shirt with plaid shorts.

It is almost too hard to continue...that's what she said. Forgive me if it seems odd that I keep making those jokes, but I can't pass up a good "that's what she said" in life or in writing so you'll just have to deal with it.

I have variety in my plaid, usually pertaining around a base color. Plaid works well in that it provides accents to an otherwise boring button up shirt. Yet I find that these offenders often find the worst plaids possible. They find the kind of plaid that has no distinct direction, no base color, and seems to have too many ideas going on at the same time. It's like Rihanna.

It would actually be OK if they just kept it to the shirt or the shorts and paired it with something a little more....I don't know, fashion forward? What they do instead is a disgusting act of mutiny that I don't think anyone should stand for. They pair their ugly shirt with a pair of shorts that are just close enough to the same pattern to ALMOST be a plaid short suit....but they aren't quite there.

I saw several of these offenders in one week and thought I was going to loose my eye-sight when something all together odd happened. I saw an elderly man not only wearing plaid with plaid, but he had giant spectacles and a bow-tie to boot! The only thing I could think about him was, "HOW CUTE IS THAT LITTLE OLD MAN?"

That's when it all made sense. Old people get to wear whatever they want. Well. Old people and Lady Gaga.

You see, like the Lady Gaga, old people can strut around in literally their naked birth suit and people will only applaud their decision. I've seen men wear pants up to their chins, women wear giant purple moo moos with ice cream stains from three weeks ago, and a couple wearing matching gold lamay track outfits. I have never thought to myself, "OOF! What is that old person wearing?". I only find it endearing when I see a 70 year old grandmother walking down the street with bright yellow dyed hair.

Why they have this ability, I'm not sure. But I'll tell you one thing.

I'm jealous.

LOVES AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Bed - or - Why I am a ManCave Kind of a Guy

Get out of my room.

No really. GET OUT!

For those that have known me for a long time, I am particular about my space. If I invite someone over, and yes I am talking about a special friend, than they will very rarely see my room upon first visit. I will say, over the years, I've gotten better about giving ample prep time for my room so that said visitors wont think I'm weird when I refute them entry. That being said, this has been a long uphill battle for me.

I can remember being around ten years old, already divalicious, and not letting anyone into my room. This included my family members. I think a majority of the reason, at least when I was first starting to be super crazy about the whole room thing, was due to the fact that I'm not the cleanest person. There was something about the mess that I would create that I needed to maintain, something to do with my identity or some bull shit. I think that was another reason I had a hard time letting people in my room. The bedroom says so much about a person, to the point where people literally put the very fabric of what makes them unique onto their walls. Whether that means putting up photos from Amber's birthday party where you were listening to Sugar Ray for hours and now you can't fathom your own existence, or perhaps the bowling trophy you got a ten because you were a prodigy who picked a different path but still want the reminder.....I digress. Amber was a bitch anyways.

To be frank...not amber's gay boyfriend, the act of being frank..oh whatever, I've never been one to put things up on my walls. That doesn't mean I don't put things on my walls, but its never felt very genuine for me to do that. I just moved into my new apartment in Astoria not too long ago, and this is the first time I've ever even painted! I kind of like having the bare walls, but I also know that I'm a little embarrassed by it. Between that and the messy thing, I'm pretty sure that is the reasoning behind me being so "You shall not pass!!!" about the whole thing.

I have learned though, especially in the past year, that I NEED that kind of space.

Back in May, I had a living situation that was...well....a little abnormal. I don't want you all to think this is gay or anything, but I had someone else sleeping in my room. FOOLED YOU!!!

Well only slightly. You see, I had come up with the idea that I wanted to move to the city to become one of those big Broadway stars that you hear about in the talking pictures. A good friend of my, and perhaps the timing was ironically perfect, had just ended a pretty serious relationship and needed to move out of the place he was staying at. My crazy brain thought, "WELL THIS IS JUST PERFECT TIMING!!!"

What I had decided to do was let him move in early, taking over my lease, and I would sleep out in the living room until I could figure something else out. Womp womp, what a great idea :(

It was at this time that I realized, to my own chagrin, that I needed to have personal space. I was living out of a suitcase IN MY OWN HOUSE. A slight side note, I apologize for all of the capitol letters. I'm not sure if this is a temporary style choice or if my writing has just evolved....mmmmm...pokemon...DONT JUDGE!

But like,4 srsly guys, I was homeless in my own home. It was about as sad as a bear wearing a business suit after he's just been laid off from his gig as Smokey. Think about it....go on, I know it's sad but really, it's a great metaphor/image/REALITY!?

I thought that this phase would end, but to my now continuous chagrin, this phase would persist for several months. Once I left the town of beans, or for those ruffians who don't know any better, BAHSTON, I went back to Newyorkachusetts* for a brief encounter. *-Newyorkachusetts is Connecticut, but honestly, if you didn't know that it means you haven't been reading my blog and I am now disgusted by your presence. If you did understand the reference, I thank you with a simple smile :)....or a pirate smile if you prefer Pp

Whilst at my homeward bound abode (I LOVE THAT MOVIE!!! MJ FOX 4EVR!!!) I also did not have a place to call my own. You see, my mother was able to move on from the whole empty nest thing very easily, and made my old room into her costume closet. In retrospect, I can see how that statement seems odd. All of you now think that my mother plays live action role playing games and is a level 12 dungeon master. In fact, she is a level 12. A level 12 costume designer though. I'm the dungeon master.

Judge away.

From here, I ventured to good old Inwood, which I am convinced is the only place that is on the island of Manhattan that no one has ever heard of beyond the people that live there. I compare it to the Wizard of Oz...but Dominican.

I was extremely fortunate to have a good friend of mine let me sleep in her apartment while I found a place of my own. This was what I mark as the beginning of my bed struggles. Even though I hadn't slept in a real bed in months at this point, she had me sleeping on her air mattress. Before this, I had been sleeping on couches and barrels of "HAI GURL", so I was really looking forward to sleeping in something comparable to a bed.

More chagrin.

So some how, I had ruined life and god was upset at me....probably the whole gay thing started it...anyways...to the point where I had broken the air mattress. Don't get me wrong, it blew up just fine (that's what she said HAHAHAHAHAHAHA???) but I would wake up every morning in a cocoon of sadness and despair.

After what seemed liked...well a really long time, at my friends house I finally found the perfect apartment (COMMENCE JEALOUS RANGE!). There was a problem though. I still had no bed.

Back tracking to when I was in Boston, some of you may be paying attention to the fact that I never took the bed away from the apartment. Well the bed was struggly and it kept poking me in the back. I'm still convinced the mattress was sentient and was slowly making me into a vampire cyborg. UGH, the human part of the cyborg would be the vampire, still making two halves to a whole! It OBVIOUSLY couldn't be human, vampire AND robot all at the same time....or could it?

Well struggles ensued in Astoria because I had yet another air mattress that deflated every night. Whatever higher being is in charge of the air mattress, please cut me a break. Every morning I would wake up, hoping to come out of the cocoon looking like Channing Tatum, or Paula Dean but that is a whole other story.

FINALLY, after months of bed struggles....again, judge away....I have finally gotten a real bed.

Now that I've ranted at you for what seems to be the better part of ten minutes that you'll now never get back, what was the point you ask? Well, I've learned two things about what I need and the fundamentals of a room. First and foremost, I need my own space. In the time that I was staying all over everyone else's shit, it made me confirm the fact that people need alone time, and I am NO exception. I felt trapped and abused by my own surroundings, so said Elizabeth Berkeley THANK YOU SHOWGIRLS AND JESSE SPANA!, to the point where I wasn't even Brian anymore. Sad business bears to that as well. In that time, I've also learned something else. Whatever I have as my own doesn't need to be a bedroom, but it does need to be a ManCave. Like the theory on squares, a ManCave can be a bedroom but a bedroom is not always a ManCave. I don't know if that analogy directly transfers but it feels right so I'll let it stay....that's what she said.

Here are some things that my ManCave will require (hint hint to my future sugar daddy who happens to be Brazilian and loaded with cash and love...)

-Privacy which may involve biometric entry of some kind. Fingerprints though because I've seen too many sci-fi shows where someone gets there eye stolen so they can enter a room. I'd much rather loose the hand thank you very much.
-Technology. Expensive technology. Expensive and pretty technology.
-A masseuse. If said Brazilian sugar daddy happens to also be this than added points!
-Bar service. I need my lawyers handy at all times....did you like the pun I made? No but seriously, someone better be able to make me LITs and adjust my taxes!
-Did I mention expensive and pretty technology?
-If the ManCave is indeed a bedroom, than I will also need a comfy bed.....and another ManCave.

I think the most important thing I've learned in general is, at least for me, what makes my room mine is the bed. If I don't have a good bed than a wake up looking like Jay Leno, and NO ONE WANTS THAT!

LOVES AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Bravo by Andy or Why We Give a Damn About First World Problems

Andy Cohen and the entire creative team over at Bravo have discovered something marvelous. Almost as marvelous as that giant cat cave in Aladdin or Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus.

They have figured out how to make us care, I mean really care, about first world problems.

Before I go further, I will admit that this essay is part of my campaign to get a job with Bravo, so expect some shmoozery on my part. However, this does not mean you are allowed to stop reading if you aren't a part of the Bravo staff.

For those of you that have been following my entries, you know my personal opinion on the crisis that is the FWP. Recently, I was thinking about a particular person with severe FWP while watching some hilarious clips from this stellar season of the "Real Housewives of New Jersey". This paradox evaded me until I realized I was perpetuating the very thing that I had set out to destroy. Somehow, I had been made to care about these first world problems that, if presented to me in the real world, I would normally look at in disdain as opposed to excitement.

But why? Let's look at the facts.

Bravo first reinvented the wheel with their mega hit "Project Runway". This show blew through the roof with it's ratings and viewership because it had done something that few reality shows had done before. Instead of it being a reality based competition where the grand prize is a lump some of money, it was a show with a main goal in mind for the winner. Everyone competing had all the same desired goal and tons of experience to make for a really interesting, and might I add deserving, competition. Shows before it, like "Survivor", had no common thread between the contestants like those on "Project Runway"......set aside the fact the offensiveness of "surviving" in a place that other people were currently living in. Talk about first world problems. Let's give you a million dollars for lasting a month in a place where people have been doing it for free for centuries....

"Project Runway" found a golden opportunity by creating a show with real purpose that wasn't centered around greed. It was an occupationally based reality competition. I think the reason why people care about this more is that it's easier to empathize with someone that works themselves to the bone for a purpose rather than those that get lucky enough to spend a month on a luxurious island to win a million dollars.

It was also one of the first reality based competitions to openly acknowledge having gay contestants. I've always said that once the gays are on board with something, you can guarantee a hit. I think "Glee" is case and point on that.

Bravo has gone on to have many other shows with this same thread, including the EMMY award winning "Top Chef", "Sheer Genius", and "Work of Art".

Yet this only explains half of Bravo's success. The competition based shows, though popular, are not the only brand of reality by Bravo. Following in this idea of occupation, Bravo came out with another type of show starting with "Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List". There are a lot of reasons why this show is so great, and many of them stem from the fact that it's a show about Kathy Griffin. But it was also Bravo's fist venture into having a show about a specific type of person. They didn't have a random assortment of people who had nothing in common, nor was it a show about someone just because they were famous. In fact, especially in it's first season, this show was the antithesis of that celebrity concept. It was about this really great, might I add gay-friendly, comedian who would literally do anything to get higher on the celebrity totem pole.

Bravo came out with similar shows like "Work Out", "Blow Out", and "Flipping Out".....is there a coming out theme here?....that centered around engaging people within specific and luxurious occupations. Again, everything was immediately accessible to the gay community as far as what we could relate to, and they had found people with purpose. Even though these people would complain about First World Problems, like having a house maid that didn't fold your sheets right, we were engaged because of the people they had chosen.

Bravo landed big time with it's Housewives series, and not necessarily for a different set of reasons. Of all the reality celebs that have come from Bravo TV, few compare to the wives on these shows. Names like Bethenny Frankel and Teresa Guidice are household items, and these women in particular have even created their own brands. I keep asking myself, why do I care about these ridiculous women who seem to have so many problems yet they have more money than I would know what to do with.

Because they are Fabulous. That's right, they deserve the capitol F.

House-wifery, in my opinion, is one of the most easily relatable occupations there is. Bravo already had the gays with these shows by adding the likes of Kelly Bensimon and Danielle Staub, but they had gained something even more important. Real Housewives.

Think about it. Woman that stay at home do things for their family all day. Though they aren't holding million dollar weddings in New York hotels or shopping their children around for commercial spots, they do understand the underlying value of putting the family first. Being a mother can be a thankless job, and often involves putting up with your families bull-shit. LOVE YOU MOMMY! This series of show does so well because it allows REAL housewives to commiserate with the show wives and escape at the same time.

I think Bravo will only continue to have success with this smash series. I'm personally really looking forward to the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills which is going to have Kelsey Grammars EX!

I don't know if it makes me happy to care about people with morbid amounts of first world problems, but I'll tell you what does make me happy.

Watching Teresa flip a table or the Countess' release party for her new single. The only thing I have to say to Bravo is....bravo.

...and can I have a job? I may or may not have applied for your Research Coordinator position.....as in I did. And please don't mind the odd grammar structure. It's part of my style.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Acid Crotch or Why I Cant Keep a Good Pair of Jeans

I have this problem.

It's called Acid Crotch.

Before you get all huffy and puffy at me, let me explain to you what acid crotch is.

Acid crotch is a close relative to under-boob sweat and swamp ass, though the consequences are much different. Supposedly, the derivative is from friction created between one's legs while walking, thus slowly tearing away at the fabrics of said pants.

I have theories as to how my acid crotch came to be, and most involve me being so manly that my crotch refuses to be bound by the convention of jeans. For those of you that know me, you can see why this is the only valid hypothesis.

Now I don't want people to think that I'm taking my manly percentage for granted. I know that my forest of chest hair encapsulates potential suitors from miles around. I also know that my ability to build things is comparable to breeders looking at a female counterpart's hips to see her childrearing potential. My masculine fortitude is something I am proud of.

However, acid crotch is an unfortunate and uninvited side effect, mostly because I go through jeans faster than Heidi Montag goes through bouts of plastic surgery. I just want to be able to buy a pair of pants that wont develop a man made hole on the inside right leg after 8 months. Furthermore, the specific epicenter of my acid crotch leak causes the most concern.

My mother is a professional costume designer/mother which means that she can sew holes together. But because of the placement of the hole aka on the fucking seam, it makes patching the hole nearly impossible and definitely not permanent.

Some have joked about these wholes being good for easy access....I'm sorry what? Easy access to me is that fucking pass you get at Disney World that lets you into a special fast line which basically lets you cut people. To me there is no "easy access" when it comes to....."pillow fights". My mom occasional reads this blog so I'm going to refrain from getting more detailed or vulgar.....ok so I get pretty vulgar but....yeah I get it.....ok your right I'm very vulgar and crass and old those words that my grandmother might use to describe today's youth. I was actually over you like five minutes ago so.....

Anyways, my crotch is too hot to handle.

As a gay man, it is a necessity for me to have good clothes. In general, this is a struggle for me and a whole other issue beyond acid crotch. You see, as my clothes deteriorate, either physically or within my current liking, I have no problem of getting rid of them. This first problem with this is that I am a very picky shopper so it's not easy for these items to be replaced. The other problem, and the one that really makes life difficult in general, is that I am as poor as the mouse that gets forgotten in the cast of Oliver that actually eats the crumbs he lives behind after he's asked for some more. Don't remember? That's how poor he is. So you see, as my mighty crotch spews acid onto my jeans, I must get rid of them. But because of the struggles that I live in, I can't replace them as fast as I go through them. Eventually, I will have to walk around in just my underwear, which means I'll have to have an EMT on constant watch for the people who faint, and then I'll have a whole new problem (I think the grammatical structure of that sentence is right, but camas are officially the bane of my existence).

The end result makes me feel like a bad gay. I'm afraid Liza is going to come in the middle of the night and steal my member card away. No joke, I literally only have 7 shirts and 2 pairs of jeans that I wear on rotation. If I wasn't convinced that I'm a man-fan, I would think I was a republican high school graduate about to go off to the military to SIRV MEH CUNTRY. It's not that I don't want more clothing, I just have really struggly issues and basically need to be making twice as much money to fulfill the closet needs I have.....hahaha....closet needs. Either way, I need answers to my problems.

Here are solutions I can think of.

Find a man who wants to buy me things....lots of things....I like things.
Stop eating until I can fit into Baby Gap clothes and basically buy two for the price of one
Give in and buy clothes at the Grocery Store (eww, never)
Make my own....out of the dignity that I have already lost
Steal
Find an old woman who want to buy me things. I can lead them on...it'll make them happy to give me their life insurance
Hire a pack of 3rd world countrians to make a sweat shop in my room and mass produce
Steal
Fix my Acid Crotch

The only problem with the last solution is if I'm ever in a fight to the death, I'll need that Acid to win. The other options seem sufficient though.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Public Transportation - On the intricacies and exceptions in my life

I'm about to use public transportation as a metaphor. I'm not sorry.

It has been just about two months since my move, and I think things are finally starting to settle in. No, I'm not talking about that nasty growth on my.....wait you had no idea about that....

I'm talking about me, myself, getting settled into a place that I never thought needed settling into. Growing up in Newyorkachussetts - I'm sorry, Connecticut for those who aren't from there - Manhattan was always within reach. There was a Metronorth train stop maybe five minutes from my house, and plenty of other stations to chose from along the way. My family frequented the city, seeing many of the Broadway show tunes...explains a lot...and I felt like I had a really good understanding of what I was getting myself into when I decided to move. I suppose the metaphor there, or better the analogy....or something relative COME ON PEOPLE...is that just because something is in reach doesn't mean you know what it is.

There was about a week of time when I first moved into my apartment in Astoria (JEALOUS MUCH?) where the N train kept being under construction and literally back tracking me before it would take me to midtown. Needless to say this was a big struggle. Don't get me wrong, I have heinously low standards for public transit after experiencing the Boston transit system (which I would liken to a blind pirate being blown by a scurvy ridden octo-shark). But up until that point, I had such expeditious travel times in NYC that these seemed both absurd and personal. Why was MY train doing this to ME? No one else was having this problem. Certainly not the blind, now diseased pirates in Boston. I have now come to terms with the fact that I just need to be aware of the transit system and the things that are being done to it. This metaphor could be something like, "don't judge a book by it's cover", or some other crock of shit.

This experiences have been imperative to me NYCvolution, but none so important as my recent 16 hour escapade to Boston. For those Bostonites reading this now who did not see me, I apologize for not letting you know that I was there. I had to see my "luvstruggs" Kady and didn't have time to see everyone. She had just gotten back from the real "isreal" and she needed some lovin.

My journey started with an 11pm Megabus to Boston. New York decided it would be funny to piss on everyone that night (not the trashy reality TV star, the city) so i was pretty wet once I got on the bus. The ride itself was pretty stress free save for the tween whores who almost ruined the Lady GAGA for me by listening to "Just Dance" 13 jillion times in a row and singing along as if the didn't have food stuck in their whore braces and a prepubescent drinking problem consisting of Red Bulls and their own dignity...

I had Buffy season five with me so that made up for it.

It was when I came into Boston that things started bubbling up. Having lived there for four years, I knew that Boston cab drivers had about as much a sense of direction as Ferris wheel. I also new that having my iPhone handy couldn't be a bad thing, considering it could give me exact directions if needed.

I get into a cab. Mind you, it's almost 3:30 in the morning by this point, so I grabbed the closest one there was. Not that it would have made any difference. I gave my destination, and the driver just took off without hesitation. I though, "Maybe this once...just maybe....he'll know where he's going". I'll never understand why I give people such benefit of the doubt. Not only did he miss the street, but when I told him we passed it, he kept driving and informed me that he didn't think I new where I was and that we should go back to Boston to get to the right address.

Assfuck.

Politely, I made him aware of the fact that he was wrong and would not be paid past what was currently on the meter. I had him drive back to show him where the street was, to which he responded, "Oh, this must be a new street name. It wasn't called this before." My friend has been living there for a year...

Taking the T, or the Boston subway, was also an eye opening experience. Even though there are literally millions of people in New York City, there are so many trains running that cars never feel too crowded. Without fail, one of my T rides in Boston was filled to the brim with people equal parts old and angry. Boston has less than a tenth of the people living in it...

The piece with the most gravity was most definitely my return trip on Megabus. Our driver was bad. I mean ruul bad. There were a couple of times, especially once we got to the city, where I was convinced my organs would fall out from of the hectic breaking she was doing.

I knew something was out of the ordinary when people started swearing. On the last leg of the trip, I was awoken by two things: a very abrupt stop and the gentleman next to me screaming, "WHY THE FUCK IS SHE DRIVING THROUGH TIME SQUARE ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!!!". Oh no.

He was right. We were literally amidst a sea of people, presumably tourists or jersey bridge hoppers who came in to get fucked up...both came for that reason...and the bus could not move more than a few feet every minute. When I think of Time Square, I thinking of a field, filled with puppies, slowing being driven over by that machine from the Fern Gully. Not a place I want to spend any time at, let alone a Friday night on a bus.

Rows of people were getting up to yell at the driver. For a couple of minutes, I was convinced a mutiny was growing up under us, but I think people were too tired to commit to a coup d'etat.

This is where the exception comes in. It's like Inception, except without 800 hours of exposition and unfortunately now SFX or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

I normally would have been right along with the other passengers, screaming bloody murder and angrily calling a random friend. But I had already had a pretty terrible couple of days with transportation that made me feel a little more immune to it all. What I did get (wait for it.....)

- was an important lesson.

You were expecting me to say something dirty? Oh....you weren't.....oh.

Basically, I realized the latitude of my own existence. WOAH! WTF MATE.

Since I've come to the City, I've been applying to internship after internship with little to no avail. Finally, I got really far with an interview process with an extremely reputable theater company. The sad part is that after everything I did for the application, they couldn't offer it to me.

I couldn't see it for what is was worth until I was on the bus though. We were surround by horrific amounts of people, and it was still only a small portion of the number of those living in the city. That's when it hit me. I got really far with an interview process that potentially MILLIONS of other people applied to. Now, I'm sure that there is a little exaggeration to that, but it made me really happy with how far I was able to get. It also got me thinking about the fact that I need to get my name out there more, so I've decided to start auditioning for things as well as pursue directing. I'll be like fucking Marie Antoinette. She was the one who had the line about cake, right?

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Home Depot - You are a Prostitution Whore

OK readers....all three of you. I apologize for not having written in almost three weeks. I can't believe I did that to....all three of you...but I will try my damnedest to not be such a struggle. I mean at least with take such a hiatus. In my defense, I've been moving my stuff to the new place and have been high off of the paint fumes that my new room has created. Ironically, this leads into my story.

So I just moved into an awesome pad with a friend from college, Ryan (the fact that our names are almost the same drives our landlords crazy), and we've been trying to spruce the place up because we both think this might be more than a year residency. Ryan got to painting his room first, and it was really good which obviously filled me with jealousy so I decided that I had to paint my now ugly-stepsister room to fix it.

Ryan had gone to this little hardware store down the street, so I figured I would check that out too because it was so close and GOD am I lazy. I should have known that this plan wasn't going to work when I saw the man behind the counter with the battery hog called DROID X. Or Droid sexchange as I call it. After much deliberation on color, I bring the swatches to this foul man only to be told that they only have gallons of paint, and nothing smaller. I am NOT buying a gallon of paint for an accent wall mister, so you can S my Patti Lupone loving balls and kiss this star goodbye!

Defeated from the deplorable situation, I realized that priming the room would have to be sufficient for the time being, Luckily, I only spilt the can once!

As Ryan was masterfully applying the primer on the seems, and I slopping it on like Liza in heat doing a tap number, Home Depot came up in conversation as an alternative route.

For those of you that don't know, I did commercial construction for three years. Laugh all you want and make all of the funny jokes, but did you ever have a license to abate asbestos? Didn't think so. Anyways, in all my time there we went to Home Depot maybe twice, and it was only if we couldn't get it somewhere else. My bosses' name for the store was Home Cheapo, which I really enjoyed. My new name for it is Home Cheapfuckerswhotakemysoulawayandmakemewanttodieonasaturdaynight.

Tell us how you really feel Brian?!

...

OK

So the first shame actually goes to me iPhone and the MTA. I plugged in the locations in my phone to get transit directions, and the phone had me take the R train. First off, I waited 30 minutes before the train came. When I asked the train scheduling asshole person what the deal was, he said, "Uhhh, I don't know. The trains always run late on the weekends". It is not my fault that the entire MTA staff had missing chromosomes that night. My phone also failed to mention that there is a bus that is not only more direct, but faster and more frequent.

When I finally got there, about 20 people were waiting in line behind the paint counter. It was a Saturday night, so I can't imagine why all of these lame d-bags decided to come buy paint......oh wait.

Anyways, once I got to the counter I told the woman that I wanted a gallon of one color and a half gallon of the other. Instead of telling me what the options were, she word pukes and says, "tchmpt, we don't have half gallons. I can't help you if you don't know what we have. And you didn't tell me what kind of paint you want...flat, eggshell, glossy, semi-gloss, high gloss, glossy eggshell, flat gloss, semi-flat eggshell, high flat semi-gloss eggshell?"

Once I got over that situation, I ran for the nearest counter to check the F out. The only problem was the huge lines at every corner (man I was apart of a really lame crowd of people...) so I did what any hasting all-consuming American would do and went to self check out.

When I got to the machine that would help me end this already terrible experience, I was told by the man running the line that my machine did not take credit cards. I was fine with this, until another girl came up and told me that she would work around the system and take care of me......I know how Point of Sale systems work, and this was a bad idea from the get go.

Needless to say, her antics made their entire system freeze, to which she fled the scene and had a manager take over. I showed the manager on my phone that my card had already been charged. She informed me that because a receipt was not produced she would have to run the card again.

Really?

Because the only thing I pay twice for is Fast Food.....do you get it? LOL? No? Whatever.

Basically I bitched enough and threw the fleeting girl under the bus to get the manager to not make me pay again. I think the paint will end up being free once everything clears so YAY!

Sadly, Home Fuckmysoulonemoretimeandseewhathappens...idareyou won in the end. I had forgotten my card at the counter and had to go back this morning to pick it up.

LOVES AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Jennifer - You are a Beautiful Person

This is the first, an potentially the last, serious posting that I will write on my blog.

To say the least, New York can be overwhelming and downright abusive. This is most true for people pursuing the arts because we will likely never make enough money to make sense out of it. Although I have grown to accept this, it still sucks and I find it hard to keep myself motivated and positive.

That was until I met Jennifer.

I haven't spoken about her to too many people yet because I knew that writing these words down would be the best homage I could pay to her.

I met Jennifer at the Apple store. I couldn't quite tell how old she was because she was clearly recovering from some heavy radiation therapy, and it had probably aged her more than anything else ever could. But her age didn't matter. I knew from the moment we shook hands that this woman "got it".

In this world there are three types of people.
Those who-"get it"
Those who-"could get it" &
Those who-"can't get it"

"It" is life, "it" is relationships, "it" is biology, "it" is whatever you want it to be. Most people don't get it but could if they tried. Few people can't, and even fewer people are born just knowing. I don't know where Jennifer had come from on this imaginary scale, but I knew where she was.

I find it easier than I should talking to people who have battled cancer, but I've known too many afflicted to not be understanding. I wouldn't wish this disease on my worst enemy, but there is a lightness and intelligence that comes from cancer victims that is nothing short of remarkable.

Jennifer is a screenwriter, and is constantly immersing herself into her work. We had a great conversation about bad movies that I won't soon forget, but three things stuck out to me more than anything.

The first was her relationship with her father. She had informed me that he, like herself, was a writer. Jennifer told me about the musical her father had conceived, which won a Tony by the way. I saw the love and pain in her when she said that he had never seen it come to broadway, and how proud he would have been. My tears were barely holding back.

Jennifer also gave me a fundamental lesson in writing. She said, "writing for the screen comes from the inside out. Writing for the stage comes from the outside in." This is why I do theater.

The last and most important things that Jennifer told me was this.

Everyone has at least one story that they can tell better than anyone else. You just have to find it.

So Jennifer, I continue writing for you in the hopes that I do find my story. I won't soon forget you.

Brian Dann

Dear United States Justice System or How Judge Revel is Playing Matchmaker

This title might at first seem odd and I promise, it will get odder.

Some of you may be living under a hole (that's right....UNDER), but for those of us that keep up-to-date with what's happening in the, this past week has been a newsworthy one to say the least. Two really big stories had some major developments in particular.

The oil spill FINALLY stopped leaking. Thanks BP, for taking three months to fix your massive amounts of "spilled milk".
And the second news, also with a three month marker, is that LINDSAY LO-BLOW is going to jail!

The actress best known for her roles as those two twinz from the refresh of The Parent Trap, the comedy Meangirls, and her "award-worthy" performance as a.....twin....in I Know Who Killed Me, was sentenced to 90 days in jail after fucking up her probation. FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS!

A lot of people have been weighing in on whether or not the ruling was fair. My only thought to that is, aren't people paid to make these decisions for us? I mean, I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure judges have to go to school for at least a year in order to be certifiable in passing judgment....unless they are gay in which case they are born with that right. And the judge in question, Judge Revel, has one credential no other judge has. Her mother was a personal assistant to none other than JUDY GARLAND!!! That obviously means she had play dates with Liza and has seen more than her fair share of crazy between the two.

One Mel Gibson'donthitme (Irish decent) is also under scrutiny after several vulgar phone conversations with his baby mama surfaced. Mel may not be too far behind Lo-blow if Judge Revel had anything to do with it.

But think about it.

Go on. I know you're almost there. Mel and Lindsay Lo-blowson'donthitme! Is it possible, nay, even probable that Revel is secretly playing matchmaker? Could these two kookoo for exposure junkies be united by the Justice System? Will their incarcerated love free their souls?

When I realized the magic that was happening, I decided to re-imagine each of their films as if the other had been there all along.

Let's take Braveheart and Meangirls. They both have really inspired speeches in the final act of their movies, so already off to a good start. Just picture Lindsay fighting alongside Mel and the Scots as they take on Regina George in the hallway and on the battlefield. She would understand his savage nature because her family was cultured. He would sympathize with her need to fit in from his time.....in.....uh....

Now let's take What Women Want and I Know Who Killed Me. Lindsay would not have to go through....whatever she went through in that movie that didn't involve lackluster stripping.....she's no Nomi Malone a la SHOWGIRLS (the best movie ever made)....because Mel could read her thoughts and everyone knows that twins have shared brain wave lengths so he could have also found out where her other half was. He would have also known that her unnecessary fake leg made her feel self-conscious and would tell her that it did not make her look fat.

PARENT TRAP AND LETHAL WEAPONS 1-9. This would obviously be a buddy comedy.....I mean....it already is.....except no Danny Glover. While Mel was diffusing the bomb, Lindsay squared would be playing good 5 year old cop/bad 5 year old cop with the culprit that she has successfully tied down with play-dough and a can do attitude! After saving the day and reuniting her parents after they were kidnapped by the mafia for drug cartel.......too close to reality?.....Mel and Linds would share an ice cream and have a classic early 90's montage of the two do awesome things in the park.

SIGNS AND A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION.......

And just imagine the sex.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

Dear Needy People - You are Insufferable!

I have needs. I know this because I breath, and eat, and poop. We all NEED to do this. I don not consider myself needy for needing to have these things in my life though.

I also don't consider those poor african zombie babies that Madame Struthers does commercials for to be needy. These zombie babies have a real need to eat your brains....and get educated, DUH! These zombettes are affected by their circumstances, and cannot control the fact that they aren't privy to things like Manifest Destiny. These people have real problems.

The people I will talk about in this post ARE needy. These people have FWPs.

What are FWPs? (F)irst (W)orld (P)roblems.

These are the people that make more than enough money to support themselves but refuse to acknowledge the fact that they have no real problems. These are the people that are 45 and decide that they want to become classical pianist but refuse to practice because, "well, I just had to go to Nordstrams to pick up the dress for my garden party this weekend. I mean, do you KNOW who is going to be there? I just had more important things to do. And i'm not paying you this week because I don't feel that I've gotten any better.".....

I've had many encounters with these types of people, and I've decided story time was only necessary.

First there was the Starbucks Homorone (I combined homo and morone, isn't that cute?! You know it is. P-)...it's a pirate winking. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?)

So the homorone was a serious struggle. As some of us first worlders know, Starbucks is having a promotion now were if you buy something in the morning and come back with the receipt after 2pm, you can get any drink for two dollars. Now I knew he was a homo because I KNOW THESE THINGS, and he had some accessories that just could not physically stay on anyone but a fellow homo: a gucci "carryall" or "manpurse", 800 rings, a beret, purple snake skin boots (NOT KIDDING!) and probably other things that couldn't be seen because the radiance he was emitting actually gave me skin cancer.

I walk into this Starbucks, the one in Columbus Circle, and see a giant line. This line is being held up by snufflegaypulous and he is having the biggest wrist fit that I have ever seen. After about a minute into his tirade, I realized what he was complaining about. His receipt was from the day before and he thought there was now reason why they shouldn't redeem his offer....oh and it was BEFORE 2PM!

....
....
....
SRSLY!!!!!!!! FWP Sir douchebaginham. FWP.

I also find that in my line of current work, I find at least one person a day who is expressing heinous amounts of FWP. I will not say what I do specifically, though most of my current eight readers already know. Let's just say that I sell expensive stuff for a cutting edge company. A lot of the products are hard to get, and some even require, OH NO, a reservation!

Some of my favorite responses are
"So why can't I get one. I really need this and I shouldn't have to wait."
"Can't you just get me one from the back? You have to have extra."
"it better not take more than a couple of days. That would be unacceptable"
"I don't do reservations."

My favorite person ever though was a woman that came in today. Let's call her Cyst, because that's what she felt like. So, Cyst comes in and signals me down as if I was her personal jet that she couldn't understand why it hadn't landed near her sooner because it should have obviously known that she was going to be there WAY before she actually was....

She then expresses me that she would "like one". The product in question...well...let's just say that there are several types. Four to be exact. The come with different capabilities and features, and one model even comes in several colors. Saying that you "would like one" means nothing to me.

Now I know that many people, somehow, have lived under a rock long enough to not know what these things do. I gave her the benefit, and described each one. I even found out more about her so I could help provide a proper solution so that she got the one that would be best for her.

She gave me a blank stare, and then simply said, "I'll take whatever the most expensive one it." Great.

We then proceeded to take the next hour to look at cases and other accessories for her knew purchase. Needless to say, around every corner, she needed deep explanations for any possible purchase she might need, and refused to make a decision on anything. At the very end, she demanded that I put her accessories together, set up her account, and watch her type on the screen to make sure that she would like it....let's just say Cyst's 13 inch nails made the typing part a little hard.

I would do this for anyone that came in, and I wouldn't have even minded it IF she wasn't so "burdened" by the entire process. FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS!!!

What's the lesson here? Pooping and things like it are real problems. Being a struggle to people because you think it would be a privilege for them to lick your privates and bow before you is NOT a real problem.

Just ask yourself, would the African Zombie babies complain about this? If no, than shut your front door and realize you are having FWPs.

LOVE AND STRUGGS
B DANN

PS-ANDY COHEN, WHERE IS MY JOB OFFER? Oh jesus. I have FWPs.

Dear Suicide Rat or How I got involved with the Mafia

Don't worry. The title is not a metaphor....

As many of you know, New York has an infestation problem of the vermin variety. I was well aware of this before moving, and really haven't experienced such an overwhelming anxiety that I've needed to write about it...until know. I had assumed, poorly, that rats would reside where they belong: in the subway and behind their desks at realty offices. I've been here for almost a month and my theory seemed conclusive for the most part. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

WRONG!!!!!

BIG WRONG!!!!!

I hope that this is not my last blog entry, because I fear that I may have stumbled onto some very dangerous entities. If you never hear from me again, please take what little belongings I have and donate to the "Lindsay Lohan - Free My Soul campaign". Girl could use a break.

It all started when I was getting off of the A train at 200 in Inwood. My pedestrian comrade Arianne suggested that we go up a different flight of staircase than the one I normally use. I knew something was weird when my knee jerk reaction was to do anything but follow her. So of course I did as she had suggested and went up the alternative staircase (I would later associate my wording of "alternative" to have similar meaning as if I had said instant death...)

Making our way up, everything seemed fine, when out of nowhere a forearm sized rat landed on the back of my neck and scurried down the stairs. I screamed for what felt like days....gay screamed....so it was really high pitched. This giant asshole left a mental scar on my back that made me consider burning my shirt into a sacrificial effigy, but alas, it was my very favorite shirt so sacrificing a small animal was my only alternative. I packed my pride up, and left the scene with Arianne. It was then that I started thinking, why did this bitch of a living creature jump on me?

To give you some ground plans, I was coming up from an underground stairwell. The rat...let's call him Gregory, jumped off of the Bank of America (or the Bank of Douchbags according to yours truly) building onto my unsuspecting body. The building itself had to be 25 to 30 feet high, and I was probably at least 5 feet underground from the point of impact. And yes my judgement is accurate because I did commercial construction for three years....and I enjoy the company of men so there!

So Gregory jumped 30-35 feet and just happened to land on me so he would survive? This was not a coincidence.

My first reaction was the Gregory worked for Bank of America, maybe for the last 5 years (GUESS THAT REFERENCE!!!) or so and just found out he didn't get the promotion he was hoping to get. Maybe management said that his talents were best suited elsewhere, and that he should continue doing great work in the mail room. Maybe Gregory had a bad childhood, or maybe he just had no clout. For whatever reason, Gregory thought that the only was he could find retribution was through suicide. Was I a coincidental mishap in his plan, or was it that he couldn't really go through with it but still wanted to give everyone a good scare?

That's when I had a flashback. Gregory didn't stop and putz around after the incident. We didn't grab cocktails to commiserate about the economy. No, Gregory kept on running the second he hit the ground. My god, I WAS IN A SCANDAL.

I still believe that Gregory worked at Bank of Slumerica, but he was doing side business. Obviously drugs, and most likely prescription. He probably requested to work nights so that he could meet with his Mafioso dealers in a more private setting. But Gregory had a bad habit of not making his payments, and on this night, he knew it wasn't just going to be a finger that BIG SAL was going to take. Gregory goes through his whole day, sweating like Nomi Malone in....well every scene of Showgirls (I have to reference this movie at least once a month) and dreading the fact that at 11pm, Sal will come knocking at the back door and he still won't have the money. Sure he could take it from the safe, but he would surely get caught. And he would lose his selling grounds too. Maybe another boss could loan him a hit-man to take care of things, but then he would still be in debt. The only logical thing to do was run.

I think Gregory transferred a whole bunch of money into a private account and ran for the hills. I was his opportunity to get outside without anyone seeing him on the cameras. That way, Big Sal would come storming in, make the mistake of being seen, and be blamed for the murder of Gregory Blonski III. It was a perfect plan, and I was just the missing piece....that's what she said.

I mean, it could just be that a disease infested animal happened to cross my path at the most unfortunate time, but there is no fun in that.

LOVES AND STRUGGS
B DANN