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
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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
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
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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
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
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