Short but sweet

I'm crushing on an adolescent black boy who wears a retainer made of hay in my favorite picture of him. We have the same friends and all live together in one giant house. My father and stepmother also live there.

My crush and our friends and I go to the movies, where we're serenaded by a gospel choir prior to the film. The singers hand out beaded Sunday hats filled with sips of wine. I keep glancing over to my crush, who catches my eye and looks away. He's so young. I'm not sure how old I am, but my college roommate is there, just hanging out.

Next I'm in the bathtub trying to sludge through all my bathtub duties -- shaving, washing, scrubbing, conditioning -- but I fall asleep. I wake up upset because my family, friends, and crush have all enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner without me.


Closer to God

The potential boyfriend has made the leap from conjugal frivolity to serious "gay lover" and now must Meet the Parents.

Like a wacky Ben Stiller touchstone, the downhome visit dissolves into a series of sitcommy hijinks, with all that's missing is the painfully canned laughter.

We're in the backseat of my parents' Volvo (Volvo?! My parents are Ford pickup men. They do anything Toby Keith tells them), and I keep making not-so-subtle gestures such as groping him in the backseat while my parents natter on about the new Applebee's.

"Have you tried their chicken fried chicken?" my Mom asks Dad while I fondle PB. "It's literally to die for. In fact, I'd kill someone for it."

We're now in the parking lot of the United Methodist Church, and Dad is having trouble parking the Volvo. In fact, he goes into a space lopsided.

"You're doing it all wrong," my sister tells Dad as I continue to prod PB's gonads.

"I know what I'm doing," my Dad says all belligerent, puffing his cheeks like Bill O' Reilly. "I've been driving for 40 years!"

My sister gets out of the Volvo and begins directing Dad into the parking space. He's not amused.

The whole time this is going on, I'm still poking PB's balls. "Maybe after they're done, we can get tacos," I tell him.


Buses gone wild

We are careening along on the interstate in California, past shores and hotels and up and down mountains and in and out of thick smog, obscuring what I've been told is fabulously beautiful countryside. We are in a chartered bus, on a tour or vacation, perhaps, and somehow we've gotten ourselves in a race with another bus — a Girls Gone Wild bus that keeps passing us and going slow and getting passed and then passing us again.

There are three men tethered to what might as well be a noose on the back of the GGW bus, they are hanging there — alive — their faces bruised and dirty and bloody from the abuse they've taken from the ass-end of that bus. They are yelling things at our bus. Our driver gets us close enough to them to realize that they are telling us stories. I can't quite make them out, but they seem frantic.

I can't help but notice that we're speeding along at speeds generally considered unhealthy for big, lumbering buses. Every time we lurch around a curve, I think of that poor team on that bus that crashed in Atlanta, and how awful that situation must have been.

It doesn't take too long, though, for our bus to meet a similar fate. Almost.

We top a hill way too fast, so fast that we take to the air and go flying, flying flying, bracing for impact, wondering what we'll hit — ocean or earth — flying, flying, I don't want to die because my guts were squeezed out, flying, flying, awake.


Sexx Laws

[Full disclosure: I might be dating this bisexual dude, hence my trepidation about entering the bedroom and finding a slithering wet vagina awaiting me for a threesome.]

So last night, I fucked a woman. A forty-year-old virgin.

She had discolored skin, blue plugs of it drooping from her chin and bubbled scars a la Seal. Clearly, this poor woman had been parched in the biggest five-alarm blaze since Ron Howard's Backdraft.

"I like it hard and slow," she told me, even though she never had 'it' in her forty years. She reminded me very much of Ms. Crabtree on South Park, the constantly bedraggled ragamuffin bus driver who says things such as "my cooch hasn't been paid this much attention since I was a ripe flower."

I remember saying to myself, "just picture it as your potential boyfriend's ass...just picture it as your potential boyfriend's sphinx."

In a later dream segment, I started gettin' hot and heavy with the openly gay indie-rocker from Nashville who shall remain nameless.

In real life, I've been crushin' hardcore on this Roxy Music-era guitar slinger, sending him steamy text messages that could make Sue Johanson blush.

But last night in the dream...man. Let's just say that when my cell phone alarm clock blared, I cursed Cingular Wireless president Kathleen L. Dowling's mother.

Sleepy McActiondream!

I'm in New York Ciy, although it is entirely unlike any New York I have ever set foot in. I'm on a narrow, curving beach with what appears to be throngs of Spring Breakers. We are mulling about in the shadow of a very large hi-rise whose architecture is quite unconventional. Its contours undulate as they climb toward the sky, so that every other floor bulges outward past the others.

Suddenly I look up and see something flying right into the building, near the base. It looks like a small plane. It crumples as it hits the building, and some middle-aged white guy comes stumbling — miraculously — out of the plane, only to collapse and, presumably, die there in the pile of rubble the crash created.

Everyone panics and starts running around. I inexplicably head toward the water.

We see more planes in the sky, flying low.

Everyone has to decide where to take cover. There are these large concrete block things floating on the water. I and about three other women — who are all blonde and really annoying — head inside the concrete blocks, which someone seals off from the outside so that we're trapped inside. We realize that we've been sealed inside some scary-ass ancient tomb or something, and work to get ourselves out.

I'm not sure how we do it, but by the time the sealed door is open, we are dozens of feet off the water, and someone has attached a rope ladder to the doorway so that we can climb down and swim to the helicopter waiting on us.

The blondes bravely jump all the way down, a la Fear Factor, and I'm the last one out. I self-consciously make my way halfway down the rope ladder and then jump into the water (I can't recall feeling wet in my dream). One of the blondes is struggling and tells me she can't swim. I grab her arm and tell her to kick her legs. We make it to the helicopter. I tell her to watch her head as we hoist ourselves into the thing and take off for unknown destinations.


Political Science

I ripped a page from the Lindsey Turner Dreambook.

Fox News, fresh off their Demo-snubbing at the hands of John Edwards, invited Nashville, Tenn. bloggers to a Town Hall discussion about the hot little 2008 prez race.

Bloggers would introduce themselves to Fox viewers with cheeseball lines such as, "My name is Katherine Coble of Just A Pretty Farce. I want the government to stay the hell out of our lives. In 2008, I want to see Jacob Sullum in the White House. You guessed it, Fred Barnes. I'm a Libertarian."

And then you would have some cocky celeb such as libertarian Denis Leary and he would say something like "Amen, sister!" to Coble's admission.

When time came for me, I wanted to say something like "I'm a liberal with libertarian tendencies. Plus, I've been researching libertarian-socialism on the Internet lately, and I think that label best fits me despite being somewhat of an oxymoron."

But the Fox News brass said something to the effect of "our viewers are dumb as rocks. Your identity would only cause their brain cells to fissure because they're retarded."

So I went with liberal. And here's what I said.

"My name is Joey Hood. I used to have a blog called TV on the Fritz. I believe in equal rights for gays and universal health care. In 2008, I want to see a tranny in the White House. Holyfuck, I must be a liberal!"

Then I had some fat lesbian celeb such as Rosie O' Donnell who snapped, "you go sister friend."


Food in the House

Jenifer has returned from a "life-changing" trip to the Netherlands and needs some kind of nourishment.

Even though we both currently reside in New York, Jenifer and I find ourselves on my grandmother's piss-yellow linoleum floor kitchen, where I'm rummaging through the refrigerator for grub.

"She has stir-fry and fake chicken," I fib. (My grandmother definitely has stir-fry but has raised a klan of ravenous, gluttonous carnivores. Vegetarianism denotes sissyisms, and a sign of moral decay.)

"Ooh, that sounds perfect," Jenifer says about the faux-chicken, clasping her hands together in eager anticipation.

I pocket the Ziploc package of "real" chicken," deep-fried in sticky fat and oozing lard from its bloody-red pores.

I don't know why I'm telling tales to Jenifer. Maybe it's because I like fucking with vegetarians.


My Happy Place

Dr. Cox gave me naughty punishment sex all over my kitchen. It was ha-ha-ha-ha-hot. John C. McGinley is an attractive man, and right before bed I watched an interview with him wherein he stated that his character's whistling was just a bad habit (organic!!), and that he started calling Zach Braff women's names from the get-go, because Zach is a little bit of a girl (organic, again!!). So his two most attractive features are features that came from the man, not the writers. So I guess, in my I-need-a-sex-dream state, John C. McGinley and Zach Braff played rock paper scissors, and "Johnnie C." crushed Zach Braff's hand.

And I'm so glad he did because that's the hottest dream sex I've ever had. And I'd give details here, but it'd be dirty, dirty, dirrrrrty. God, so dirty.

Long hair blues

I discover a seldomly used front door to my apartment, and on it, a stack of weathered memos and notes is tacked, including one from my landlord telling me to clean out my drains once and a while.

Instantly I know this is because I shed like a Persian cat with the mange.

The Dope Show

I'm currently reading Marilyn Manson's The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, which was ghost-penned by Neil Strauss! So excuse moi for my altered subconsciousness last night.

I found myself bosom buddies with Marilyn Manson, who waddled around his mansion in Prada house shoes with a tottering glass of rum.

"Should we go for a swim?" Marilyn asked. After years of drug abuse, frankly, Mr. Manson looked hard-up and worn out.

He held up powder blue spandex speedos for my perusal. Since I don't like people inspecting my package, I told Marilyn that I was fine in aqua jammies, you know, the ones the British Commonwealth would wear in grainy black-and-white films about public bathing?

Anyhoo, Marilyn's mother came into the picture at this point. And it was none other than Mrs. Cradell, a fire-and-brimstone Southern Baptist from my long-forgotten high school career.

"Hello, Mrs. Cradell," I go, excited to see someone from my past.

Mrs. Cradell takes a long toke from her cigarette which hangs precariously from her lips.

"Oh hello...Joey," she mutters.

As she leaves the room, I corner Marilyn with my neurotic firing line of questions including the priceless "How come your mother doesn't like me?"

Marilyn's answer is simple. "Because you're a faggot," he says matter-of-factly.

I don't understand how this woman loves Marilyn Manson. I mean, the Anti-Christ Superstar crawled from her loins, and she's offended that I have butt sex with men? Outrageous!

Mrs. Cradell returns to the room with a Long Island Ice Tea.

"Marilyn," she says, "everyone in our family thinks that you're mentally retarded."

Well, that settles it.


Even Steph/vens

I'm spending time with Wendy, a friend from looooong ago, who I haven't seen in many years. And together, for some reason, we're hanging out with Stephen Colbert and Steve Carell. And they are wearing business suits, just like they stepped right off the set of the Daily Show.

It's night and we're at some sort of outdoor gathering. The details have faded at this point.

I just remember Wendy confiding in me that she doesn't trust Colbert.

Which, at the time, made perfect sense.

Creepy Crawlies

I'm not sure where I am, but I'm on the move, heading somewhere with something to do, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice something hanging out of my nose. It's long and dark. I reach for it to remove it, and am met with resistance as it does not want to come out. It is attached to the inside of my nose, whatever it is.

A closer inspection reveals that it is a fekking MILLIPEDE up in my nose, attached with its little pinchers. So I tug hard to get that bastard out, and do a little dance of revulsion as I fling it onto a nearby table, where it proceeds to writhe on its back, unable to flip over onto its million little legs.


At some point after that, I am in my parents' kitchen, when I see another millipede crawling on the wall. And another millipede, FLYING AROUND (do millipedes even having wings?), heading straight for me. They are red and aggressive, and each is about two inches long. My mom and I realize that they are coming from inside a duct in the wall separating the kitchen and the stairs to the loft. We watch as another millipede worms its way through a small hole and takes flight in the kitchen. There have to be dozens flying around and crawling up the walls now.

You've not seen creepy until you've watched millipedes flying around, heading straight for your hair. It's fucking demonic!

Mom somehow pulls the infected duct through the small hole, and I imagine millions of millipedes writhing inside it, just waiting to be set free.

THANK GOD I wake up at some point before that happened.

Go right ahead

I'm driving a yellow van these days. I go outside to find it parked in a no-parking zone. The police have left me a note: "If you don't move your car, we'll tow it and fandangle your children."


I like the way you move

There's this guy I like. A situation has presented itself that has allowed us, fortuitously, to be sitting somewhere, making out. For the first time, presumably. It's not all that hot, really, but mostly because he is using his tongue entirely too much. He's sticking it my mouth and swirling it around and around and around and I'm beginning to wonder if he's joking with me and I'm supposed to pull back and laugh at him. With him. But I don't pull back because I want to keep going, I want this to mean something, I'm afraid I won't get the chance again, etc.

And mostly I figure — if this is seriously how he kisses — that I can teach him a better technique some other time. Practicing will be fun.

So kissing leads to more, as it so often does, and I'm relieved because the more is much better than the kissing. There is a rhythm that wasn't there before, a skill, a compatibility.

And that's a relief.


Hair-Hatched Cats

Brooke says to me incredulously, "I can't believe that woman keeps eggs in her hair!" I concur. But then I discover an egg in my own hair. I pull it out and realize that I've been keeping it warm because it's about to hatch. I watch it slowly break open, but there is a clear liquid filling it, that I try not to spill, as the kitten hatches. Then the kitten rolls out and begins to clean himself, a lot bigger than most kittens. I realize that he looks just like Sabian. I think to myself, "Ohh. Cats that get hatched out of eggs must all have that coloration."