Death Sees a Therapist

Is it me, or do people jump the gun and resort to therapy too quickly nowadays? Seriously! Since when has psychiatry been the hot new trend? I feel as though the "head-doctor" goes hand-in-hand with skinny jeans and Cosmo martinis (mmm, Cosmopolitans). I admit, I've been tempted to make a few appointments myself. I'm incidentally always in my head... What? You have a problem with that?!

Any-ways, I opt to adjust naturally and use self-remedies to calm my mental nerves. Think about it... Every day, we immerse ourselves in 'at-home activities' that alleviate any stress we have bubbling up within our lives. Whether it be writing in a journal (blog?), washing the dishes, vacuuming, meditation, etc., we seem to cure any mental strain ourselves. No leather couches. No invasive questions. No therapist.

In all actuality, it's probably just the "private things" we do behind closed doors that really calm us down. And no, I'm not talkin' masturbation (Which, albeit, helps a little). I'm talking about the things we do when nobody's watchin'.

For example:

- I take lengthy, steamy showers while listening to Josh Groban.

- I light aroma-therapy candles and "clean up" my eyebrows (manscape if you will).

- I moisturize, while watching TV on DVD (currently The Office).

I'm tellin' you, it works. Anyways, I just can't wrap my head around this new craze. Perhaps everyone needs to find their own ways to mentally adjust. Personally, my friends can talk circles around any shrink. However, that being said, who am I to decide what's best for anyone else. If a therapist is in the stars for you... godspeed. Me? I'll stick to my own self-remedies. I mean, who needs professional help when you've got Steve Carrell?

Where in the World is Matt Lauer? Seriously.

Pile on the mash potatoes and give me a double serving of mac & cheese, Matt Lauer is one hot Oldie McHottie. Starchy hot.

Don't forget the cornbread.

Blast from the Past: Part 1

So I was organizing my computer files, and I came across blogs I used to write in the hay-day of my college years.  I thought it'd be fun to create a series (Blast from the Past) sharing my older writings.  Be warned, I had just begun watching Sex and the City, so my entries reflected that...

THE FIRST ENTRY

The life of the theatre - opening nights, glistening spotlights, dozens of flowers strewn across the stage as the audience gives the performers a standing ovation. Seems perfect - enchanting even. However, the life of the theatre MAJOR is a much different experience. Let's recap, shall we? Opening night cast parties consisting of vomiting (not that talented) actors, over dramatic situations which require professional help, and more 'technical difficulties' I care to encounter. In college, within the realms of the Theatre Arts, I can't help but wonder.....how much drama is too much drama?

Forget the show....that's irrelevant. It's the cast parties that contain the REAL performances. In fact, the show doesn't really start till the curtain closes. Then it's all about the drama freaks...and do I mean freaks. It's like a sexual 'Where's Waldo'....can you spot the straights or the gays? It's doubtful, because once you enter the doors of this over-dramatic party, it's all men for themselves. Suddenly the straights become bi, the gays become straight, and there are those elicit few that have no sex-pinion (a man who I'd like to call Mr. Asexual).

How much drama can somebody take? Isn't it possible to check the drama at the door aside your new suede jacket? Or, rather, does this come with the major? It's too late for most of them - they've been lost to the dark side (or in gay lingo - Magenta side). However, I believe there are those select few that can save themselves. Those who don't need the word 'cast' in 'cast party' - and just want to party and have fun. Seriously people, let's stick together. Then, as a resolution to this overbearing drama, we can pay the cash to see the show and not expect anymore performances later in the night.

What a GAY Weekend

What. A. Weekend. Let me tell you, I've went from underground hermit to "social" butterfly in a matter of minutes. Not exactly by choice, but I finally have shaken-up my increasingly mundane life, traveled beyond my remote control and into the light of day (Or night...)

Friday night, I opted to enter the epicenter of the L-gAy hot spot. The place where homos flock towards to meet (meat?) other eyeliner wearing, Madonna-listening men for a random night hook up. More commonly known as the Los Angeles gay bar.

Upon entering, I was initially blind sighted by the array of exceedingly attractive guys at the bar. The bodies were flawless. The bleach teeth were blinding. Naturally, I decided that the more alcohol I consumed, the better I'd feel about myself.

How wrong was I! Instead, my insecurities became intensified and I regrettably started seeing double. Now instead of, say, 5 gorgeous Abercrombie & Fitch models. I saw 10...

Unfortunately, any hint of class dissipated and my motor skills became obsolete. In fact, I think I left half my Vodka cranberry on a guy's pressed Diesel jeans. I was mortified. Was I a hot mess? Yes. Bitchy gay? No. That specific role was filled by 95% of the patrons. Prior to my spillage, I noticed that EGO was the primary source of energy in the room, and if you didn't fit into the preconceived "hot guy" notion then they'd definitely let you know.

I know, I shouldn't let my first gay bar excursion hinder any future outings, but I think I need to take it slow... like a virgin (There. A Madonna reference. Does that get me any closer to Queenville?) Or simply, I just need to ease my way into this new crowd, so I don't feel completely out of place. A gaylien in this narcissistic (queer) universe.

In the meantime, I'm not sure how soon I'll jump back on the saddle. I'm like Puxatony Phil. I went out. I saw my shadow. I'll see you next Winter.

Mending A Broken Heart

I know, I know. I've been MIA for nearly two weeks! My worried family members have sent out search parties. Police dogs have scoured my neighborhood. My horrendous license photo has been plastered on every (soy)milk carton in the San Fernando Valley!

No need to worry. I've finally pressured myself to come out of hiding. I wish I could say I've been off traveling the world with Anne Hathaway's hot brother, Michael. But it's just not true. I've basically just been really busy with life stuff (ugh, life. Who needs it?).

A new roommate has moved in (bringing her cute - and obese - cat named Cosmopolitan), I've made great strides with my first feature screenplay (box office bomb?), and I've been putting out wildfires all over the place.

One of my dearest/gayest friend has been going through a gayxestential crisis (I like to throw the word 'gay' anywhere possible and call it witty writing. So?). Anyways, he just separated from his short-lived love-fest of '08 and is going through the oh-so-attractive self-loathing phase. We've all been there. Incidentally, when he and a love interest split ways, he just pretends they die. Therefore, the self-loathing phase is actually a 'mourning' phase.... may he rest.

I've compiled the top 5 necessities needed to get anyone through a broken heart:

5: Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream. May I suggest a pint and not a gallon? Just because a man has emotionally back-slapped you, does not mean your thighs should pay the consequences.

4: The Devil Wears Prada. The only way not to be a bitch to your ex-lover, is to watch a bunch of bitches being bitches to each other. (Could I have used the word 'bitch' more?)

3: Barricade Yourself. Nobody going through a break-up wants to run into happy, peppy people roaming the streets (unless you're running into them with your car). Stay inside. Shut the shades. Disappear.

2: Buy LOTS of cats. That's right, I said it. LOTS OF THEM! You'll need the company (see number 3). Plus, you can name them all hot boy names so when anyone calls, you can say "Oh, I can't go out tonight, Brad needs me."

1: FRIENDS! Lord knows you can't live without them. They're always there for you and will never disappoint. Not to mention, it's almost guaranteed Chandler will make you laugh.

Now don't fret. You have the guide to recognizing your depression. In no time, you'll be better than new and out of that dreaded mourning phase.

Now, if you'll excuse me. I must attend my friend's ex-boyfriend's wake...

You May Kiss the Husband

A new gay icon has emerged from the crevices. Okay, maybe not the "crevices", but she has at least emerged from the depths of the gay friendly film (The Devil Wears Prada and Brokeback Mountain). Anne Hathaway has always been one of my fave actresses. Ever since sporting a heinous wig, wire-rimmed glasses, and shouting "I have to wear a TIARA!?". Now, she's an advocate for change and equal opportunity proponent for the LGBT community. God love her.

More importantly, she's a strong supporter for her older, gay brother, Michael (pictured above). Incidentally.... so am I. I support Michael as a mighty fine, attractive, and potential husband for ME. Even though some deluded divas would protest otherwise. Mexi, please. He's my Snickers candy bar.

...mashed up in Vanilla ice cream.

...with chocolate and carmel syrup drenched on top.

...and strawberries......

Anyways....
For some shits and giggles, check out a trailer for Anne's new thriller.

The Best Medicine

No doubt about it, I'm a HUGE fan of the 'prank'. In fact, random strangers automatically assume I'm the youngest sibling because apparently I have the personality of "the baby" (What exactly about me screams 'mischievous'?). However, I also find playful banter and harmless teasing endearing and completely necessary to keep any friendship and/or relationship alive. It's those tightly-wound bitches that usually shit a brick when they're exposed to any insignificant or microscopic prank (you know who you are!). I could never date someone like that. Any relationship I'm involved in has to be playful and casual (a la. Jim and Pam from The Office). Save the conventional and conservative rendezvous for Palm Springs. I want something more.

Therefore, when I was cruising the net, I came across an amazing home video. Apparently, this husband/wife duo have an ongoing joke they play on each other. Having watched it repeatedly, I'm convinced that my aforementioned epiphany proves true. It's the small, loving jokes and pranks between couples that really make the relationship work.

Dancing Machine