Saturday, May 31, 2014

The Cinema Grill and Maleficent

It’s the first of June and that means the bills are due, the apartment gets a firm cleaning and I start a new set of classes. But the thing with my college is, they don’t release that new set of classes until the day of. As I sit here and anxiously await what my class will be, who will be in them and what time I will have to wake up (one of the most important, because I am not about that nine am class lifestyle.)

So, I’m sitting here, refreshing the schedule page over and over again, like I’m picking off flowers to the tune of “he loves me, he loves me not” the roommate walks downstairs. She asked if I want to see Maleficent, and I do because she is my favorite Disney villain EVAR, so I shut my computer off and started to brush my hair.

It was on the third brush through that I started wondering about money. Do I need to see this movie? Do I need to spend the ten dollars it takes now to get in? What if I hate it? I have rent to pay. I need to go shopping. How much more will I hate myself?

“Oh, and bring your ID. They have a student discount where movies are only five dollars.” JACKPOT. BINGO. And the winner is….The Roommate. How could I pass up a new movie for five dollars? Would you pass up a date with Channing Tatum? Exactly.

We went to a theater next to our school, one we both haven’t been to. Its called the Cinema Grill and you guessed it, they served dinner to its guests. Upon arrival, we figured the dinners would be as cheap as the tickets, but were mistaken when handed a double sided, laminated menu.

I wont go into detail but a plate of onion rings cost nine dollars. ONION RINGS PEOPLE. We sat a round table, basically touching the people next to us. We all sat on rolley chairs, basically the pre entertainment for the children in the theater. The movie wouldn’t start for another ten minutes so we spent some time looking through the menu, not long though, afraid that looking even touching will cost us five bucks.

A cup of soda was two dollars, adding a dollar – fifty for EVERY refill. Don’t even get me started on the food. It was when the lights started dimming that we knew we were safe from the servers asking if we wanted anything from the over priced food menu, but not safe from the people.

A man, considerably older, like too old even for a Disney movie, came and sat by the roommate and I. He said he sat in the back but couldn’t see. He also reeked of beer, almost like that was his cologne, after shave and deodorant. He spent about a preview and a half rolling in his chair and making little grunts. I didn’t know whither to watch him or the screen.

He then turned around and asked if he could sit in the middle of the roommate and I. He said that he liked sitting in the middle because he always needed someone around him.The roommate and I looked at each other, reached for our phones and started to text each other when Beer Man coughed and said that he wanted to try sitting in the front. It was like he was afraid that we would start texting behind his back or something. 

It was at the point that we deemed this theater unenjoyable, we loved the discount, hated the rest of the prices and the people. But we loved the movie. It showed us that true love does exist, though not in the form of a handsome prince, but in the form of a horned evil fairy, hell bent on destroying what little she had left. 8 out of 10 on my scale, losing two points cause her damn name is so hard to say. 

Saturday, May 24, 2014

To Mom

Here’s a story of a woman I love very dearly. This woman has been with me since the beginning, my biggest inspiration and the greatest form of entertainment. This woman is my mother. The story is of one of her biggest dating flops and the outcome that affected her sex life.

You may say, “Wow. That’s kinda weird.” Just wait until the story.

My mother met a Spanish guy online and few for the first dew days, hit it off without a problem. He loved the beach, pugs and late-night movies, the things my mother loves more than her kids. They agreed to meet at a very classy restaurant, where the prices start off at twenty dollars, in a very classy neighborhood.

She arrived twenty minutes early, looking her best and wearing her favorite perfume, the one she hides in the bottom of her sock drawer. She waited and waited. And waited, even the barman knew she got stood up. As she was about to leave a man stepped up to her.

“You know, you remind me of that one X-men…”
“Who? The one with the wheelchair?” my mother said.
“You must be Pugs21. I’m spanish123.”

Though he looked nothing like his picture, it seems as if pictures never do anyone justice nowadays, they took to a table and continued this date of firsts. Mom wondered if this was the guy, she wondered if he would pay the bill and when he did, my mother was blown away. Even though that is the norm nowadays, isn’t it?

The rest of the night included my mother getting pulled over, my mother without a license, my mother alone in a town she didn’t know very much and spanish123 running to her rescue. You have to hand it to her; she knows how to make a lasting impression.

Spanish123 took mom home and she, under the kindest of hearts and a little captain Morgan, invited him in. As she washed away the night’s bad memories, she stepped into a new set of memories. Or nightmares, as she still can’t get the visual out of her head.

There was spanish123, naked, laying on her bed. His big round belly, barley hiding his brown tinged penis, and hair. Hair was everywhere. “Mind if I get comfy?"  She was shocked, she’s never seen a penis like that before nor has she met someone so…pushy.

“I’d like it if you get out of my house…”

It was at this point in the phone call, that I lost it. I started laughing and she couldn’t help herself. I told her the only person with this much dating troubles was Carrie Bradshaw. I told her some sappy, son shit, “Everything will be okay. Keep trying.”

“Maybe on your next date ask the guy the color of his penis?”


She texted me today and said that Mr.Penis123 asked her to go on a boat ride. She texted back with a solid NO.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

1+1=3

The best thing about being a writer is the ability to ask anything to anyone. We have that perfect excuse that no one else has: “I’m going to put it in a story.” The best thing about being in a class with other writers, the questions are unstoppable.

Just today, as we sat around during break, we hit the topic of threesomes. We were all shocked and a little surprised because the person who suggested this topic, wants to work for Disney.

“Well, I’m just wondering… would you do one?”
“Depends on who with.”
“Like if it was two girls I didn’t know…sure.”
“But if it was with a friend I knew and some other girl…no.”
“What about guys?” she asked, she was the only female in class I should add, and here everyone shut up. And looked right at me.

I sat and listened, unsure of how to side step this conversation. Then her gaze lowered upon me.

“What about you, Joe?”

Do I sit here and act like I didn’t hear. Do I answer her? Can’t I sip my cherry coke in peace? Side story: have you seen those soda machines that have every imaginable type of soda in them? Like you could get fifty different kinds of coke, Dr.Pepper or Sprit. Well, those shit machines make me stressed. Do I want cherry, vanilla or raspberry (the worst flavor, avoid at all costs.)

“Well, it depends. On the guys…” I stammered back, shrugging my shoulders. She nodded and went on to talk about friends with benefits, something we will discuss later on, and I wondered, “Could I do a threesome?”

I got to thinking, I couldn’t even handle one boyfriend, how could I possibly handle two. Could I do it with two people I know or two people I hardly know? I also wondered who came up with this concept of adding another sexual partner to his already sexual partner.

I wondered, “In a threesome who gets hurt?” And I’m taking emotionally, not physically you sick bastards. So, like any other time I have a sexual question to ask, I go straight for the GBF. And newly single.

Turns out, there are two versions of threesomes in this world. Newly single said she would be hurt that her ex-boyfriend even suggested it. Thinking that their “sex life was the only thing holding the relationship together.” She went on to say the only way she would a threesome if she was “rip-roaring drunk and with complete strangers.”

The gays on the other hand will jump at the chance of a threesome. They don’t care if it’s with friends, strangers or donkeys. They don’t care if its public, private or in the backseat of a car.

I was going to end this asking if you, dear reader, would ever do a threesome. But, do I really want to know?

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

The Roommate Test

Yesterday, I came home to a surprise standing in my kitchen. No, it wasn’t a man covered in chocolate syrup, but it was a man. He wore a blue-checkered shirt, jeans and a pair of TOMS. He looked shocked to see me, like I walked in on him doing the dirty. Instead he whispered, “Hey.”

Instead of me running away screaming “I’m being robbed”, I stood and stared at him. He was obviously homosexual; I mean what straight guy takes the time to clean dirty dishes. And he was cute. In that creepy, stalkerish “don’t arrest me” type way.

Turns out the guy cleaning the dishes was a friend of the roommate and not there to sell me to some gay black market. She said they went to school together and worked together before she moved away. He was the swim team and track team captain, which answered my question about his thighs. Those things could kill something.

Anyway, we got through introductions and they sat down to have a glass of wine. They haven’t seen each other since graduation and needed desperately to catch up. His exact words. It was on his third glass, that the sassiness/anger started coming out, pun intended.

He complained on everything from the color of the walls to the way the wine tastes. He complained about the classmates, who he has never met, but brought up to speed by the roommate. He complained about his work, life and the way he “slept from bed to bed, from man to man.”

He was going a mile a minute and I couldn’t keep up. I officially lost him on his fifth glass. It was when the bottle started running out that the GBF started running out of steam or things to complain about.

“My life is a series of unexplained nuisances,” he said, the only thing my ears picked up and the only thing we had in common.

It was as he was leaving that I saw the true side of my roommate and how much she misses home. Well not home itself, but the people there. As she shut the door, that look placed upon her face, I wanted to ask her a few questions of my own.

“He was very…”
“You should’ve seen him in high school. When he was single, fat and made fun of.”
“He was?”
“I was the only one there for him. We’ve been inseparable since. We even went to prom together.”

As she moved on to clean the table, I wondered just how much of my roommate did I know? I wondered if this was the roommate test, that if we could see how we reacted with our friends, we would know how to react to each other.


I hope she’s ready, because my friends will be here next Tuesday.

Monday, May 19, 2014

The Rating System and How to Use It


On a scale of one to ten how happy are the workers of Disney? On a scale from Neil Patrick Harris to Elton John just how gay can a gay guy be?

I got both of those answers yesterday. A gay best friend of mine took me to Downtown Disney, or in other words, the cheap part of Disney. He picked me up at my place and proceeded to play Cher’s greatest hits. It didn’t help that he wore a monogrammed Ralph Polo shirt. On a scale of gayness, I would rate this drive a six. I would rate him a solid ten.

Which got me thinking about rating and rating systems. I wondered, is it the person who gets rated or the personality? We rate movies based on content, but it’s much different with people. Isn’t it? Here’s an example: back in 1954, Dial M for Murder was released under a PG rating. For those of you who don’t know, the movie was about killing Grace Kelly. Not a film for the kiddos, you see.

Take for instance this guy, dancing to the band at Downtown Disney, wearing denim on denim with jewels on the shirt. He was older, nearing seventy to say the least and having a grand old time. He mainly danced by himself, until a little girl, wearing a Cinderella gown, got up and danced with him.

Granted, we only walked past him, but his personality rang through- and not just from the outfit choice- but also by his ability to dance by himself, in a crowd of well over a hundred people. I would rate the man himself an eight, the outfit choice a low two.

As we walked around, deciding on which over priced restaurant would satisfy our rumbling tummies, I rated gay best friend. He always laughs at my jokes, sometimes makes me laugh (his sense of humor is blatantly sexual) and pays for anything (with a minimal effort of me fighting and saying I could pay my own way). With all of these things put together, I rated him a nine out of ten. One point off for using Grindr.

But I wondered, could I rate myself? As we chose a restaurant, I ran through a list of things I could rate about myself. My sense of humor, ten out of ten. The way I care about certain things and people, eight out of ten. My writing, the way I dress and many other things are up for debate.

I figured we rate things to better understand them. We all know an R rated movie will have some nudity, drug references or even murder. They might not have any of that but got its rating from the premise, like killing a beloved screen goddess. We know, well should know, not to bring kids into an R rated film, but many still do.


Here’s a question for you, dear reader, if you could, what would you rate yourself?

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Kids and Godzilla... A Review

When my professor said he wanted class to be at the movies I thought he was kidding. When I got the email for directions to a movie theater I knew he wasn’t kidding. He didn’t tell us what movie, only the time and place.

As we showed up, one by one, afraid and slightly excited, the professor told us the movie. “We’ll be studying Godzilla.” You could only imagine the surprise that held our faces. I mean, Godzilla just came out yesterday. It was labeled a must see just from the trailers. I grew up with Godzilla, watching it almost every night when I was a kid. I had a inflatable Godzilla punching bag for gods sake.

“Now, don’t get too excited, because after we’ll discuss the use of setting and character relationships in the food court.”

And instantly our mood dropped. Class work…on a field trip? Who does that kind of thing? Anyway, long story short, we saw the movie and let me tell you it blew me away. It wasn’t just a monster movie, it was a monster VS flying alien things and one was prego movie. The visuals were stunning, and Godzilla, if I can say this, actually looked real. They didn’t focus on the humans running away from Godzilla; instead they focused on the monsters themselves.

After the movie, and the round- table discussion about the movie, we wanted to walk around. I have never been to this mall before, neither has the roommate. As we walked, feeling like kids in a candy store, we were amazed at how much one can actually fit into a mall.

There were the usual stores, Macys, Dillard’s and Penny’s, but a handful of other store. Of other expansive stores that looked like one had to pay to get in. As we walked, by now the group had dissipated among the other mall- walkers, the roommate said something along the lines of, “I wonder how it would be to be a child in a third world country looking at the toys American kids have.”

I couldn’t help but wonder that as well. We grew up with motorized cars and blocks and green army men. Barbie dolls and little baby dolls. We played dress up with real dress up clothes. We had toy stores at our disposal and what do other kids have?

Now, I’m not an expert on this, but I’m sure they don’t have the toys we had. Maybe they do and maybe I’m not paying any attention to things like this. Maybe because I haven’t played with a toy since I was a kid and forgot to pay attention to their migrating ways.

I wondered another thing though, as we walked past Hollister with the workers waiting at the door like vultures, why is everything so damn expansive?

Why do we always feel like we need pointless shit at the mall? Do I really need the Sony headphones that come in blue, grey or red?


Yes.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

When it Rains, It Pours...

When it rains, it rains. When it pours, it reminds me of a relationship in the last stages of being. It’s cold, hard and sometimes it leaves you wet, as in tears. What better thing to do on a cold rainy day, than to see puppies. It's free, fun and relatively harmless, like the beginning stages of a relationship. 

Mind you, I’m going through this whole “visit the puppies” thing blind. I went to said puppy store in November, back before I even moved in. Its now late May, and I’m unsure if the store has closed, moved or is exactly the same.

It stayed exactly the same, even had the same workers. As we looked around, gawking at the sleeping puppies, wondering which one we would play with, I got to thinking about choosing.

Why do we always choose? What the difference between the puppy with long ears or the one with long hair? The cat with grey fur or black fur? Why do we choose that guy or that girl? Or that career? Those friends? That outfit. 

My roommate and I settled on a boxer with the saddest eyes. I just had to hold him, give him a few kisses. My classmates choose a black kitten, who meowed at them the minute they walked in. As we played, and ultimately, fell in love with the animals, I had to ask why they chose that kitten.

“Well, I always wanted a black cat so I could name him shadow.”
“Why did we choose the boxer?” I asked the roommate.
She shrugged and said, “I’m not sure but would you just look at him!”

As we left the puppy store, our hearts sinking deeper into our chests and our stomach rumbling, we chose to go to dinner. I couldn’t get the word “choose” out of my head. We can choose to have the hamburger, the salad or pasta. We can choose to drink a soda, water or tea. We chose to sit at a booth instead of a table.

I needed expert advice. I needed someone who would be real with me. I needed newly single. I texted her and asked why she chose her boyfriend. She responded back, “he was so sweet and funny and we had a good time and relaxed. We hung out and we talked.”

I believe I got my answer. We choose the things that seem right. The things that won’t hurt us but instead love us. The ones that will always be there for us, the ones we can be ourselves around. We chose the boxer because he was cute. They chose the kitty because they wanted to name it shadow.


I chose to get the bacon cheeseburger. Tell me something, what do you choose? Why?

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Past to Future

Ended my birthday bash extravaganza with a small get together and an email about a writing job. I invited all of my friends, well those that I knew were home, got pizza and cheap soda and waited for them to come over. The magazine is for gays and focuses on the entertainment side, writing about having fun and all that shit. I asked if we could turn The Homo Whisperer into a column and he replied back with a lunch date.

Out of the twenty I invited, only four came. There was the Miss Artist, newly single, BBG, and ex-boyfriend number one. We sat around, near the pizza and soda, and chatted about school and everything that’s ever happened since. Miss Artist is talking to a French boy in the filmmaking class. “He’s so sweet, nice and pretty talented,” she told us. She wants to be a location manager for his movies.
“Yeah, so you can locate him to your who-who,” newly single said, eating her third slice of pizza.

As we chatted, I figured that the high school drama never really stopped, we just got good at hiding it. “College has changed us,” BBG said. We all nodded.
“Yeah we become more sexual,” I looked over at newly single.
“Well, some of us…” her first low blow of the night.
“Better partiers.”
“Better liars,” ex-boyfriend number one said. I wondered why he even showed up, like I didn’t invite him. Stupid ass.

“Joe, when you become famous, don’t forgot about us,” newly single said. This wouldn’t be the first time I heard this from her. Or from any of my other friends, both past and current. Or from my family.

“Why would I change?” I asked with no one answering.
“Guys, I have to get famous first. Give me six years.”

The topic drifted off, to a fellow classmate who finally came out as gay after many years of speculation. I knew it from the first time we met, I mean, he had a scarf collection in the back of his car. To a girl we all knew who dropped out of college.
“That must be a thing now… to drop out of college,” Miss Artist said.
“Everyone’s doing it.”
To who just got arrested.

At the end of the night, as I watched them leave, I got to thinking about myself. Could I let go of my past and bring in the future. I wondered what would happen if we don’t see each other in twenty years?  

I’m not the type of person to just leave a friendship. If you put effort in then I’ll put effort in. even if we don’t speak, I know what my friends are up to thanks to Facebook and Twitter. I’m sure nothing will happen, we’ll always be together, always have each other in the back of our minds.

But didn’t we say the same thing in high school? Look how that turned out.



Thursday, May 8, 2014

Birthday Gifts!

Another day, another year older. Everyone’s been asking me how nineteen feels and I respond with the same answer, “If nineteen had a feeling it would be fat, single and eating copious amount of Chinese food and cake.”

It just so happened that I got a week off from school and since dubbed it “Joe’s Birthday Bash Extravaganza Week Long Awesome.”  It started out with spending all of Wednesday with newly single and a dear old friend, closeted gay. We went shoe shopping, book shopping, out to dinner and ended it with The Amazing Spider-man 2, which was AMAZING. Truly, one of the best sequels I’ve ever seen, covering every range of human emotion.

Today, being my real birthday, was spent eating Chinese food and cake. I answered all the posts to my wall, the texts and snapchat and then I went to goodwill, my go-to used bookstore. As I browsed through old titles and familiar classics, my phone rang. I would’ve thought that by now ex-boyfriend 1 would’ve forgot my birthday, but instead he called and suggested lunch at Denny’s. Meet at two-thirty.

I got there at two-forty; I like to keep him waiting. I thought he would’ve told the employee’s that’s its my birthday and they would’ve sang to me, maybe even give me a cupcake, but no. Nothing except a free grand slam, which I didn’t even finish due to my Chinese food. He then suggested that we go see a physic. “There is one right down the street from the house,” he tells me.

Long story short, the physic tells me three things. That I will have two sons (at this point I looked at her. Should I tell her I'm gay?) not related or twins, that I will have one marriage, and only one marriage (better choose the right guy) and that I will leave my mark (mark on who? What?)

On the drive home from the physic, ex-boyfriend 1 just left me, I thought about birthdays and gifts and people. They always said that it’s the gift that counts, but what if the true gifts are the people themselves?

The people you can’t live out, the people you love or hate, the people that call you at nine in the morning and sing Happy Birthday. The people that save pictures for four years, ready to use them for the perfect occasion.


To me, those people are the true gifts. The ones that keep giving.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

The Beauty Test

Sometimes I feel like I‘m the only person in the world who likes to buy cleaning supplies. I like to look at the shape of the bottles they come in, the way they smell (even though some smell like crappppp) and what I can clean with what, mixing chemicals with other chemicals like it’s a job.

That’s where I found myself in the cleaning aisle of Family Dollar picking out which cleaning materials I needed. It was a toss-up, between the three dollar real shit and the one dollar fake shit. I chose the fake shit; I mean I am still on a budget and everything.

In total, I spent seven dollars and forty-eight cents, on paper towels, dishwashing soap and toilet cleaner. On the way home, instead of plugging in my iPod, I listened to the radio, something I never do because of the commercials. There was this lady, I don’t remember her name, but she said there was this new Chinese method test to find out if you are truly beautiful.

This was the test: put your index finger up to you your nose and down to your chin, like you’re telling someone to be quiet. If your lips touch your finger, without pushing or stretching, then you are truly beautiful.

Naturally I did it and found that my lips do touch. But this test got me thinking, why do we need tests to see that we truly are beautiful? Isn’t true beauty on the inside anyway? Beauty differs from each person to person but the question still remains, what is truly beautiful.

A couple of months ago, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show was on and naturally people flocked to social media sites exclaiming they long to be like them. Longed to have long legs, shining blonde hair and perfectly shaped boobs. I wondered why? How do we know what they really are like?

From what I can understand, beauty is your personality. The way you act in uncomfortable situations. How you can have the brightest of smiles even though you’re screaming on the inside.

Beauty was Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly. Not only because they were beautiful but because they stood up to those who wronged them, they made themselves independent.

The world is a beautiful place filled with beautiful creatures, plants and places.

My mom always said, “No one is better than the person you really are.”


Whatever the hell that means.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Angry, Sad and Wanted

It was eight in the morning and I was on my way to class, not wanting to be up at such an ungodly hour. I just have to say whoever invented the 9 am class can they come talk to me? I have a few words to share with them. As I sat with my others classmates, those that actually remembered to come to class, and the time kept churning, my professor still hasn’t showed up. Soon it passed ten, and the teacher was now an hour late and I wanted to go home.

As we looked around, wondering what we should do, a classmate suggested we should take a selfie. She wanted a picture of us, as yesterday was our last day of class. We took said selfie and sent it to the teacher with a text saying, “We were here. See you later. Bye.”

With the prospects of a free day looming before us, we left. We went home. We read, watched movies and ate. We wanted a day to ourselves and we got it, until we each got an email saying class is resumed at one. That he wanted to give us some last parting advice.

I’m not sure why but the word wanted lingered in my mind. Wanted. Wanting. Can we say that wanted is a feeling? One as common as anger, sadness or happiness?

We all want to be wanted by someone. We want to be the first thing on their minds when they wake up, the last thing to think about before going to sleep. I texted a friend, because the new snapchat update confuses the hell out of me, and asked him “Have you ever wanted something?”

He answered back “Of course. I want a person who loves me for me. I want a guy that tells me I’m cute, even when im not. I want to be wanted, you know?”

Well, I didn’t know, and I didn’t answer him back because his answer took me by surprise. We not only want to be loved, but accepted, recognized and thought about. We want to famous, pretty and talented.

He texted back a little while later “I also want the new smart watch for my phone.”

I guess we also want any new electronics.


I just want a puppy. And some pizza. Maybe some honey buns. 

Thursday, May 1, 2014

GayBoys: Vol 2

My twitter followers before the homo whisperer: 230.
My twitter followers after the homo whisperer: 339.

I had to take a look at what was going on. I wondered, “Could that many people read my stuff and like it? If so, how did they find me? Should I be worried? Why isn't anyone falling in love with me yet?!?! 

I looked through the last fifty or so and found that many of them are fellow writers, with a couple of publications under their belt. But many of them are, ladies and gentlemen brace yourselves, HOMOSEXUALS.

I looked through their pictures, read a few tweets and honestly I was quite shocked. And that coming from me is almost unheard of. They were all skinny, blonde and quite opinioned on every matter from new songs or fashion to world affairs. I wondered, “Has the closet made us angrier? Or better?

As I looked at the pictures, mind you with their shirts off and, in some cases pants, I couldn’t help but say out loud, “I could break these guys in half.”

I also wondered about myself. Could I be in a relationship with these guys? Can I be in a relationship with someone who is a clean freak? Skinny? Someone who likes to party and is the blondest of blondes?

I take a look around my apartment. Without my roommate the place is slowly going to shit. The kitchen sink is full, I haven’t taken the trash out and literally, I sit here as I type this, drinking out of a mountain dew bottle. Who uses cups anyway?

Lets not get started on the tweets. I read through a few and they basically screamed, “HAVE SEX WITH ME.” I’m telling you this right now; if I see one tweet asking or looking for sex you will not be following Joe Russo. I am not about that lifestyle. Not without dinner first, honey. 

There is one though, and his tweets are fabulous. He mixes sex and humor but also a little bit sadness, quite like my life. Single Gay life, if you haven’t, follow him.


Guess what, I just reached 340. Hope that doesn’t make me sound cocky.