Danga da danga da DANG

I know a few of you have been interested in the follow-up to the red carpet story. It's taken me a while to digest the whole experience, and was further delayed, by something I saw while driving over the Neponset River Bridge one morning. It doesn't take much these days, but what I saw put me into a tailspin of depression.

This photograph really says it all.

Atop Ups'n Downs, a dive bar among dive bars located in the shadows of the Neponset River Bridge in Dorchester, is a tattered billboard for High School Musical 3: Senior Year.

I can't think of two worlds more diametrically opposed. On one hand you have the saccharine world of Disney in which every problem gets resolved with impromptu singing and dancing. And on the other hand, well, let's just say the problems usually don't get resolved. There are more downs than ups.

You can walk into The Pony Room, as we locals/townies call it, in the middle of the summer and it's like a winter wonderland. Johnny Mathis greets you at the front door. Just a blizzard. You'll find a bunch of yay'ed up thugs from Quincy and Dorchester standing around talking about their neck tattoos, Dedham MCI, and structured settlement attorneys.

And then there's the women. Oooh boy. A bunch of haggard seagulls ripping butts and farting out Doritos while they spew expletives like longshoremen. A complete horror show.

This place should be avoided at all costs. Just read the reviews.

Except some idiot in our group will inevitably throw out a Let's go to The Pony Room! at last call. In Quincy, last call is at 1AM (if you don't close the blinds) and 2AM in Boston. On any given weekend night at 1:01AM you will find a parade of cars racing over the bridge into Boston to get those last couple of drinks. Very safe. This fun little law makes about as much sense as the MBTA shutting down service an hour before the bars close. It's just the way it works here in the Commonwealth. Don't try to understand it, or search for any rational logic. Just accept it, and move on.

Most of the time, better judgment prevails and my Let's go to The Pony Room! proclamation gets overruled by a level-headed adult in our group. But every now and again, when the planets align (in a bad way) you can find yourself at the doorstep of hell.

A few months ago, we were those people.

We parked under the poorly lit bridge and made our way to the front door where, if you can believe it, we paid the cover. The dude checking IDs was a big intimidating oaf holding onto a Marlboro Red as if it were his eleventh finger. He's the type of guy who has been smoking since he was 6 years old and could gracefully handle a cigarette while tying knots. He can fix a running engine, hold babies, play pool, swim, jackhammer, give directions, and cook all while dangling a smoke precariously from his lower lip.

Needless to say we were all intimidated by his presence and expected him to be a complete hard-ass. Instead, he welcomed us like a doorman at the Ritz. He politely checked our IDs while harmlessly flirting with the girls. He held the door open and wished us all a good night.

We stepped inside and were relieved to see that the bar wasn't too packed. The downstairs is pretty tame compared to the upstairs. I guess the old timers don't have the energy to climb the stairs, or maybe they don't like the music. Either way, anyone with a shred of street smarts has their antennae up trying to avoid trouble. Old timer or not, these guys are tougher than we ever were and could probably kick our asses.

Out of respect, or fear, we tried to blend into the crowd. We lingered awkwardly outside of the bathroom trying to avoid eye contact, or worse, bumping into anyone. We hung in a tight circle and drank our beers. We even ordered some shots, in colorful test tubes, from the shot girl. As soon as we began to relax, some dude walked out of the bathroom, and in the process of giving him a wide-berth I accidentally backed into the cigarette machine. Like a scared kitten I yelled:

MY BAD BRO!

But I was relieved to see that the only danger I faced was lung cancer. Phew.

Being accustomed to frequent public displays of emasculation, I gracefully rolled with the cigarette machine incident, and carried on with the conversation. The alcohol from the shots must have kicked in because someone in the group (not me this time) lobbied to go upstairs. I don't know what we thought we'd find up there, but it seemed like a terrific idea at the time.

As soon as we hit the top landing (literally the second our feet hit the top step) a guy wearing a straight brim white Kangol baseball hat, rocked to the right, asked one of the ladies:

This FAGGOT your boyfriend?

He was pointing to my friend Marc, who in our circle is known as the de-clawed house cat. He proudly lives a nice, soft, lifestyle. He enjoys the finer things in life, and avoids confrontation, physical labor, and uncomfortable situations with admirable dexterity. He's the last guy in the world who would start a fight. You couldn't find a nicer guy, or someone more passive in the entire (617) area code. You just couldn't. Among other things, he's blessed with a terrific golf swing, good fashion sense, fast hair (I mean really fast hair) and the ability to make friends with anyone he meets. The kid has charm to spare. Mothers love him and grandmothers simply adore him. All of our wives and girlfriends secretly want to bang him—the bastard. Admit it gals, it's OK. We understand. But what makes Marc tolerable is that he is refreshingly genuine and completely self-effacing. If not, he'd be a complete dick.

As you could imagine, when the rest of us saw Marc in the middle of a brewing maelstrom we were quick to respond.

Nope, he's my husband his wife responded.

We sized up the situation and decided to stand our ground and protect the honor of our good friend and his lovely wife. I don't know if it was the booze talking, but without regard for our safety, instantly and without hesitation, we pulled a complete 180˙and bravely ran down the stairs like little kids running away from their uncle pretending to be a monster.

Run away! Run away! Run away!

Nearly knocking over the enormous bouncer, we piled out the front door. Safely outside, realizing we narrowly escaped a visit to Carney Hospital, we all started laughing. Head for zee hills. Adios amigos.

The same bouncer who, just minutes before, warmly took our cover charge told us that we were making a smart decision by leaving early. Last call, he said, wasn't a good time for people like us. We shouldn't be hanging around at this hour. He'd seen a lot of trouble in his time, especially under the bridge, when the crowd spills out. Where the fuck was this sage advice when we walked into this place Marlboro Man? By his greeting, you'd think we were walking into Jordan's Furniture, and not Fallujah, as he later described it.

We got into our cars, and because I never want the night to end, I offered up our house for an after hours party. People refused so I threw pancakes and wine into the package. Who could resist that? I promised to "overwhelm" my guests with wine. And pancakes. Whatever that means. But I kept repeating it.

Guys, I will overwhelm you with wine. Just come in for a little bit. It'll be great. When do we ever get to see each other? C'mon? Not even for a drink? After what we just went through? Let's celebrate! Let's celebrate, life! We made it. I will overwhelm you with wine. And pancakes.

It turns out we didn't have any pancake mix nor did we have much wine. Certainly not enough to overwhelm a crowd, so it was probably a good thing they politely declined. More importantly however, is that we got out of that place without getting our faces kicked in. It could have turned out much differently. In a split second, one's life can forever be altered. And those drunken nights tend to be the game changers.

I don't drive by that place without thinking about that night, or many others like it, when things could have gone awry, but thankfully by the grace of God didn't.

And it's not like we grew up completely soft or anything, and couldn't recognize danger when we saw it coming. I wasn't tough by any stretch of the imagination, but my friends were, so I quickly developed some street smarts. I think the first time you see someone get their face peeled back by some mental case you go in one of two directions. You either think, yes this fighting thing is for me, and use any opportunity to get into a scrap. Or you take the other route, the one I took, and avoid fights at all costs.

In middle school our principal had a sign with two numbers hanging outside of his office door. It represented the number of days the student body could last without a fistfight. I don't think it ever reached double-digits, and was usually set back to double zeros each week. There were some epic brawls at that school including one that I will never forget between two of the biggest heavyweights in my class, Sean and Lakrisha. Those two squared off one morning, and my life has never been the same since.

Lakrisha had a metal lunchbox, probably filled with a sandwhich, an apple, and a juice box which she was swinging wildly at Sean. He must have said or done something really offensive because she was as angry as a hornet. He was using some fancy footwork trying to avoid her hay makers, but eventually, she connected with a bomb. Right across his face. Metal on nose.

TING!

He stumbled backwards, but miraculously stayed on his feet. He responded with a viscious uppercut, the force of which, caused her to drop the lunchbox.

SMACK!

They grabbed onto each other like Jay Miller and Chris Nilan at center ice, and exchanged about 40 rights apiece. It was ugly. Finally, a faculty member broke it up. And Lakrisha began to cry. I don't think out of pain necessarily, but rather because she was getting into trouble. She was still pretty young and was probably afraid of being suspended or getting grounded.

The male teacher, I will never forget, had such a troubled look on his face. He was shaken to his core. The poor guy was just trying to do his job and maybe, just maybe, have an impact on some unfortunate kid's life. Instead, he probably developed a drinking problem that very evening.

How was work honey? Hey there's no reason for you to snap at me? Jeez. I was just asking. Are you drunk?

And who could blame him? It was bad. Everyone knew it was bad. Even the crazy kids.

Experiences like that made me realize, with absolute certainty, that I don't have the stomach or physical constitution to withstand a legit, no holds barred street fight. I'll stand over in the corner and tell jokes, thank you very much. When I go out with my friends I want to have a couple of laughs, but wind up at work on Monday morning. I have zero interest of getting into it with anybody.

One of my biggest fears is running into one of these lunatic bull sharks at a bar:



And I'm pretty certain, that the kid in the white Kangol hat, was probably just as crazy as this nutzo in the video. Pussies or not, he had no problem calling out an entire group of guys, and there is a compelling reason for that unbridled confidence which none of us had any business challenging.

Meanwhile, a mere 3,000 miles away from The Pony Room, but a world apart, I was about to walk the Red Carpet and didn't have a thing to wear. I was on my way to West Hollywood to find a thrift store. I figured I could easily cobble something together for the event. No big deal.

Upon the advice of an old college friend who lives in LA, he told me that I would be able to pick up some decent clothes in West Hollywood. I took a cab, and realized $70 later, how different things are in LA and why the cabbie was more than happy to take me all the way out to West Hollywood from my Downtown hotel.

Because we had a shitload of time to get to know each other, the cab driver and I wound up in a deep discussion. He was from Africa and was planning on going home for Christmas for the first time in twenty years. He was probably looking for a big tip, which he received, but his story was heart-wrenching and I couldn't help myself from being overly generous. In stark contrast to the surreal glitz of LA, he was a working stiff, fueled by the desire to provide upward mobility for his children, and truly living the American Dream. I was touched by his tenacity. Inspired by his dedication. And humbled by his work ethic.

Here you go Jabali. Please. Please. It is my pleasure, my friend. I insist. I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas, you gentle soul, you.

I ended up wandering around Sunset Boulevard, and realized I was way out of my league. Poor Jabali must have mistaken me for someone wealthy. I should have told him explicitly, that I was looking for cheap, preferably clean, used clothing. Not a high-end boutique.

If I were shopping for $190 t-shirts than this was, without question, the place to be. But I was hoping to get the whole kit and caboodle for about $150. Tops. So I walked, and walked, and walked for miles without any luck. Nobody walks in LA, and now I know. I was sweating my balls off and started developing unsightly pit stains. I walked into one boutique after another and was met with the same judgmental eyes from the fashionable clerks who didn't waste their breath on me. I swear I could hear them say something about the GAP under their breath. Fuck 'em.

At my wits end, I called another friend back in Boston, and told him to Google Maps thrift stores in West Hollywood and get me pointed in the right direction. He sent me to an address. I arrived at Out of the Closet Thrift Store (very funny Andy) which is exactly what the sign says it is. As you could imagine I didn't have any luck there. Most respectable gay guys don't have my build so I was shit out of luck. If you are in the market for size 32's and Medium shirts then this place is a gold mine. A complete gold mine.

He gave me a few more addresses, and I basically ran into the same problem. The XL rack had about 3 items hanging on it, but the store was chalk-full of clothes suited for men with eating disorders who weigh 160 lbs. or less.

I wound up, fortunately, at a place called Sharp Image Resale which carried very decent designer suits. I told the clerk, who turned out to be the owner, that I was in a jam. I was going to my first-ever red carpet premiere and needed to dress the part. I told him I was clueless and needed his expertise. He was all too accommodating until I dropped the "it's a red and white theme" on him. He was foreign, and as such, had very foreign (read: sophisticated) tastes. He made no effort to hide the fact that the color scheme was revolting. He kept asking, as if I were playing a joke on him:

Ahh, red and white? RED? Red. And WHITE?

Yes, red and white I assured him. He shook his head in disgust and told me to try on a pair of slacks. For fit. He then came back with a dozen suits and told me to try them on. None of them were red. Or thankfully white. He told me we'd work around that. Again, I was sweating my balls off at this point because a) I am a fat fuck who is wildly out of shape b) I just walked several miles in the sunny streets c) the clock was ticking and I needed to be back downtown shortly and I was beginning to stress out.

My sweating only intensified as I tried on one ill-fitted suit after another. He told me that my husky frame put me "in between sizes," but he would do his best to find something that looked OK. We were no longer in search of something stunning. Or decent. Instead we resorted to finding something OK. Something passable. And even that didn't look like it was about to happen. We struck out one suit after another. Too big. Too small. Too "foreign" for my personality. And time was ticking. I didn't have any other options. I didn't have time to hit the GAP or a chain store. It was this place or nothing at all.

I decided I needed to be more efficient so I took advantage of being the only customer in the store and I tried shit on right by the rack. One point of clarification, I don't wear underwear which made it incredibly awkward for the kind gentleman who had no choice but to watch me and my sweaty cock soiling and wrinkling his fine worsted suits. What a savage. He just wanted me out of the store.

Suddenly, he found a suit that fit perfectly, but I wasn't entirely convinced it was either perfect or a suit I hadn't already tried on before. Not having a choice, at this point, I went with it and told him to ring it up. And I'll take these black shoes as well. He wrung me up, and I was on my way with an Armani Suit and Italian leather shoes for just over a $150. Not bad.

I had just over an hour to get back to the hotel. I didn't want to take a cab back because I figured traffic would be a complete nightmare. I began asking strangers for directions to the subway, but nobody knew. I kept getting vague responses.

I think it's on Vermont? I'm not sure though. I've never taken the subway here. Do you know where the subway is? No? OK, yeah man, I don't know. Sorry.

I finally found my way to the subway after asking no less than 50 strangers for directions, and I thought it only fitting, that even out in LA I would be stuck on the Red Line. Fucking perfect.

Unlike the MBTA though, this Red Line was from the space age. It was clean. It was fast. And it was nearly empty. There weren't a million stops, and we seemed to go 100 mph through the tunnel. In no time, I was back in downtown. I can't believe more people don't use the subway, but then again, this is LA and a subway card doesn't have the same status symbol as a BMW. I could just imagine a bunch of East Coasters, green as hell, bombing around the city and thinking they are pulling one over on the locals.

This is fucking pissah, guy. No traffic whatsoever. Yeah, we bee lined it over to West Hollywood in no time flat. I could even bring my fucking bike on the train too. All those retards can have the freeways.

I made it back to the hotel without a minute to spare. My colleagues were waiting for me in the lobby. I was still soaking wet from the 11 second shower. I didn't have time to completely dry off so I showed up, like the train wreck that I am, in a Talking Heads suit. I realized by looking in the elevator mirror that I was dressed up in a clown suit. Fuck it. Too late now.

I expected that we would wind up taking a cab to the red carpet, and in between a sea of limos, we would class it up at the entrance in a yellow cab. We'd be waiting for change from the driver as people in headsets and the paparazzi would try to figure out who we were.

Can I just get a Five back? And a receipt? Excellent. Thanks pal. Have a great night. You too.

Instead, and this must be a special VIP thing, we hopped on a large bus. They dropped us off at a Radisson Hotel. That must be the hip drop-off area for all the stars I was thinking. The pre-party, maybe.

Not exactly.

We ended up walking a couple of blocks to the entrance where all the celebrities' limos were lined up. There were loads of fans cordoned off behind jersey barriers looking eagerly for any celebrity sightings, but were openly disappointed as we walked by. As I got to the entrance, a middle-aged woman with absolutely no sign of kids by her side kept yelling at me. I made the mistake of making eye-contact and hearing what she said.

I've been waiting out here all night. I slept here. On the concrete. I hope you enjoy yourself.

She said it real cunty as if I was the reason she weren't getting into the premiere. How pathetic I thought. For a High School Musical premiere? Without any kids. Sorry lady, you are a coo koo bird and you will receive no sympathy from me. I am a high-roller. I am about to walk the red fucking carpet. I was a Hollywood insider now.

As I turned the corner I saw the sea of people. There were hundreds of photographers lined up for what seemed like an entire length of a football field. End zones and all. Holy crap! This is awesome. At that point, I started to recognize some celebrities. I didn't know their names exactly, but I recognized their faces. That's the guy from Heroes. And I think she is on MTV. Oh and look, that's what's his name!

We got wanded by security gaurds in black suits, and were lead into a tent where we needed to check-in. I walked up to the M-P section, and told the nice young lady my first and last name. I was praying to God that I was on the list and there wasn't a mix up. I didn't want to have to go back to that pathetic women holding the hand painted Zach Efron sign. Please God. Please be on the list.

Yup. Here you go sir. Enjoy the film.

Film? Come on? I know that's probably the lingo, but HSM3, a film?

We were then hustled onto the red carpet. And when I say red carpet I mean a sliver of the red carpet where the poor people walk. Not the red carpet on the left where all the celebrities walk. Motherfuckers. This is an outrage! I deserve to be with them. Over there. I want E! to ask me what I am wearing. I want to do a quick interview, if I have time, with Joan Rivers' daughter. This is horseshit. Nobody can ask me questions from way over here. I would even stoop so low as to grant Telemundo an interview.

Me gustaría decir hola a mis fans en Mexico. ¡Te quiero mucho!

Nevertheless, I walked that sliver of red carpet as slowly as humanly possible. Maybe, just maybe, there was a talent scout looking for the next big bloated white guy to star in a feature. Yeah, a feature. I said it.

The dudes in the black suits kept hustling me forward, but I wasn't budging. I was going to take this whole thing in, and I'll be damned if they rushed me. Don't they know who I am? I sit in a cubicle, damn it. In Boston. I am something. I am big-time.


After twenty-five yards I was completely out of stall tactics. I pulled the old tying my shoes, that don't have laces, trick. Twice. Then, the I'm looking for someone move. But the men in black were onto me, and kept asking me to move it along. I was going into the theater whether I liked it or not.

At the next security check-point we got searched again and were asked to forfeit our cameras. That's when I saw my old pal Andy Garcia. I wanted to ask him if he remembered almost bumping into me back in Boston a few months ago.

No? Doesn't ring a bell? On Tremont Street? No? OK, that's weird because I thought we made a connection. Hey, no big deal. I am sure you meet a lot of people every day. No big deal. Just drop it Andy, OK. No, there isn't a problem. Hey get your fucking hands off me. What did I do? I hope you're happy Andy. Enjoy the film.

We found our seats, which were surprisingly, pretty good. We sat next to Mickey Dolans from the Monkeys of all people. He was a really nice guy, and absolutely thrilled we recognized him. I saw Barry Bonds walk past my row and was excited that I had better seats than him. Fucking maggot. He must be on the South Beach or something because he wasn't a monster anymore. Just a big, athletic dude. My ADD set in and I couldn't sit still anymore. So I walked back into the lobby to do some more celebrity gawking.

There weren't too many A-listers which was a dissappointment, but it was still fun to watch everyone. I saw Kevin Smith who is gigantic, Paula Abdul, and a shitload of B-listers I fail to remember. What was interesting though, was the gaggle of teeny bopper kids that were hanging out in the lobby. They were obviously part of the movie because they were being interviewed by people and signing autographs. I speculated that they were the new crop of Disney stars, and it was clear, the executives know what they're doing. It's all about quantity. Some of these faces won't survive puberty, and well, others won't survive nagging cocaine addictions.

I found myself in a group of pathetic middle-aged autograph seekers. The men in black tried desperately to get us into our seats, but we kept ignoring them like the assholes we were. As the time drew near, the main characters of the movie began entering the theater. They were surrounded by enormous bodyguards. From my creepy vantage point, I was but a few feet from where they walked by, so I was able to get a good look at the stars. Overall, I was pretty impressed by their presence. Most notably, you could tell that Zach Efron really has charisma and will probably be the only one who remains a true Hollywood star in the long-run. Vanessa Hudgens is a complete knock-out. Corbin Bleu, who looked fifty, seemed to be a good shit. Hey this is pretty cool.

Then, I suddenly became bitter.

I don't know if it's my cultural heritage or what, but the cynical Bostonian mentality kept creeping up in me as I watched these young stars interact with each other. The Jonas Brothers and their ilk really got under my skin. Unlike me, they had perfectly tailored outfits. $500 haircuts. They probably got manis and pedis too. I started thinking about how much they probably make in a year, and the support system of agents, publicists, and executives who kiss their ass on a daily basis. They were privileged and entitled. They wore it on their sleeves, and I was resentful.

In reality, what have these child prodigies really accomplished? Do they know the value of a dollar, and would they ever know the plight of the working man? I kept thinking back to the working stiffs in the trades who break their balls every day to put food on the table. These kids wouldn't know what a hard days work was all about, and they never will. And here we are celebrating them like they are gods.

Then I started thinking about me. Fuck the hard hats. What about me damn it?! What about the 100 hour work weeks that ruined my summer and nearly my relationship? Did these kids work 36 hours straight because the approved photographs of the talent weren't actually approved? Or the constant legal battle of how we represent their likeness in our ads? No way, these pricks had no idea what we went through. We are just below the line grunts only there to serve them.

And sadly, they are right. Everything, the lights, the cameras, the limos, the millions in ad dollars were all there for them. And I was a fool to think otherwise.

I worked myself into a tizzy as I often do, and finally acquiesced to the black suits' final request for me to please find my seat. I sat next to our client and tried to put on a happy face. And for the next 90 minutes I was tortured with a horribly mediocre film.

I realize that I am not in the target audience, but good god, this movie like the previous two, was abysmal. I couldn't wrap my head around the magnitude of this production and how many millions of dollars in revenue it would generate. What a sad commentary on our society.

My thoughts moved onto that poor woman out in the parking lot who slept overnight in hopes of catching a glimpse into the lives of those she adores. Who am I to pass judgment? Who am I to take a seat from a worthy fan and not appreciate the moment for what it's worth? I was one of the lucky ones. I was part of the buzz, and the adrenaline rush, if I am honest with myself, was pretty powerful.

I resigned myself to sit back and take it all in. Let this experience wash over me and to live in the moment. Stop being a dick and just enjoy, the film. It was fun. If you think about it I was watching a movie with all the cast members. We were all laughed (yes I laughed) and cried (are you fucking serious? not a chance) at the same parts. It was cool.

Then, because I am a mental patient, started thinking about the penis game. The object of the game is to yell penis as loudly as possible in the most inappropriate of places. It's basically the best game in the world, but sadly only played by teenagers and the mentally ill.

I wondered how many points I would score if I belted it out here. I would be a legend. I would be unemployed certainly. Most likely arrested. But I would be a legend. Andy Garcia would hear me. Paula Abdul would hear me. Kevin Smith would laugh his ass off. For the rest of the film I wrestled with the strong, psychotic urge to yell PENIS!

Fortunately, I made it through the night without any life-altering look at me look at me Dad Sirhan Sirhan moments. Thank god! With this economy?

The movie ended, and the cast and crew came out on-stage for a curtain call. They all but announced another sequel, and the crowd went bananas. Hey, go for it. America obviously has an insatiable appetite for mediocrity, and I am not talking about Applebees. Don't get me started on Applebees.

I high-fived Mickey on the way out, and ducked in line before Barry Bonds. Fuck him. We walked out the theater past all the fans who were still lingering outside. I handed a little girl a red and white pom pom, and her eyes lit up like a Christmas Tree. She was psyched. And it made me realize, again, that I wasn't here to watch the premiere of a Quentin Tarantino film, and needed to check myself.

I made a promise that I would be back here someday on the red carpet. Legitimately. (Not as an actor. You can never get over the porn stigma. Especially, the male films. And the male German ones are nearly insurmountable. I can't think of anyone who has broken into the mainstream from that background. So it must be writing for me.) But next time, I would be walking on the left side of the carpet with a writing credit.

There, I said it. Fuck you. That's my dream. I know, go easy. I just accepted that I will not be the next Red Sox 3rd baseman so let me enjoy this lofty pursuit. They have editors out there you know?

And that is why the tattered billboard in Neponset had such a profound effect on my psyche. It represented my decision, or indecision, to follow my dream. It taunted me as I slipped back into my comfortable routine. Will I end up a loser talking about what could have been from the sidelines, or will I have the balls to go for broke?

Either way, the self-pity bullshit won't help me get anywhere. And until I prove myself, I don't have any right to pass judgment on anyone. Not the poor souls, who probably had a fraction of opportunities I've been afforded, stuck on the bar stools at The Pony Room, Jabali in the cab, nor the cocksuckers who are responsible for HSM3.

Now it's time for me to find out if I am the genuine article, or just as disillusioned as these American Idol contestants:


So that explains my hiatus from this thing. (I hate the word blog. It's the second worst word in modern times only behind blogger so I'll refer to this thing as the thing from now on.) This thing, including all of your comments, means the world to me, and I am going to stop pretending like it doesn't. I'll be posting more, and please do comment. It is like oxygen to me. Even the ones that bust my balls which I am fully expecting for this one. But ask yourself this, when was the last time you told 53 readers your deepest held secret?

(I can't believe I am going to hit the "Publish Post" button now. Fuck it.)