Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Nuclear Winter Wonderland

Once again, thanks to my fabulous friend Ky DiGregorio, I've been introduced to another band I've fallen in love with. The Nuclears, which are sonically reminiscent to KISS, Hanoi Rocks, the Stooges, Alice Cooper, New York Dolls, and more, bring you traditional rock n'roll in a time of frivolous, overproduced Top 40 hits. It's everything you want from rock n'roll: fast cars, loud guitars, beer, whiskey, boredom, and just rocking out for the sake of rocking out.

This Christmas season, they've recorded a big rock n'roll Christmas hit entitled "Nuclear Winter Wonderland." 

The song benefits the charity "Toys for Tots," and all proceeds will go to them if you buy the song! So help the less fortunate by purchasing the song HERE and rock the fuck out! 100% of your money will go to holiday gifts and bringing Christmas cheer to children this holiday season. 

So don't be a douchebagel, buy the song. Rock out with your cock out. And make a child in need smile. 

PS: Don't forget to follow The Nukes on Twitter HERE and visit their website HERE. Buy their album too, it's sick!

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


Conceived from the mind of an ambitious film student a couple months ago, film maker and visionary Cecilia Pérez-Homar embarks on a journey that unearths the Lower East Side Rock N' Roll culture and the family and friends that are bound by its lifestyle. It explores identity struggle, notions of confidence and bravery, loneliness, and an array of touching stories that gives justice to the fight we've endured to become who we are today. 

Notorious for its rock n'roll/glamour party scene,  leather-bearing-beer-guzzling cohorts, and gender ambiguous haircuts, NYC's best kept secret is captured on film by virtue of an extraordinary endeavor shot and edited by one of my best friends.  

I'm so blessed and honored to be apart of this project. Never would I have thought I would be given the chance to tell my story, alongside my friends to show the world the close knit family we've become, stringed by our ability to confidently be who we are without bearing prejudice or judgement. The streets of downtown Manhattan allowed us carve a space for us in the world where we fearlessly exude our identities and hold our whiskey high. 

Featuring Darian Darling, Breedlove, Marty E. (The Dirty Pearls), Penny Lane, Jocelyn S., Joe Kane, Greg Mania, and others!

This is our story. This is who we are, vanguards of the LES nightlife: 

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Douchery Chronicles: Lecture Woes

Ok, let me start out by saying this post is strictly venting about a certain class I'm taking, and may contain a few accentuations for the sake of comedic value. But, on the whole, this is me purely exuding my frustrations and animosity harbored towards this fucking class that feels like a blood sucking leech on my  soul.

I'm not going to divulge too much detail by virtue of trying to keep this *classy* trash-talking, but if you're close to me you know which class I'm talking about because I'm always in the mood to drop kick a puppy in the gallbladder when I bitch about it.

I have this lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I would rather have a threesome with my grandparents than go to it. The material itself is rather rudimentary, however the instructor can't seem to convey it in a manner that us students can understand and grasp. And come exam time, we fail harder than Ginger Spice's attempt at a solo career.

In addition to the perpetual instructional ineptitude, her painfully meticulous grading criteria is decaying my grade in the class. GOD FORBID I USE THE FONT CAMBRIA INSTEAD OF TIMES NEW ROMAN. Or if my heading is .00000000284 inches away from how she wants it to be. What is this poppycock? I'm losing points on the most trivial things. I don't mean to sound like a snobby point-accumulator, but this is just ridiculous. I always acknowledge professors' preferences, but if you take points off because of something completely irrelevant, I pray you get a kidney stone the size of a Smart Car.

Ok, that's enough venting. In other Greg Mania news: (It's not a Greg Mania blog post without a few shameless gratuitous shots of myself)

This is what happens when you forget your arsenal of hair products in New York. 

It was also my good friend Sophia's birthday this weekend, so naturally I gave her the royal Mania treatment: (Happy birthday, baby!)

(So yeah, there goes my chances of getting a job.)

I also attended my school's fashion show, which was very nicely put together. Kudos for intense theatricality, fabulous garments, and sick playlist. You can tell there was a lot of hard work put into the show.

Now this is not directed just at this fashion show, but I swear a drunk infant could walk better in stilettos than some models. Make sure your break your heels in before you hit the runway! 

Anyways, this week is going to kick my ass. As most of you can tell via my social media posts, I'm going through a ~turbulent~ time, so I appreciate you sticking by me. Love you all so much.


Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Mental Vomit

(This post has been brought to you by copious amounts of booze and iTunes' depressing musical selection tonight. If it gets any more dismal I'm going to have to take it shopping at Hot Topic.)

Days pass, moments slip between our fingers like grains of sand,

One look from you, and I'm done. 

Thoughts pass, lonely nights. Stench of wine on my breath, 

Wondering, I think about you. Are you thinking about me? 

A promise I made to myself, broken, flooded with empty regrets and hopeful wishes, endless melodies and enigmatic words. 

Unforeseen circumstances, emotional palindromes, my heart strapped into a rollercoaster.

I've learned not fight what I feel, so I took a chance. Put everything on the line, risking it time and time again, just for that one wonderful moment. 

Are you hungry for wonderful? It doesn't need to be perfect. It doesn't need to be healthy. It could be wonderful.

You scroll, whimsical elements mirror off your captivating eyes, trust that if you put your heart on a dish I won't swallow it. 

An arsenal of memories we need to put our faith in, I lose myself again. 

A virtuoso of words, I find the right ones I want to say non-existent. I find sanctuary in writing them down, but this time they don't come to me. 

Fear is but a figment of our imagination. Break down the barriers to see the light. 

Taste the tip with me, I promise it's worth it.

Whut da fuck.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

HOLY DI$CO TITS: 100th Post!

Needless to say, I'm overwhelmingly speechless at the fact that this is my 100th blog post on Le Cabaret.  This blog, birthed from the abyss of my creative anxiety, has been my baby since its inception back in January (Click HERE to read the very first post. Awww *tear*). And, 100 posts and 25,000+ hits later, I'm still exuding my psycho babble. I can't believe this page has been viewed over 25,000 times and still counting. So I want to say a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who has read and said even one nice thing. I can't tell you the utter delight I feel when people come up to me and say how much they love my blog. So eternal gratitude pointed at you, darling nuggets.

Also, I just wanted to share with you last month's demographic of who read this blog and where they came from:

GHANA? MAYA ANGELOU, DAT YOU GURL? Thank you for making me Tom Cruise-jumping-on-Oprah's-couch happy. I feel like I'm changing the world one skinny jean at a time. I remember saying on my first blog post that I had no idea what correlation future posts would make...and to be frankly honest, I still don't. HA!

When I first came up with the idea to write, I wanted to embody Enlightenment thinker and social critic Voltaire, whose writing was ahead of his time. He would express his ideas utilizing satire to make them appeal to a mass audience. That's basically what I want to do. This blog's mantra is fundamentally entertainment, yet I want to convey serious issues to my audience as well. And I hope to continue to inspire and make you laugh.

In other GregMania news, I'm on a new, effective diet:

(Beer and Netflix)

So, cheers to another 100 posts! I'm in midst of those abominable midterms, so look out for a tequila spurred post with targeted animosity towards these awful assessments.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas GPA genocide. 

If anyone needs me, I'll be playing "gotcha nose!" with Voldemort. 

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Fake Eyelashes, Beer, and Tears

I have always said the pen was my weapon of choice, and now I'm using it against you. Because I care about you that much.

To Whom It May Concern:

You didn't lie when you said "it's all happening." But no one knew if it was for the better or for the worse. But it's certainly happening either way, whether we like it or not, whether we're ready or not ready.

You said I may not see or know the "real" you. The darkness exiled from the abyss of our identities upstages our youth and kindred spirits. Under the leather, lace, eyeliner, thick make up, and hairspray, we're just a bunch of kids looking for validation. I found it in you. I owe eternal gratitude for how much you've changed my life in a miraculously brief amount of time.

I may for the first time be completely speechless. I can't come up with the right words; the thoughts that I want to convey to you somehow seem to get slaughtered somewhere between my brain and mouth. I guess what I want to say is pushing me away is causing more harm than good. You say you want to protect me, but baby, maybe it's you that doesn't know the "real" me. You think I'm too good, and that being so close to you will be detrimental to me. But I'm not. I'm selfish, lazy, an asshole, and a drunk. These flaws take a backseat when I'm with you. I feel blessed to have this connection with you and I strongly believe through celestial influence that we were meant to have this peculiar bond we've built. And I feel like we're meant to be like this for however long we're supposed to be around.

I know that I'm racing against the needle. One of us needs to get to you first. I take your words seriously. But who knows, you and I were born to lose. It's something I've learned to live with, yet every time that theory is corroborated, it hurts just as much as the first time. Perhaps Thunders was right. But even if this isn't victorious, I want to be with you, not away, when whatever happens, happens. You were the one after all, who said it would all happen. And we might as well make the best in our black halo of misery and hopelessness. You're a beacon of light in that nebula, and it's too dark to navigate without you. If we're gonna cascade into mental oblivion, might as well do it together.

So there you go, a Penny for your thoughts?


Thursday, October 6, 2011

iHate Cancer

As most of you know, Apple co-founder Steve Jobs died yesterday fighting an eight year long battle with pancreatic cancer. Apple has been a part of my lifestyle from an early age. In 3rd grade, I had a fervent infatuation with the intensely hued iMac 3G's (you know, those really colorful ones that looked like a San Francisco gay pride parade threw up on them) and today I practically find myself spooning my Macbook Pro every night before I slip into peaceful slumber.  

Steve Jobs played the role of mid wife as he helped birth an abundant amount of innovative Apple products, ranging from iconic music technology to breathtaking computer software. Products that stole the spotlight from competition time and time again. Spurred from the limitless imagination of an ambitious visionary, Steve has provided consumers all over the world with ample inspiration and proliferation to push the boundaries of technology and lifestyle.

Steve Job's mantra was rooted in buddism, stressing focus and simplicity. He has provided this generation with illimitable thought and force. So I'll conclude this post with a quote from Steve, highlighting some of his greatest wisdom for us to digest and pass on:

“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true. Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” 

-Steve Jobs

Thanks Steve, Because of you I've been thinking different since 1991.

Monday, October 3, 2011


This movement conveys the core of a message that I've been preaching for a while now. SlutWalk(s) are a series of protest marches born in Toronto which have recently migrated to Chicago and NYC, and continue to expand globally. These convivial festivities embody a myriad of protestors who adorn themselves in "slutty" wench-tastic attire and march down the streets of these cities addressing societal values against "don't get raped" and emphasize focus on "don't rape." Society teaches us that dressing up in scandalous garments and acting in a licentious manner invite rape. WRONG. Bitch, these holes are RSVP only.

I love this movement and personally believe that is a crucial step towards decaying institutional tolerance. My friends and I dress for ourselves, not to pick someone up. Our first intention upon entering a bar isn't to actively seek someone to take home for the night. We should be allowed to be free in our bodies, and portray ourselves in any light we see ourselves fit. I mean I'm always describing my look as "James Dean metal junkie Snuggie whore" or "Hello Kitty pirate hooker margarita vamp," or I don't even fucking know, but the point is one does not dispatch the desire to get sexually assaulted by virtue of what clothes they put on their body.

So if you want to rock a pair of 7'' stilettos and a cheetah print mini, fucking do it. These protests embark on a powerful and cognizant edict that addresses many of the flaws that we touch young children.

So if you agree with me on any of these points, or if you just want to get your voice heard, attend one of these walks. Even if you want to go walk around in a bra and make some friends, look out for one of these fabulous slutterific orgys-on-the-go in your city! 

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Would You Take a (Love) Bullet For Me?

Three months ago, in the East Village's notorious bar Three of Cups, brewed a vivifying inkling exiled from the minds of two girls who want to make an impact on the way we hear and see rock music. Rock n'roll virtuosos Ky DiGregorio and Rebecca Kiembock have embarked on a journey that has spawned the birth of Jet Boy Records, affectionally dubbed the "rock n'roll revival label," to today, as their first signed band is on the cusp of releasing their EP for the world to hear.

Jet Boy Records, an homage to the Dolls' (No, not Goo Goo Dolls, any rock n'roll enthusiast who thinks of Goo Goo Dolls when I say Dolls needs to get punched in the fallopian tube) infectious record, "Jet Boy." Aimed at a modern day reinterpretation of the infamous 70's NYC rock scene, Ky and Rebecca hope to spread the ideals and sounds of music that seemed to dissipate overtime with the introduction of auto-tone and #1's you can't tell the difference between.

Rock n' roll is not just about the music, it's an attitude. It's harnessed intrinsically and exudes itself by virtue of fashion, ideals, and even how you walk. You may say Jet Boy Records was brought into this world at the wrong time; a time when our airwaves are plagued with a plethora of frivolous over-produced Top 40 melodic travesties, but I say it's just the PERFECT time. If you dig deep enough, you can find bands all over the underground NYC scene that make you feel like stepped through a portal and walked right into CBGB. There's a palpable energy that may cause borderline hallucination such as seeing Johnny Thunders (whom I credit with the instigation of my puberty) smoking a cigarette, or you may catch a glimpse of The Heartbreakers on stage, and maybe even Sable Starr and Nancy Spungen trying to get someone to shoot them up. It's this iconic, morally ambiguous age that Jet Boy Records endeavors to capture and rejuvenate. They're an impeccable rock label paradigm that'll revive the way music thrived in 1970's New York City.

Now, I've been blessed to have Love Bullet's EP grace my ears prior to its official release in a few weeks. My dear friend Ky e-mailed it to me followed by ineffable joy surging through my body after I heard the record. It's the product of many sleepless nights, extreme fatigue due to excessive heat, perpetual espresso binges, and around the clock inebriation. And it's PURE unbridled magic.

Love Bullet's mantra and sound is very reminiscent of the Ramones. Tracks such as "Touch It" and "Like A Drug" permeate your cerebellum and are on mental repeat all day long. Lyrically and sonically, it fits right into my punk rock playlists and fails to disappoint when I play it for my friends. My undying infatuation with this album will unequivocally progress with every band that Jet Boy Records recruits into their rock empire. 

Make sure you follow Jet Boy Records on Tumblr by clicking the image above and follow them on Twitter HERE. And of course don't forget to follow Love Bullet HERE

The EP is expected to debut on iTunes soon so you bet your tits I'll be updating this blog post as soon as it comes out. 

*This post is dedicated to Ky and rock. Because without both of you, I would not get out of bed in the morning. 

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

R.I.P Summer '11/Enter Syllabus

Well, another summer that turns into nothing but a sweet memory. Succulent S'mores around bonfires, long walks at the beach, and driving with the windows down blasting your favorite tunes makes room for comforter choosing, Red Bull-satiated homework nights, and leather weather. Well, for us students anyway. I've already been ambushed by a myriad of syllabi, a precursor to the deluge of coursework and reading that'll sequester my social life and sleep schedule to the corner of the room that is life. I think I'd rather make out with Ke$ha after she bobbed for apples in a tub of bleach than have another sleepless semester.

But, the good news is that I'm back in New York. My lungs have missed the pollution-satured air. I haven't even been back for 24 hours and I've already purchased beer, cigarettes, and a new leather jacket (see below). There are some easy-on-the-eye freshman this year that make me wetter than Hurricane Irene. I hope I don't get arrested for saying that. I've also met a girl on my floor who is from the Lower East Side, so naturally I invited her over for beer so we can swap stories about which bars we threw up by.

The newest addition to the Mania leather jacket family. I'm SO SO SO exxxcited for fall, because JACKETS. My favorite thing to wear. Boom. I buy so many the magnetic strip on my credit card catches on fire.

The only underlining concern is the magnitude of work and high levels of stress I'll encounter during the semester, which might possibly leave this blog in a faint layer of dust. I swear I'll try to update it as much as possible, with posts most likely occuring towards the end of the week, usually spurred by inspiration accumulated from last night's drunken stupor. So I'll try to update it as much as possible, seeing that I have a few drafts ready to go. I just have to write them and fabulosize them before they are published on the Internet.

But I *must* bleach my hair at some point, preferably soon. I miss my uber blonde luscious locks. Priorities people!


That is all, see you soon. If not, just know that I would trade you all in for a McFlurry right before my syllabus induced death. Just kidding, you're all beautiful.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Expectations Vs. Reality Vs. Tumblr

Tumblr: basically a daycare for adults. Also, the leading cause of insomnia and an omnipotent cock block from productivity. However, my brewing theory is that Tumblr operates not only as blogging platform, but also as a reticent self-esteem killer and an discreetly devious manipulator that harps upon our expectations and reality.

I'm the first to say I've fallen victim to the social media conglomerate's hypnotizing bevy of gorgeous men and flawless women, garments that one can only wish would materialize in their closet, and borderline uncanny imagery that keeps us re-blogging till the sun sets. It unknowingly seeps into our subconscious, usurping our expectations of reality into a world fueled by fantasy and Photoshop.

Now listen, it's a necessity to escape into fantasy to survive, because it's the only way we can deal with reality. My imagination practically ruins reality for me. I'm not saying that the world of Tumblr is bad and that you should not be on it. It's indubitably the web's playground, infectious and amusing with numerous opportunities to get your voice heard via political activism, social justice, and cultural communication.

But what I'm targeting here is something that I discovered within myself. Personally, I don't have a Tumblr because I'm doing ok by me with my fabulous blog here. But I do find myself stalking my friends' Tumblrs by virtue of their humor, intrigue, art, fashion, music, etc. I see perfect men and women, fabulous clothes that I would sell my left first born child to have, and photography that leaves me speechless. I'm talking about the things you see like this:

It dwells on your self-worth and decays your self esteem if you're someone who's always wishing they looked different. It's like you scroll down the page and you can hear it whisper that you're not pretty enough, thin enough, "weird" enough, cool enough, etc. I even noticed that people say they fail to remember that they won't encounter the significant other of their dreams because of their desensitization to the alluring individuals they drool over on their dashboard. 

I mean reality isn't sepia with a hint of saturation, nor is it perfect. It would be boring if it were perfect. I guess that's the magical elixir of Tumblr's addictive nature. It offers an immaculate utopia, hence making reality seem bleak and uninteresting. 

So I guess what I'm saying is, the things you see on Tumblr certainly do glamorize life. And it's easy on the eye. But don't let it deteriorate your sense of self and your value. We're all unedited before we leave our abodes, and it shouldn't bring you down because someone has the haircut you wish to have, or a pair of heels that aren't in your closet. And you certainly shouldn't look down on other people. As fun as is to scroll down and enjoy the beauty of these images, remember that you're just as beautiful and that you possess the ability to make any change you want to make to yourself. Live your truth. 

Monday, August 1, 2011

Donut Deities

Caloric and ambrosial ecstasy all the way from San Francisco, I bring you PSYCHO DONUTS. These mini edible performance art pieces have made the pilgrimage coast to coast, right into my belly twice in the past 6 months. Let me just say, if donut making were an art, these would belong in the Lourve. And even though I'm sweating like Casey Anthony at a baby shower, I enjoyed devouring these delectable fuckers as much as I did during the arctic winter.


My friend who is near and dear to my heart, affectionally dubbed by the donut shop as a "Psycho Nurse,"has been kind enough to send them to me, thus sparking my recent donut fetish. Psycho Donuts isn't just your neighborhood Dunkin' Donuts around the block, it's MUCH more. What I love most is that it's fueled by fantasy and makes a production out of donut making. Much like the nurses, these donuts exude their own unique individuality. They are topped with childhood favorites like Captain Crunch, Rice Crispie treats, Oreo crumbs, and my weak spot Nutella. You name it, they probably donutized it. 

Observe (Just a sample of the fabulous inventory that I've received):

Psycho Donuts has earned a reputable status in the Bay Area and even received shout-outs in magazines such as Maxim and USA Today. BOOM.

Check out their website HERE. WARNING: Click at your own risk. The imagery will make you salivate like a pedophile at Chuck E' Cheese.

And while you're at it, check out this commercial for the Psycho Nurses' online radio hour, airing every Monday at 6 pm PST on They play songs and shoot the shit in between. Fabulous:

Friday, July 29, 2011

Gaudy Bitch: Etsy Is Just a Gay E-Bay

Finally, my vest infatuation has been fed this past week courtesy of! As you may recall, I posted about my desire to acquire meretricious garments so I embarked on a summer long thrifting crusade. Now I like my vests short and small, probably because I like to mirror my dad's look from the 70's. And alas, my search bestowed two groovy vests in my hands:

The first is a custom made studded denim vest, originally from the 80's and embellished with studs and 2 patches:

Due to the tragic quality of my camera, I took a close up of the patches

One says "Icons of Filth" (appropriately so) and the other I initially thought was a swastika, but it's just a fucked up "F." Who put these patches on, Voldemort? Whatever, I dig it.

The next one is a vintage vest from the 80's as well, however it has been splashed with bleach and studded on the shoulders with steel studs. (In case you can't tell, I like studs.) There's also a sewn screenprinted canvas patch on the front with blood red thread:

Alright, so it says Dracula. Very well, I'll walk around with Edward Cullen. Maybe I'll sparkle in the sun. 

The bleach is a nice touch. 


So yeah, Etsy is kinda the best thing since homosexuality. Go check it out! 

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

I'll Just Have an Order of Fries

Overcast Sunday and fittingly so; melancholic breeze, faint scent of recently smoked American Spirits, and the static of an AMC classic (probably A Few Good Men considering they play that more often than Nicki Minaj changes weaves) blaring in the background. How depressingly glorious and not to mention an ample feast for the masochistic soul. Fucking Hemingway shit up in here.

The air tonight is smooth as glass, as opposed to yesterday's thickness that could be sliced with a butcher's knife. Not taking a walk tonight would be a crime of significant amplitude. Not only does it remedy a turbulent mind, but it enriches a sense; a sense I like to stimulate in terms of my unuttered relationship with people. I like to observe. I've got a kaleidoscopic eye on everyone. I like to look at people and take notice. Notice what they're trying to say without opening their mouth.

I walk by an uncouth looking group of kids. Kids who look like they breaststroked through a dumpster, gelled their hair with epoxy adhesive, and substituted their eyeliner with tar. But if you take a closer look, you see much more. It got me thinking, especially since Amy Winehouse's death. Their hair, their tattered clothes, even the meticulous way they hold their Newports...what could their message convey? Do they even have a message?

The echelon of kids, adorned in gender ambiguous haircuts and "street trash" garments come off as nebulous and peculiar at first. I've always noticed the way I style myself correlates to how to the way I was feeling at the time. I found my clothes and style as a sanctuary and escape to the world around me. It's a symbiotic relationship utilized for coping.

Some of these kids have been hurt so bad they push the world so far away just so it won't hurt them again. But we dress like this because the only thing worse than being in pain is being ignored; so we gotta exhibit a look that says "pay attention, but don't get too close." Some go to lengthy measures to guarantee their solitude, either hiding behind a curtain of substance abuse, or blending with the friendly hands of solidarity. Either way, it has to come out somehow.

So thanks to the coterie of kids who made my walk that night sacred. No uncanny rhetoric of mine could do you justice. You did that yourself by just loitering while your identity silently exiled itself through your presence. Thanks for teaching me that I don't need the burger. I'll just have an order of fries.

And that's enough to get me by. 

Saturday, July 23, 2011

July 21st-The Birth of Terror&A Pinch of Fabulosity

Words can't even formulate the gratitude I have for everyone that wished me a happy birthday two days ago. This is a genuine thank you for everyone who took the time out of their day to say something to me via social media, phone call, or in person. This was the most special birthday yet. Some of the messages I saw touched me so much I cried more than a prepubescent 12 year old at a Justin Bieber concert.

But in all seriousness, I write this with a hint of tears and reminiscent discern. Over the past few years I feel like I've carved a space for myself, and the only direction I can go in is up. Everyone is looking for validation and I feel like I got some on my birthday. All of you made this boy feel like a queen and a simple thank you doesn't cut it. So you are all cordially invited to my bed. I'll make you cookies accompanied with an erotic massage.

These are some of the things my dear friends sent me that filled my cold studded heart with warmth:

Even though he's off conquering LA, he never fails to make my day. 
HOW CUTE. Hayley motherfucking Heartbreak herself took the time to doodle this. 

Also, my dear friend from San Fran sent me infamous Psycho Donuts with a matching t-shirts and some fabulous pins. Watch out soon for a post solely dedicated to Psycho Donuts. SO GOOD. 

Also, my appetite for vintage vests has been fed. Look out for a post on these as well, they're too good not to put in the spotlight:

So once again, I thank you all again for making this birthday very special. If you really want my birthday wishes to come true you'll all go crazy together and act like you've secretly wanted to act (and I know you do harbor an inner crazy diva hooker in there somewhere!) and dance like you're not gonna get tagged on Facebook.

But I'm also writing this post on the heels of a few tragedies that need to be mentioned:

First, I want to acknowledge Amy Winehouse's death. I hope she's in peace and rocking out with the arsenal of talent that have been taken from us at the age of 27 as well: Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain, Jones, and now Winehouse. I looked up to Amy Winehouse so much. She was fearless in defining beauty for herself and never conformed to society's definition of it. Her bleeding heart fed her genuine art. I'll miss you bitch. RIP.

And also, the tragedies in Norway. I can't even fathom the inhumanity it takes for someone to go out and kill scores of teenagers. I have the families affected by their deaths in my heart. 

Look, death is death. It's tragic and all we can do is help one another out. So before anyone starts mud slinging for paying more attention to one death or another, remember that someone out there is grieving just the same. So keep that in mind and reject any ignorance that you see. We all have to be there for each other. Life is fragile, be thankful that you get to see tomorrow. 

Friday, July 15, 2011

Neville Longbottom: That Is All

Last night I saw the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, the last and final installment of the Harry Potter series and OH MY ANDERSON COOPER IT WAS SO SO SO GOOD. As much as it pleased my cinematic g-spot, I was filled with abundant melancholy by virtue of realizing I just watched my childhood disappear along with the end credits.

Watching these kids grow up with me was extraordinary. I mean look at them now:

What an easy-on-the-eye cast.

I'm not going to imbue this post with any spoilers, I'm just going to say that if you haven't seen this movie yet go check it out! Also, can we just go over Neville fucking Longbottom really quickly? What a champ, I'm so proud. I bet he's gonna get a lot of pussy after this movie.

I also want to praise J.K. Rowling's brilliant cerebellum, and the artillery of imagination behind it. Damn! Whoever conjures up such a meticulous yet captivating plot deserves bountiful success and limitless admiration. It's really sad to see it come to an end considering I grew up with these movies. 

As for the whole midnight experience, it wasn't my first one but it was just as fun as the others. Lots of people dressed up with the exception of me who looked like I was one hair extension away from looking like the lead singer of Hanoi Rocks. And of course you have to sell a kidney to buy popcorn and soda. AND a fucking medium soda at the movies was more like UM the size of Cancun. How big is the fucking large then, do they just serve you the Kool Aid man? What a rip off. 

Another thing I want to point out: the previews. All I remember was a plethora of apes, bad make up, and frivolous plot lines. Unless I see Neil Patrick Harris' peen in the Smurf movie (which is doubtful) I won't be going to the movies for a while.

But regardless, please go see the newly released Harry Potter before the Rebecca Black of all movies come out. 

Friday, July 8, 2011

Google+ : Social Media Coup D'état?

Myspace sent me a message a couple months ago asking: where have you been? Well Myspace, the answer is 2011. We all know things come and go. The only activity on Myspace is probably tumbleweed and that one person posting bulletins about how they just went to Taco Bell and now they're going to play copious amounts of Call of Duty while fondling their dog. I can safely assume 5 years ago I was probably editing HTML codes for my teen angst enshrouded page but today I'm tweeting and notoriously terrorizing other social media vistas besides Douchespace.

But here we are, in a phalanx of social media conglomerates such as Twitter and Facebook, comes a faint ripple of a new force called Google+.

Apparently, it's a trinal of Twitter/Facebook/Skype and an invitation is required to participate. What is this, the Royal Wedding? I'm perfectly okay with Twitter and Facebook. They're good for sharing info, events, and networking. Also, from what I've seen, solving the Da Vinchi Code is easier to figure out than navigating Google +. Guess I'm just not a fan of change, but I'm interested to see how this will develop and if it will indeed claim the #1 spot on the social media chart like a lot of people are forecasting. 

But anyway, social media is meant for sharing and spreading, so check out my favorite boys' new music video. I went to their show at the Bowery last week (where they killed it, resurrected it, and killed it again) when this video debuted featuring cameos from many people I hold near and dear to my heart:

Get into it.

Related: New weave stories


Unrelated PSA: I just made the most bangin' jambalaya and no one was even harmed in the process! Although this is the most hot meat I've had in my mouth without being drunk in the backseat of a car. Bon appetite!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

So I Guess If You Wanna Get Away With Murder, Move To Florida

You can't even fathom the disbelief and animosity I harbored when I found out Casey Anthony was found NOT guilty following the death of her 2 year old daughter Caylee. The evidence surrounding the calamitous case unequivocally supported the fact that Casey was indeed responsible for her daughter's death. Even if it was a mistake, shouldn't have she at least reported it instead of trying to cover it up? This bitch spewed lies upon lies and still got off with an acquittal? I really hope all the toddlers in Florida are hitch hiking out of that state, because apparently murder is legal there. 

Listen, I watch enough Law&Order to legally qualify as a prosecutor and after scrutinizing this case since it's inception, I know Casey Anthony should of at least been charged with manslaughter. The pictures you are about to see were taken while her daughter was missing. Is this seriously what she was doing instead of calling 911?

Also, this was taken right after she got away with murder:


I'll bet you my left tit Casey Anthony is doing body shots off of Nancy Grace as we speak, and there is also a 99% chance Alyssa Milano is already practicing for the Lifetime Original Movie which should be in the works in about 5 seconds.

I'm assuming the amalgamation of lack of evidence and good defense lead to Casey's abominable acquittal. Either way, the dubiety I have in our legal system after this case makes me hope all the jury members get kidney stones the size of Brazil. Innocent until proven guilty? Well, fuck. 

Thursday, June 16, 2011


That number in the title is the one to call to ask to vote yes for the Marriage Equality Act. Gay marriage is a breath away from becoming legal in New York and your voice can help tremendously by picking up the phone and asking your senator to vote YES. Even if you DO NOT live in New York, you can still call. Legalizing gay marriage in New York is a step closer to NATIONAL EQUALITY.

The impetus for equality is one our generation needs to strive for. It's the future we are growing into, the future we are responsible for, and the future we contrive for the next generation. If you have a voice, use it. Even if it's one in a million, it aids in harmonizing a chorus preaching for equality.

New York is gay. New York is proud. And I'm honored I get to call it home. The streets of New York City re-birthed me, and I'm happy to be who I am today. They gave me a voice. A voice I will use to insure equality, encourage liberation, and foster the bravery of those who want to be heard.

So please, do what you can. Be heard. Be brave. Let "gay marriage" be just known as "marriage" one day.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Thrifting Crusades

So the latest item on my summer syllabus included terrorizing every thrift store in the tri-state area. I can now conclude that New Jersey had some pretty dismaying results regarding their thrifting inventory:


My fabulous partner-in-crime and I are fortunate enough to be privy to Pennsylvania's best kept secret so we made a day out of it to go see what they had for us. We went to a little town called New Hope that's right on the Delaware River, approximately 25 minutes away from where I live. Out of all the places we've perused, New Hope had the most peculiar and venerable garments, although some on the more pricey side. But if you're looking for retro circa 60's-80's Debbie Harry meets Madonna meets Cheryl Ladd style clothing, than this is the place to be. It's a plethora of chromatic disco hues and big shoulder pads. Lots of yummy see-through and a few articles of clothing that screamed MJ at me. I almost bought a red see-through glittery blazer but could faintly hear my wallet weeping after I looked at the price tag. 

But the kind of stuff I'm looking has a certain motif that I can't seem to find locally:

We're on a mission that could probably only be satisfied by coup de etating Judas Priest's closet more than New Jersey's thrifting scene. And let's be honest, we'll probably end up at Michael's for some arts n' crafts fun. 

So up next: Brooklyn! 

Will hopefully report back with some fabulous fashion!

Thursday, June 9, 2011


As an ex-comic book nerd, I would flip through the pages of my brother's X-Men collection all day long, falling in love with the characters and alluring fantasy. This comic really invigorated my imagination growing up. The imagery and uniqueness these characters embodied triggered a dormant side of me that was aching to come out, fueled by fantasy and imagination. I like to think Stan Lee takes some credit for the look I conjure every morning. Anyway, I recently saw X-Men: First Class a couple days ago with my brother and absolutely loved it.

I don't really go to the movies, considering you have to sell your first born for a ticket nowadays. And the fact that popcorn costs more than my rent turns me off. But I had to for X-Men. With the exception of a few loud people next to me (and I couldn't shut them up. My ball gag was too big for their heads :( ) my experience thoroughly pleased my cinematic g-spot.

As much as X-Men is an action/adventure/drama, it showcases many social/political issues our society faces today. It's abundantly clear that society perpetuates a certain image to its members and in response, X-Men: First Class permeates a message regarding differences crossing cultural and social borders. As outcasts, social anomalies, and outliers of society, these mutants are ridiculed because they don't fit into the bevy of the norm. They have been classified as "homosuperior" because of their uncanny abilities to do certain things like telepathy, telekinesis, shape shifting, teleportation, etc, which are sometimes matched with physical characteristics that set them apart from homosapiens, making them feared and misunderstood.

Mystique invariably hints throughout the film that her natural physical form (as seen above) prevents her from accepting who she is. Her blood red hair, yellow piercing eyes, and blue scale covered skin unequivocally make her stand out. However, her mutant gene allows her to shape shift into any physical form she desires. She disguises herself as a white blonde girl with curly hair, an image that society obviously favors the most and hankers to make more ubiquitous in physical appearance.

Hank tells Mystique that people will only accept her as a white girl with blonde hair and not the way she was born, covered in blue scales. Her yearning to be "normal" drives her temptation to inject an experimental drug that will make her "human" state permanent. However, she discovers that she will have to fight for her identity and that society will have to adapt to her, and not the other way around.

Although someone who feels unaccepted may not have blue scales, claws coming out of their fists, or look like the Hulk (although you may never know!), they are still fighting the same battle for equality and acceptance that these mutants are fighting for. The message delivered by the movies and comics, nourished with ample amounts of fantasy, is powerful and a sanctuary for many kids who feel misunderstood.



Sunday, June 5, 2011

Family Function A La Short Story

It's so early Jesus isn't even awake yet. Saturday morning. Everyone in this house knows it's a cardinal rule not to talk to me before my morning coffee. Walking alone through Detroit at 2 AM is safer than talking to me before my big ol' jug of Folgers.

It's the day of my cousin's graduation. And by that I mean my family congregates and interrogate me on my life in New York and why my hair looks like something out of a Studio 54 exhibit at the MoMa. I have a churning knot in my stomach. I come downstairs, unkempt and marathon sneezing (thanks for nothing, Claritin), aching to pour myself a cup of coffee. My dad, already in his chipper Sunday alacrity is lurking nearby, waiting to fire out his one-liners like a revolver.  I was not having it.

"Could you dress down today, everyone from the family will be there," roared my mother upstairs who was batting her eyelashes into her knock-off TJ Maxx Elizabethan gold framed mirror. I scowl with a hint of acquiesce but dismiss the thought as fast as it came in. About to pour the caffeinated elixir into my cup my dad goes, "You know how people my age get kidney stones?" "Why, padre?" "Because we listen to a lot of Rolling Stones." BOOM. Shot of Bailey's into my coffee. It was going to be a long day.

I hear my brother upstairs mutilating a Portishead record with effervescent abandon by virtue of impromptu karaoke. I already forecast he's throwing on some khakis and a plaid shirt, which is to be followed by making fun of whatever I was going to wear. Typical. There was no way I could allow myself to fit in with the bevy of kin getting together later.

My dad comes by and sits in a rocker that looked about as old as Grandmother Willow. I sip my coffee in silence as my dad hums along to the radio. I watch him sit there with his green eyes ablaze, looking like a cobra ready to attack. I sit there, just bearing and getting ready for whatever was going to come through his mouth. I move my pawn first.

"Do you have your comedic material ready for today?" I cooed, over the faint sound of a Springsteen record as the steam of the coffee lifts past my face. "There are two new baby groundhogs in the yard," he starts. Brace yourselves. "I named them Johnnie and Walker!" Ok. IVs of Svedka. Up and down my arm. Let's go.

My brother comes downstairs at a glacial pace, looks at me and goes "what is up with your hair today?" The same thing that's up with it every fucking day. "I'm a unicorn. And if you ask me that again, I'm going to harpoon you in the gallbladder. I made you a nice fresh cup of coffee," I replied with a smile faker than Cher's weave.

Ready to depart to be tortured unmercilessly the family function, my dad pulls me aside and said something that changed the day a 180 degrees.

"No guts, no glory. I'm proud of how strong you are."

My dad used to tell me that on a daily basis when I was younger. I used to hate that phrase. Maybe it's because of the word "guts." But now I'm thankful he carved that phrase into my brain because it's the mantra I exude.

So thanks, dad. Even though you're cheesy as shit, you're a class act.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


Summer is a felicitous time to roll your windows down, blare your beloved tunes, and drive around with your friends leaving a trail of ruckus wherever you go. I've consolidated with my iTunes and collated a season appropriate music binge to listen to while driving, partying, and/or to pussy pop around the house in the nude while your neighbor watches. Remember: don't dance like no one is watching, dance like you're getting tipped.

Anyway, here's an array of songs that find themselves accompanying me on my string of summer debauchery:

Always match your melodies. 

11. Born This Way (The whole album, duh) -Lady GaGa
Considering this album was released just in time for summer, I'm going to be making violent love to it all season long. Straight up pillow talk, tossing it around the sheets, cuddling, having a cigarette, then doing it all over again. 

Jams like these highlight the motifs of my summer activities. Past songs like "Alejandro" and "Summerboy" suffice as well and never fail to get old. 

10. "Saturday Night"-Bay City Rollers
Good times:

9. "Pour Some Sugar On Me"-Def Leppard
Every time I rock out to Def Leppard I'm pretty sure I feel my jeans acid wash and tight roll themselves. But still, this is one of my all time favorites. 

8. "Get Me Bodied"-Beyonce 
Girl, please.

7. "Rebel Rebel"- David Bowie
One of my favorite drinking songs:

6. "I Wanna Dance With Somebody"-Whitney Houston
This is indicative of my emotional status as a middle school girl. 

5. "Pussy Control"-Prince
This speaks for itself. 

4. "I Hate Myself For Loving You"-Joan Jett
Because for some reason, summer entails listening to your heart and ignoring your brain completely: 

Thank God for Joan Jett.

3. "Price Tag"-Jessie J
Just an all around feel good jam.

2. "Dead End Justice"- The Runaways
The Runaways always top my summer playlist. Nothing makes me feel more like a badass than these bitches. 

(This photoshoot from last summer was actually inspired by The Runaways, Studio 54, and James Dean)

1. "Bennie and the Jets"- Elton John
This is song means so much to me just because it reminds me of being young and running around carelessly while my dad blasted this. And it's still one of my favorite songs.

So make yourself a playlist. Make some mistakes and have fun.

UNRELATED: I just saw my neighbor naked. I'm putting up a "for sale" sign on my lawn as I edit this post. 

Friday, May 27, 2011

You Can Werk The Blue Book and Still Wreck Havoc

For some reason people thought I was kidding when I said I achieved a 3.9 GPA this semester. So let me just say I'm living proof you can be a good student and a slutty vamping street harlot. I don't know why people thought I wasn't serious, but it did provoke some abysmal thoughts.

What's wrong with having your nose in a book, yet still have the time to hang out with your fabulous cohorts and drink yourselves down to a 5th grade reading level? I don't know why people feel limited to pick one thing over another. No one should cockblock you to the path of greatness and limitlessness. There is nothing wrong with dressing like a badass motherfucker and kneeling in church to pray. No one decreed that if I listen to pop music, I can't listen to heavy metal. My iTunes is so diverse it looks like a UN Summit. Just because I'm a gay man doesn't mean I have to worship the pop divas. I love my 80's hair metal. Filthy rockstars that encourage naughty behavior are my idols. I can like Coke while enjoying Pepsi. I'm preaching that the way you choose to live your life is an amalgamation of whatever you fancy and that you shouldn't let society or anyone dictate how you should feel or act. When you go to Cold Stone, you pick out what toppings you want on your ice cream, no matter how bizarre the combo may seem to everyone else. You can flex yourself to any corner of life. You're your own Rubik's Cube.

So that is the Greg Winfrey preach session for the day. I worked my fucking tits off for those A's. And the only people I want to credit to my success are my boyfriend Johnnie Walker and myself.  So I'm content. If I can land a job before I move to Mansluttan I'll be happy.

I still haven't caught up on sleep, but I will say it's GLORIOUS to sleep in peace without hearing your neighbor getting banged like a screen door in a hurricane night after night. Thank you, peaceful suburbia.

PSA: My NYC leather bearing fellow vamps or anyone that harbors knowledge of this, where can I get a leather vest like this for cheap?

Basically any place that Judas Priest would shop, is where I want to shop. Much appreciated. LOVE YOU ALL. 

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Everyone In High School Had the Right Idea When They Chose Not to Date Me


Culinary glamour

So, the New Jersey chronicles continue. At least the people here spur really good Twitter/Facebook material. Boundless entertainment. I really no idea what to do with myself besides blog and continue my crusade for a studded punk vest. So thrifting is in the forecast. If anyone knows of any decent places to find heroin addict apparel please contact me.

Being home is so surreal. I can't even believe I'm in my third year of college. Time to start making a list of nursing homes! Living in New York feels like I'm in a inscrutable time vortex enshrouded with homework, hooker blood, and aberrant fashion compared to New Jersey. I'm used to living in a fast-paced environment. I like to stay focused and execute whatever task is at hand promptly, and coming home feels like I'm walking through caramel. It's so weird to see how many people haven't changed, when I feel like I've upgraded more than iTunes does in a month. And it feels great.

The Burger Pauper Queen

The most amusing thing is going out and running errands. I love coming into a store and getting stared at like I'm some whimsical fellow who just walked out of Narnia the crackwhore edition. There's also something magical about paying for your meals in neon blue tight pants and grenade-combed hair. I feel like it's foreshadowing the next 10 years of my life. It's a smorgasbord of fabulous. 

It's also easy to see, the people of Walmart will never own intellectual property. One can't even fathom the magnitude of discomfort I felt today when sandwiched between a cashier with the mental capacity of a jar of pickles and a customer schizophrenically recounting her incidents involving her lactose intolerance. I'm pretty sure this woman was so lactose intolerant that the melody of a nearby ice cream truck would have her on the floor. Moral of the story: refrain from going to Walmart as much as possible. 

So stay tuned for more tri-state debauchery. I'm going to go touch myself till I pass out nap.