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Sunday, February 8th, 2009
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5:09 pm - Shut it down!
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Let's try here for awhile: http://louisvirtel.blogspot.com. OK?
Maybe I'll return here if the urge for nostalgia overcomes me. Could very well happen. In the meantime, let's make like a fetus and head out.
I loved and love this journal. But it doesn't love me enough to post YouTube vids of Wheat Thins commercials. This is the definition of an unhealthy courtship.
Virtel OUT.
Xoxo,
Louis
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| Wednesday, February 4th, 2009
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2:07 am - Dead.
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The deadjournal is now seven years old. It is older than a few of my relatives. To keep its naughty adolescence out of our hair, I'm euthanizing it. (That means killing it and being glad.) Hope you're ready for bigger, better, and buttfuckier things, DJ world. Because a new blog's swaggering through the saloon doors, and this one's packed with... well, video capability. Doesn't fit in with the cowboy metaphor, but it's the truth.
A proper goodbye will follow. For now, I go to sweepsweep.
Love,
Louis
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| Thursday, January 1st, 2009
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11:51 pm - You wanna be startin' something? How about a GREAT NEW YEAR?!
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Holy shit. Did you know that in 2009 I still write blog updates about nothing? WOAHHH. THAT IS FUCKAN WIERD.
Fine, I'll serve a few items of substance this evening. The substances, of course, are double-fisted Long Island Iced Teas from Boystown, in commemoration of my ladylike New Years festivities. Oh man. So many gay people. So many booty-ups from Elyse and Katie. So few ideas about what to do with the car. Even with the ass-chapping $50 door fee at Hydrate, the night was sufficiently carefree. A spermy surge of redemptive, escapist smut. Though, I mean, I definitely wish I wasn't stalked the whole night by an unblinking, somnambulating robo-homo, and I also wish he didn't drop Elyse's camera after she asked him to take our picture. But Lady Gaga commanded us early on to just dance, and I felt obligated to adhere. You don't mess with the disco stick. Or THE ZOHAN.
I'm still in waiting over sizzling job opportunities that may forcibly overhaul my life in, like, eight minutes. As you know, I am a whore for my comfort zone, so these potential changes got me all asthmatic and horrified, at least initially. My trembling autism face was PRESENT last week. But more recently I've breathed, counted to eleven, compulsively replayed Jane Krakowski clips from 30 Rock, and wormed back into stability. Don't expect that shit to last, though. It never does. I do have to say, it's nice to be worked up over something legitimate. Usually I'm just mentally condemning famous assholes from my life and turning purple over it. This brings me to my next point -- Have you ever sat and ranked the most horrible things anyone's ever said to you? Particularly the ones that are hilarious now? Am I obviously alone here? I live for categorizing crap like this. I also love figuring out what the speakers of those quotes have in common. Cough, personality disorders, cough wheeze cough. I've contrived a decent-sized list of stunners, and I've decided to burden you with it:
"Oh, you have an underbite. That's why you smile like that. I always just thought it was fake." Hahaha, oh!
"He wants to sleep with you? Are you sure he's not just... playing a joke on you?" That was an apropos comment, to be fair, as later that day Peter Funt ran out from behind the man screwing me and announced I was on Candid Camera.
"You... broke something forever yesterday." OK, that one was the legendarily sane Gloria Virtel, a day after I started swearing at the dinner table on Fourth of July. She actually doesn't have a personality disorder. She's actually a wonderful, ultra-loving mommy. She does have 3,400 mouse ornaments though, so hedge your bets accordingly.
"Oh yeah, people ask me all the time if you're gay. All the time." Oooh, talk about a sunshine stomper. This occurred sophomore year, when I was still crushing hard on hetero favorites like Winnie Cooper's hair and the aloof, mannish bitch from drama club with the Valium eyes. Again, devastating then, hilarious now. But how did I cope with this comment at the time? Get ready for it. You better believe... with the aural empathy... of Michael Jackson's "Leave Me Alone." Oh YES. That heterosexual anthem! Those testosterone-laden squeals! The one with the Neverland video, motherfuckers. And the Bubbles cameo! Mmmmm, Michael and me. Thug brothers 'til the end. Just stop dogging me around, Lemont High School class of '04!
"Just sounds like another oversexed homosexual to me." This is an asterisked addition to the list since it wasn't properly stated to me. However, my AWESOME EMPLOYER SAID IT to my FELLOW EMPLOYEE about ME, like an inspiring pillar of professionalism that you ogle in corporate training videos. He was commenting on my "Letters to Louis" column, where I spoke of really oversexy things like Animaniacs nostalgia and uninformed Project Runway opinions. Truly a spicy hotbed of rimjob trivia, indeed. Completely deserving of that demoralizing, derogatory barb. I was straight-up astounded at the time, especially because he wasn't even right. If I was oversexed, I would fucking tell you guys. I would brag more, trust me here. I would probably be really good at it.
Add your own personal mortifying quips at the bottom! Laugh through the unstoppable tears! Handsy Uncle Marty can't find your tickle spot here!
Alright, so ends this week's/month's/century's edition of the deadjournal. 2009's looking promising and aroused from here, so here's to our consumption of its ample tenderloin. Love you guys, and thanks for reading. I'll keep you posted on my potentially catapulted life in the meantime. That is, if I don't eat a buffet of my feelings and suddenly can't type with my tubby new Stay-Puft fingers. I wouldn't not count on it.
Xoxo,
Louis
current mood:  awake
current music: Michael Jackson "It's the Falling in Love"
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| Wednesday, December 31st, 2008
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6:45 pm - Auld Lang ZING!
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New Years Eve is kind of a shitty holiday. That's really the only "ZING" I have, so you might leave this entry disappointed.
I'm about to head out with Elyse and Katie for some impromptu, likely suburban fun. I wanted to take this time to think of my favorite 2008 thangs: graduation, 30 Rock, Tina Fey for eternity, the fine folk of Barnes & Noble, haphazard Advocate opportunties (Jackie Collins, I'm looking at your naughty ass!), Barack, the summer treks to Iowa City and Cumberland, and knowing I have the best friends of all mothersnarking time. I have the distinct feeling 2009 will mark a giant-ass departure for me, and I'll get back to you on that... maybe within days, pending some exciting news. Or maybe never! The erratic rate of my blog updates is truly a suspenseful saga for the ages.
Also, have you been properly breastfed your required Madonna fanatacism lately? Get going: http://www.immaculate-conniption.blogspot.com
I pinpointed what I think is the universal post-collegiate struggle
recently: making yourself feel un-marooned. Whether you venture across the country, move back home, or take refuge just off-campus, the lifestyle of a college grad almost always requires reorientation, some willpower, and ownership of adulthood. Puke buckets, indeed. I almost got started on owning adulthood once, but then I ate Wheat Thins or something. TEEHEE WHATEVER LETS GO TA CHILI'S.
Point to this entry much? Nope. Let's end it here.
Happy new year, yo. Xoxo.
Love,
Louis
current mood:  okay
current music: Fleetwood Mac "World Turning"
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| Sunday, November 23rd, 2008
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10:54 pm - Dranksgiving Tidings!
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Kiss my dicks, Easter Bunny! When I turned 21, I discovered the real holidays in life. I'm talking about grown-up pastimes like Red Christmas Cup Arrival Day at Starbuck's, Boystown's monthly Madonna night at club Berlin, "Irrational Fear of Cotton" episodes of Maury, and most importantly, Black Wednesday. Have you partaken?
Black Wednesday first occurred in 1620, when a wayward pilgrim built a very important eyesore in Lemont, IL, called the Carousel. Upon establishing the tavern, the pilgrim loosened his traditional belt, slapped his traditional Dungarees, and declared, "May Lemont High School reunions abound here and inspire parking lot blowjobs. Liberation on tap!" Almost 400 years of Miller Lite-sponsored regrets later, the tradition continues every Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, this year the Carousel's uppity owners messed with the righteous Injun gods, and our beloved bar will be out of commission. Luckily, the scrappier of Lemont's citizens plan to convene in downtown Lemont, where equal amounts of fist-fighting can break out just feet from the police station. That freakish squealing you hear is my joy.
So I'm fucking thrilled. Speaking of milestones, I just passed my (woah) five-year coming-out anniversary. I plan to commemorate by assembling the likes of Kimmie Cummings and Elyse Brannigan at Starbuck's and coming out to them again, a renewal of homo vows. Maybe this time I won't wear tube stocks or ancient Kohl's cargo shorts. No promises on that front, guys. Maybe Rachel Fields and I can bust out some 2003 Liz Phair and ponder again the plight of "Little Digger."
All in all, Lemont is Lemontish lately, which is stupid and sweet. Folks from The Advocate keep relaying encouraging news to me, so maybe I'll report a Dame Edna-sized triumph soon. Definitely no promises there.
Anyway, Dranksgiving luv is upon us, and I plan to revel. Hope you will too.
Thug kisses, xoxo,
Louis
current music: Aimee Mann "Going Through the Motions"
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| Monday, November 10th, 2008
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3:19 am - "Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day."
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Why yes, Mama Cass, I agree; but more importantly, you really can't trust my guerrilla-style deadjournal updates once every fortnight. Will I write about Obama? Rachel Zoe? Rank my least favorite University of Iowa homosexuals? The scenarios are endless! And usually fueled by rage. <3
I work in five hours, but I still have a thimble of sass to deposit before I climb under the comforter and dream of awkward contraptions for Bjork to wear. I just wanted to mention how glad I was to see Lemont really suck it last week, as Obama won the election, and, in my mind, enjoyed a well-deserved victory tapdance on the faces of Sarah Palin's kids. Truly a highlight of my year. On Nov. 4 at 11 pm, I stood on my back porch and flung several frosty smirks at the busy village of speds below. Then I tilted my chin up, allowed God time to sing "The Circle of Life" at me, and eventually retreated to, hmmm, bed. Suburban supremacy, thy name is Louis.
Yeah, then Prop 8 happened, and it turned out Mufasa gets killed in a stampede. Uggghhhh. The horrifying measure ignited the gay community, however, so I'm glad to see some unflinching activism against the dastardly Mormon church. Makes me miss California in a big way. I'd love to join the rally in person. Here in Lemont, the closest thing we have to gay activism is the addition of purple altar-server robes at St. Patrick's church. Indeed, a salacious revolution.
Funny enough, next week I'm invited to speak at a meeting of LHS' Gay-Straight Alliance. Apparently there are more than two openly gay people at Lemont High nowadays, a feat deemed impossible by social scientists years ago. I don't know what I want to say to these kids, other than the times have clearly changed. I mostly want to ask how safe and secure they feel at school, and if they're old enough to be outraged over Project Runway's potential move to Lifetime. The pressing curiosity of a journalist never subsides, lambs.
OK. Bedtime. Almost wakey time. Love you guys, and thanks for witnessing my thug antics.
Love,
Louis
current music: Mamas and the Papas "Monday, Monday"
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| Sunday, November 2nd, 2008
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8:00 pm - The war and economy are important too. But.
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I meant to report sometime ago that I voted early. In fact, not only did I ballot-blast with punctual gusto, but I did so at the nation's premiere historical landmark, the Lemont Public Library. Oh, those hallowed halls. Of Amelia Bedelia books.
Look, I obviously voted for Obama. I obviously want him to redirect the war in Iraq, stabilize housing nonsense, and reinstill faith in the presidency. But most of all, I want him to win so that Lemont, IL, just sucks it. Long, bitch-like, and so fucking hard.
The other night the Obama sign on our lawn was ravaged by an angry (or hungry?) Lemonter in the night. I expected as much. I also expect Obama to win, which will make our decrepit sign twice as fiery. It's like how Bette Davis' rickety crawl into old age only bolstered her vulgar supremacy. Bottom line, in 2008, the mushroom-cloud odor of the LHS Injun-mascot shitshow evinces itself within these delirious retards. My neighbor's Obama sign has officially been destroyed twice now.
I already taste the succulence of all these morons sucking it. Lord-alive, the nectar. The NECTAR.
In other news, I interview Lady Gaga this week. She's easily my favorite ferocious bitch of the day. Minus, naturally, your gay dad.
Lovez. xo,
-L
current mood:  jubilant
current music: Lady Gaga "Poker Face" (!!!)
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| Friday, October 17th, 2008
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2:11 pm - Zany observations before work!!!!1!
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| Monday, October 6th, 2008
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11:54 pm - A&E's Intervention, Starring: Louis' Hot Ass, Sarah's Offensive Clothes, and Satan
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So, you know when your friends fuck up their futures? Yeah, get ready:
Sarah Geoghegan: do you know what i bought today
Sarah Geoghegan: youre going to be disappointed, and so am i
Louissss: oh god
Louissss: WHAT.
Sarah Geoghegan: but i didnt feel like a college student without one
Louissss: NORTHFACE YOU FUCK
Sarah Geoghegan: HJGFKDHKJGFHSKJGF AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Sarah Geoghegan: I DID!
Sarah Geoghegan: that is really sick that you guessed that
Louissss: that's really sick that you are FUCKING SICK, BITCH
Sarah Geoghegan: it is cute....
Sarah Geoghegan: ?
Louissss: oh, so i see you've been shot in both of your eyes
Anyway, just wanted to remind you how to properly counsel your loved ones on redeeming their shit-flavored lives. Just as you suspected, swear words and degradation are standard.
P.S. Here's the link to Sarah's janket, I mean jacket: http://www.altrec.com/the-north-face/womens-warp-jacket
Finally, Sarah is adequately prepared for those fencing classes I recommended.
VOMITARDED.
Heart, xoxo,
Louis
current mood: awake
current music: Sinead O'Connor "The Emperor's New Clothes"
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| Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008
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1:32 am - 1 billion (erection-deficient robots) served
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I imagine the once-unstoppable Deadjournal corporation is selling out, because Viagra ads HAVE STAMPEDED MY COMMENTS SECTION. So much erectile dysfunction info. So many ad-plastering bots. The Viagra-sponsored chaos is unhinged! Have you ever visited Pamplona? Running of the bulls? See my last entry's comment box to witness how it appears in person, except with droopy peens hurtling through the proceedings.
A little advertisement once in awhile isn't so bad, but excuse me: 12,000 comments on the last entry? That all say the same thing? Whoever programmed these ad bots needs to quit snacking on the methamphetamine-edition Pizza Rolls.
Picture the disappointment on child-star Louis Virtel's face when he realized none of the 12,000 comments came from, you know, live organisms. Believe me, at first I thought I acquired a thundering army of fans, all raring to comment about important topics like my joblessness or curvaceous figure. Unfuckingfortunately, I only acquired a brigade of Bob Dole dick-disciple bots. Frankly, I take what I can get in the fame department, y'all. This following will have to do. Onward, crusaders of fair Flaccidia!
Tonight I review the hot-'n-haggard NKOTB's (New Kids on the Block, duh) comeback album for advocate.com, which is exciting news if you are... an extremely old kid on a block that everyone forgot about in 1994. This one's definitely for you. I also plan on reviewing Olivia Newton-John's new album (and face), as well as the Pussycat Dolls' latest collection of poon squeals. Tell me I'm not the only one who thought their new song said, "I wanna see the world / wanna drive cars / wanna have boobies." Turns out it's "groupies," though I think the production puppeteers obscured it on purpose for their wishful-prepubescent-girl demographic. Really, the "groupies" line only makes the song less attractive to drag queens, which of course infuriates me. If Hedda Lettuce isn't singing this shit into a megaphone made of dildos, I don't want anything to do with it.
September's here, and that means... yep, 793 more weeks of nothing for me! (High-five.) Unless, you know, jobs come through, I move somewhere, monkeys fly out of my ass, etc. My gym membership also expired -- quite awhile ago, actually -- so I don't even have paltry bicep improvements to titillate me between marathon sessions of talking to myself. Nope, it's just me, Netflix, my three (or so?) bitches in Lemont, and my fast-expanding death wish all enjoying the view. This is a comfortable existence until I go for that grown-up self-sufficience tripe. I told Sarah Geoghegan I may apply for grad school at LHS. I need to flesh out my thesis proposal, but I envision heart-rate monitors and Coneset's monstrous purple polo coming into play. P.S. Don't steal my ideas, I'll be so mad.
Well, it's 1:24 a.m., so I think I better start writing the NKOTB review. I just suffered through their abysmal song with Akon called "Put it on My Tab." Akon never really leaves the bar, does he? Apparently Senegal is a countrywide VIP room. Oh, don't worry, a song called "Sexify My Love" just began. But that's not a very encouraging tune for my new, impotent fanbase. Forget I mentioned it, boiz! Get back to exploring your feelings in poetry.
Last but not least: www.advocategenq.com
I update "Letters to Louis" tomorrow. The homos threw shit at me a couple letters ago, so I need to make it up to them. I'll try for hotness anyway.
Wuv.
-L
current mood:  anxious
current music: New Kids on the Block f. Lady Gaga "Big Girl Now" (fuck.)
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| Tuesday, August 12th, 2008
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3:57 am - FAIL: The Story of Summer
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Usually my marathon sabbaticals from the deadjournal occur thanks to more than just, say, my wastoid laziness. But congratulations, Louis! You beat the odds and actually just fell asleep for two months or so. Ohhhh, the pride I have. It's Olympic-sized. I'm the Michael Phelps of the summer coma. Quiet, everyone, that's our national anthem playing.
Man, oh man. The running joke goes like this: That the minute I graduated from college, I'd suddenly experience a wave of inspiration to hijack my life of suburban squatting and fly fiercely into a new urban utopia, remolding my identity in Mary Tyler Moore's image. Throwing my hat in the air outside the doors of The Advocate. Grinding with Rhoda at Rage. And, of course, killing Sue Ann Nivens (happy homemaking has no place in my life). Unfortunately, I've not made much of summer's possibilities other than a couple bizarre opportunities for The Advocate. ("Letters to Louis" has been joyfully exhumed, I penned a psychoanalysis of famous Egyptian panther-demon Madonna, AND I interviewed the gay contestant on the last season of my beloved The Mole.) On the other hand, I trekked out to Cumberland, WI, for some extended family farce, and to Iowa City to catch up with my klatch of bitches. All much fun. Then I came back home and realized it's up to me to choose where to go next. I'm still mulling it over.
If I knew in May that I'd still reside in Lemont past August, I'd have nabbed a job early on. FAIL. Instead I spent $220 on a pair of jeans for my birthday. Which is actually the opposite of making money. This hero's tale may culminate with cashing out my checking account and decoupaging coffee tables with remaining five-dollar bills. Be prepared to hear all about my monetary genius on Suze Orman real soon.
At first I chalked up my hesitation to get a job and move out to plain laziness. Ultimately, there's truth to that, but I realize I'm pretty much scared of my own expectations of myself. I hate the idea of getting a job, signing a lease, and knowing that I made the wrong decision. Or a decision that sells myself short. Working, even tangentially, for The Advocate has spoiled me -- I want to work somewhere with similar stature and visibility. I also cringe at the thought of starting someplace where the work doesn't suit me well. I'm not saying I'll end up donning the yellow chainmail at Medieval Times, but I'm saying I may be forced to begin a career that doesn't necessarily mean I'm writing what I want. Pity this distraught artist.
But anyway -- on to hotter matters. Whip out your tits for this one: I just saw Sophie's Choice tonight. Yada, yada, Meryl Streep gives probably the single greatest performance I've ever seen, yada. This movie is incredible. I would even compare it to Addams Family Values. My mother has this long-standing phobia of Sophie's Choice, because she saw it when it first came out and still remembers the ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING reveal-scene near the end. Gloria, wake the fuck up. It's horrifying, yes... but so magnificently presented. Anyway, I am rarely moved by movies, but this film is an utter stunner. Unforgettable. See it when you're not in a Mamma Mia mood.
Did you realize that I'm an embarrassing white person? Check this out: I began writing a screenplay recently. Yep. This is a "Stuff White People Like" chapter half in the bag. I'm not saying I'm not doomed to discourage myself into quitting, but uh... anyway, it's happening. It's partly autobiographical, so I'm weaving in all the coming-out drama I can muster. This might actually work better as a book, but I think I'll trim my ambitions to writing 10 pages first.
Otherwise -- yeeeeah, that about does it for this entry. I'm 22 now, so I'm all set for an opulent retirement within the next few weeks. I love you guys. Thanks for reading, hollering back, rap-warring with me, etc. Maybe next time we talk I'll be in a different state. Of either the United States or of consciousness. But you know it's gonna be both.
LOVE. xoxo,
Louisss
current mood:  confused
current music: The Carpenters "Yesterday Once More"
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| Sunday, June 29th, 2008
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3:52 am - Fate called; she wants a pointier cone bra
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While I plan to regularly return to the DJ for my usual purgations of hatred against awful homos and tepid game show hosts, I am embarking on a new venture:
http://immaculate-conniption.blogspot.com
I'm devoting my still-basically-unemployed life to skewering historical Madonna clips and feeling kind of productive about it. The money train should find its way here momentarily, I'm sure.
Love,
Louis
current mood: complacent
current music: Madonna "Give It 2 Me"
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| Monday, June 9th, 2008
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4:20 am - I object!
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Look, Your Honor, I understand the evidence against me is a bit damning, but I swear I've been plenty productive! Overly productive, actually! Lee Virtel lined up these exhibits very carefully, so pay attention.
Exhibit A: I made a list of places to apply for internships. All by myself. One day that green post-it could turn into -- what else -- millions of dollars, all thanks to -- what else -- journalism internships. Already you can see my level of initiative is untamed.
Exhibit B: If you quiz me on ANY of the lyrics to Miley Cyrus' "See You Again," I will KNOW THEM VERY WELL. And then I will KILL MYSELF. Whatever, grad school research is basially the same thing as listening to Kiss FM.
Exhibit C: I interviewed a world-famous author. Jackie Collins. You know, just at www.advocate.com. This one's actually not facetious, soooo... I rest my case? The verdict is in? I'm having the most productive summer you've ever heard? Perfect, back I go to online Boggle.
Yeah. I'm a lazy motherfucker as of this month. Probably won't help when Jess, Mattfrench, and Sarah visit me for four nights, or when I visit Iowa or Wisconsin (all happening in the next few weeks), or when I, uh, live in Lemont 24/7 and succumb to its silvery streets of world-class boredom every day of my god-forsaken, post-graduate life. I have seriously about three good friends left in town, besides my family. Technically, one of those friends may have been the bag of Peanut Lovers' Chex Mix I just inhaled. So I'm down another friend. What can I say? We destroy the ones we love.
I haven't prepared at all for the arrival of Jess, Mattfrench, and Sarah, even though they arrive sometime on Thursday. Yipes. I imagine we'll spend most of our time eating piles of Portillo's beef, pretending to know anything about Chicago as we stumble headlong into the projects, and taking expensive tours of Lemont in the Virtel family Chevy Cavalier of glamour. Thing is, I don't even know where PT lives anymore, so I'm missing my big cash-cow tourist attraction. It won't feel the same if we take outrageous mock-blowjob pictures by where PT used to live. Oh well. However, the culmination of my tours is always a special double-circling of the Lemont Target, so there's a rest-assured high note. Or just some $7.99 copies of Love and Basketball, but whatever. Target's beautiful with or without its material possessions.
And in case anyone's wondering -- I still don't know whether I'm jetting to Los Angeles, New York, or... well, Chicago. Depends on what opportunities crop up. Or wherever I impulsively click when I visit Expedia. Quoth the prophet Mann: "So all that I need now / Is someone with the brains and the know-how / To tell me what I want, anyhow." And how to get it cheaply too, thanks.
I'm a pretty lost guy right now. I'm not used to the feeling, so my body's done this force-quit super-fuck-it thing where I just deny the importance of making a decision. Sort of like what happened when I chose a college. But you know, I find things work out nicely, somehow. This might only be because I'm listening to "Landslide" right now. I'm high on all this "snow-covered hills" bullshit metaphor. See last entry for further analysis.
By the way, while this likely sounds petty in a legendary way, I've been feeling reeeeeeally un-funny lately. Like this journal entry? Not feeling it so much. I'm sure I'll feel like my old Benny Hill self before long, but for now I feel stagnant and desperate. The stand-up comic that needs to sit the fuck down. You know. The way Carlos Mencia needs to feel for once in his sorry motherfucking life.
The important thing: To those of you who still stumble upon this old-fart deadjournal, I really love the hell of you, so I hope you're feeling productive, energized, and inspired. And sexed too, hell! And famous. And botoxed until your forehead looks muscular. Happiness is a warm injection of mystery face plasma, so they say.
Hop aboard the gladwagon! Just don't get too excited, you'll fuck up your new cheekbones. ;P
Well, it's 4:18 a.m., so I've got to start thinking about sleep in a few hours. See? The stress is palpable.
Love to y'all, yet again. Keep me in your extremely atheistic prayers.
Xo(sex)o,
Louis
current mood: darling
current music: Fleetwood Mac "Say You Love Me"
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| Sunday, June 1st, 2008
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3:48 am - Louis FUCKING Virtel: Bachelor of MOTHERFUCKING Arts (and RAGE and TOURETTES too)
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Whenever the subject of a DJ entry looks like Denis Leary wrote it amid a rant about red, red meat, that means you're in for something special. And by "special" I do mean under-medicated. I predict some bodyslamming of pedestrians and bursts of racial epithets almost constantly.
Let the bloodbath begin: Don't know if you heard, but uh... I just graduated. From a college. A college without the word "welding" or "Barbizon" in it. The presses are paralyzed. Looking back, the entire week before graduation -- where some lesser students take finals -- was at once totally a breeze and totally exhausting. My Burge-Daum kommandants and I spent a few thousand hours checking residents out of their dorms, assigning charges only when we felt extremely behooved to do so (like when, say, Johnny B. Burge got motorcycle tracks on his carpet or when, say, Johnny B. Burge all but replaced his carpet with a concrete of Keystone-Light spillage, Cheeto debris, and a few cum stains for luck). Otherwise, moveout basically amounted, as it always does, to circuitous boredom. I do have to say, I have a soft spot for the whole lame rigamarole. It's rare that you get to sit and just veg with the other RAs in a large group, and naturally you do a lot of sitting while you wait for the downtrodden desk worker to call you up. My Daria-brand cynicism be damned, I actually really fucking liked those folks. Strange to think of the people I've known forever in Res Life who I really wish I'd gotten to know better, namely people like Alan or Emily Doolittle. Almost everyone else I know pretty well. And despite their best efforts, they all know a shitload about me.
Nothing sucks more than scrambling to arrange plenty of time for saying goodbye to everyone. God, all the DI folks. All the RAs. The folks who mysteriously don't fit into either of those groups. I did an OK job alotting the proper extended hour to say goodbye to my main squeezes, who range from Facebook's Latest-Greatest Photo Caption Maven Anna Wiegenstein to, say, my effing backstage sweetheart Kristin Lang. However, what's fucking impossible is allowing enough time to bid farewell to the people who literally lived with me. I couldn't conceive of saying goodbye to Jessica during all of finals week. Leaving her is essentially the same thing as leaving Iowa, or my at least whacked-out version of it. Anyway, three of the greats, Jess, Mattfrench (one word, make no mistake. It's like Enya), and Sarah Michaelson, flock to Lemont in a couple weeks for one of my patented three-day tours of our great, awful metropolis. If PT's working at Best Buy, that's a two-day safari in itself. Casualties are inevitable, or just closeted and hilarious. Either way.
OK, the Liberal Arts & Science grad ceremony was, naturally, a towering shitshow of superstar proportions. Thank God for Rob Wilkie, a former RA and wonderful guy, who sat with me during the ass-ultranumbing roll call of 1,600 names, otherwise all of our snippy editorializing would've fallen on deaf ears. Now, don't get me wrong, graduation ceremonies really suck, but it does kind-of-almost-rule when your name gets read like this: "Louis Virtel, graduating with High Distinction and an honors degree in Journalism & Mass Communication." That's nearly better than being one of those badass black chicks with, like, 40 names -- and you better believe Professor Whoever read every syllable of Jocelyn Spinderella Templeton-Jones' card. Sometimes I have to just admit I cannot compare.
The theater-major graduation was a warmer, micro-version ceremony where professors read a few sentences of "information" you provide as you cross the stage and shake hands with everyone you've never met before. Hate to say it... mine went over pretty fabulously, as did Kiki's (naturally we collaborated beforehand). Anytime you can make Meredith "The STARE" Alexander physically uncomfortable is an almost assured crowd-pleaser. See, I love Meredith, and she knows it -- so I arranged it so I'd come back and shake her hand last. Apparently bumblefuck faculty member Erik Forsythe didn't get the set-up, because he leaned in when I got to him and said, like he was about to box my ears, "Now's the time when you go back and shake her hand." Sir, are you retarded? This is part of the gag. Anyway, Erik Forsythe looks like Chernobyl hit your grandfather, so I got over the overt, infuriating condescension eventually. Meredith loved my little "tribute" to her, and we both cried. Admittedly, my tears were sissier than hers.
I said goodbye to Jessica, Mattfrench, Sarah, and Kiki all on Sunday morning, just as Gloria and I put the final Madonna DVD in the Astro van. Totally sad, but I'm seeing all these people very soon. In fact, I'm seeing Kiki... today. I'm attending our deeeeear friend Meagan Ekberg's wedding in Rockford, IL. OK, we all know my sense of direction is, uh, fucking pathetic, so I'm hoping to arrive at Rockford by the time I retire. Remember how my friends are getting married? Welcome to the newest, hugest phase of your life, Louis S. Bambaataa Virtel. I mean, I'm in a pretty serious relationship too -- but I just don't think I'll end up marrying this MySpace photo of Danny Pintauro. Same old story. I'm doing all the work.
Moving on to the ballad portion of this entry, let's talk about... the life I just left behind. This is pretty hard to do, trying to understand what college has meant to me. Not to get overly nostalgic (or cynical, for that matter) about it, but college has felt like... a mostly pleasant detour. When I arrived at Iowa, I didn't want to be there. I felt like my life took an unready, wrongly aimed turn south. It continued to feel that way for a long time, well into my sophomore year, even if I made extra-quality friends (including Alyssa and Maggie) and took extra-quality classes (AMERICAN POP MUSICCCC and Meredith's acting class). At 18, all I wanted to do was get published prominently. I didn't see any reason to bring a diploma into the picture. However, leave it to the motherfucking Daily Iowan to acquaint me with how much I needed to learn. With unwavering certainty, I can say the paper's been the greatest learning experience in all of college. I mean, besides Journalistic Reporting & Writing class. HA fucking HA, fucking retards. Becoming an RA was an absolutely necessary step to take in order to make my Iowa time sufficiently social and sumptuous. Not to say I even like the "job" aspect of it; the department's expectations of RAs are so purposely vague that they can screw you over in any of a million forms, blaming you for not being "a good role model" among other nonsense items of blacklisting. But the friends I made in this job (some of them my residents, believe it or not) really gave college a healthy kick in the ass for me.
Earlier I chose the word "detour" purposely; Iowa was nice, but it's nowhere near where I want to physically end up in my career. I'm sure that's the case for most people, but I find it frustrating when I'm not always somehow finding ways to advance my life and get where I want to go -- even if I'm stalling to do something "productive" like getting an education. But then again, let's look at me right now: I'm chilling in Lemont, half-waiting on jobs and half-turning my parents' house into a personal hammock. Might be dangerous to say, but I'm actually really enjoying these sweet, serene weeks. I'm not so big a fan of the times when I have NOTHING to do, but hanging out so often with the family means a lot to me. And catching up on "Jeopardy!" and Netflix-ing entire seasons of "Veronica Mars." That helps too.
I'm also digging my home-friends, who continue to dwindle away from Lemont for the summer. Mostly I spend my time with Elyse, robbing a typical amount of saloons while she wields the hatchet. But Lauren Neybert's a key player too, though she's booking it to Washington D.C. in a matter of... oh my GOD, two days! Help! OK, I actually need a job. I just scared myself back to life.
Let's end this entry on a hyper-stupid note and recount my fave songs from ALL of college. God, don't you love realizing I'm secretly 14?
1. The Dixie Chicks "The Long Way Around"
2. Kelis "Bossy"
3. Destiny's Child "Lose My Breath"
4. Rihanna "Don't Stop the Music"
5. Madonna "Hung Up"
6. Prince "Black Sweat"
7. The Dixie Chicks "Favorite Year"
8. Aimee Mann "King of the Jailhouse"
9. Gwen Stefani "What You Waiting For"
10. Kelly Clarkson "Behind These Hazel Eyes" (OH YES, bitches, I am MIS-UNDER-STOOD)
And with that, I can go back to my -- ahem -- heroin-binge fixation on Fleetwood Mac's Rumours and Greatest Hits. I know I'm a sissy since my favorite Fleetwood Mac member is Christine McVie. I could've picked the vampy, ethereal Stevie Nicks, the hard-rockin' Mick Fleetwood, or the energetic Lindsey Buckingham, but no. I choose Christine. The one in the pantsuit. Truthfully, I think she wrotethe most indelible melodies in the group, and she certainly wrote the GREATEST Fleetwood Mac song of all time ("You Make Loving Fun"). Lindsey's second on my list. Stevie Nicks' lyrics never quite make enough sense to me. If I ever see anyone's face in some snow-covered hills, I'm going to double-check that a poacher hasn't sniped me with a poison dart.
So, that's it for now. Thanks for reading, tolerating, laughing when I tell you to. Love you guys. And by the way, I LOVE The University of Iowa. Thanks to everyone (and I do mean everyone, miraculously) who made it sweet.
Love,
Louis
current mood: anxious
current music: Fleetwood Crack "You Make Loving Fun"
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| Saturday, May 17th, 2008
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5:00 am - Tassle Twirl Mania
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Just FYI -- I'm graduating from college in four hours. I'd like to thank the academy.
And I'm back to Lemont super-soon. You know what that means: monologue preparation for the LHS fall play. If I don't get a part, I can just do props!!!
Shout if you love faking a real future, xoxo,
Louis
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| Thursday, April 17th, 2008
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3:32 pm - Fag-stags everywhere: YOU ARE APPRECIATED. STEP OFF OF THE LEDGE.
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Um, I have 4,200 articles and essays to write next week. Probably safest if I finish my will before I start all that. Don't worry, I'm leaving my estate to only my dearest friends... at the Smithsonian.
Anyway -- here's this week's Letters to Louis (called L2L by all the kidz now -- or at least me). Do gay guys appreciate their straight allies? Can guy guys ever really deal with the epidemic that is "basketball"? Let's ask our favorite homo oracle...
Dear Louis,
I am a straight guy who has made a ridiculous number of gay, bisexual, and transgendered friends this year. To be honest, they're great - much more interesting than the Neanderthals I associated with before at UNI's rugby club. But lately, I feel like an outsider among them. Like I'll always just be the lonely little hetero who followed them home. Do you think it's possible for gay and straight guys to forge real friendships? If so, got any advice? - Dan White
Dear DW (Dark. Wing. DUCK?!),
Woah. Is that thoughtfulness up here in L2L? Be still, my dance moves. Maybe I should bring in a professor for this one.
Haha! Of course not. We all know I write, breathe, holler, and scat-sing the stuff of textbooks. Chapter One: My historic ass.
Delicious question, Dan, but a hard one to answer with confidence - because generalizing the actions of people (straight or gay) is patently unfair. And mean and un-journalistic. And so un-Louis! Unless we're talking about homophobes. Generalizing them is different and calming to me. Or women, too. They're fair game. Or gay men. Or straight guys. Or lesbians. Or World of Warcraft players. Or male poli-sci or business majors (uggh on both counts - go on, world, pretend to prove me wrong). Or people who aren't Louis Virtel. Otherwise, I feel uncomfortable generalizing. Anyone who doesn't is stupid.
DW, when your queers convene with you like uppity jackrabbits and snap around their fey repartee, I can see how you'd feel, say, a little resigned to bridesmaid-hood (Er, groomsman-hood? I'm working with your straightness) betwixt the hailstorms of all the queering and quipping. Meanwhile, not to discount your situation's singularity, but I think it's always common for the minority in a group of friends to feel self-consciously separate. Take for instance that token, chain-smokin' homo who's always slumming it at Baskin Robbins after midnight with his straight ladies: While he (or I - let's face it, I'm projecting here) may contribute tart, spot-on witticisms about Amy Winehouse resembling the lovechild of Diana Ross and Slimer from Ghostbusters, he's always going to know he's so not invited to Tupperware parties or other seminal transactions of friendship. Perhaps just knowing you're different from your friends, even if they're your besties, is unsettling. I concur.
Having said that, I think gay guys value their straight males (or "bros," as social scientists like me label them on the petri dishes) with sympathy. Most gays, even if they insist on the ridiculous claim, truly haven't realized all their lives that they're gay. I certainly thought my crush on Winnie Cooper of "The Wonder Years" - or at least her impressive mood swings - was valid. Anyway, at some point, gay guys have almost all considered themselves hetero, and if not, they certainly grew up with hetero male friends. The straight world, by and large, is not an alien one to them, unless they feel exiled thanks to assholes or the popularity of Flo Rida. Maintaining friendships with reasonable, rascal-y straight dudes makes a gay feel at home. A little yin to the glossy yang of their hos and homos.
Of course, I don't know your gay friends, so maybe they don't deserve that credit. But come on, you abandoned your herd of Neanderthal bison-men at UNI for an undefeated specialty dance troupe (formally called the LGBT community). Your new posse must be kind of extraordinary if you jumped ship for them. They're probably good enough to value your honesty. I know it's cliché to say, "Just be honest with them! Talk it out! End with a hug!" but if they can't understand or don't want to acknowledge that you're feeling alienated, well, then they're not quality homos in my little (but comprehensive) black book. No need to be maudlin - just tell 'em you appreciate them and you hope they appreciate you. I don't think the issue needs to expand much from there.
So, to answer your sprawling sociological query in too short a space: Yes! Gays and straights can forge lasting camaraderie. Just the same way anyone with compatible senses of humor or fan-fiction topics can. Like any Margaret Cho stand-up hour can attest, differences between gay and straight cultures will always exist. Sometimes, the borders are hostile. (When Hollister and H&M neighbor each other at malls, I always fear a riot.) But as long as, uh, people aren't all assholes, sounds like we can all get along. All it takes is a Super Nintendo and Street Fighter II. Straights choose Guile, gays go for Chun Li - and at the end of the day, we've both got aggression, improbable upside-down kicks, and sexy war cries to keep us jamming back together like rambunctious brothers in need of loyalty, love, and probably a time-out.
Dig? I do hope you do-do.
A real entry may be on the horizon soon! Get your Hammer pants ready!
Thanks for reading. Xoxo,
Louis
P.S. Obsessed with Fleetwood Mac's Rumours right now, because I'm secretly 52 and a middle school English teacher. "Thunder only happens when it's raiiinin'..." Stevie Nicks is a fucking kickass meteorologist.
current mood: real riled.
current music: Fleetwood Mac "Dreams"
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| Monday, March 31st, 2008
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2:36 am - I. Will. Be. Gayest.
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Well, here's another notch on my lipstick case (quoth the poet Benatar) of my teenybopper ambitions. The editorial assistant at The Advocate asked me to contribute a piece on "what Madonna means to me" for an online essay collection. Uhhh, to reiterate: I wrote a piece on my Madonna obsession for The Advocate. That hysterical pansy squealing you hear is the sound of my dreams coming true.
I also outed myself as clinically bizarre. Hope you like.
"Madonna-blessed" by Louis Virtel
In 1999, my eighth-grade classmates in suburban Illinois waged a war: the Total Request Live one between the Backstreet Boys and Limp Bizkit. Carson Daly served as a sullen, surrogate Walter Cronkite. I, however, burned my draft card, bought The Immaculate Collection video anthology and retreated to a life in my basement of religious devotion – to a deity, a doyenne, a Midwest-born sorceress named Madonna.
I didn’t know I was gay; I just knew I was a born Ciccone disciple. During that summer, I watched and re-watched her famous black-and-white "Vogue" video like a hypnotized seminarian. The ultra-camp vid featured stark, cold imagery reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich photo shoots and meticulous, geometric body movements. I rehearsed each of Madonna’s poses in secret defiance, valuing each hand-fold and neck toss as stylized struts towards invincibility – or, at the very least, ownership of my sinewy, 13-year-old body and the empowerment to discover my place at the top of the world.
Madonna never felt like just a pop star. She was my deserving empress who called for her followers to dance, fight, and proclaim identity. Her superhuman appendages – cone bras, platinum tresses, monocles, cross necklaces, an unashamed navel – elevated her image to the stuff of mythology. Somehow she also represented something unmistakably human, a misfit Midwesterner who embodied the urgency and work ethic of a scrappy showman. Madonna represented a turning point in my life – the time when I decided my ambitions, observations, and passions could qualify me as a force, not just a person. I clench that electricity within me, always, and I dream of sharing it "en masse" in my writing.
Madonna’s my icon. She remains my millionaire Aphrodite, my blue-collar street fighter, and the most holy redeemer of a 13-year-old who learned that asserting your self-worth provides that elusive, beautiful gateway to immortality.
So, yep, Madonna is my meth. You didn't realize I was so full of bewildering secrets.
Xoxo,
Louis
current mood: cheerful
current music: Whtiney Houston "How Will I Know" (BALLERRRR)
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| Saturday, March 15th, 2008
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2:08 am - The suburban sorcerer returns
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Every once in awhile I actually deliver on a promise -- which brings me one respectable step closer to not being a sociopath. Congrats, Louis. This time, I'm keeping up on my way-glam blogging (as I promised!) while I'm transported home for spring break. That's right, I'm reporting live-ish from the Burbs Bus, where only the best of Chi-Town suburb kids, like all these fabric-softened Little League legends, retreat home from Iowa. They're basically celebrities. Well, at least celebrities-by-association, since they're sitting near me.
Allegedly, my brother Jim's picking me up at Oakbrook mall, right after he either gets off work at the liquor store or polishes his chin piercing. Either task requires consummate care and questionable taste, so I understand if he's late. The real tragedy here, however, is that I'm only crashing in Lemont a day before I jet off to a much larger suburb called New York City. I'm going with my old Writer's Floor cellmate Alyssa (such a shame that girl thinks she'll ever live anyplace but Dubuque) and Tracy. I'm also meeting up with Sean from The Advocate, who will show me around the mag's news department before treating to me to lunch. Would've been a crafty idea if I set up some informational interviews with New York magazines and newspapers, but I've been so dogged by articles and midterminal bullshit that I haven't exercised forethought for, oh, anything, minus the occasional trip to the Mill with DI people (AKA "The Not-Ready-for-Press Citizen players") or Studio. Speaking of my favorite gay smutbucket, I met up with Rachel effffinggg Fields there on Friday, and she brought only her 11 dozen best friends from Grinnell. Seemed like a lot of effort just to prove she goes to a real school. Pathetic. Anyway, it was Studio, so everyone enjoyed some wholesome, same-sex making out and groping. My particular fopsicle was visiting from Roosevelt University in Chicago, so when he gave me hickeys starting at my ankle, it felt especially like home. Or, rather, Uncle Marty. That's Elyse Brannigan's joke -- so send all your incest-related objections (and requests) her way.
By the way, you don't know real thrill until you blog from a computer with slowly waning battery power. This is like the Martial Law version of the deadjournal. Except huge bombs with red wires to be defused and some asshole from Naperville to get backslapped by my angry judo. Or... just more discomfort and boredom from the guy sitting next to me. He's a little pissed I brought out the laptop on the bus, methinks. Oh well. Hi there, stripes-dude, if you're secretly reading this -- your iPod and Buckle gear are a clever ruse.
The western Illinois landscape might just rivet me into a coma, so beware of my upcoming slurred words and casual mentions of suicide. You'll know I've made the decision to end it all if I write the last three paragraphs of this entry in progressively hostile emoticons. Oh yeah. Money-mouth is JUST THE BEGINNING.
An update on obsessions; Project Runway ended, and Christian won. He is everywhere right now, unlike any other winner in the past. Too bad Jillian's line totally trumped his -- but of course, disguised praying mantis Victoria Beckham was the guest judge, and she adored the twiggy pants and voluminous jackets. Which obviously blows your mind. Christian's collection was kind of cool, to be fair. Thing is, it's also total costume, which is exactly what the judges condemned Chris March for pulling out. I'm starting to think reality TV competition judges don't mind being hypocrites. I dug around and did some research -- turns out Tyra Banks and Janice Dickinson never actually passed the bar exam. More to come on this bewildering scoop.
Here's the internet's Greatest Hits right now, as far as I'm concerned. I understand no Greatest Hits package is complete without "Kokomo," but bear with me.
-Taylor Dayne in The Advocate: www.advocate.com
Wait, I'm so confused. Who wrote this tell-all Q&A and interviewed your fave '80s superstar? Oh yeah. Your #1 suburban sorcerer, Louis St. Vogue Virtel. In case you were wondering, it's strange to wake up on a Monday morning in dormitory confinement and then receive a call from Taylor Dayne just before your first class. The Chris Crocker interview is up next week!
-Diablo Cody's Myspace: www.myspace.com/diablocody
The last time a Lemont "native" got this much attention, high-school students were yelling, "Scalp 'em!" in the LHS gymnasium. Anyway, I like Juno, but I fucking love Diablo's blogs. Carmen Sandiego references? Hobnobbing with A-listers? The Price is Right soundclips? CALL ME, BROOK BUSEY. YOUR MOTHER CALLED ME A VERY NICE BOY.
-Project RunGay: projectrungay.blogspot.com
So I guess sometimes gay people enjoy fashion? Tom and Lorenzo are hilarious, right-on, and -- actually -- super-fucking-nice. Turn to them whenever you need to be assured that Victorya's bedazzler dress was a baggy Lisa Frank shitstorm.
-Facebook applications: Um, if you can actually sit and read this journal, you likely have a Facebook ap or two.
Right now I'm loving: Scramble, Scrabulous, and Compare People. "Compare People" is this giant ranking system where you're judged by friends based on looks, personality traits, and other things to get upset about. Currently I'm the #1 funniest person in my network (which greatly disappoints my plan to win the "Biggest Humorless Bitch"), and um, #3 most punctual. OK, somebody's rigging the vote, because I show up to things punctually only when, like, the smell of fresh donuts lures me to the newsroom at a convenient time for others. Anyway, vote for me.
-Dolly Parton's website: www.dollypartonmusic.com
Just because the flash intro is gaudy and sweet as hell.
I'm bringing the laptop to NY, so I hope to insert salacious pictures from my travels as well as a blurred snapshot of the first street gang to mug me. Love you guys, thanks for reading, thanks for indulging all my tripe.
Bigggg lovz n lolz (OK, lolcatz is fucking hysterical), xoxo,
Louis
current mood: bus-loving
current music: Madonna "Borderline"
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| Wednesday, March 12th, 2008
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6:24 pm - Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together... for THE HOMOPHOBES!
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OK, I truly didn't even mean to go all Advocate on anyone's ass, but in this week's "Letters to Louis," I responded to a girl who said her boyfriend "doesn't mind gays, but thinks the girly ones need to shut up," essentially. Naturally I was really pleased with this guy's conscientious, super-unselfish, and all-in-all endearing attitude. Maybe you all will enjoy the proceedings. First the letter, then a duo of rocket scientists hits us with the real LGBT education:
Dearest Louis,
I know you're sick of boyfriend questions, and maybe "gay" questions, too - but I think you'll like this one. OK, I've been dating my current squeeze for a couple months, and, of course, I really like him and his muscles and everything. That's all going well. But I'm a card-carrying "fruit fly" - I love my gays now and forever. My boyfriend says sometimes he doesn't like or is "uncomfortable" with flamboyant gayness. He says he doesn't have a problem with gay people - just the flamboyant ones. I think he's actually telling the truth, because he's perfectly nice to my gay friends in person.
I used to go to the Studio all the time, too. Not so much anymore with the BF around. In other words, help heal my life. What should I say to him?
-Love (and hate to do this,
Anonymous
Dearest queerest,
Rainbow alert! All four alarms! Homo withdrawal is happening in our own backyards! Hello, Department of Public Safety? We have an impoverished reader who needs an emergency remix of "Lose My Breath," STAT.
Don't worry, ma'am, the authorities have been notified - you will be placed with the proper queers. Your doctor has prescribed you an appointment with a well-known total-bitch gay manicurist. I've checked his credentials, and he's got just the right of dosages of self-obsession, condescension, and part-time modeling. Be sure to drink plenty of liquids and think about Jake Gyllenhaal in low-rise jeans. Then call me in the morning. We'll start you on gentle rehabilitation and relearn the words to "Turn the Beat Around." We'll wait a week for choreography.
Oh, and this just in: Your boyfriend is a homophobe. Dead on arrival. I don't mean to crucify just him, but you know he'll make a fine example for the rest of the class. Bottom line, students here think homophobia doesn't exist much anymore. But, uh, it's here. It's jackass-colored. The only difference is, well, more homophobes don't think they're homophobes anymore. They think it's "flamboyance" they don't like. They feel safe and entitled in criticizing flamboyance. What kind of prissy-ass excuse is that? Pretty sure your boyfriend has no problem with Kanye West, Jim Carrey in The Mask, or the Joker from Batman. All of those folks seem pretty flamboyant to me, in some form or another. I'm guessing they don't rub your boyfriend's backwards cap the wrong way.
But of course, the "flamboyance" alibi is an obvious ruse, even if your boyfriend, the Emperor Keystone-Light, doesn't realize it. Dig this crazy theory: Your boyfriend is uncomfortable with noticing people are gay. He's uncomfortable when gay people are comfortable with themselves. I'd love to say I don't know this from firsthand experience, but just last weekend, I was twirling and undulating with ferocious poise to "Love Shack" at 3rd Base. Straight girl after straight girl danced on me and gawked at my stupor-stardom. The wind cried my name. Then some dude with a Hollister-sponsored life jerked my shoulder, leaned in, laughed, and said, "Hey man, your dancing is, uh, freaking me out."
A bit flummoxed, I turned toward him, leaned in, laughed, and said, "Sir. It's called gay. I have it." And what did he do? Nothing. He got scared. He scrambled for composure. Went back to calling his girlfriend "Shortie," probably.
Anyway, that hombre didn't think he was a homophobe. Luckily, he messed with a righteous gay vagabond. But I can't serve justice at all times, dear. I'm not a licensed Oaf-buster, or Ghostbuster, for that matter. So who-ya-gonna-call? Nope, not Egon and Venkman. Or Lance Bass. You have to dial your own flirty self. Fear not - confronting the issue shouldn't take much effort. Just say, "You know, it's not flamboyance you're uncomfortable with." And if he still doesn't budge, you say, "It's probably that they're comfortable being gay." Still nothing? "And that they're real men." A nice pseudo-slam on your boyfriend's irrefutable masculinity should seal it. Own the throwdown, baby. Spit it like his angered mother, as if you don't even care. You know he still misses that breast milk. Big ups to my man Sigmund.
OK, OK. So maybe your boyfriend isn't totally the raving, asinine, buck-toothed, Westboro Baptist, carpenter-jeaned, Electra-complex-ed, Confederazi, tobacky-hacking owner of a Scarface poster that I implied. No, no. I'm sure I could engage in a fruitful chat with him about Mortal Kombat and such. But just because he seems not to combust around all gay people doesn't mean he's cool with them.
I want to say I'm OK with settling for that, but why should I? Excuse this flamboyant badass, but all "out" gay people make the conscious decision to defy insecurity and to be themselves in spite of others' irrational, sometimes-hateful, sometimes-hurtful, occasionally really-effing-stupid beliefs. As for the straight guys (and I love many of you), don't you think that's worth some props? Acceptance? I think it is. 1,000 CCs of manning-up: STAT.
Comment #1: Username "Sensible Human"
I will side with the boyfriend of the girl. As a "real man," you have what we call the XY chromosome, not the XX. I think you people have forgotten that and need to get some bass back in your voice. I don't have a real problem with gays, but when they start acting like a girl then it gets ridiculous. I'm sick of all this one sided stuff in this paper. We can tolerate you, but that doesn't mean we have to accept you.
My reply:
Hey there, Sensible!
Wait, what's the "one-sided" argument here again? That gay people shouldn't be maligned or mistreated for having effeminate characteristics? Yeah, what an agenda. I can't believe the DI runs drivel like this either. What a shame for us all! The DI truly needs to get back to journalistic ethics and start making sure gender stays rigidly divided. I mean, think about what's at stake -- your comfort! Yikes!
Of course, the best thing about your comment is how it illustrates perfectly what I'm talking about. You can "tolerate" gay people but you can't "accept" them? What the hell does that mean? You won't shoot them? Praise God, we have a saint on our hands! "Tolerance" is my least favorite word; as a matter of fact, it only signifies a baby-step away from "intolerance." Also, another $64,000 question: Who is "we"? To quote: "We can tolerate you, but that doesn't mean we have to accept you." I'm glad you're assuming that gay men are on trial here, like they need to justify themselves at all. Especially to moral intellects like yourself. By the way, I love that you posted anonymously -- what, you can't even stand up for your own hostile, asinine argument? Typical.
One more quote for the road: "I don't have a real problem with gays, but when they start acting like a girl then it gets ridiculous." That sounds like a real problem with gays. Also, do you really honestly believe that a "girly" gay man is, ahem, acting? You think that's a put-on? You think they're going home, throwing on a flannel, and retreating to their true lumberjack selves when no one is looking? I can assure you that's not the case.
I can also assure you that my previously stated argument -- that most homophobes don't think they're homophobes -- is right on the money. Now's a good time to remind anyone reading this that I don't have a grudge against straight men. As I said in the letter, many (MANY) of my best friends are straight men. I was born of straight parents. I enjoy them! However, I have a bitter, twisted, aggravated, seething, restless, intellectual, and awesome grudge against anyone who thinks gay people choose to be effeminate to make others uncomfortable. Sorry, sir, they're just being themselves. But of course, that's actually what's most horrifying to you -- that a gay man could be comfortable being himself despite whatever backwoods-bred set of prejudices are thrust upon him. While, say, many people would call that kind of gay person brave, you have the nerve to say he specifically behaves the way he does only to piss you off. Self-centered much? Better yet, delusional much?
Sounds like your entitlement to speak against something you know nothing about is actually the "ridiculous" thing here. Congrats on further legitimizing my entire column and putting a face (and an impossibly low bass voice, I'm sure!) to the problem.
Comment #2: Username "Taco"
"What the hell does that mean? You won't shoot them?"
If Sensible Human legitimizes the problem Virtel, you illegitimize it correspondingly with the shrill, mocking response characterized by the above quote and the "backwoods" comments.
The approach to "pride" you exemplify here is confrontational and hostile. A person doesn't have to be a homophobe for that to trigger a defensive response. Other people have pride too, and when you start tearing into someone like you just did Sensible Human, as though they owe you a groveling apology, you shouldn't be surprised when they turn on you.
The hostility does your cause a disservice. On principle I support civil rights protection for the GLBT community, but I can't help but think twice about that, when I have to worry that community advocates might label me the enemy and start calling me names because I date to question their methods...
In short Virtel, to support gay rights you should be trying to pull people like Sensible Human and me onto the GLBTAU bandwagon. Lashing out at any little perceived sign of bigotry, instead, you seem to be injudiciously trying to push people off said wagon.
My reply
Taco,
Let's make one thing clear: I mocked "Sensible Human" because he calls himself "Sensible Human" and then says, "That's ridiculous when a gay person is effeminate." That's insulting. I'm not obligated to reach out kindly to anyone, particularly if their logic includes, "Get some bass back in your voice." I won't waste my time pretending that deserves a comforting reply.
I think I'm entitled to be hostile (and sarcastic) when someone thinks degrading comments about a person's voice or "chromosomes" counts as rationale. It doesn't. Everything I wrote was a valid argument. Nothing he wrote was. Actually, nothing he wrote even resembled an argument. I hope we can agree on that.
Though this wasn't even a letter about "gay rights," I am actually sorry for you if your sympathy toward the LGBT community is dissuaded by any advocate's "confrontational" methods. I don't know one gay person who thinks straight people are the enemy, either. I certainly don't, and I've made that clear. Maybe that's a misconception many people have about gay advocates. Fact is, if you're an out gay person, in some ways you've been conditioned to curb your demands of the community and government at large, since people have such extreme reactions towards gay people seemingly even existing. I'm a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, but yeah, something about that realization makes me upset. It's difficult to emotionally resolve. Maybe others feel the same. I hope you can understand that
However, there comes a point when it's too tiring and demoralizing for me to sit and "understand" where some asinine people are coming from when they spew such mean-spirited drivel. This doesn't apply to everyone. I'm talking about people like Sensible Human -- who can sit there and say "I don't have a problem with gay people" before condemning gay men for having effeminate attributes. That's hypocrisy. That's what makes me hostile.
Last point: Let's not pretend Sensible Human was even trying to start a real "debate" here. Do yourself a favor, Taco, and never lump in your opinion with that guy again, if you really are thinking intellectually about these issues. If there are people who really want to discuss gay issues here, feel free to comment. I'd be happy to participate in that adult discussion.
Anyway. Basket full of bullshit. We'll get back to closely analyzing ABBA videos next time.
Love you guys. Thanks for reading ('cuz damn, that was a lot).
Xoxo,
Louis
current mood: anxious
current music: The Bee Gees "You Should Be Dancing"
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| Sunday, March 2nd, 2008
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3:39 am - Residents, open up, it's the RAs on duty. We're lonely.
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See, I knew this Facebook attention would produce a cornucopia of benefits -- just look, I'm writing more than ever now. At this rate, I should have a book deal by tomorrow.
So tonight wasn't exactly thrilling, but that's because I'm on "secondary." What's that? You're blindsided by this hip RA lingo? You didn't know I spoke thug? See, I don't write often about RA experiences because, one, I'm not allowed too, but also, it's a wacky sector of my life. As "secondary," I assist in supervising the buildings for the night, and sometimes that means I get called at four in the morning to help clean Tina's puke off her roommate's thong in the hall. What can I say? It's a calling. It's like the armed forces with better gossip.
Being on duty, particularly on a Saturday night, is like that scene in Ghostbusters where the guys sit late in the night, bug-eyed and silent, waiting for shit to go down. Essentially, I'm either entirely bored or entirely too occupied. When duty calls, you sometimes can't even grab a minute to gather supplies or throw on a decent jumpsuit -- especially if a wunderkind Burge resident is, like, punching pedestrians or Tina's been vomiting for three hours straight on everyone's thongs. So anyway, I'm secondary right now. Is that music playing...? There's somethin' straaaange / In the neighborhoooood / Who-ya-gonna-call? That's right, my jank ass. Or maybe Jessica (aka Slimer).
Do you want to know another really hard job? Writing for the esteemed medical journal The Daily Iowan. I've got "Letters to Louis" and a media column on Madonna's new album this week. Can you even handle these whopper assignments of noble distinction? I mean, granted, let's face it, if you ever read a commentary on anything Madonna says, does, or sits on, you want to know Louis Virtel wrote it. Baby, I will pull through for you. I'm like the sheriff of Madonna columns. Wearin' mah Sunday vest and keepin' on the lookout for rascal-y new whippersnapper stories 'bout Lourdes and Rocco. All for you, little lady.
The other night I fled to a bar and spotted some bar crawlers. In total mockert, I started dancing far faster than they could crawl. So embarrassing for them. The exotic locale was Fieldhouse, a somewhat happening joint that looks kind of like that underground gambling place/skate-park in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Lots of high railings, in-ground dance floors, and a few humanoid turtles, now that you mention it. They mostly wore North Face, I noticed. Anyway, Karess and I started a tsunami of dance moves that culminated in some fatal cha-cha sliding and enough sweat to cover a week of shooting on Amistad. Saw some unexpected dears there too -- some reserved types. As of this moment, I can think of no greater joy than having a couple beers (LEGALLY, mind you goddamn residents), hand-springing to the dancefloor, and absolutely unleashing my inner and outer Madonna. I get this really special idea when I start dancing that I fail if not everyone watches me in awe. Again, Madonna complex. You might have noticed I dream occasionally of superstardom. Just another case of dreams becoming (deluded un-)reality.
Aight -- I'm off to bed in desparation to escape the possibility of a duty call. Oh yeah, also, I guess I may be calling Diablo Cody's parents tomorrow in a way-legit attempt to interview the pride of Lemont and U of Iowa. I'm honestly prepared to say, "Um, hey... I used to bag your groceries... can I speak to your Oscar-winning daughter?" SO MANY ETHICS I HAVE. HUNDREDS OF THEM.
Okay, like I said, bye for now, fuck off, etc.
Love, xoxo,
April O'Neil, Channel 3, Eyewitness News
(Louis.)
current mood: exanimate
current music: Prince "U Got the Look"
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