The suburban sorcerer returns
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