Living to Tell

Fate called; she wants a pointier cone bra

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 08:56:10 GMT

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

I object!

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 09:20:39 GMT

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

Louis FUCKING Virtel: Bachelor of MOTHERFUCKING Arts (and RAGE and TOURETTES too)

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 08:48:02 GMT

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

Tassle Twirl Mania

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sat, 17 May 2008 10:03:42 GMT

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

Fag-stags everywhere: YOU ARE APPRECIATED. STEP OFF OF THE LEDGE.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 20:28:55 GMT

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.

I. Will. Be. Gayest.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 07:33:15 GMT

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

The suburban sorcerer returns

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 07:16:27 GMT

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

Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together... for THE HOMOPHOBES!

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 23:21:45 GMT

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

Residents, open up, it's the RAs on duty. We're lonely.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 09:39:29 GMT

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.)

Deadjournal, meet Facebook. Facebook, don't make fun of Deadjournal because he's handicapped.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 10:08:25 GMT

I made the decision to post my journal on Facebook -- which is obviously nothing short of monumental. It's like Ronald Reagan approaching the Deadjournal and declaring, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this HTML."

Yeah, for two seconds I wondered, "Man, what if I say nasty shit about someone? All of FB will know!" But then I realized that whatever happens, I get more attention. Problem-fucking-solved. Holler for middle-child syndrome, lambs. Don't get me wrong; I weighed all the pros and cons of my decision -- but again, my potential fame takes precedent over rationale. It's called priorities.

In addition to weighing pros and cons, I also weighed myself. But that's bulimia for you.

Also, I just think the Deadjournal format looks so, say, retarded, that reposting everything in a cleaner blog format legitimizes the whole operation. Don't let that admonition fool you, however -- I solemnly promise to indundate you with bitching, screaming, caterwauling about the awful gay men I'll inevitably crush on, and Lite-Brite tributes to Madonna videos. Only 40 more pink pegs in place, and my "Louis Visits 'La Isla Bonita'" screen will be finished. I'll post a link once the Smithsonian finishes the appraisal.

I seriously tried to start a whole new blog with zippier, vid-filled entries, but God, I couldn't just let this old bag die. She's too sturdy a warship -- and some day a nice young man will buy her, rip off the sails, and turn her into a rightful gentleman's club. For now, however, she's still my 6-year-old darling. I will breast-feed her until love is illegal.

All these Iowa bitches are dominating my life right now -- Jess, Mattfrench, Kiki, Sarah Michaelson, Lindsay, the Not-Ready-for-Press-Citizen players (Anna, Susan, Meryn, Colwell, other DI folkies). You'd almost think I enjoy myself with them. And that's, of course, illogical -- since I've sworn exclusive companionship to my latest iTunes download: "Sh-boom" by the Crew Cuts. UM, it's from the non-existent soundtrack to Clue, fuckers. Where is culture anymore? Where is dignity? Where is Lesley Ann Warren's acting wizardry?

Writing this entry is feeling sort of like applying for jobs, in that I'm-seeming-to-write-full-sentences way. Pretty sure Entertainment Weekly plucks its new crop of writers directly from Facebook posts. National magazines are invited to interrupt this entry with job offers at any time, btw.

Something I've been thinking about: putting together a Letters to Louis blog compiling all my DI advice columns of yore. Then you can read the unedited, unsanitary original versions. Pretty spicy idea, no? Sounds wet-the-bed worthy to me.

Alright, I have a meeting with journalism professor Don McLeese at 10 a.m. tomorrow, so I have to rehearse all my best Lucinda Williams references now. Love you guys, thanks for reading along -- and if you're a Facebooker stumbling upon this cave of wonders for the first time, let me assure you: If you read this whole entry, you're gay.

Xoxo, beautiful people,
Louis

Um. I do miss this thing. I swear.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 09:28:21 GMT

I don't think this is an actual entry, but let's point out the top 5 things that rule in life right now:

1. Amy Winehouse. Did we see that Grammy performance? Effing brilliant. And tinged with some crack? Um, probably, thank God. That's where the passion comes from. Just ask scientists.

2. Kevin McDonald from "Kids in the Hall": Brother is a riot. I interviewed him on the phone today, and he stopped me mid-interview and said, "Just to let you know, these are great questions, I'm not used to this. This is fun for me." Just what I suspected; I'm Barbara Walters.

3. The Advocate. A perennial favorite, of course, but this week they're paying me $325 to take pictures of gay people and ask them where they'd like to live. And I get published again! And a byline! And... um. Journalistic integrity. You know that's always the muse. With all my hard-hitting, roving reporter instincts up here. Woodward and Bernstein, watch your asses.

4. 30 Rock DVDs. Tina the fuck Fey. To quote my ultra-white, excellent former boss Jon, "She basically rocks the mic." And you rock the hip-hop flavor, Jon. Wear gang colors, I'm sure you'll be fine.

5. Proj Run. Technically it's the worst season ever. As a matter of fact, that's a scathingly true fact. However, Christian (who I don't particularly like) is starting to call Tim Gunn "lady," and I'm prepared to give credit where it's due. Anddd of course Chris "Sissybear" March keeps ringing in 1982 with that fucking leopard-print poncho-gone-fat-guy-shirt -- and my obsession with him lives on.

To conclude, I also went to the gay bar tonight, which was surprisingly not filled with making out. You can never predict the nights when you're pressed against the mirror wall by some guy named Tony or Andrew or "The Blade." But that's the mystery of life, of course.

In other news, I've disappointed myself with an unfulfilling crush, once again. So ridiculous the train of thought behind a crush. For me, anyway. It's so not about actually pursuing something romantic -- it's more about diverting myself from the present and living in gay la-la land for awhile. Something to tide me over while fame is still in the distance. You understand. Also, a "former acquaintance of mine" (shall we call him "John"?) performed in a show I saw, and dammit, he seemed competent. Talk about pissing me off. What could be worse than when you need to convince others to hate your arch-nemesis? I want to just snarl, "Um, he clearly has the brain of a parrot and the social skills of my mute cousin. Do I have to hit you with your own furry boots, Ashley?" But by that time, of course, Ashley's already texted "John" that she can't wait for him to play with her boobs. And there I am, taking up smoking, and just knowing one day I'll tell Tim Gunn all about this, and he'll be like, "What fuckers. Let's do eight jager bombs and talk about Kitty Carlisle all night." Ugggh, hurts to be so prophetic and coooool.

Anyway.

Big love to all, hope your semester/life/diversions-from-life kick ass. I like saying "to all," since I dream of being Evita, drunk with national power and a painfully tied-back platinum bun. Madonna played her kind of geisha-like, no? Like all her movements were rigid and rehearsed and clean-for-master? Can we also talk about my favorite YouTube video of all time (besides the one where Alex Trebek drunkenly curses at a camera crew)?

Here's a badass selection I like to call, "Madonna's wearing fuschia right now, and that means she gets to yell at concertgoers":

(Check the comments for the vid.)

That probably doesn't work at all, but whatever, let's laugh at Deadjournal's html from the '40s.

LOVE to all. Let's quit wasting time, make up our minds, and get into the groove.

Xoxo, forever,
Louis

"Yes, I'm ready to jump" into 2008 and entry-level jobs.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 23:21:55 GMT

I prove many things in this journal (like that I can go to three malls in three days, and other feats), but mostly I show, time and again, how well I steal from Anna Wiegenstein's blog. Exhibit 43D: this end-of-year recap survey I'm about to bless you with.

2007 was a nutty, anxious, fun, harrowing, and (for real)unforgettable time. I can't say that about some years. Boohoo. Let's cut the pansy crap and start doing some hardcore JOURNALING.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you'd never done before?
God, a few things, I guess. One, I took a plane by myself (I know, can you believe it, I'm only in my twenties). Two, I paid for an apartment and all my expenses for a summer. My debit card is bruised and shit. Three, I visited somewhere west of Colorado, and four, I dated someone kind-of-actually. Other than that, Iowa owned my ass with routine.

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Ugh, now that I think about it, I never got around to stabbing Ann Coulter with her own jagged heels. Um, word: My lawyer-cousin Amie had fucking lunch with Ann Coulter. Quoth the badass Amie: "Oh, she's crazy. It was a double-date. Paul and I were invited because our friend was too intimidated to be with Ann alone." Anddd I don't believe in New Years resolutions. I find if I want want to change something about myself, I do it immediately and because it's time. That said, I need to stop staying up until 6 a.m. Because I'm among the living.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I do have a couple new cousins in the McCarthy family, which is not so unexpected when your mother has 12 brothers and sisters. Otherwise, Jessica and I gave continuous birth to The Crazy from roughly January until this second.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
My great aunt Eileen just died on January 1 (which is so inconvenient for this survey), but I'm glad to say 2007 stayed out of the morgue. FYI: Attended Eileen's wake and funeral this past weekend -- somber, sad occasion, yes, but it's so awkward when you're not super-acquainted with the part of the family the death most affects. One of my second-cousins told me it was "nice to meet" me. Nice to know he didn't remember me FROM MY HOUSE THIS SUMMER. Whatevz. I actually concur, it's hard to keep up on who is who, sometimes. He's no heir to the Virtel vault anyway. Probably doesn't even like Beanie Babies.

5. What countries did you visit?
Mmmm, pretty much chilled here in the U.S., but I did explore those smoky jungles of Dyersville, croikey. Then there were those paltry (in comparison) trips to California, a couple times, and that included L.A., Burbank, and San Diego. I also visited Wyoming, Iowa, where I guess is the best place to situate an RA Camp Day that requires an open field and nothing else.

6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?
The faith in myself that I'm doing all I can to fulfill my potential and enjoy myself. A fucking job in the real world. More big opportunities.

7. What dates from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
-June 17: The day I flew to Cali. The day I arrived, cried 30 times upon realizing I had no one to hang out with and, worse, no internet.
-July 14: The day I met Tim Gunn. I'm so sick of the occasion (because I've discussed and name-dropped it to death... ugh, I hate abusing sweet times by reflecting on them and exalting them too often). Granted, I loved it, and it was clearly the biggest highlight of my year.
-July 31: The day I left California and, subsequently, Michael. It's still pretty clear to me, the memory of the final drive to Burbank and back in the middle of the night.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Going out really far and doing what I wanted. Finding out first-hand that life is not about saving money. And getting published in only my favorite fucking magazine.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Holding on to anger in many forms and from many occasions. Expect me to cover Alanis' "This Grudge" at a karaoke night one of these days. Also: being so fucking self-conscious (and, more particularly, image- and body-conscious) that I get down on myself. I need to snap the fuck out of it.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Um, I thought I had a stress fracture in my foot for a few days at Iowa. Other than that, I'm mostly just causing injury to others -- through the power of writing.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Could be the laptop. Could be my sweet ankle boots from Nordstrom. Definitely isn't "Kokomo" from iTunes. Ugh, can we keep this between us?

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Why is this question speaking in the queen's English? Let's see. Jon Sexton left University Housing, so that merited some balloons at Buffalo Wild Wings. And Kylie Minogue sang "Got to be Certain" for the first time in 18 years, so that merited dancing in my room, half-naked, still to this day. Gloria's regular stress aneurysms generally merit a pinata or two also.

13. Where did most of your money go?
California, let's not talk about it.

14. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Meeting Tim Gunn, coming home in October and randomly hanging out with Sarah and Amanda for a night in Chicago, seeing and interviewing Paula Poundstone, getting to visit Six Flags Magic Mountain, Black Wednesday with almost everyone I've ever met, visiting Galesburg to meet up with Elyse and Kaylin (and I GUESS Brent), Jessica and Gloria visiting Cali, the Advocate 40th party, shopping, and, oh, maybe even over things.

15. What song will always remind you of 2007?
What a perfect time to serve up my "Songs of 2007" list. Thank you, survey, for everything. Disclaimer: I simply associate these songs with last year, even if they came out before, like, the invention of the light bulb.
1. Rihanna "Don't Stop the Music"
2. Janet Jackson "Son of a Gun (I Betcha Think This Song is About You"
3. Sinead O'Connor "I Don't Know How to Love Him"
4. The Dixie Chicks "Mississippi"
5. Fergie "Big Girls Don't Cry" (GAG, but a shout-out to Michael <3)
6. Kelis "Blindfold Me"
7. TLC "No Scrubs" (to be fair, I associate this more with 1999, but it took until 2007 to realize I was born to rap about "diamond-like precision" and "steppin' on your Filas"... always with respect for the deceased).
8. Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" (Did you know I'm gay?)
9. Rihanna "Umbrella"
10. Mariah Carey "Honey"

16. Compared to this time last year, are you:
Sadder? No. I'm not freakishly happier, but I'm not worse off. I'm more anxious, however, and that's certain. Granted, does anyone really live in a perpetual state of happiness or sadness? I'd prefer to think we're all less static than that.

Thinner or fatter? I'm a smidgen more muscular, so I guess that's "fatter" for me. God, survey, you really know how to woo a man.

Richer or poorer? In some ways, both. Right now I don't have a ton of money, but I have far more things. Funny how that works.

17. What do you wish you'd done more of? Writing for myself. Sleeping.

18. What do you wish you'd done less of? Worrying. Dwelling. Wasting time.

19. How will you be spending Christmas? Um, welcome to today, survey. I spent it with the usual fam, except we went and saw Juno, which I felt was slightly overrated even though I really enjoyed it.

20. Did you fall in love in 2007? I fell in like with a nice boy who wears whatever polo shirt the day calls for.

21. How many one-night stands? Jesus. Three I think.

22. What was your favorite TV program? Jeopardy, Project Runway, but most of all, for this year, Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List. And as of two weeks ago, 30 Rock.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I'd love to tell you I'm above that, but I'm so not. Yeah, I can think of someone. Not that I ever really "liked" him, but I think I'm almost done realizing that "John" (I use pseudonyms now; I'm trying for "classy" in this journal) is a fucking asshole. I don't think that's just a judgment; I think it's calling a spade a spade. Doesn't mean I won't end up fucking him, but whatever, I'm not the one on trial here.

24. What was the best book you read?
Mmm, fucking love Michael Musto's La Dolce Musto. He is suchhh a bitch and a role model. I think my favorite of his columns is the one where he rips on John Paul II. Here it is: http://www.villagevoice.com/news/0515,fmusto,62868,6.html

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Well, along with the rest of the world, I think I discovered the sweetness of Rihanna. And I'm rooting like hell for the success of her new single "Don't Stop the Music," my absolute favorite new song from 2007.

26. What did you want and get?
A chance to venture out and discover a different world. Also: Starbucks.

27. What did you want and not get?
Hmmm. Complacence. Though I guess I also fear that the most.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Tough call, I really don't see too many movies. I enjoyed Knocked Up and Juno, but my real favorite was Shut Up and Sing. The Dixie Chicks are some hard-ass broads, I'm still in love with them.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned the mystical age of 21, and I toured Lemont with my x-treme posse. And I might've been dressed like a cowboy villain, sort of.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Spending the summer with someone instead of waiting around for new friends to spring up.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?
HA. Um, did Nina Garcia write this question? Does she question my taste level? Gonna quote that famous bastion of sanity, Project Runway's own Elisa, on this one: I'm "a disturbing, Gretel-like figure." What the HELL was that? I enjoyed Elisa and all, but she really lost me with the fucked-up references. For real, my "fashion" style is tailored, sharp, colorful, and smart. I will make a fine businesswoman someday.

32. What kept you sane?
Laughing at it all. Friends. Kathy Griffin. Being proud of my work. And lastly, Valerie Bertinelli's re-emergence as a Jenny Craig spokesperson.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Fancy? Man, survey, we're getting a little vulgar here. Next thing I know you'll ask me what celebrity I found... jolliest. Um, anyway, I have serious crushes on really serious people like Danny Pintauro and Zac Efron.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Gonna go with gay marriage on that one.

35. Who did you miss?
Everyone all the time. I missed my home friends at school and at California. And my family. And Tim Gunn since the middle of July.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Michael. He was certainly the most welcoming. Don't tell him that or anything. He's a fucking Avril Lavigne fan. I could lose a job over this.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:
As I stated earlier: Life is not about saving money.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
"I'm not afraid of what I'll face, but I'm afraid to stay."

There. Happy 2008, let's own the fucker.

Love, love, love, xoxo,
Louis

Christmas with Diablo Cody, Lemont's favorite stripper

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 10:38:50 GMT

Sorry, Bob Porter, you'll have to settle for being Lemont's second-favorite pole artist. Lose the glasses and work on the high kick, B.

First off, Merry Christmas to all. I hope you got the limited edition Injun hubcap you asked for.

Secondly, can I get a shout-out for the pride of Lemont, the Golden Globe-nominated Diablo Cody? The screenwriter of the new, Oscar-buzzy movie Juno (which I'm seeing today with the fam) hails from our bedazzling metropolis. And she went to the University of Iowa and majored in journalism. I'm not positive when Diablo found the nerve to steal away my life-track, but I guess she's famous first, so the joke's on me. That bitch. Why she gotta start a competition with me?

I just YouTube'd her semi-recent appearance on David Letterman, and I'm so glad I did -- this chick is sweet as hell. Pink fishnets aside, she seems so adjusted and unfazed. I can appreciate that, especially since Lemont's a town where you watch Vh-1 and start allowing yourself the delusion that Hollywood's a glowing Shangri-La decked in glory and gays. From what I've gathered, it's more just publicists. And then gays, of course.

Seeing Diablo (the former Brook Busey) made me think about this whole "fame" thing I'm fixated on. Am I fixated? Whatever. Anyway, fame soooo should be a byproduct, not a life goal. Read: I am NOT learning that. Part of the problem is I'm restless, and I readily use fame as a goal where I can attach my anxiety. You know. The same way my mom used to use alcohol. Okay, fact is I just want a steady stream of money, the time to write what I want, some more time to perform stand-up, and then... um, all of it right now. It's Christmas and I asked for it nicely. I see no reason I should be disappointed. And if I am... well, 2008's going to be a big transition year, and I'm prepared to make it my launching pad. Maybe just into a career at Panera, I don't know.

Just a thought. Love you guys, have a sweet, safe Christmas, and thanks for reading.

Xoxo,
Louis

P.S. I just received a Hollister gift card from my cousin for Christmas. What the fuck is that? I thought I made it clear I was a wiry gay, not a bulky retard.

The old bitch is breathing again (Somebody kick her).

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 03:28:16 GMT

It's times like these I compare myself (inevitably) to Debbie Reynolds and Ethel Merman... the old broads fighting menopause and donning the red sequined blazer for a comeback. You may realize I'm 21 years old and male. That doesn't mean I'm not menopausal, asshole. Have you even seen my ovaries lately? Then I guess you can't judge. Razzle-dazzle, fuckers! Back I go to putting on the tights.

Ugh, what I'm trying to say -- when I don't update for a century, it just gets too daunting to update. See, I'm so contented (or ambivalent) about life in general, that it's like... what do I have to comment about? Oh well. I trudge on. This didn't stop Joni Mitchell from releasing a hundred more albums. Including 20 orchestral versions of songs no one cares about. Love that bitch.

Jesus the fuck Christ, who invented that Christmas is ten days from now? I still haven't sent Gloria my Christmas list. It's a yearly tradition to tax you, the reader, with the things I want. Do I have it in meeee? Survey says: yes. Get ready for the Fast Money round.

-30 Rock on DVD (um, LOVE this show! Tina Fey is one of those people I'm destined to befriend. And even more destined to be legally restrained from.)

-Gift-card to someplace I can buy a sweet camel-colored coat. I'm trying to become Tim Gunn as fast as I can, you understand.

-Maybe an electric razor? Do I even have the gall to acclimate myself to the thing? You suffer abuse and unclipped stubble for weeks before it works for you. Anyway, I'm just shooting out ideas. And soon, the windows of this room.

-Something by Ella Fitzgerald. God, I remember the days when I couldn't even BEGIN to list all the CDs I wanted. Now I have them all. Thanks, life, now I'm shit-out-of-luck in the gift department.

-A new wallet! Yes! A thing I need! Eureka!

-Project Runway: Season Three and Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List, Season Two if Bravo gets around to, um, circulating them.

-Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes. It's almost 2008. Time to own it.

-A trivia book? I don't know, again, the ideas are hard to come by.

-All my friends to be home at the same time. God, what a luxury that would be.

The other day I talked with Elyse for awhile. Twice, actually. First we chatted about the writing club she's initiating at home. I hope that pans out, I'm excited to attend. Secondly, however, I called her when, um, Kumar from Harold & Kumar Go to White castle appeared in the Burge cafeteria to promote Barack Obama. Isn't it so fucked up that Iowa's the main caucus state? I saw Barack Obama twice last week, guys. I saw him once by himself and once with fucking Oprah Winfrey. Let me just say, I'm not even that big an Oprah fan (I'd even call her brutishly naive, at worst), but you know, when she entered the room, I lost my shit. I mean, it's fucking Oprah! The dictator of the vaguely free world! In a mauve suit! The best thing about it all: I get to cover it for The Advocate Gen Q blog. And I don't have to pretend I know anything, which is stellar and right up my alley. Tomorrow I'm attending a breakfast with the (UM) mayor of San Francisco! Shit, pays to have connections in this town, y'all. Still no word if I'm "allowed" to cover the breakfast for The Advocate... but I think I can do what I want, so whatever.

My sleep schedule lately has been, of course, notorious. I felt so tired last night I actually fell asleep at 11 p.m. I woke up at 3 and stayed up until 6:30. Think I watched my Joni Mitchell biography DVD and checked Facebook until I cried. If you totaled the amount of hours I'm up far too late with nothing to do but sit online, well... you could publish the results. It's not a joyous thing, really, all this night-owling. It happens because I don't care enough to get to sleep for anything. And because the day is too boring to call over. Also doesn't help that I have enablers -- Jessica and this other RA Matt French (my former resident, the wide-eyed little wascal) sit up until 4 and fake productivity. Though do we even front? No, we sit there and hate on other RAs. For instance, this one RA (who's perfectly nice, I guess) does. not. pick up. on social cues. HELP. She knocks on your door, steps inside, and without missing a beat sits on your couch and starts babbling for, literally, hours. You'd be surprised how long you'll allow a clueless girl in a vegan skirt wax about herself. Jessica and I feel bad for not confronting her -- and thereby allowing her to believe we welcome her uninvited arrivals -- but what can you say to someone who doesn't pick up anything? Better just make fun of her. It's safest.

I missed updating over Thanksgiving, which sucks, because I was hoping to make the everything-I'm-thankful-for entry an annual event. Oh well. Here's an abridged version.

Things I'm thankful for (pardon if it's redundant from last year's list)
-Humor at all costs. I can't think of a more successful antidote, solution, or addition to anything.
-My family -- this year I've gotten closer to my Dad, especially. In one of the most mysterious moments of 2007, right after I got off the phone with Billie Jean King, I called my dad right up and told him how excited I was. I didn't even think about it. And I ended the phone call with, "Love you, Dad." Not that there was ever beef between me and Lee, but Dad's not the emotionally outreaching type. Anyway. I love the hell out of Dad and I'm glad we connect more.
-My friends -- One thing I never forget: my close friends are the shit. I would be jealous of having my friends if I weren't myself. In no particular order (other than a secret system of attractiveness that I've devised): Elyse, Jessica, Rachel, Lauren, Kiki, Alyssa, Kimmie, Sarah, Monica, Corey K, Katie Erk, Amanda, Matt French, Jeanine, Kristin, Michael, Cory Sanderson, Andy Scott, Kaylin, my brothers, Tiffany & Bryanna & Tyler, Andy Phillips, Erin, Maggie S., my excellent DI troop (Anna, Ann, Susan, Maggie, Meghan, Paul, Meryn, Kurt), my fave RAs (too many to list, but I miss hanging out with Anne Lingwall so much), my Cali roomies Elizabeth and Nancy (and who could forget my favorite homicidal recluse neighbor Jason?), all my former residents, and just all the wonderful gets-its of the world. May I meet you all.
-For my fabulous summer. Full of sweet writing opportunities, incredible adventures, bizarre surprises, and a guy who helped me feel at home. Michael, you dipshit, the summer would not have been the same without you.
-The Advocate, and its staff who made me feel so welcomed and appreciated. I'll assume the arts editor's love of me is just misdirected.
-For Tim Gunn tolerating my insatiable crush on him.
-For the nerve, urge, and necessity to do what I want. For those around me who do the same, at all costs.
-For the thousands of greeting cards my aunt sends to me.
-For those pop culture inspirations: Madonna, Kathy Griffin, Alanis Morissette, Aimee Mann, etc.
-For you -- thank you for reading along.

You could just taste the turkey reading all that, I know.

What's next for me: applying for jobs/internships with The Advocate, Vogue, Vanity Fair, Men's Vogue, The Chicago Tribune, The Los Angeles Times, and maybe a few others. I'm really hopeful (and quite optimistic) about my chances with The Advocate.

And chilling out for winter break. I'm doing that too.

Thanks for finding this entry almost two months after I last chimed in. Way to stake out that shit. And again, thanks for reading, just in general, ever.

Big love, xoxooooo,
Louis

Happy Halloween. Is it Christmas yet.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 04:46:24 GMT

Yo. Is this stupid-ass month over yet? I hate October. It goes on forever and nothing happens.

There's really not a hell of a lot to report, other than I'm sitting here at Java House eavesdropping on a pretentious-ass theater student flattering herself. Some favorite tidbits so far: "My character history is such a blur."; "I haven't discovered my character's intention yet."; "I think your character's intention is to push Sally away."; "Meredith said there's a big difference between an improv and a scene."

I'm pretty comforted knowing Meredith Alexander, a registered member of the gestapo, is this chick's teacher. Throw her against the wall, Meredith. Or just eat her. Then, in victory, dye your hair ten more shades of burgundy.

Okay, I swore I wouldn't write much just now since I'm allegedly at Java House to work on a freewrite for non-fiction class... but, oh shit, the inspiration just took over. Let's mull over a few of my favorite life topics, which of course are Lemont, closeted gays, and using people.

L-Town. I went home last weekend compliments of the ever-reliable, ever-overrun-by-the-Amish Greyhound bus. I paid $29 bucks for a truly scenic route back to Chicago. We stopped at DeKalb, Aurora, Peoria, Moline, Rockford, and maybe even some un-embarrassing places too. I was dropped off right at UIC and Sarah picked me up. Weirdly enough, Amanda Deckelman was in town too. Fuck I love these girls. And then Kimmie showed up too! I'm fanning myself at all the star power here. Amanda also had a friend from Notre Dame in tow who really seemed mild-mannered... until a few mixed drinks kicked in and suddenly he challenged me to a couch-cushion joust. Anyway, that followed a memorable night of bar-dwelling with the girls. What can I say? The night was random, spectacular, hilarious, and one-of-a-kind. So much getting it -- as if that was unexpected.

However, my visit back home was mainly motivated by my brother Greg's LHS stage debut. I'm welling up just thinking about the long, winding, beautiful Virtel legacy that lives on under Mrs. Jacobs' legendary, stupid direction. Okay, the play itself was a straight-up dubious choice: a string of monologues from New York City high school students about 9/11. S.O. fucking S. But guess what, Greg Virtel rocked the fucker. He came in halfway and delivered a pretty heavy-handed monologue -- and let me say, no one was more surprised than I when Greg finished that speech. He had timing. And he thought about what he was saying. And I about... believed him. I literally turned into a delirious soccer mom after it was over, stifling myself from crying out, "That's my BABY!" Luckily, my brother Jim sat next to me, and he of course filled me with cynicism. That shut me right up.

Later that night I barhopped with Kimmie and her sweet-ass boyfriend. Holy crap, he was such a Gets-It I almost started calling him Louis. Kimmie's preciousness only magnified in his presence. Well done, dear. Also, I don't even remember the last time I spent two days in a row hanging out with Kimmie. It is times like this where I'm forced to correct Madonna; for it is not music, but The Carousel, that makes the people come together. The bourgeoisie and the townie.

Elyse and I jammed throughout Saturday afternoon, and that was fun and cute, if a little typical. Somehow the weekend turned darker for me late Saturday (as it often can when I'm boarded up in Lemont hanging out alone). I don't know. Lemont rules when I'm with people, but much of the time I only feel like I'm wasting my time or awkwardly reattaching myself to a life I don't live anymore. Or I just get to thinking too fucking much. For a change, I know.

Mostly I was bothered about a guy I met recently who's a closeted homosexual. He was a cool, smart guy -- and still it's hard for me to reconcile when someone so intellectually developed is, in fact, emotionally and sexually stunted. In a way, to me, it's like realizing he doesn't know addition and subtraction -- or worse, that he's scared of (or at the very least, bothered by) himself. I know that struggle. Luckily, I also know overcoming it. Perhaps that's why it's most sad to me, actually.

Meanwhile, back in my land of out-and-proud-and-manipulative, I made out with this guy a couple weekends ago, which, normally, would be fine. However, I've established that I don't want a relationship with him, and yet we're set to hang out again soon. Perhaps this is only the beginning of a friendship (and I'd be down with that), but hmmmm, you never know with these things. I prefer to exact the trajectory of all my relationships before they actually occur, so right now I have to curb my anorexia and let things stay out of control. And still, there's more: this guy knows, quite intimately, the man who runs Bravo's website. Umm, I've been wanting to parlay my Advocate experience into a job at Bravo sooo hard. But couldn't you just pee yourself at this terrible moral conundrum? I hang out with a guy who could potentially want more than a friendship... and I have the nerve to want him to introduce me to his high-and-mighty Bravo friend. Yikes. Expect an update on this later... you know, with my frequent updates and all.

Also, Halloween is tomorrow. Fuuuuuck that.

Out I go for now. Love you guys, thanks for reading, can't wait to meet again, long live Kylie Minogue, etc., etc.

Too famous, xoxo,
Louis

I spend because I care, Or: The Mile-High deadjournal Part II

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 06:53:47 GMT

(Actually written Thursday... but you should read it anyway, because my flava is timeless.)

This "DJ-ing on the plane" thing is really working for me. Hell, I'm doing it again. This time I'm on the flight back from L.A. to Minneapolis. After this, I of course fly to Cedar Rapids on a tractor with wings. We'll see how that goes.

So was all the spending and airport rigamarole worth the trip to L.A.? The days leading up to the big Advocate 40th party were sometimes slow, and I sometimes wondered if I'd veered too far from "my life" (RA stuff, the newspaper, school... regular Jeopardy viewings...) to attend this thing. But then, oh-fucking-yeah, I MET KATHERINE HEIGL AND T.R. KNIGHT FROM GREY'S ANATOMY. T.R. totally knew my name by the end of the night. And Katherine, during an unprecedented shifting of the planets, HUGGED ME. I'm definitely famous now. I'm a cast member. Hope I make it through med school without screwing up George and Kallie's love lives, guys. I am McSaucy.

Andddd I'll show you my slammin' red carpet pic of T.R. and Katherine as soon as I can upload it. You'll get to read even more about the occasion when I write about my interview with Katherine! Don't worry, guys, she basically promised to visit Lemont and Iowa City next month or so. She loves the Wednesday night car shows.

Kathy Griffin and Margaret Cho were out of town for the big event, which TOTALLY sucked. I would not have been intimidated at all by Kathy Griffin, and that's not just because I've planned our futures together. However, some choice celebs DID show up, including that dirty twat Perez Hilton, who I guess opted not to apologize for the mix-up in July. At least I don't smell, that's all I have to say. And we can't forget the inimitably antisocial Heather Matarazzo, the ever-scripted mayor of Los Angeles, Antonio Villaraigosa, the pretty blonde lesbian from Queer as Folk, as well as her FUG, ANo girlfriend! It's hard to believe people like them are passable television actors, since they're so severe-looking and bizarre in person. T.R. and Katherine both looked fabulous and healthy, by the way. Okay, let me blab about how I met them: I was helping usher people along on the red carpet with Corey Scholibo, the Advocate arts editor, and he requested I run around the block to direct lost limos to the right entrance. I'm literally out there for ten seconds when I see a pretty blonde girl in a red coat who makes me think, "She actually looks like Katherine Heigl." Yeah, then who crosses right in front of me but T.R. himself! I sort of blurt, "Oh, T.R.?" He stops, says hello. He's not there with a publicist or anything. I go, "Hi, I'm Louis from The Advocate, I can lead you to the press line around the corner... and, Katherine?" she nodded and said hi. "Um, yeah, follow me." No one had any idea Katherine was coming, which made her entrance all the more, well, entrancing. It's such a strange time to see her in person, especially since she's reached the absolute zenith of her stardom -- with that terrific Emmy win on Sunday. Michael tried to grab an interview with her at the HBO Emmy party on Sunday, but he had to settle for Glenn Close instead (what a shame).

I'm sad leaving Michael to go back to Iowa, but we're both well-aware we're not the most compatible duo. Again, I'm too Madonna, he's too Hilary Duff. Translated: I'm too rational, he's too retarded. J/K. In a way. More like we're both totally strong-willed and assured in our ambitions and righteousness. Don't get me wrong, my time with him in Burbank was delicious -- and I mean that literally, his family makes great fucking food. But we also toured cupcake shops, went to a house party, dropped down to San Diego (beautiful downtown, I was quite surprised), and snuggled and shit. I'm glad we're on the same page, because this situation could've ended up awkward. His mother was a doll the whole time, offering everything in her house and capacity for me. Seriously, the woman drove me to Best Buy to grab a recorder even though she was enduring terrible back pain from a car accident earlier this week. And she lent me a car to drive to the Advocate event, complete with a GPS system. Incredible. Also: the minute I buy a car, I'm buying a GPS system with it, that's all there is to it.

So let's talk about everything I'm avoiding in life

-WOMEN AND LITERATURE CLASS- Evelina. Letters 50 to 965.
-DI- stories on Queen Latifah, Annie Lennox, and Suzanne Vega. (Is that an early-90's clusterfuck or what?)
-RA- programs, the fucking community blueprint, and... well... anything for that damn job. I seem to do an okay job of picking up my check, though.
-ADVocATE- GenQ blog, tying up my Billie Jean King article. Did I mention I interviewed her? That woman is a saint. After I finished my questions, she piped up, "Now, Louis, I have a question for you: You got a dream, man? It's all about the dream. You have one?" Let me tell you, it's refreshing to interview someone famous who maintains the conscience of an average civilian -- or rather, someone who deserves her fame. She was remarkable -- and ranked No. 6 on The Advocate's list of most influential gay icons of the past 40 years. There's a slick divide between being "famous" and being "incredible," and I was astounded to meet someone who was, so clearly, both.

Better news: I talked to Rachel Dowd, the magazine's deputy editor (who I'm obsessed with anyway), and she told me the Editor-in-Chief would hire me permanently if I applied. Erm, semi-well-paying job in Los Angeles for a magazine I DREAMED of working at? Peeing myself. Perhaps even better: I finally got to meet the news features editor of The Advocate who works in New York. He told me he wants to get an editorial assistant for the New York branch, and if the position comes to fruition by the time I graduate, it could be mine. Jeez, guys, all this tiresome weighing of stellar job opps on both coasts... I need a cigarette. Frankly, New York is almost more appealing because I could try to get my foot in the door with Bravo. I'm sorry, television is in my fucking future. The minute I get an offer to host a game show, I'm just going to walk around my house and play "No Scrubs" all day, because I'd be the shit. Is Trebek retiring anytime soon? They'll just give that job to, like, Louie Anderson if I don't apply. Travesty, guys. Ring all four alarms.

However, let's discuss news back in the stratosphere: I miss my friendz. Elyyyyseeee. Saaraahhhh. Kimmmmmieeeee. Monica, for Christ's sake! And Rachel effing Fields! I need to get off my Latino ass and hit them up. I hope to come home sometime in October, so that'll be nice. I'm sure the res hall coordinators are super-keen on all these days off I'm taking. Fuck it, as long as they don't interfere with badminton class, I do what I want.

Get ready for some ultra-cool stream of consciousness.

Some other things I miss: my Mommy, my whole family, an organized life, water parks, doing stand-up comedy, acting, laughing REALLY hard with my friends (not that this rarely happens... but Michael Berner does not = Chris Rock), my extended family (including Tiffany, Bryanna + Austin + Luke, Colleen, my grandparents, Uncle Jim & Aunt Lea, fucking stupid-ass Anna Mae. All of 'em), trivia games, athletic competition, writing poetry (or... song lyrics, if that's what they were), watching old movies... I guess that's about it. Oh, and my hunting rifle. I ain't never felt lonelier.

Okay, the computer's almost out of batteries. Off I go to sit here and dream of Minneapolis. Bye for now, hoes. Love you, love you, thanks for reading.

Xoxo,
Louis

The Mile-High Deadjournal

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 19:54:51 GMT

(Actually written two days ago...)

Um, hi, have we met?

You know, I don’t often miss inanimate objects (besides my brothers), but the DJ is a special exception. I know it’s been since July, but trust me, at least once a week I think about what I could – or rather, should -- write in here. I rarely allow myself the time to just sit and process my life anymore… and that’s truly a shame, because I’m busier than ever during my senior-effing-year of college. Umm, remember when I spent half my summer in LA? Started dating someone? Met Tim Gunn and a bunch of Project Runway people? Met Perez Hilton? Landed two articles in The Advocate (with a third on the way)? Started an advice column for The Daily Iowan? Was kicked out of Tori Spelling’s BBQ party? Turned 21 like the Lemont townie I secretly am with all of best home friends around? Endured yet another two weeks of RA training? This is one of the few times I can honestly say that since I last wrote, my life has transformed. Not that the 400 entries about Phil being an asshole weren’t also compelling, poignant milestones.

Also: you should know that I’m writing this on an airplane. I took off from Cedar Rapids’ thrillingly large airport, jetted to Minneapolis for a lay-over, and now I’m on my way to L.A. For some reason I was extra excited to stop in Minneapolis, like I was going to see the Mall of America and Prince during my one-hour stay in the terminal. Not fucking so.

Anyway, I have a motive for all this: The Advocate’s 40th anniversary party is this Tuesday, and I decided the occasion warranted my flying back to L.A. Originally, Ellen Degeneres was slated to host the event, but apparently she cancelled, so this event may turn out pretty jank. Whatever, I’ll kick it with Chastity Bono and make it hot. Or like, Danny Pintauro. Okay, confession, I want to fuck him. I don’t even care about the scandalous MySpace shots or whatever those were. The bitch is fine. I will track him down at some ghetto-ass Who’s the Boss reunion party and sit on his face. Tony Danza can eat shit about it.
More and more it’s been occurring to me how serious all this L.A. business is. Man, could I really just move out there? I suppose if I got an excellent job, that’d be one thing. But The Advocate hardly has room for me to move up, unless the editorial assistant Michelle ends up going to grad school. In that case, I’m in. It’d be only $35,000 or so a year, but I could pretend that’s adequate. And yet Chicago still seems like a place I want to be immediately after college – if not just to get the near-home craving out of my system. Okay, this is boring, let’s talk about things that rule.

Kathy Griffin just won the Emmy for Outstanding Reality Series. This is like a delicious sequel to the Dixie Chicks’ big Grammy win – I almost wonder if somebody in Hollywood actually gets-it. Have we talked about gets-it before? It’s a simple concept, really. You get it or you don’t. If you do, in fact, get it, you are allowed to watch Project Runway with me and obsess over Laura Bennett. If you don’t get it, well, at least you have your Crocs to play with. Essentially, “gets-it” is a universal system that all gets-its know to use extensively. One time Kimmie called me in urgent terror, saying something like this: “Louis, I was stuck sitting with this girl at a party… who was NOT a gets-it.” If you are, in fact, a gets-it, this is horrifying news to you. You may be so alarmed for Kimmie that you call RVAP, just in case the not-getting-it gets out of hand. I will now list some esteemed faculty members of The School of Gets-It: Louis Virtel (Professor of Sasstronomy, Dean of Admissions), Kiki Abba (Professor of Bitchonomics), Jessica Heacock (simply a slave to “The Crazy”). Kimmie Cummings, Elyse Brannigan, Rachel Fields, Kathy Griffin, Conan O’Brien, Lauren Neybert, Sarah Geoghegan, Alanis Morissette, Kelis, Anna Wiegenstein, Mark Virtel (I admit that begrudgingly)… the list goes on and on, thankfully. And look out: here come the big names from our rival school, Not-Gets-It Community College of Northern Iowa: most Christians, anybody I have slept with, people who use the word “amazing” 400 times a day, people who like Wedding Crashers, the Injun, Burge Hall, a very special roommate of mine from California (God bless her), etc. Their football team would be worse than ours if we had one, but of course, Gets-Its hate football.

In case I haven’t made this clear yet, I’m staying in L.A. with Michael, the guy I dated this summer. He still interns at E!, and this Sunday he’s appearing ON E! to interview celebs during the network’s Emmy party. That’s fucking insane. When Michael first told me this (in a text message, of course, it wouldn’t be Los Angeles if he fucking called me), I about shit myself. Well, that’s not true. I was pissed. I became happy for him, but if you didn’t notice, I have a slightly competitive edge. We’re both obsessed with advancing our careers, so when I hear he’s gaining national exposure, I think, “Dammit, he’s winning,” and then I think, “I’m losing,” before I proclaim, “I’m a failure,” just before muttering, “My nose is intolerable” and concluding with, “I’m throwing up this ice cream later.” Anyway, this is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. If I get to L.A. in good enough time, we may be able to swing by the best gay club everrrr, Tiger Heat. You love the name too, I’m sure. When I last dropped by over the summer, I attended with my fellow Advocate intern Stephen, whose niceness almost makes you forget his incessant mentions of his vegetarianism and forced literary references. Don’t get me wrong, I love that damn tree-hugger. But if you’re going to stand there and pretend to know everything about Spenser’s The Faerie Queen (actual Stephen quote: “Do you even know what that is, Louis?”) before totally not knowing what Flashdance is, I get to make fun of you. Rather, I get to outdance your ass at Tiger Heat, which is exactly what I did to Stephen. Granted, we both made out with some fine – and uh, extremely intelligent – hotties. His was an engineer at some prestigious Cali school, and my guy was from Harvard. That was cool and all, but when we went to IHOP later, Mr. Hasty Pudding insisted on keeping his hand IN. MY. PANTS. me the whole time. Naturally I objected. Fine, it ruled.

However, equally disturbing tales have gone down in Iowa City. Two weekends ago, Kiki, Jess, and I flocked to Studio 13 for, what else, handjobs from strange men, when suddenly, my English TA swoops in from out of nowhere. Normally this wouldn’t be awkward. Yeah, except he ripped off his shirt and started rubbing himself against every guy there, always without consent. Worst of all, he kept walking near me, all shirtless and hungry, and Jess and Kiki formed an indomitable screen of fag-hag to protect me. I’m really not someone who gets grossed out easily, but that night I wanted to crawl out of my skin and into a dark corner of hell, like Summit.

Okay, before this computer runs out of battery life, some sweet things on my plate:

-A potential interview with R&B bad-ass (and Madonna collaborator) Me’Shell NdegeOcello. A guy at The Daily Iowan is Me’Shell’s wife’s cousin. WTF?! Most fucked-up, sweet connection of all time.
-Definite interview with Billie Jean King for a small Advocate commentary. This is balla.
-Possible interview with Queen Latifah for her concert in Iowa City.
-Review of Annie Lennox’s new album for The Advocate.
-Blog entries everyday for The Advocate’s new GenQ blog: www.advocategenq.com. I write all the investigative stories about why I love Madonna and stuff.
-Weekly advice column in The Daily Iowan. One day I could even solve your fictional problems.

And I think that’s all for now. If I get infuriated at Michael over the weekend because of his unfounded fixation with Hilary Duff (?!), I’ll be sure to tell you. In general though, I’m pretty content. Definitely overwhelmed and lost, sure, but I’m getting-by-with-a-little-help-from-my hombres. I’m digging coming back here and simply admitting everything… without obligating myself. Anyway, love you guys, thanks for reading all or some of this. I appreciate it big-time, and I look forward to reconvening with you and keeping it (as we used to say) real.

Thank you, thank you – miss you too, likely.

Jet-setting like your own personal Carmen Sandiego, xoxo,
Louis

I'm too Californian for this. Hang ten and stuff.

cmonvogue1009@hotmail.com — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 03:15:25 GMT

Hi.

Jesus, I don't even have time to update now, but I so want to. I understand it's been nearly a month, and it's not like there's an audience waiting with baited breath for me to resurrect the DJ (but if there IS an audience: Hollatacha, girl!), but let me say, things here have been booming.

Here's a quick recap of events:

-Lots of Advocate fun: I wrote/ am writing articles on Big Brother (and I interviewed the executive producer), the new ABC Family almost-watchable Greek, Sinead O'Connor's new album, Prince's new album, Tim Gunn, and a magazine story about a California fertility institute. I'm so effing employable. Lemont High School canNOT say no to me.

-Meeting my favorites: For that Tim Gunn article, I went to the Bravo red carpet party for the new show Tim Gunn's Guide to Style where yes, I met Tim. It was astounding. He blushed at everything I said (mostly because my questions consisted of journalistic landmarks like "Why do I find you adorable?" and "Can we build a home together?"). It was a total blast. I also met Perez Hilton (long story there) and many contestants from Project Runway and Top Chef.

-I've been dating this guy Michael, an intern from E!, for awhile now. Actually, it's been like a week, but we spend, oh, every waking moment together. That's pretty remarkable considering we're such sarcastic twats to one another. Not to mention he works for E!, the same people who brought us "101 Biggest Celebrity 'Oops'!" I can't remember how many Pulitzers that won for some reason.

-Mom visited for a week of tugboat-paced fun. Lots of Scrabble, movie-watching, museum visiting, and coffee scrounging. A great time -- even if we mostly just avoided my fucked-up roommate Jason who weighs 14 pounds (lucky little bitch) and hides inside his mattress all day.

-Gay clubbing- I've hit a couple biggies, Rage and Tiger Heat, yet there's more to come. I wish I was 21 here, but unfortunately that'll have to wait another week and a half. But oh my God. I will be 21 in less than 14 days. I feel like this means I can't play in the ball pit at Burger King anymore. This is gay.

But other than that, Jessica's flying in on Wednesday! Wooo, now I can spend a lot of money because there's something to celebrate (and not because I just feel like it). I'm basically obligated to buy new jeans while she's here. She just won't feel at home if I don't. While she's here, we're also going to Six Flags with Michael, hitting all the necessary beaches, and touring Hollywood non-stop. Our marriage is so strong, it's like we never drowned that kid.

Alright, Michael's coming over now (for a change), so I've got to shave and rehearse my best put-downs. Sooner or later I'm going to crash and update this thing... and that's only if I can overcome the pain of my SUPER FUCKED-UP iPOD. All of my iPod's files have been corrupted. I can only listen to songs I've bought recently... and frankly, I can't survive on just Sinead O'Connor's newest attempt to hug God. Boo all of that.

But no "boo" for me. I'm having a great time, and I'll be heartbroken and sad to have to leave. Love you guys, we'll lambada again soon.

DJ ain't hangin' up the mic anytime soon. Xoxo,
Louis