P.S. Pick on “Sassyfrass” and I’ll learn ya’ good.

Okay, 24 hours later, I’m already addicted. There’s just something intriguing about a site full of people pretending to be little girls, when we know good and damn well that “Muffy St. Jacques” is probably someone’s grandfather. And, you know, although the chat window’s small for loquacious types like me, you can kinda talk to people here–unlike the chat rooms on AOL, which are either stuffy or slatternly and nothing in-between. And even though you don’t get to see the other folks online, looking at an avatar is sorta close. Well, sorta….

Still, something about the whole endeavor seems vaguely unsatisfying. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s timed, or maybe it’s because I feel compelled to maintain the illusion of being Soleil Moon Frye (the erstwhile Punky Brewster), even though I’d rather come out as a penis-wielding, testosterone-laden nancy boy who can nevertheless sissyfight with the best of ’em. Maybe they should offer a few different versions of the game–like one in which you play a prepubescent drag queen. That would be a game worth getting into.

Um, okay, I understand the “fag” part’s an insult and all, but what’s “floating” got to do with it? Is this yet another example of yankee colloquialism don’t understand (e.g.”I don’t know from borscht”)? Or is this hip 5-0 lingo, like all that fancy schmantzy CB jargon my dad used to like so much?

Zoinks! I’m on a roll. I managed to scan and post some pics today. Click on the “sPics” link on the left-hand menu. (If you came directly to this page, scroll down to come on home.)

Anyway, enjoy it while you can. Knowing my attention span, in another week I’ll probably be all like, “Blogwhat? Sturtlewho? Huh? Wazzat?” The formaldehyde is being prepared, even as we speak.

God, am I lame. How long has this been going on? It’s how the much-maligned chat room is supposed to work!

Thanks Steve. I feel marginally cooler now–though that’s mitigated by the fact that I’m apparently the last person in the upper 48 to discover the damn thing….

It’s my personal opinion (and Susan Sontag’s, too, I think) that homos have pinned their hopes for mainstream acceptance on two things: 1) being different (e.g. Ms. Aviance), and 2) possessing impeccable taste (South Beach not included). In the end, however, it seems there are certain inalienable traits we faggotinis share with our breeder brethren–notably the absurd lengths we’ll someties go to maintain an aura of self-sufficiency. Case in point: as Jonno can testify, if I’m lost on the higway, I ain’t about to stop for directions. Directions are for pussies. Right?

Luckily for those around me, I’ve gradually given up my aspirations to complete self-sufficiency. I no longer fantasize about fixing my own car with rubber bands and a wad of chewing gum on the side of a desolate highway just north of Bumfuck, Egypt. Nor do I believe I can rewire our new house on my own. In fact, I’m gonna pay someone good money so I can sit there and watch. (It is June and all. I might suddenly be called down to the pool). There is one thing, though, that I’m pretty picky about: I insist on cutting my own hair.

Now, okay, before really special occasions, I’ll swing by the barber shop (no hairdresser salons for me) for a little hot lather on the back of my neck, but by and large, I think a guy ought to be able to cut his own hair. So I do. And Jonno usually laughs at me, until he realizes he’s gonna be the one who has to come into the bathroom and fix it. It’s kinda like smoking: I’m not sure why I do it, ’cause it’s kinda ridiculous, but, you know, it feels good. The vibrations on my occipital. The sound of a #3 guard chopping through inch-long hair. The look of the hair falling on the porcelain of the bathtub. Little pleasures.

All right, ‘fess up. Who comes up with this stuff? I mean, I don’t recall writing it. I’ve asked Jonno, and it’s not him, either. In fact, it doesn’t sound like anyone I know, except maybe Pamie, but she doesn’t wander into homo territory very often.

I know you’re hiding out there. Speak up so’s I can buy you a lil’ ol’ drinkie-poo….

Front page of cnn.com: “Survey says Americans don’t care about news as much as they used to.”

My boyfriend has so many brushes with stardom…

Unlike some people, I think I might be on the verge of qualifying as legitimately insane. No one, I take it, is surprised.