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Incredible Meme Ruins Retirement

[Aug. 22nd, 2005|02:56 pm]

Via JohnBettsJr and Reddywhp.

Directions: Go to musicoutfitters and put your birth year into the search field. The first link is likely the top 100 songs of that year. Cut and paste that list here. Bold the ones you actually like. Understand that the word "like" in this case means, at the very least, that you wouldn't immediately change the radio station. Pick a favorite and underline it.

1. Every Breath You Take, Police

2. Billie Jean, Michael Jackson

3. Flashdance... What A Feelin, Irene Cara

4. Down Under, Men At Work

5. Beat It, Michael Jackson

6. Total Eclipse Of The Heart, Bonnie Tyler

7. Maneater, Daryl Hall and John Oates

8. Baby Come To Me, Patti Austin and James Ingram

9. Maniac, Michael Sembello

10. Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This), Eurythmics

11. Do You Really Want To Hurt Me, Culture Club

12. You And I, Eddie Rabbitt and Crystal Gayle

13. Come On Eileen, Dexy's Midnight Runners

14. Shame On The Moon, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band

15. She Works Hard For The Money, Donna Summer

16. Never Gonna Let You Go, Sergio Mendes

17. Hungry Like The Wolf, Duran Duran

18. Let's Dance, David Bowie

19. Twilight Zone, Golden Earring

20. I Know There's Something Going On, Frida

21. Jeopardy, Greg Kihn Band

22. Electric Avenue, Eddy Grant

23. She Blinded Me With Science, Thomas Dolby

24. Africa, Toto

25. Little Red Corvette, Prince

*26. Back On The Chain Gang, Pretenders*

27. Up Where We Belong, Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes

28. Mr. Roboto, Styx

29. You Are, Lionel Richie

30. Der Kommissar, After The Fire

31. Puttin' On The Ritz, Taco

32. Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye

33. (Keep Feeling) Fascination, Human League

34. Time (Clock Of The Heart), Culture Club

35. The Safety Dance, Men Without Hats

36. Mickey, Toni Basil

37. You Can't Hurry Love, Phil Collins

38. Separate Ways, Journey

39. One On One, Daryl Hall and John Oates

40. We've Got Tonight, Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton

41. 1999, Prince

42. Stray Cat Strut, Stray Cats

43. Allentown, Billy Joel

44. Stand Back, Stevie Nicks

45. Tell Her About It, Billy Joel

46. Always Somethmg There To Remind Me, Naked Eyes

47. Truly, Lionel Richie

48. Dirty Laundry, Don Henley

49. The Girl Is Mine, Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney

50. Too Shy, Kajagoogoo

51. Goody Two Shoes, Adam Ant

52. Rock The Casbah, Clash

53. Our House, Madness

54. Overkill, Men At Work

55. Is There Something I Should Know, Duran Duran

56. Gloria, Laura Branigan

57. Affair Of The Heart, Rick Springfield

58. She's A Beauty, Tubes

59. Solitaire, Laura Branigan

60. Don't Let It End, Styx

61. How Am I Supposed To Live Without You, Laura Branigan

62. China Girl, David Bowie

63. Come Dancing, Kinks

64. Promises, Promises, Naked Eyes

65. The Other Guy, Little River Band

66. Making Love Out Of Nothing At All, Air Supply

67. Family Man, Daryl Hall and John Oates

68. Wanna Be Startin' Somethin', Michael Jackson

69. I Won't Hold You Back, Toto

70. All Right, Christopher Cross

71. Straight From The Heart, Bryan Adams

72. Heart To Heart, Kenny Loggins

73. My Love, Lionel Richie

74. I'm Still Standing, Elton John

75. Hot Girls In Love, Loverboy

76. It's A Mistake, Men At Work

77. I'll Tumble 4 Ya, Culture Club

78. All This Love, Debarge

79. Your Love Is Driving Me Crazy, Sammy Hagar

80. Heartbreaker, Dionne Warwick

81. Faithfully, Journey

82. Steppin' Out, Joe Jackson

83. Take Me To Heart, Quarterflash

84. (She's) Sexy + 17, Stray Cats

85. Try Again, Champaign

86. Dead Giveaway, Shalamar

87. Lawyers In Love, Jackson Browne

88. What About Me, Moving Pictures

89. Human Nature, Michael Jackson

90. Photograph, Def Leppard

91. Pass The Dutchie, Musical Youth

92. True, Spandau Ballet

93. Far From Over, Frank Stallone

94. I've Got A Rock 'N' Roll Heart, Eric Clapton

95. It Might Be You, Stephen Bishop

96. Tonight I Celebrate My Love, Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack

97. You Got Lucky, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers

98. Don't Cry, Asia

99. Breaking Us In Two, Joe Jackson

100. Fall In Love With Me, Earth, Wind and Fire

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an episode of camp

[May. 3rd, 2004|04:44 am]

[	mood	\|	nostalgic	]
[	music	\|	Ennio Morricone - L Arena	]

Tonight my roommates and I gathered around the campfire and performed a ritual. We were all standing on our roof deck smoking and somehow decided to go around the circle and tell each other, on an individual basis, what we thought they each did to disrupt the harmony of the house.

Hilarity ensued. As any who have seen it may have noted, my house oscillates between two extremes: beautiful penthouse with hudson river views and a nice entertainment center, and biohazardous waste dump. The needle tilts towards the latter most of the time, especially given our tendency toward creative decoration (like the graffiti and the broken electronics nailed to the wall); our collective attitudes toward vigorous party-throwing and regular cleaning patterns mean that our carpet becomes a piece of conceptual art more and more every day. Someone's nine-o-clock shadow is sitting in a pool of standing water in our clogged sink right now. So there were things to complain about. Man-Child (who, despite the derisive name, I really value) said I have a tendency to be too much like my mom, which tied into a conversation we were having earlier in the week about how angry I was about another of our roommate's disregard for the common space. I've pissed people off by playing music too loudly. I also make Man-Child feel homophobic because we have long and detailed converstions about gay people where I really fill him in on a lot of the basics as I've grown to understand them. I told him curiosity was actually the opposite, although I suppose that's kind of heterosexist. My roommate, a good friend of mine who I think we'll call DMW Texas here, said I played too much hip hop and other "weird music," and not enough death metal.

After we went around telling each other their faults, we had the "sugar round." People basically confessed their undying love. The characters who live downstairs - let's call them Sigmund Sweden and Tennessee Gothic, for now - have been best friends since their first semester of freshman year, and TG was really nyquilled out, so it got kind of mushy. At the end of Sigmund's soliloquy, he said "and we've already made out," which was actually a fitting conclusion. Man-Child told a story about me by way of illustration. One night last semester, we were both really partied out at the end of a night and we decided to toss some beer bottles off our balcony. I'm not really sure why we did, but we ended up outside. MC urged me on. I said, "Why don't you go first?" MC said, "You go first." And I said, "You know, I don't really want to throw this beer bottle. Let's just put it here on the edge and maybe it will fall off." And MC said, "Okay," and we went back inside. I worry that this typifies our relationship in a bad way - that we build grand plans together in our heads only to wimp out or rethink and thus fail to accomplish. But then again, throwing bottles off the balcony is a really stupid idea.

At the end of the ritual - which was attended by all seven roommates in one fashion or another, and by six in a consistently participatory way - we all had a group hug and danced around. Sigmund Sweden led us in a rousing rendition of one of his jewish summer camp's chants - we jumped to the right yelling "brothers brothers brothers brothers," in Hebrew, then to the left yelling "happy happy happy happy," also in Hebrew, and then "Penthouse Nine, Penthouse Nine, Penthouse Nine," "Is the shit, is the shit, is the shit" in jolly old English. It sounds cheesy in retrospect, but it was really nice. I am going to miss living with all of these people, in one respect or another. It's been a wild year. Thus the tribes scatter.

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The Subservient Chicken dances on command	[May. 3rd, 2004\|12:05 am]
the subservient chicken Things to tell the Subservient Chicken to do: - pee on the couch - make a carpet angel - eat a chicken sandwich - write a term paper - watch television - smoke Requests the Subservient Chicken frowns upon: - masturbate. Have fun, everyone.
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the Vermonster

[Apr. 27th, 2004|01:05 am]

[

music

Devo - Q: Are We Not Me? A: We Are Devo!

]

I sent a link to the blog to my best gay friend, Special Agent Jazz Hands. I know SAJH from the University of California, San Diego, and we've been through a lot of great times together although we haven't really had many chances to hang out lately. I'm hoping to visit him in Washington DC this summer. In any case, his reaction was encouraging, if not altogether kink-positive. I've excerpted the funniest bit below:

SAJH: That's true ... although, did I catch a hint at water-sports in your blog???
Dave: Yes, yes you did.
SAJH: Oh, Dave :-(
Dave: I mean I'm willing to answer any questions as long as you're willing to be comfortable with the answers
SAJH: I'm pretty vanilla Dave. Maybe vanilla with a little chocolate syrup. I refuse to be ignorant, I choose to accept, but I do not desire to understand. :-)
Dave: Heh... well that's cool. I guess I just like the Vermonster.
SAJH: Vermonster?
Dave: Uhh
Dave: it's like 30 scoops of ice cream in a sundae

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(no subject)

[Apr. 23rd, 2004|06:36 pm]

[	mood	\|	grateful	]
[	music	\|	Jason Forrest - Ceci N'est Pas du Disco	]

It's been a busy and exciting week, so this is going to be a slightly schizophrenic run-down.

First things first: I am not going to be homeless when I get kicked out of the dorms in a few weeks! (Unlike Bobst Boy - who's actually not homeless anymore, but check out his fascinating blog anyway.) My roommates Mr. Perfect and Man-Child and I signed a lease on a three-bedroom apartment in the happenin' East Village this morning. I'm looking forward to moving out of housing and actually having some privacy in my living situation, and we are going to be living just across the street from a few of my best friends. There's no air-conditioning, so, to quote Dizzee Rascal - which I ought to do more often, since my blog is titled after his spectacular album - "It's gonna be a hot summer," but I couldn't be more thrilled about moving out of the Mommy State that is NYU residential life.

Last night it was my distinct pleasure to attend Bad Faggot's spectacularly successful TES Blog Night. I got there late, so I missed some of the choicer readers - Edge comes to mind - but it was nevertheless delightful. Readings ranged from the unabashedly kinky to the quotidianly domestic; I found myself comforted by the night's wide-ranging subject matter - it reaffirmed my growing understanding that kinkiness, regardless of the codes and protocols and gooey good times, doesn't abrogate its participants' fundamental humanity. I think one of the best things about blogs is the fact that they facilitate an intimacy that goes beyond the surface, revealing the men and women and girls and boys behind the perverted (and I mean that in the best possible sense) personae. Not to beat a dead horse, but as someone who continues to combat a self-loathing little voice in the back of my mind as I realize my kinkiness, it's comforting, refreshing, and enlightening to be surrounded by good people who manifest their kinks into lives that are compelling even when viewed from non-sexual perspectives. It was a great event, and while I was honored to be able to read a selection from Fever's blog, I hope that next time I'll be able to contribute something more personal.

On a related note, I doubt that I will ever think of toasters in the same way again.

I had to rush out of Blog Night to make it (late) to a scene with Buzz. I met Buzz at the Eagle a few months ago; we had a hot evening in a corner, but couldn't go back to his place since his partner (with whom he has an open relationship - this might be a good time to say that while I'm entirely happy at this juncture with slutting around, I have no desire whatsoever to be the Other Boy) was home and they don't play with others in each other's earshot. We exchanged numbers, and tried to set up a date to get together, but logistics and his travel plans interfered. Nevertheless, I'm really glad that I ran into him again last week, since we had a really great time together. He's an older guy, and has been around the block a few times, so it's interesting to talk to him and get his perspective on things - not to mention reap the sexual benefits of his experience. We've got quite a few things in common, sex-wise. The card he gives out in kinky circumstances says "Piss and Boots," with charming illustrations of each, and those preferences suit me just fine; he's got a great collection of beautiful boots, an absolutely stunning full-body set of tattoos revolving around religious imagery, no gag reflex to speak of, and an engaging and dirty mind, so we had a great time together. I think my favorite part of last night was when he bound up my cock and balls with a bootlace and hung a size 14 engineer boot (he's actually a size 8, but as he says, "you pay the same for big boots as you do for small ones, so why not wear five pairs of socks?") from the binding. Yeah, that was pretty awesome. All that, plus he gave me a bunch of leather goodies - he's got a pretty extensive collection of stuff, some of which no longer fits him, and he gave me a pair of truly awesome black leather breeches and an assortment of old Harley-Davidson t-shirts. I'll have to get the breeches repaired and tailored a little to fit me correctly, as they're currently way too baggy for my skinny booty, but hopefully they'll be making a public bow shortly.

A side note - on the way to Buzz's place, I dropped my cell phone in the Union Square subway station. As it tumbled from my fingers and through the air, it bounced off my foot and fell directly into the gap between the train and the platform. I don't think my entire being has ever inwardly screamed "Fuck" so concertedly. As the train pulled away, I spotted my phone on the platform side of the rail closest to me, looking entirely functional. Now, I should mention here that I was all geared up for my scene in my boots and my new rubber uniform shirt, looking every bit the kinky young lad, and thus not a bit inconspicuous. I casually surveyed my surroundings, waited for all the departing passengers to advance well down the platform, gave a long look down the tunnel to make sure that I wasn't going to become a big black smear on the tracks, and jumped down. I grabbed my phone and jumped back up without incident; the phone and I are both fine. I told this story to Buzz; when he was licking the soles of my boots at one point, he looked up and said, with relish, "Subway tracks, eh?" Let this serve a warning to any potential future play partners - you now know exactly where my boots have been.

I just got back from coffee with a man my friend Pillsbury Rubberboy calls "One of the top five tops in New York City" (and he should know, the big powerbottom), and who I'll call Mr. Smooth. He and I have been playing eye-hockey at GMSMA meetings for weeks now, and he's one of the phalanx of dudes that I have sexually in common with Fever - who met him at the flogging demo where I got a tantalizing taste of his expertise. The last time I saw him at a meeting was the spanking social. I asked politely and received two wallopingly quality spankings; when I came back up from the second one, I couldn't help myself. "You know, I'd really like to play with you sometime." He got kind of sputtery, and explained that his partnership was fairly closed, and that the time he played with Fever was actually one of the first times he'd played outside in a while. He went on to say that he'd "love" to play, but that he'd have to talk it over with his boyfriend. Anywho, he did so, and unfortunately he's not at liberty to slut around at the moment. Which is, as might have be obvious, perfectly fine with me. I mean, yes, he's unbelievably attractive and I'd love to play with him sometime, but I respect the relationships of others and truly admire the talented few who are able to maintain a monogamous same-sex relationship - a feat which I'd liken to juggling a trio of small pachyderms. So we're not going to play. But we did have a really great discussion over coffee, and I was happy to make his greater acquaintance - I perceive him as a paragon of the community, so whatever insight and interaction I can get from him I will value. He gave me a book - "The New Bottoming" by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Harding, and I'm to read it and report back; it's nice to find teachers, which I seem to be doing every day. I hope he ends up flogging me at some point, though.

Looking back over this post, I see a dominant theme - that being the incredible generosity of the talented and inspiring people I've been lucky enough to meet so far in my sojourn into leather. This sort of stuff makes it all worthwhile. Thanks from the bottom of my bootsoles.

Over and out.

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new slang (when you notice the stripes)

[Apr. 18th, 2004|05:46 pm]

[	mood	\|	reamed	]
[	music	\|	The Shins - New Slang	]

Double-oh - (adj.)
1. Something so cool it kills you; derived from the British MI-6's code for the license to kill.

As in, "Barking at bears in the Ramble yesterday with Joey Fever was totally double-oh."

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setting the tone	[Apr. 5th, 2004\|01:19 pm]
I'm sitting here at my office, ignoring homework and the little blinking red light on my phone, trying to get Bootmaster Bruiser on my cell so that I can hop on the 1-9 and take a trip to the north end of the Bronx (a borough I've only been to once) for a hot session. I met Bruiser the other night when I was at the Eagle with Joey Fever. At one point young mr. Fever told me to get lost and cruise for, in his words, "some tail," so I did just that, ending up on the stairs right behind Bruiser, who had me immediately pegged as a boot bottom. He asked me if I did boots, and I said yes; then I amended that to say that I didn't know how to black (or have the necessary materials.) He asked if I licked boots, and I, looking down at his 24-eyelet Redwings, complete with red laces, said yes. In about no time flat, he had me over in the corner beyond the pool table, my knees on the floor, grinding my face onto his right boot by stepping down on my kneck with his left boot. "They've got some country dirt on 'em, boy. Spit," he ordered, promptly sending me into boot bottom heaven. We had some observers - Fever said he'd been talking to a young skin guy I've met at the Eagle before about how I'm a boot slut; I'm not certain if there was a negative or positive moral judgment attached to the term - but I was barely conscious of them, since I got pretty lost in the act of servicing Bruiser's boots. He was doing a lot of poppers and gave me a couple of hits, which was nice; his boots were really dirty and my mouth got dry after a while, so I had go get a glass of water and he had me sit on his lap while I drank it. In no time, he snapped his fingers and I was back down on his boots. I liked his gruff, no-nonsense Top personality - he said he'd been a boot Top for twenty years and identified as a bisexual ("I only fuck chicks") biker, and these things were evident in the altogether natural way he ordered me around. For some reason, I didn't seize the opportunity when it was presented - "you wanna come back to my place, boy?" - mostly because I was out with Fever and looking forward to meeting his friend Skip, and then yesterday when Bruiser called I was out with a totally vanilla friend from work and couldn't set up a plan, so now I'm calling his house every twenty minutes hoping he'll pick up so I can come over and, hopefully, service his crotch-high Wescos. Mmm, sleazy. This sets the tone.
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