Vote for Mitt Romney


It’s Election Day.

You should really vote.

I don’t care for who, but if you don’t vote for the robot black man who married a drag queen then I won’t give you any pie.

But, if you disagree, you’re not alone.

Here’s a song from my friends Ryan Dunkin and Lorraine Cink, who think you should definitely vote for Mitt Romney:


eryc perez de tagle

Him: I’ve been following your blog for awhile now, not only because I enjoy reading it, but because I think I’ve projected a fantasy onto you and admire you for everything I am not – handsome, talented, comfortable with their own body, freely pursuing their passion. I admire someone who is not afraid to put themselves out there – mentally and physically (in your case, literally, via photos). Do you have any advice for someone that has pretty low self esteem on how to get a shred of that? Also, any workout tips would be appreciated.

– clue do

Me: Hey Clue.

I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? Are you listening?

You’re beautiful.

I know you are. I’ve never seen you or met you but I know you’re beautiful. You might not be everyone’s type, but trust me- there are people in your life who already stand in awe of you.  I know that. You’re unique and perfect and beautiful.

And I know how you can become more beautiful:

Identify your passion, and pursue it.

Stop listening to the reasons why you can’t succeed. That critical inner voice that says you can’t do it? That voice is the devil. It’s the closest thing to pure evil on this planet.

Don’t compare yourself to other people.

Most people who feel inadequate have a little mental list of people who have done more, achieved more, are better looking, more talented, or deserve more than they do. Keep things in perspective. Even huge movie stars have a list of artists they think they’ll never measure up to.

(In Anna Paquin’s case, that list must be very, very long.)

(we can still see your vagina, anna)

Realize that everyone’s just faking it.

All these photos you see of me running around my kitchen with cute boys in the gorgeous late afternoon light? Carefully staged. I’m a guy who constantly doubts himself, too. I’m faking it as much as Meryl Streep, Barack Obama, or your mailman. We’re all faking it. But if you start behaving like someone who believes in themselves, eventually you trick yourself into having moments where you actually do believe in yourself. Then after a few years, you forget why you were terrible in the first place.


There’s not much we can do to alter our circumstances, besides working. Some people were born rich, good looking, unnaturally talented. Good for them. The rest of us have to work at it. Identify the thing you love, or are passionate about, and go for it. Don’t expect to master it overnight. Just take the slow steps you need to take for your passion to flower. Work toward goals. Set attainable ones. When you attain them, set loftier ones.

You might not wind up getting what you want, but I guarantee – the very act of pursuing a goal will take you places that astound you. You’ll never believe how much good fortune you have if you work every day toward a simple goal.

I never met anyone who was ‘lucky’ that didn’t work their ass off.

Oh, also – if you want to be more ‘cut’ then lift weights. Free weights. Not machines. Aim for five days a week, and be happy when you go four days. Get mad if you’re only doing three. If you want to slim down, then do cardio. Run outside, or swim. Again, try five days a week.

Aw. Clue. You’re adorable. I want to find a way to end this post where I call you a Jerk, but I just like you too much to do that.


See? I did it anyway. Sorry.

Old Ladies on the Bus


A blizzard can mean only one thing:  I’m not going to bake a damn pie because I can’t get to the store.

Also:  I’m going to take the bus to the bank tomorrow.  Those are the things a blizzard means.

This is not to say that I won’t bake SOMETHING, so stop hyperventilating, okay?


You need to get an inhaler or something.  That sounds like asthma, or a severe smokers cough.

Well, see a doctor, anyway?  Oh I DON’T? I sleep next to you!  I should know what a death rattle sounds like.

Okay, you know what?  I’m trying to blog right now.  I’m not going to ARGUE WITH YOU.  Because.  You’re IMAGINARY!!!

I’m sorry.  I know that’s not playing fair.  I’m sorry.  Yes.  I know it’s not fair to create you as a narrative device for my blog and then resent you.  Okay.  You’re right.  CAN WE MOVE ON?

Thank you.  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Taking the bus.

Beware, intrepid New Yorkers.  Beware the bus.  It’s a great mode of transport and everything.  It works well, and it tends to run on schedule, as far as my experience has shown me.  But at least be aware.  You’re entering the territory of the Old Bus Lady. You might notice that I’m getting a confused look.  It not because I’m covertly photographing them.  Old Bus Ladies love to be photographed.  And anyway, they didn’t notice.  What they DID notice is that i sat in the first six seats.  They DID NOT like that.  There’s a sign!  It says, please give this seat up to Old Bus Ladies! Boy.  There was a big to-do about me sitting there. I should mention that we were the only people on the bus.  Old Bus Lady! You’re so silly!

But I respect your territory and pretend I’m Polish.

What’s creepier than Old Bus Ladies on a Wednesday afternoon?


But finding ripe, cheap blueberries that taste good in the dead of winter can run a close second.  It really creeps me out.  But what could i do?  It was more than a pint for less than 5 bucks.  Had to take the mutant hot-house blueberries.

I didn’t have the ingredients to make a pie, so I whipped up some blueberry quickbread for myself and a friend who came to visit.




This was after enduring the outrage and scorn of the ancient Italian Old Bus Ladies.  One of them made deep eye contact and whispered ‘Thinner!!!!”  Right as I left the bus.  Haven’t felt exactly myself since, but I’ve dropped 10 lbs in two days…


People are being dramatic.  People LOVE to be dramatic.  Look at the media.  They can take a phrase like ‘health care reform’ and change it around to read ‘death squads.’   Ta da!

That’s called ‘pushing paper’ in the journalism biz.  You take the most dramatic, most terrifying angle on something and then act like your hare brained half-theory is FACT.

Watch – I’ll show you how it’s done:

Look at this!  Amid all the warnings about white flour and fat and an ever expanding, girthy America – SOMEONE is making duck fat  and heavy cream gravy to go atop buttermilk biscuits.

Why would he ever serve that to a guest?  No one can know for sure, but here’s a theory:  He wants to clog the arteries of his young guest because he’s jealous of him – his beauty, his youth, his energy and light-hearted verve.

What a bitter aging fairy – making a sludge filled breakfast of biscuits and gravy!

See.  I just sensationalized it!  That’s called ‘being a good journalist.’  But don’t blame the journalists.  They’re just putting food on the table.  Blame yourself.  You’re the one reading it.

Wow.  Tangent.

This is not on the floor.  It’s cooling on a metal stool.

It only looks like it’s on the floor.

So,The next morning I made these puppies.  Look at them.  They were quick and easy and full of butter and buttermilk.

I learned a lot on my trip to the bank and the fruit market.  I learned that Old Bus Ladies are not to be trifled with.  They’ve lived longer than you, they know more about the world.  Some of it good, some bad.  They can put a gypsy curse on you.

They’ve worked hard to raise their children and slowly poison their husbands with butter and sour cream and whole milk and flour and heavy cream and lard and duck fat and other mysterious poisons like anti-freeze.

And sometimes, fags – sometimes you gotta respect that.  Sometimes you have to move to the back of the bus, like Rosa wouldn’t, even if there’s nobody else on the bus.

At least, until you’re an Old Bus Lady yourself.

God willing.

Enjoy the Blueberry Quick Bread and Biscuits and Duckfat Buttermilk gravy, jerks!!