Friend-ly Iranian Visits Furthered by Platformed, Cocaine Vacant Discos and a Gay Wedding

Well, here’s to Kevin Federline being a better father than Brittany that fuck up of a whore of a mother. I’m only opening with that because my Times, the paper of note, had a fucking article about her custody battle in the A section but nearly a day after it happened. And here it is: Brittany's Loss

Bullshit. Leave it to Mr. Murdoch, his Fox fucking Post and Journal.

Anyway, enough with the gossip I never note because of its absurdity, indecency, and inconsideration.

I’ve been frustrated lately, and I don’t think the feeling is going to dissipate soon; there’s a lot behind it. Regardless.

I had the craziest week—and then some—ever [second to last week of Sept to the last weekend of Sept] though. Not only did the United Nations commence, but the delightfully charamastic Preisdent of Iran spoke in my hood at Colombia only to be shushed, shunned, and frankly punched before he spoke at an education World Leaders Forum. Wow. Check that shit. Not only does he—whose name spelling I don’t care to look up—“possess all the characteristics of a petty and cruel dictator,” but he also claims there are no gays in Iran. Wow, what a fucking feature. It must be so dull, ugly, and plain in Iran…please note my sarcasm.

But, more than anything, my dear old friend who is now an official South Carolina resident came to visit me: Miss. Kaite T (Twomey). We had a most fabulous time, even though she missed her first flight. Now, this should have come as no shock to me, as I spoke to her after midnight on the evening of her flight only to find her, and to no surprise of mine own, incredibly inebriated. Luckily, damn luckily, she made stand-by on the following two flights to arrive at JFK but merely 5.5 hours behind schedule. Whoopise.

She’s knows I hate her but still absolutely adore her, so whatever. We had a most fabulous four days together, even though I had to work five hours Sunday and six Monday. I have great friends to thank for filling her vacant time with theirs: Miss. D and my roommate, Roger. They wined and dined her as only fellow New Yorker’s can do, and I’m so thankful for it.

Anyway, fast forward to the following weekend (last official weekend in Sept). There was a Disco on Friday night on 138th and Lenox (that’s no mother fucking joke, bitch); a semi-subtle night on Saturday; and my very first, absolutely official gay wedding in New Jersey on Sunday morning.

[Note: New Jersey has gone further than any other state in these United States to recognize homosexual couples and their right be recognized under the law. Though they do not define it as “marriage,” the language of the law parallels the rights of heteros and homos quite closely, closer than VT, HI, CA, CT (though note MA .because they do indeed call it marriage). Allen and Mike came close to receiving the 1100 rights that hetero couples so unknowingly enjoy, all thanks to bright blue, albeit industrially and nuclearly glowing, New Jersey.]

Anywho.

I’ll quickly cover the disco: I went all out, to no surprise of any who know me.

I had my mother mail me the fur coat I bought many moons ago at the Salvation Army in Norwich for a 70s themed coronation dance in 11th grade; I ran to Andy’s Cheepes (which turned out to be not that fucking cheap) and picked up bell bottoms, paten leather white platforms, and a huge silver peace sign necklace. I already had my light green, huge square frame, light lensed Versace sunglasses to compliment; not to mention a ring for 6 of my ten fingers. D had a fabulous costume too: a perfectly Pucci-esq dress with her fabulously afro curly hair, gianormous gold hoops, heels and a tackily matching headband to tie it all in.

We were a pair fit for a shitshow, a cocaine buffet, and a whirl wind of a disco, and that is what it fucking was (minus the cocaine buffet…George Jung is still in jail, and in a recent Times report, Coke prices have skyrocketed: Coke's Inflation). For I have never been to a party where more party goers dressed up! It was surreal and I loved it. If only all themed parties could be so successful, maybe 70s attire would be vogue again.

Or maybe just in my dreams.

As for the wedding:

It was absolutely unbelievable. D and I (Diana, that is) toasted the Sunday wedding with our first drink (a half-ass White Russian) at ten-ish. The wedding started at noon; we arrived a bit early, with all her work’s good company, and because of it were blessed with passed Champagne. Well, we indulged. Who wouldn’t?

It was a lovely day in Jersey City at the Hyatt, stunningly overlooking downtown Manhattan. The ceremony took place on the Hudson and with un-obstructive views of the greatest city in the world, specifically its lower half, mine and D’s home for the past four years. It was lovely. I’ll admit I had one grip though. To “commemorate” their partnership, once the JOP made it official, white latex balloons were released into the air…right on the edge of the Hudson. And to think that I just read an article last week about how recent reports of Sea Turtle populations are continuing to dwindle, even with the supped up efforts to help them. Regardless, it was a most fabulous day for a most fabulous couple for an incredibly overdue legitimate and indeed legal celebration.

After that, the fucking party began. Kettle was my only choice for vodka….god for fucking bid. I think I’ll start it there and end it there as well.

Somehow, and thankfully, I made it to work the next morning. Perhaps it was because we were wasted well before 4pm, or maybe it was because I was passed out by ten…but then again, who knows.

And then, here we are, Wednesday evening. Besides Dexter and Weeds, which I could write full reports about both for, there’s not really much else. Wizard of Oz monopoly with Kimmie is all the cherry I can give.

Till next time.

Cheers.