Tuesday, August 22, 2006


I am in Minneapolis for my two-week summer vacation. The weather is spectacular and the air smells fresh and clean. The people are nice, smiling and make small talk at ease.

Of course, this is all fabulous if you have 2.5 kids and live in a track home in the urban sprawl of suburbia, but what is a gay boy of a certain age supposed to do?

I refuse to gain 40 pounds, wear plaid, drink Pabst Beer, sport a bad haircut and eat my dinner at 6pm. I mean, there is a reason people call this place Minni-hopeless.

There must be some mischief I can find….stay tuned.

Monday, August 21, 2006


Bored, Lonely and Horny. When those three adjectives join forces in New York City, things can go from good to bad very quickly.

Let me explain.

I was sitting at home when the phone rang. It turned out to be a wrong number, but the man had such a sexy voice, we started talking. Over the next three hours, I thought I had met the man of my dreams. So much so, we made a date for the following evening.

When he picked me up, he didn’t look like the description he gave. In fact, he was missing a tooth. I hesitated about getting into the car, but shallow as I am, the fact that he owned a car in Manhattan made the missing tooth less of an issue.

As we drove to Sweet Tart in Chinatown, he was strangely silent – not at all the chatterbox he was the night before. Well, maybe he’s a tad shy I thought as I pondered all the day trips we would be taking in his car.

Suddenly he pulled to the curb.

Excuse me, he said as he left the car to retrieve something from the trunk. I turned around and watched him put a lit glass pipe in his mouth.

At that moment, on the corner of Canal Street and Crazy, I realized I was on a date with a gap toothed crack head I had met as a wrong number.

Back in the car, he was once again the fun and gregarious person I had gabbed with the night before. We laughed all through dinner and I did have a marvelous time with his drug-induced personality, but I was not about to play Nancy to his Sid.

Fortunately, he had forgotten where I lived, so I had him drop me off three blocks from my apartment. I told him I would give him a call – remember, he didn’t have my number, so I was safe.

The moral of the story: When you find yourself, bored, lonely and horny in Manhattan, please don’t answer the phone.

Saturday, August 19, 2006


As of today, mistermakeup will no longer accept anonymous comments on my wacky life in Manhattan’s fabulous East Village.

Due to nasty and unattractive Midwestern friends/enemies stuck in dead end jobs and unhappy lives – one is a housebound alcoholic and the other is a sad sexless soul in Chicago - who are so obviously jealous of mistermakeup's life in the greatest city on earth, he has been forced to make this change to keep the blog’s integrity.

Thursday, August 17, 2006


Why is it the men who want us, are the ones we don't want?

And why is it the men we want, don't want us?

Wednesday, August 16, 2006


I’m mad at Israel.

Why didn’t they finish the job and wipe Lebanon and Hezbollah off the map? On the news today massive crowds of towel heads in Iran, Syria and Lebanon cheered Hezbollah’s victory and chanted for the destruction of America and England.

I’m sick of being politically correct – these towel heads want us dead. What don't the pussy liberals understand? Given the opportunity, the towel heads would send a nuke stateside faster than you could say mushroom cloud.

I say we destroy them first before they destroy us.

Saturday, August 12, 2006


The other day on a shoot, an older model looked at me with honest eyes and whispered ...."You know, I think my life would change if I could just find the right concealer."

I shook my head in agreement...."I know what you're saying. If I could just cover these pesky red spots under my eyes, I know my prince charming would come calling."

We both looked in the mirror and sighed.

Thursday, August 10, 2006


Have you seen the new pictures of Janet Jackson? Is it just me or does she look like a tranny? I mean, with those sharp bones, arched brows and overly painted face, Miss Jackson could easily pass as a sex change.

It might be Miss Jackson if you're nasty, but it's Mr. Jackson if you look close.

Monday, August 07, 2006


Maybe it’s the inner anorexic in me, but I get giddy everytime I see Delta Burke in her Intimate Portrait on Lifetime Televison - the channel for women and gay men.

Regarding her eating disorder she comments… “I passed out a lot, but I looked good.”

She would fit in mighty fine in Manhattan.

Sunday, August 06, 2006


In Manhattan, you don’t have to look far to find crazy. For most folks, it can be found in their own backyards – or in the case of Manhattanites, our apartment buildings.

Next door to me is an obese black man who claims to be straight, but loves to wear women’s high heels on the street. Now I’m not talking Rupaul realness here, I’m talking a fat black man dressed like your father in a pair of pumps – not pretty. Numerous friends have called me in hysterics about the odd black man in heels they have seen in my neighborhood.

“Yeah,” I say, “That’s my next door neighbor.”

Furthermore, he’s one of those dreaded “talkers”. You know the type –they go into 20-minute monologues about their life every time they see you. I swear, in the 12 years I have been in the building, he never once has asked me how I was doing. Needless to say, I avoid him like the plague.

On the other side of my door is a man I see about twice a year. He has lived in the building for 30 years, but appears ageless. Although he seldom leaves his apartment, when I do see him, he is usually in a jockstrap giggling with the door half open. I avoid this one, too.

Two flights up is a white former hippie who has lived in the building for 40 years. Last week, he told me tales about the 1960s when gun battles, robberies and staying indoors after dark were the norm in the east village. When I asked him why he would move to such a dangerous neighborhood in the first place, he replied that it was to help black people, and furthermore, he was embarrassed being white. He then got on his hippie high horse and began ranting how whites should be ridden with guilt about the way they treat blacks.

I rolled my eyes – I imagined faded Black Panther posters hanging from his apartment walls. I mean, there is nothing I hate more than aging hippies and their tired rhetoric. I told him I was a bigot, and as a gay person, I face prejudice everyday, so I don’t want to hear about any “white” guilt. He looked shocked and walked away. I guess, I will be avoiding him now, too.

On a final note, across the hall, beat poet and boy loving NAMBLA member Allen Ginsberg resided for 30 years.

Yes, crazy is alive and well in Manhattan’s East Village.

Saturday, August 05, 2006


Today I watched on the news George Bush getting off the plane in Crawford, Texas ready to start his summer vacation. With the world at war and the economy in the toilet, I don't think Mr. Bush deserves a holiday. I mean, shouldn't he be in Washington trying to solve the problems he helped create?

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


OK, I think Angelina Jolie is a saint. I mean, she donates a third of her movie income to charities and also finds time to play ambassador for the United Nations.

But I read something today in Page Six that made me question Miss Jolie. The gossip column reported that Brad was spotted in a tony Beverly Hills shop purchasing matching Rolex watches for him and the misses.

Does anyone else find that odd? I mean, how can such a charity driven person feel comfortable sporting a watch worth thousands of dollars while preaching about starving people?

I just find it odd.


Copy and paste the link below for a great CNN interview about the sickness that is radical Islamic culture.