A softer side of Rizzo in her flamenco-style prom dress.
Two, count ‘em, two, Cha Cha Digregorio Barbies! And one complete with a side-swept hairdo?! I like to think of Cha Cha as Rizzo’s femme girlfriend. What a sexy couple they would make. Kudos to you, Mattel, Inc.

The walls of my Ear, Nose, & Throat doctor’s office resemble those of the Hard Rock Cafe, complete with framed gold records “in honor of ten billion, trillion records sold” from random artists like Tom Petty and Meat Loaf to Clay Aiken and Carrie Underwood. I studied the wall and read the personal notes made out to my doctor with things like, “Dr. N–You saved my voice! xoxo, Jordin Sparks.” It might have been a dry-cleaners in North Hollywood with autographed headshots, “Thanks Ming! Love, Tawney Kitaen.”

My doctor and I are very chummy. I have seen him for the past five years and he instantly took a liking to me. Like many Beverly Hills boutique doctors, he doesn’t take insurance but he gave me a big discount on my tonsillectomy and always half-off on my visits. Like the father I never had, he would always instruct me not to suck dick while battling a case of tonsillitis. When I came out of my tonsillectomy surgery, I told him not to sneak a peak under my gown. We have that kind of relationship.

Doc comes into the room interrupting my wall-reading and pulls out his tongue depressors. “Say ah, ah-ah-ah.” He says it just like Madonna’s doctor said to her in Truth or Dare when she had laryngitis. He began fiddling with something where my left tonsil used to be and his assistant gave me cold water to swish in my mouth. He had cauterized one spot behind a blood clot on my tonsil. I wasn’t bleeding very much but he told me I would have to hang around for an hour just to make sure there was no bleeding.
He came back to check on me about ten minutes later and his energy became frantic. He was telling his assistant to get him this, get him that, hurry, hurry. “You’re going to feel a little sting,” he said and stuck more than one needle into the holes where my tonsils used to be to numb them. It hurt. “You’re doing great, Matthew,” he whispered to me repeatedly. “Swish this and spit into the cup.” I watched slow-moving, black-red blood flow from my mouth. A lot of blood. “Nancy, cancel all my appointments and tell them I have an emergency. Call an ambulance.” He made several calls to Cedars Sinai Hospital telling doctors he had a post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage and he needed an operating room immediately. “Matthew,” he said in a very direct, wannabe-calm voice, “we have to go back into the operating room. We’re going to take an ambulance to Cedars.” At this point my hands began shaking and I started to freak out silently. “Do you have a xanax or something you can shoot in me,” I asked the doctor’s assistant. They didn’t. (more…)

Somebody please purchase me this Rizzo Barbie Doll. With her Elvis hairdo, she is possibly the most butch Barbie to date. I don’t know if I wanna fuck her or be her.

Be her.

Well, I keep hearing that days three to five are the most painful so I’m gearing up emotionally, reminding myself that I can take that next sip of ice cold water; the pain is not bigger than me and my extra-strength Vicodin. But it is proving itself a worthy opponent, that’s for damn sure. As I pee my life away (staying hydrated is of the utmost importance, pain-wise), I think about what a mind-fuck all of this is. I have to talk myself into the next thing I will swallow, wincing the entire time. I am afraid to go to sleep for fear of what it will feel like waking up with a dry open wound in my mouth.
Who wants to make out?

I ain’t gonna make this long cause I’m on Vicodin for the tonsillectomy I had yesterday. I stood strong among the over 12,000 people at the “No on 8″ protest march thing last Saturday. I was especially interested in hearing the speakers before the march began, but to my chagrin, instead of having a great line-up of gay rights advocates with something to say, the organizers brought out F-List celebrity after F-List celebrity. The emcee of the event even introduced two of them as celebrities which they weren’t — they were just tacky actors. Actor on tv show does not equal celebrity. And who cares what some shit actor has to say, give me someone real. So after listing several people’s IMDB credits as if that lent them any knowledge about anything, they brought out an actress from fucking General Hospital. A fucking soap opera actress. So I started chanting “Susan Lucci! Susan Lucci!” which all the fags around me ate up. We don’t need another broke-down celebrity; what we need is another gay civil rights leader like Harvey Milk. Don’t waste my time with this bullshit. LET’S MARCH.

Lisa was a jappy but sweet Sephardic jewish girl, who, when we took a 3-family trip to Disney World, kept on being mistaken for a Latina, with people speaking to her in spanish wherever we went. She got to wear the cutest tacky outfits like a lime green top with matching spandex pants and dice glued all over it. I usually only saw Lisa on Hanukkah when our dysfunctional families met at her house to light the menorah. A screaming fight between her father and older brother would inevitably ensue at these gatherings. After potato latkes and dreidels and screaming, Lisa and I would retreat to her luxurious bedroom suite in the huge finished basement for playtime.