Halloween, Humor, Life


Written while getting increasingly erratic and jealous of a photo I posted on Instagram of a leaf. It’s somehow gotten more likes than my other most recent photo—me, looking thin—and I actually couldn’t make up how crazy it’s making me. IT’S A FUCKING LEAF, PPL. IS SHE HOTTER THAN ME? IS THAT WHAT IT IS?! WHAT DOES THIS LEAF HAVE THAT I DON’T? IT’LL BE DEAD AND CRISPY IN TWO DAYS. If I were smarter, I would stop giving this leaf promo, but my rage-envy is giving me tunnel vision.

Halloween always stresses me out. As a kid, it was the blinding anxiety of the whole night being without rules. As a gaydult, it’s shifted to the crippling anxiety of trying to find the perfect Halloween costume. Halloween is Gay Christmas (Christmas is Gay Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving is just Gay, and the Super Bowl is Gay Arbor Day—no one cares about it and only Beyoncé makes it better). Also, Labor Day is the same in both Gay and Straight.

I can’t remember if I did anything for Halloween in high school. Granted, as evidenced by the photos I’ve been looking at lately, in high school I was cosplaying as a cadaver 24/7 (I was thin, you guys, and not “chic” thin or even “are you okay” thin (my favorite kind of thin) but like “gangly as fuck” thin, which is never a good look). I’m pretty lean now, and it’s only now that I realize there’s a solid difference between “thin” and “lean.”

I thought I was such hot shit in high school—omg the fucking ego I had—and now looking bad, I was literally all bad skin and mile-long limbs and HORRIFIC taste in clothing (I wore decorative scarves all the time). I’m on such a tangent but thinking about how no one gave me an intervention makes me so mad.

Anywayanyway, what should I be for Halloween for my senior year—the capstone four years in the making?

Freshman year of college

I was a “dead pirate” but everyone just thought I was “beat up Where’s Waldo.” Nothing against Where’s Waldo but definitely not what I was going for.

Sophomore year of college

I decided to go as a pun. BIG MISTAKE BECAUSE NO ONE GETS PUNS ON HALLOWEEN. I was “Dick In A Box.” The idea for the costume centered around the fact that I had this outfit that I looked so cute in, and I also had a cardboard box. I hung the box around me from spooky skull suspenders and then put a name-tag that said “Hi! I’m Richard” on the box. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that NO ONE GOT IT. Was I too nuanced? Should I have said “Hi I’m Dick”? What did I do wrong?!

Junior year of college #LondonEdition

The elusive, sexy Halloweekend. On Friday night, I went on a bar crawl through Shoreditch and dressed as Sexy Dead Lumberjack (L.L.Bean boots, short-shorts, red flannel unbuttoned to my navel, gray beanie, and a “slash” across my throat in red lipstick). Saturday I was supposed to be Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers, but after my RA thought I was simply in my pajamas, I changed. I did my face in skull makeup (free hand) and drew a tombstone on a white t-shirt, scrawling above it “My Dreams.” I was “My Dreams Are Dead.” Pretty funny and people moderately got it. The highlight of this night was eating duck confit and waffles forty floors above misty London at four a.m.

But so far, I haven’t thought of anything that’s really grabbing me. Here are some potential (actual potential, not like “joke for the blog”) options that I’ve been mulling over:

Fuckboi/No Homo

There’s a subtle difference between a “fuckboy” and a “fuckboi” because a “fuckboi” is secretly gay. Me and my “friend” Nina* have this long-running joke where we morph into what I like to think of as the gay fratty version of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and just riff off each other. Just two dudes who think it’s not gay to fall into the loving embrace of another man. The kind of guys who say “A hole is a hole” and “I’m not gay, but I would totally bottom for Tom Brady.” Just str8boi things.

*I fucking hate that nine-fingered bitch.

Sexy Dentist

I think there has been no greater gift to humanity than the “Let’s Turn Regular Things Sexy” trend. I mean, fire is a pretty close second, but seriously this tops that. As a “joke” (where I float an actual idea but clothe it in humor to avoid being embarrassed) the possibility of being a “Sexy Baby” but the reaction from my focus groups was (probably rightfully) almost unanimous disgust. So that goes in the “Maybe” pile.

But I think being a Sexy Dentist could be hilarious because I love doing the whole “Unsexy Things Becoming Sexy but Doing Unsexy Things.” Like I do this dance at the club called “Sad Stripper” where it’s just me pussy-popping while crying. So as Sexy Dentist, I could wear a too-tight scrubs shirt, short shorts, maybe a mouth thingy, and then just stick my fingers in people’s unsuspecting mouths and ask them questions about school.

Like, a long time goes by.

Okay, so apparently I didn’t have a third potential option, and instead of brainstorming funny ideas just for the sake of having a trio (threesomes are so hard to coordinate, I’ve learned) I went back through my blog and read funny posts. You guys, I was actually funny. What’s happened? Anyway, I can’t even think of a third choice, so let’s just say that those are my two major options. It’s hard thinking of things to make funny. I mean, I’m not funny, so I wouldn’t actually know. I imagine it’s hard though.

Btw, here’s my playlist for Fall 2k16!!!! Last year I put up my Christmas playlist, but I made one for the season of the Dying of the Leaves!! Check it out if you want.



college, Humor


Btw, do you like my spoopy new banner image? Pumpkin, more like pumped-kin!

It was Saturday night. My stomach was roiling from the previous night, when I tried to ingest an entire bottle of wine the same way a python ingests a capybara. I was wearing a simple, well-fitted chino pant and an Adidas shoe, along with a denim jacket that I had just ordered from Amazon. It was major.

My family was in town, and rather than rejoice in familial traditions—i.e. mental warfare and ostracizing a random family member at any given moment (this reads a lot more horrible than it actually is; for us, nothing is more fun than putting one of us on the outs)—my sister, Margot, and I were drinking gin & tonics in my apartment, about to go out to a bar.

When I was a kid—still am, so I should’ve written “Since”—I pictured bars with the wistful nostalgia of a Depression-era alcoholic. Long wood counters, a grizzled bartender, a barely-clean glass of amber something. Slow, molasses afternoons, and a jukebox playing in the corner. Simple. Rustic.

When I learned about “clubs,” I was disappointed to learn that I had missed the cocaine-era of the ‘90s. I also figured that clubs were the only places where you got bottle service and tinnitus. BUT BIG SURPRISE. Apparently bars are like that too.

Now, I’ve been to bars before. When I was in London (whispers but makes sure you can hear) I went on a bunch of bar crawls. But that was to British bars, where they’ve been built four hundred years ago. And since I’ve been back/legal, I’ve gone to a few small local bars, where I was able to talk, listen, and—most important—judge.

I’m more of a house party person, where I know the people and can chat and—crucial to me having fun—sit/recline on someone’s ratty Allston sofa. I like being able to bully my way into controlling the Spotify playlist, and I get a major semi from looking through people’s medicine cabinets and room décor. Loud, too-close, too-crowded clubs don’t really do it for me.


Source: SororityLyfe (i hate myself)

However, we’re walking up to this bar and I learn there’s this thing in the adult world called “covers” and “lines.” Let me break this down for you; I’ve had maybe two experiences with covers in my life, barring expensive, exclusive clubs in London—I studied abroad in London, London, England, ever heard of it, you dirt pleb. One was in freshman year, trying to convince some drunk frat boi bouncer to let me and a gaggle of girls into a party. The other was me, all limbs and rosacea, paying $15 to go the 18+ night at the local gay bar.

I don’t pay covers, I sleep underneath them.

Anywayanyway, we go to the bar, we/she pays the cover, and we walk in. IMMEDIATELY I AM AMBUSHED/ASSAULTED BY THE SIGHT OF HETEROSEXUALS. I love heterosexuals. My parents are heterosexuals. But I don’t generally “hang” out with heterosexuals. If I hang out with heterosexual guys, I pretend that they’re in love with me. If I hang out with heterosexual girls, I pretend they’re heterosexual guys and that they’re in love with me. I’m just not built for heterosexual fraternizing; I have hay fever and bad eyesight at night.

But this place is chockful of guys in Patagonias—so much fleece, so little space—and girls in strappy tops. Also because I’m a guy, guys trying to walk past me just shove me, whereas if I were a girl, they would gently move around me/take 33 cents for every dollar I make. Either way, we’re both fucked.

I also hate seeing straight people flirt. There’s something so creepy about it. I mean, I hate seeing queer people flirt too. I’m an equal opportunity misanthrope. But with straight people, all I see is ten years down the line, one David’s Bridal dress later, and the screaming set of twins they’re going to have while trying to figure out how to poison each other and get away with it.

Also, straight people, because they’ve never had, you know, the crap kicked out of them in middle school or dealt with having to have Perez Hilton be one of us, they’re so entitled. I was standing, talking to my sister and her friends, when all of a sudden, I feel a tingling at the nape of my neck.

Let me set the scene. I was wearing my denim jacket over this oversized skaterboi long-sleeved tee—because I’m awful—and I had popped the collar of the jacket (not full-on erect, but like a rumpled pop—I’m not a monster). I popped the collar because if I didn’t, I would’ve looked like a missing Duggar child. Anyway.

Side bar: “Rumpled pop” sounds like the kind of music Kesha would play.

I turn around, and some str8™ guy in a GREEN-AND-WHITE PLAID is putting the collar of my jacket down, saying (over and over), “Collar down, bro, collar down.” I, in my “non-threatening heterosexual man” voice, said, “HAHAHAHAHAA NO THANKS I’M GOOD” and tried to push his hand off. My fashionista nemesis didn’t get the hint and tried to make sure it stayed down.

He finally leaves, and when two feet away, I re-pop my collar and turn back to my friends. I see out of the corner of my eye, this low-rent Tommy Hilfiger try to come back to me. (!!!) “NO NO, I’M GOOD,” I Gila monster-hiss, flashing my teeth in what he thought was a smile but was actually a sign of aggression according to apes. Which is apt, because that plaid dick was definitely out to get Haram-me. And I was telling this Haram-bae “Haram-nay.” Is that even funny?

It was fun, but I’ve filled my quota for hanging out with straight people for the rest of the calendar year. However, the night wasn’t a total wash because I saw a literal grandmother at the bar, and later in the night, I saw a middle-aged guy in a Hawaiian shirt slow-dancing to ‘90s throwback pop. Every cloud.



If you know me literally at all, you know that I am heavily invested in pop culture. I would like to make discussing and dissecting it into a career, but for now it’s just an obsession. But, truly, I feel like everyone who has a career first had it as an unhealthy obsession. If Paula Deen didn’t have a TV show, she would just be a racist woman with hair full of secrets and an unhealthy addiction to butter.

But if you, like me, are into pop culture in any way, then you’ll be grateful for this post—how to make the perfect pop culture holiday party!


1). Branding:

When sending out your cards, you’ll have to have a name for your party. If you’re Jewish, might I suggest “Hanuchaka Khan?” If you celebrate Kwanzaa, maybe a “Michelle Kwanzaa” party? And for my Christmas homies, there is literally no other option than “Krismas!”

If your guests are “confused” or “don’t think that those puns are very funny, Danny,” don’t be discouraged. These responses simply allow you to rescind certain invitations and never invite those people to your home again.

2). Attire:

Because we’re enveloped by the machine—oh, play Florence + the Machine!—it’s basically a mandate that everyone wears an ugly Christmas sweater. But wouldn’t be hilarious if it was just pictures of Kim Kardashian ugly-crying?? Or a reindeer! So cute. Extra points go to the person who incorporates mistletoe in the ~imaginative~ way.

A lot of Christmas jumpers nowadays have music ingrained into the design in some way, but if you’re poor like me and can’t afford to reinvent the wheel, don’t worry. Sew on some store-bought Jingle Adeles to the cuffs and torso of your sweater. Every time you move, you’ll create your own best-selling single!

3). Locale:

I don’t care where you actually are, if you’re not calling the location of your party “Amy North Poehler,” then you’re doing something wrong. In your yard, please scatter large amounts of Selena Snowmez, topped with a careful sprinkling of Khloe Kardashing Through The Snow. To create a cozy ambience, put in Liam Frosted Window Paynes. Backlit with soft candles, this holiday must-have will turn any party from a zero into a Big Hero Six. 

4). Décor:

Hanging on the tips of your Chris Pine Tree should be delicious Katy Canes. These festive red-and-white striped sweets can be taken off the branches and used to stir hot cocoa. Create Wreath Witherspoons—I didn’t think of this. I give full credit to The Mindy Project; I just had to mention it—with your Holly Berry clusters and hang on your front door.

If you’re celebrating Krismas, feel free to put SAINT WEST as the lil baby Yeezus in your manger. If you’re Jewish, please do the same. Actually, make Saint an integral part of all holiday décor. I don’t know why I like writing his name in all-capitals, but it’s a thing that I’ve been doing. Another thing I’ve been doing: commenting “SAINT WEST” on my friends’ Facebook walls and photos. No rhyme or reason. It’s very Taylurking of me.

5). Music:

My Christmas 2015 Spotify holiday playlist of course!

6). Food & Drink:

Mulled Miley Cider warms me right down to my bones. It’s a perfect holiday treat, and so easy to make! Pour a full gallon of apple cider into a pot or crock—or Croc—and bring it to a medium-simmer. Stir with cinnamon sticks or orange peels and spike with bourbon. Serve in a festive holiday mug.

Since it’s a holiday party, you don’t want people getting too full before the big meal. I would suggest simple Snack Efrons and Nick Jonappetizers to tide your guests over. These simple amuse-bouches can be made in advance. Just pop into the oven when you’re ready! And for dinner, get ready to cut into your delicious Jon Glazed Hamm! Covered in a shell of brown sugar and soft and succulent on the inside, it’s always a hit!

7). Games:

Am I so lame that the first party game I thought of was “Pin the Tail On The Don Quixote”? Or is that very literature-chic? For my Hebros, why don’t you spin the Dr. Dreidel? Either way, I think I might be punned out, so just play Scrabble or something. I don’t know. Figure something out. I can’t plan out your entire holiday party for you.


There you have it, the perfect pop culture holiday party! This is totally something I would do with my friends, if they would just lift that darn restraining order! Seriously, guys! It’s so hard to meal-prep if I can’t come within 500 feet of y’all! It’s like, how are you gonna pass the gravy! You’re crazy—I love it.

Screen Shot 2015-12-08 at 12.40.58 AM.png

But I actually do have friends and I don’t have any priors. So I might actually try to throw a Krismas party with my friends. but I feel like that might alienate them. Already I’m on tenterhooks with most of my social circle, because I’m very pro-“Saint West” and people are very much offended by it.

But I guess preaching the truth is polarizing. I know another guy who divided people through his preachings. Omg, I’m literally going to Hell now—I’m so sorry Jesus. I hope that you follow this How-To to a T because it will guarantee a perfect holiday party!


P.S. Honorable mentions go out to the people who helped make this blog post possible: my co-worker/friend Amanda, who was stunned by Saint and my great ability for punning; Charlie, for thinking up Dr. Dreidel because you’re a giant Jew; Marco, my literal angel, who helped me brainstorm great puns and is personally responsible for Amy North Poehler, amongst others; Mitchell, my babz, for thinking up Holly Berry; my live-in child-ward Sebastien for mixing a great gin-and-tonic and getting so tipsy he’s asleep rn; my sisters for discussing pop culture w me, even if one of them had the wrong reaction (Margot).

Love y’all!