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The Chihuahua Symphony (as Conducted by Dracula) - i of iii
A tale of a crazy teacher, four yippy dogs, and my artistic beginnings
Fabrication quotient: 1 of 10
Exaggeration quotient: 2 of 10
Once upon a time,
There was a boy who may or may not have been me.
When you were in elementary school - music class was the WORST. Everyone hated going to music. You would march to the classroom in a single file, sit in these chairs that were super uncomfortable, and Mrs. J - who was probably the meanest woman you had ever met at that age - would make you read books filled with pictures of quarter notes, half notes, and other colorless pictures designating the rhythms to such childhood hits as "Old MacDonald". Mrs. Judkins would also make you sit in silence for indeterminate amounts of time, and would pull a "bad card" from her little mini file cabinet of students if you tipped back in your chair. I remember this because if you had a bad card pulled, she would AUTOMATICALLY send you to the principal's office. I always thought she punished kids that didn't deserve it.
I, however, loved to sing, and for this, Mrs. J adored me, thanks to my golden vocals and blonde-haired brown noser tendencies. "I just LOVE 'The Music Man' and 'Annie', Mrs. J. Can we watch them again?"
She loved me so much, I tipped in my chair all the time and never got sent to the office.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Molested in a Hostel by a Little Old Man (or My First Spring Break) - Part 2
Part two begins now. CAN YOU HANDLE IT?
Oh, and before you continue...please follow the Storyblog!!!! It's the easiest way to be the first to hear about updates. Also, please vote in the polls! They're just for fun now, but soon I'll be asking very important questions about the future of the blog.
On to the story!
Oh, Lank.
I came back onto the main floor of the bar from it's basement level bathroom to find my long-limbed festie with his left leg up on the stage of the dance floor of this cramped little place. His right leg was resting on the floor. Resting right in between these was the booty of a little twinky-looking boy (God only knows where his legs were). Lank was (still is?) in a relationship at that time, so my "Mom" instincts kicked in and I proceeded to surgically remove him from the twink while the bartender announced free shots to the entire bar. Spring break, doncha know.
We had been drinking for quite a bit. We had stopped at a bar, gone to the Bronx Zoo, hit up Brooklyn, had some cannoli and a bottle (or two) of wine with friends, then headed to a BBQ in the East Village that featured margaritas the size of your head. Immediately after, we saw some ridiculous off-off Broadway Richard Foreman play called "Deep Trance Behavior in Potatoland" (I seriously couldn't make this shit up) in which everyone said and did some really cliche weird shit, including a guy dressing like Dracula and growling "me and my shadow" over and over again. Good show to see under the influence.
Any influence was fine, as we were trying to drink away our memories of Francois the creeper. But in our current inebriated state, had he been waiting for us naked with his legs wide open, we'd be ready. In college, alcohol gives you confidence. It makes you feel older and ready to kick ass. And I was perfectly ready to head on back to that Harlem hostel and kick that guy's ass - should he be there.
Lank, on the other hand, was only thinking about fucking some ass. However, "Mom mode" always prevails, and I managed to pry him away. (much to the chagrin of the entire bar. They were just jealous. Who wouldn't want to steal away with such a charming giant?)
We stumbled off the subway, to the stoop of our luxurious accommodations.
"Well, here we go," I said, slurring like a sappy violin concerto.
After the drinks, Lank had gained a massive amount of courage.
"We can handle this guy...he don't got nothing on us."
Nothing yet, I thought.
Oh, and before you continue...please follow the Storyblog!!!! It's the easiest way to be the first to hear about updates. Also, please vote in the polls! They're just for fun now, but soon I'll be asking very important questions about the future of the blog.
On to the story!
Oh, Lank.
I came back onto the main floor of the bar from it's basement level bathroom to find my long-limbed festie with his left leg up on the stage of the dance floor of this cramped little place. His right leg was resting on the floor. Resting right in between these was the booty of a little twinky-looking boy (God only knows where his legs were). Lank was (still is?) in a relationship at that time, so my "Mom" instincts kicked in and I proceeded to surgically remove him from the twink while the bartender announced free shots to the entire bar. Spring break, doncha know.
We had been drinking for quite a bit. We had stopped at a bar, gone to the Bronx Zoo, hit up Brooklyn, had some cannoli and a bottle (or two) of wine with friends, then headed to a BBQ in the East Village that featured margaritas the size of your head. Immediately after, we saw some ridiculous off-off Broadway Richard Foreman play called "Deep Trance Behavior in Potatoland" (I seriously couldn't make this shit up) in which everyone said and did some really cliche weird shit, including a guy dressing like Dracula and growling "me and my shadow" over and over again. Good show to see under the influence.
Any influence was fine, as we were trying to drink away our memories of Francois the creeper. But in our current inebriated state, had he been waiting for us naked with his legs wide open, we'd be ready. In college, alcohol gives you confidence. It makes you feel older and ready to kick ass. And I was perfectly ready to head on back to that Harlem hostel and kick that guy's ass - should he be there.
Lank, on the other hand, was only thinking about fucking some ass. However, "Mom mode" always prevails, and I managed to pry him away. (much to the chagrin of the entire bar. They were just jealous. Who wouldn't want to steal away with such a charming giant?)
We stumbled off the subway, to the stoop of our luxurious accommodations.
"Well, here we go," I said, slurring like a sappy violin concerto.
After the drinks, Lank had gained a massive amount of courage.
"We can handle this guy...he don't got nothing on us."
Nothing yet, I thought.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Molested in a Hostel by a Little Old Man (or My First Spring Break) - Part 1
a true story of Patti LuPone, festies, cannolli, and a creeper.
Exaggeration quotient: 2 out of 10
Fabrication quotient: 3 out of 10
Once upon a time,
There was a boy who may or may not have been me.
What a perfect day it had been.
The first day of my very first spring break excursion had been absolute perfection. After countless plans with other friends had fallen through, one of my festies (a term combining "fag" and "besties" I hope the popularity of this blog will coin in the regular vernacular) and I, very last minute, decided that we were simply NOT going to just sit around during our spring break this year. We hopped the Megabus to New York (from Philly, where we went to school), booked a hostel, and prepared to have a fun four days of Broadway musicals, fine dining, gay bars, and art.
My festie, hereby referred to as Lank (due to his incredibly tall, thin, frame), and I hit our first day in the Big Apple with a crazy fervor. We dropped our stuff off at our Harlem hostel, stood in student rush lines, securing an evening ticket to "Gypsy" starring Patti LuPone, grabbed some cheap eats, cruised the Met with a lestie of ours (I'll let you put two and two together on that), and finished the night with La LuPone belting a mental breakdown into our face, complete with full orchestra. Heaven.
After a long walk-while-eating-dollar-falafel back uptown to the hostel, chatting about the brilliance we had seen ("And I thought 'Gypsy' was about a little girl who grew up loving gypsies", said Lank), we were very tired, and sunk into our uncomfortable hostel bunks as if they were Sertas stuffed with angel feathers. We didn't share a bunk - the room was a seven bed room, mixed sex. Lank and I took top bunks, while below us, some adorable European young adult boys rested. One, though not attractive by any means, was certainly a gorgeous German aryan boy. In the third set of bunks, an adorable French man on the lower, an Asian fella on the top. Finally, above the lockers was a final bed that sat a quiet, nerdy hipster girl who looked like she had been there for at least two weeks.
I rolled onto my belly, grasped my pillow, and slowly slumbered into dreamland.
Exaggeration quotient: 2 out of 10
Fabrication quotient: 3 out of 10
Once upon a time,
There was a boy who may or may not have been me.
What a perfect day it had been.
The first day of my very first spring break excursion had been absolute perfection. After countless plans with other friends had fallen through, one of my festies (a term combining "fag" and "besties" I hope the popularity of this blog will coin in the regular vernacular) and I, very last minute, decided that we were simply NOT going to just sit around during our spring break this year. We hopped the Megabus to New York (from Philly, where we went to school), booked a hostel, and prepared to have a fun four days of Broadway musicals, fine dining, gay bars, and art.
My festie, hereby referred to as Lank (due to his incredibly tall, thin, frame), and I hit our first day in the Big Apple with a crazy fervor. We dropped our stuff off at our Harlem hostel, stood in student rush lines, securing an evening ticket to "Gypsy" starring Patti LuPone, grabbed some cheap eats, cruised the Met with a lestie of ours (I'll let you put two and two together on that), and finished the night with La LuPone belting a mental breakdown into our face, complete with full orchestra. Heaven.
After a long walk-while-eating-dollar-falafel back uptown to the hostel, chatting about the brilliance we had seen ("And I thought 'Gypsy' was about a little girl who grew up loving gypsies", said Lank), we were very tired, and sunk into our uncomfortable hostel bunks as if they were Sertas stuffed with angel feathers. We didn't share a bunk - the room was a seven bed room, mixed sex. Lank and I took top bunks, while below us, some adorable European young adult boys rested. One, though not attractive by any means, was certainly a gorgeous German aryan boy. In the third set of bunks, an adorable French man on the lower, an Asian fella on the top. Finally, above the lockers was a final bed that sat a quiet, nerdy hipster girl who looked like she had been there for at least two weeks.
I rolled onto my belly, grasped my pillow, and slowly slumbered into dreamland.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
AT LONG LAST! The Squeezing Vagina Story - Part 2
Sorry for the long wait, story lovers! Read on, and enjoy!
A vagina is extraordinarily unique.
I mean, really, it is. Just look at it. First of all, it's pink. Or at least, it should be. It also has a shape that is...well, all to it's own. Except for maybe a canyon photographed from an airplane. Or a top-down view of a venus flytrap.
I wasn't prepared to deal with this...shimmering (?)...construction of nature. Really, at that time I didn't have any idea what to do with any form of sexual expression. But nonetheless, we all have a "first time". And I was about to experience the true wonder and mystique of that organ we affectionately call: the cooch.
A vagina is extraordinarily unique.
I mean, really, it is. Just look at it. First of all, it's pink. Or at least, it should be. It also has a shape that is...well, all to it's own. Except for maybe a canyon photographed from an airplane. Or a top-down view of a venus flytrap.
I wasn't prepared to deal with this...shimmering (?)...construction of nature. Really, at that time I didn't have any idea what to do with any form of sexual expression. But nonetheless, we all have a "first time". And I was about to experience the true wonder and mystique of that organ we affectionately call: the cooch.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Squeezing Vagina Story - Part 1
a true story of great sex, denial, bad sex, and hulking fathers (in that order).
Exaggeration quotient: 4 out of 10
Fabrication quotient: 2 out of 10
Once upon a time,
There was a boy who may or may not have been me.
I remember one of my first days in middle school when I was standing in the lunch line. Some short fat kid who was incredibly popular was standing in front of me. He had ridiculously curly hair. It was also jet black, and brown freckles covered his face. In any other universe besides the vortex that is the southwestern corner of Penn's woods, this kid would be labeled a mega-nerd. But no, in my school, this kid was royalty. Oh, adolescent ironies. (This kid would eventually disappear from my life and re-appear a few years later in high school after losing an inhumane amount of weight, which is great. I can't remember his fucking name, though.)
Anyway, this day was important to the story I'm about to tell, because it was one of the first days of my true sexual education. I was a golden child when I was younger. Church every Sunday, straight A's, sucked up to every single teacher in that stuck up, brown-noser way that makes other children jabber about how that kid falls into three categories: 1) He must come from a well-off family. 2) He was a pussy. 3) He was gay.
Exaggeration quotient: 4 out of 10
Fabrication quotient: 2 out of 10
Once upon a time,
There was a boy who may or may not have been me.
I remember one of my first days in middle school when I was standing in the lunch line. Some short fat kid who was incredibly popular was standing in front of me. He had ridiculously curly hair. It was also jet black, and brown freckles covered his face. In any other universe besides the vortex that is the southwestern corner of Penn's woods, this kid would be labeled a mega-nerd. But no, in my school, this kid was royalty. Oh, adolescent ironies. (This kid would eventually disappear from my life and re-appear a few years later in high school after losing an inhumane amount of weight, which is great. I can't remember his fucking name, though.)
Anyway, this day was important to the story I'm about to tell, because it was one of the first days of my true sexual education. I was a golden child when I was younger. Church every Sunday, straight A's, sucked up to every single teacher in that stuck up, brown-noser way that makes other children jabber about how that kid falls into three categories: 1) He must come from a well-off family. 2) He was a pussy. 3) He was gay.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Coming Soon...
You should be excited. Why? The JimmyTimeStep Storyblog launches in two weeks.
After being told for years how good of a storyteller I am, (and after being inspired by my friends Billy, Manda, and Josie), I decided to start a blog dedicated to just that. The JTSSB will feature all kinds of frighteningly true, always fabulous, occasionally exaggerated, rarely fabricated, wildly hysterical, somewhat touching stories from or inspired by my crazy life as an eccentric, big-personalitied artist, or by the lives of my similarly compelling friends and family.
Get ready for such jewels as Edinburgh and Arthur's Seat, The Squeezing Vagina (or Why I Am Gay), A Mad Men New Years in Memphis, My Stealthy Secret Santa, Karaoke, Two Speeding Tickets in Twenty-Five Minutes Across Two Different States, The Loose Asshole, and The Duck Story. Expect stories in similar in tone to the best drunk story your best friend ever told you, with an extra helping of glitter and Disney magic. A new story will be published to the Storyblog every two weeks.
Check out the poll and vote for which you'd like to hear first!
Peace out for now, story lovers!
After being told for years how good of a storyteller I am, (and after being inspired by my friends Billy, Manda, and Josie), I decided to start a blog dedicated to just that. The JTSSB will feature all kinds of frighteningly true, always fabulous, occasionally exaggerated, rarely fabricated, wildly hysterical, somewhat touching stories from or inspired by my crazy life as an eccentric, big-personalitied artist, or by the lives of my similarly compelling friends and family.
Get ready for such jewels as Edinburgh and Arthur's Seat, The Squeezing Vagina (or Why I Am Gay), A Mad Men New Years in Memphis, My Stealthy Secret Santa, Karaoke, Two Speeding Tickets in Twenty-Five Minutes Across Two Different States, The Loose Asshole, and The Duck Story. Expect stories in similar in tone to the best drunk story your best friend ever told you, with an extra helping of glitter and Disney magic. A new story will be published to the Storyblog every two weeks.
Check out the poll and vote for which you'd like to hear first!
Peace out for now, story lovers!
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