The Vodka Monologues

12:30 pm: Hey, nice party. Cool people. I should probably just have a drink to be sociable before we head off to see the rest of the street fair and do home tours.

12:32 pm: Oooh! Mimosas! I feel soooo classy and shit!

12:50 pm: Oops….mimosa was very tiny drink. We still haven’t moved off down the street fair, and the sun does feel soooo nice. Beautiful day for a lawn party, and Roger and Ron are such great hosts – remind me of Scott back home. What the heck? Let’s have a bloody mary. Just one…then we hit the fair.

1:15 pm: Hmmm…Boyfriend and Roommate are still making the rounds being friendly and mingly. As long as we’re here, I suppose maybe I should have another…

1:35 pm: Oh hey, these people love me and think I’m adorable! We should definitely stay here a little longer! Just long enough for maybe one more bloody mary…

1:45 pm: Uh oh. I don’t know these people. If I don’t talk they’ll think I’m boring. I’d better go get another bloody mary.

2:05 pm: Boyfriend and Roommate just got more drinks. That means we’ll be here a few more minutes. Maybe I’ll just go chat with the cute bartender for a minute and have some water.

2:06 pm: Bloody mary, bloody mary, bloody mary!

2:37 pm: Uh oh…am hungry. Guacamole and pretzel mixes look good, as do tiny mini cupcakes with white chocolate glaze icing…

2:37 pm: But on second thought, this is a predominantly gay crowd so the food is merely decorative. But a bloody mary has veggies and good healthy stuff in it, right?

3:02 pm: Ohmigod! I just met my new best friend! He’s fabulous! More drinks here!

3:15 pm: Ohmigod! I just met my new best friend ever! She’s fantastic! Let’s go bond in the bar line!

3:30 pm: Ohmigod! I just met my new best friends in the whole world! I must finish this drink off so I can get their names and numbers in my phone.

3:31 pm: Mission accomplished. Have numbers, but now have no drink in hand. Travesty!

3:50 pm: Bathroom break!!!

4:05 pm: Bummer…no more bloody mary mix. Will have a screwdriver with new best friend ever.

4:07 pm: Hmmm. Screwdriver equals weak yuckiness. New best friend has just lost best friend status.

4:10 pm: Wait, how’d it get so late? And what happened to that home tour and street fair we were supposed to do? Oh well…they probably didn’t have alcohol.

4:15 pm: Yay for hot friendly men who think I”m way cute! More drinks all around!!!

4:22 pm: Hmmm….getting late. Where’d Boyfriend and Roommate go, anyway?

4:23 pm: Maybe I should look at the bar for them.

4:24 pm: Nope. Not at bar. Who was Iooking for again?

4:40 pm: Oh, that’s right…need to find people to go away home. I wonder if they’re back at the bar?

4:45 pm: Some asshole just bumped into me and spilled my drink a bit. He was hot though, so I won’t kill him. Should probably top drink back off, though.

4:46 pm: Oh, hi reflect-y glass patio door! How long have you been standing there?

5:05 pm: Hmmm…party’s winding down. Vodka almosht gone. I ssshould really help dishpose of it.

5:50 pm: Where’sh Boyfriend gone? And why did the keypad on my phone sssuddenly get so itssssy-bitssssy?

6:02 pm: Found Boyfriend! Found Roommate! Those bitches were drinking with people I haven’t had a chance to meet yet! Must go introduce myself.

6:10 pm: Met people. Geez, what a bunch of lushes here!

6:12 pm: I wonder if there’s still vodka?

6:13 pm: No vodka, but boys asked us to go dancing at club. Woohoo!

6:13 pm: Oh, yeah. Hafta go home. Hafta do something tomorrow early.

6:15 pm: I’m fine. I donneed water.

6:20 pm: Donneed water.

6:30 pm: No donneed water. I’m a big boy now. Why’s the car spinning? And when did we get in the car? An why can’t I drive?? I’ma very good driver.

7:15 pm: How’d this pita get in my hand?

7:16 pm: How’d this pita get in my hand?

7:18 pm: How’d this pita get in my hand?

7:21 pm: We stopped for food? When’d that happen? And what happened to the sky? It’s all dark.

9:02 pm: I wonder if anyone wants to go find dinner?

9:03 pm: Oh, that’s right. Ate pita.

9:16 pm: Wow, crazy tiredness happening! And…unhappy stomach. Obviously was a bad pita.

9:17 pm: Ohmigod I can’t believe how really very tired I am. Maybe if I take a nap here curled around the toilet Boyfriend will tuck me in bed before he leaves?

9:20 pm: Am so tired I think I could die.

9:30 pm: Am so tired I think I could die.

9:45 pm: Am awake from my little nap now!

9:50 pm: I suppose I should give Boyfriend’s shoes back to him so he can go home.

9:51 pm: Shoelaces are tricksy.

10:05 pm: Oopsies. Forgot that walking Boyfriend to the door to go home means no Boyfriend to walk me back to bed. Adventure time!!!

10:05 pm: Oops. Damn shoes.

10:05 pm: Oh. Hi furniture!

10:05 pm: Cats! Cats running! Chase cats!

10:05 pm: Mr. Wall, why you spin like that?

10:06 pm: Yay! Made it to bed! When did light switch make room spin instead of ceiling fan?

10:08 pm: Oh my god…I’m gonna sleep forever.

10:09 pm: Dammit! I have to work in the morning! Life is so fucking unfair!!!

10:10 pm: Goodnight, spinny world!

3:30 am: Am wiiiiiide awake. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this.

5:30 am: Still awake, but tired, dammit. Alarm clock is going off. Am too old for this.

5:32 am: Thank you, room, for not spinning as much this morning. And thank you, dear vodka, for reminding me how much we dislike each other. Now, please kindly fuck off and leave me to die.

Punxa-Portly Phatty: In which Zach sees his shadow, and it’s gotten bigger. The D-word is considered.

Those of you who have been with me a while know that I have a love-hate relationship with food. As in, I love it. And I hate not having it. In previous lives, I’m fairly certain I was a sumo wrestler, a hot-dog eating world champ, and the guy that sat on and smooshed the world’s heaviest man. Possibly, I was all three of these at once.

Seriously. I loooove food. If there were such a thing as a galaxy made entirely of edibilities, I’d wanna be a black hole. If oreos hailed from the rainforests of the Amazon, I’d have Greenpeace and the World Wildlife Federation petitioning to have my mouth bricked shut (in an ecologically-sound manner, of course). And if Boyfriend would allow it, I’d marry both Ben and Jerry if only to guarantee myself a lifetime supply of ice-creamy goodness.

In an ideal world, I would be able to gracefully accept the addition of a few more pounds to my svelte but muscle-y frame, trading a notch or two in my belt for a few more years well-lived.

Also, it would be carbs and saturated fats that build lean muscle. The ultimate weight training supplements would be Hagen-Daaz and Pepperidge Farms Soft-Baked cookies, not Muscle Milk, protein shakes, and NOxplode.

And finally, years of obsessive exercise, occasional bouts of bulimia, and diet-pill addictions would have beaten my body into submission to the point that it would never dare even think of getting chunkier again, and the manic thrice-a-day workouts and lean, clean diet of last summer’s obsessive quest for abs would have once and for all eradicated any potential fat cells in my body.

Alas, this is not an ideal world.

This is a world where I am doomed to play the part of a somewhat narcissistic, entirely vain gay guy whose competitive streak and considerable pride won’t allow him to possibly consider that other guys might be thinner, younger, or smarter than him, and where I gasp in agony when I gain two pounds (Caltene bars, anyone?).

This is a world in which my youthful eat-anything-and-stay-thin metabolism has gone the way of my full head of glossy dark hair (which is still glossy and full, by the way, despite the hole in my scalp left when Boyfriend plucked out my first real silver hair last weekend).

And finally, this is a world where, in two months’ time, Phoenix’s annual Gay Pride festival will be upon us, and thousands of topless, toned young men will be frolicking in the sun, and where I’ll be damned if I let those skinny little twits look better in their bathing suits than I do in mine.

Therefore, it’s time to refocus my workouts and consider the dreaded D-word. Multi-workout days and grilled-chicken-breast-and-salad dinners, here I come.

The prospect of all this, folks, really really makes me want ice cream right now.

Le sigh.

Lady Gaga? She Ain’t Got Nothin’ on a Side of Moi: In which Zach’s vanity runs amok. As usual.

Here it is, peeps: post number one on the Great Fast Food Experiment. First impressions: McDonald’s doesn’t have anything on LA Fitness in the music department. There’s no Lady Gaga. No Madonna. No high-energy remixes of King of Leon or Shakira or Daughtry (yes, there are high-energy remixes of Daughtry. And they rock).

But really, who needs Gaga when you’ve got the sheer fabulosity of me?

That’s right. Nobody.

And that brings us to Great Fast Food Experiment impression number two: really, McDonald’s isn’t so horribly bad so far, all things considered. Sure, its minimum wage. Formless cheap cotton polos don’t really do that much for me, and it’s not the heady halls of academic administration. And sure, after a full day shift the subtle aroma of fry grease might compete with the sweetness of my Christian AudigiĆ©re cologne (note to self: try the sultrier True Republic fragrance tomorrow – it might go well with burgers). And finally, yeah, the number of body-conscious, attractive men gracing my sight is significantly lower. I doubt many wanna-be models and go-go boys dine on Big Macs, alas.

But you know what? Mickey D’s has something that kinda trumps all that: in the dreary world of fast food, I’m a stahr, dahling.

That’s right: in this gig, I’m kind of a big deal. It’s a perfect situation, really. My coworkers refer to me as ‘the hot new guy’ that the fabulously gay hiring manager brought on board to pretty up the place, and unlike at LA Fitness, they seem appropriately awed by my perfect hair and shiny shoes. Today they put me on the front counter (well not on it, but get a few McFlurries in me and see what happens…), where I got to make the fullest use of my best talents: my mirror-friendly mug (my mommy tells me it is, so there!), flirty smile, and ability to charm and chat the pants off even the most crotchety and impatient of customers.

Pretty girls smiled at me. Nice old ladies cooed and fawned over me. Old men chuckled good-naturedly at me. And the chubby gay boys? They just drooled, and not over the prospect of their Double Quarter Pounders with Extra Cheese. Heck, I was so darned popular they outta just have put me in the Happy Meals.

…All this despite the fact that I regularly mangled orders, gave little boys girls’ Happy Meal toys, and dropped frozen fries all over the back of the kitchen.

And the icing on the cake? I didn’t have to do things like think too hard, which I’m pretty sure causes wrinkles and that first white hair Boyfriend found this past weekend. Once I figured out the Byzantine computer interface, things were actually pretty easy, which is exactly the way I like it.

All in all, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship: there’s something about being acknowledged for my true assets that just warms the shallow little cockles of my heart. Because really, when it all comes down to it, isn’t it all about validation???