Prisons were made to be broken.

“You need to give me a minute, Joe,” Mom sternly advised me this morning as I was racing

to and fro from my butterfly “good boy” bed to the front door. Doesn’t she understand the pace of urgency?

“I can’t just give you a minute, Mom. Didn’t Justin Timberlake’s new movie teach you anything? It must be bought, stolen, or killed for, and frankly, my bladder’s urging me to take the latter if you don’t GUN IT, SISTER!”

“These days, a minute isn’t something you can promptly give away or request, Mom. You have to earn a minute, and I feel I’ve earned my fair share of minutes. Enough so, I could probably buy a few days worth after that unforgivable stunt you and dad pulled a couple of week s ago...”

Oh, I’m sorry. You guys probably didn’t hear. About 3 weeks ago, as a result of me deliberately ripping Petri (my beloved duck-duck)

at his seams for quacking about me eating the blinds, Mom and Dad decided it was time to drop me off at G-mama’s for the weekend. I assumed they needed a break, but I didn’t see this as fit punishment, seeing as how G-mama’s house is a safe-haven (usually), and not so much a retribution for bad behavior. But, none-the-less, I was thrilled to be amongst the geese babies and my dear ole’ Grand… or so I thought. It wasn’t until G-mama wistfully enticed me to join her in a car ride (which she knew I couldn’t resist) that I somehow ended up in the most deplorable, wretched place I’ve experienced in my four years of prancing this earth…

Friends, this is where the story begins…

I knew from the instant Craig (my boorish, boiled friend) and I initially met, he emerged into my life for an unforeseeably good reason. However, I wasn’t aware just how crucial his presence was until I arrived at “the clinic” on that dark October morn.

Craig appeared sometime in mid-May amongst the flowers, birds and bees. As he blossomed from small, unwarranted bump to grossly oversized cyst, our friendship, too, budded from amicable acquaintances to business cohorts. I didn’t understand then the true reason of his existence, but was too afraid to pop the question in case he was in one of his touchy moods.

Now, it’s one thing to have a chip on your shoulder, but a cyst on your back is just as cruel, especially when he constantly comments on your weight or your abnormal hip-to-thigh ratio (whatever). All of his quirks were soon to be as trivial as any time Rick Perry decides to open his mouth regarding immigration or just any topic in general.

It wasn’t until September he decided to reveal himself to me entirely.

“Joe,” he whispered to me in one of the several accents he used to cover his true identity. “I need you to listen carefully. You’re not going to realize it until it’s too late and I’m gone, but they will come for me. I’m going to give you a set of instructions you must use in order to beat the system and break free.”

Naturally, I had no idea what was going on and whether or not the little, black fiends were using him to set me up! (The fleas are constantly seeking revenge since the last time mom took me for a dip!)

“Break free from what?! You don’t understand, I’ve tried everything to open the front window and it just won’t budge, just like Lil Wayne!”

“Forget the window, Joe! Now, I can’t tell you exactly when, but you will be caged and I’ll be gone, and if you want to escape without contracting the mange, you must heed my advice.”

“The mange!!! Isn’t that what Amy Winehouse died of? Yikes. I’d rather yodel the Bible in its entirety than catch that dreadful sickness!”

Craig said that my buzzed haircut couldn’t have come at a better time. This was our chance to begin the arduous process of tattooing the map of the clinic onto every centimeter of my body. For weeks, Craig and I would meet at 2:00 a.m. (making sure Mom was in a state of REM), to discuss the prison’s schedule. We would work diligently until dawn on the tattoo to ensure every little detail was precise and in place.

Finally, the day had come. Like he promised, I hadn’t realized it until G-mama waved goodbye, and the gas mask was on my snout. It was only hours later that I awoke to the barks and screams of labradoodles and cock-a-poo’s, some smelling like ginger and mint, and others who had yet to receive the clinic’s cleansing ritual. I knew right then I had to get to a mirror and fast.

I was groggy but knew I wouldn’t last long in this prison if I didn’t make a move. Like clockwork, the guards came by for roll call; I made one guard aware of my “IBS,” and was promptly escorted to the yard. I made a mad dash to the specific spot where Craig had hidden a piece of broken glass. This was my chance to read the exit route strategically placed on my back. It only took me seconds to navigate the blue and black lines, but I knew exactly what I had to do...

Yet, low and behold, when I arrive back at my cage, I overhear a conversation; something about my G-mama was on her way! Could it be true!??

When I saw her petite frame strut through the door, I kind of felt like a dinkus for letting Craig talk me into tattooing the map of said prison onto my entire body to only be busted out of the joint by my dear old grandma.

But hey, what are grandma’s for?

Needless to say, Craig is now just a vague memory and in his place? A pretty unruly scar. When my grandchildren ask of its origin, I’ll tell them I arose victoriously from a prison break…(I can only hope they don’t have the television show on DVD that far down the road....then they’ll really know I’m a fraud-sickle! )

Age is Something that Doesn't Matter...Unless You're a Cheese.

Attention, foolish knaves! ‘Tis the day of my birth! Everyone rise and applaud! (WaAHooOOO!) And now, for God’s sake, stifle your impulses and lend me your ears eyes. I feel it only fitting to address my followers in a more mature tone today. After all, I’m no longer a baby. I’m four! This means a few things. For one, I can vote now, and I’m definitely a supporter of the Pentatonix. Allow me to introduce you to their flow if you haven’t had the pleasure already— they’re pure genius. SOO JELLY!! Get this! Mom said next year, my pals and I can try out for The Sing Off (every little gay boy’s castle in the sky). I’ve already got our first 5 costumes on lay-a-way at K-mart! I know we agreed on NOT sharing our group name until we’re tighter vocally, but I feel it only appropriate to mention it, being it’s my birthday, and I’m the most advanced singer when it comes doo-wappin’ some acappella. So let’s hear it for the Holy Howl Babies! OW OW! We’ve been practicing all month for today in particular. Here’s a sneak-peak for your listening pleasure (Clearly, I’m the one recording, and yes they call me “Ma’am,” which is obviously in reference to our inspirational leader, Abby Lee Miller, Dance Instructor Extraordinaire—she gives us the swift kick in the pants we need when our whining is incessant): My mother’s precious, don’t get me wrong. Awkward and special in her own stocky way. She means well, I’m sure,

but if she even thinks of sticking me in that damn clown costume again, I’ll shriek inappropriately, yell “stranger” and run for the Hollywood hills. I’d like to change it up a bit, so I sent out a mass email to all of my friends asking for some original ideas for a costume. Here are a few I’m thinking of doing: 1.

2.

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****Since we all can vote now, I'd love to hear which costume you'd like to see me in this year!! 1-10? Any other original ideas?

Oh, cheese and crust! He's lost his head!

I don’t dive too deep into the pool of the supernatural, even though I’ve been told (only a couple of hundred times) the spirit of Maurice Gibb must live in my throat. Gosh, if that were the case, and I was rocking the stylish wardrobe of the BeeGees’, I would go to every coffee house in Atlanta and show those damn “hipsters” how to truly rock a fedora…



I’m not even that superstitious! Wait, well. I have this theory that Max is actually the cat from 1993’s Hocus Pocus, and all of us humans should proceed with caution when in his presence. Why this theory, you ask? For starters, he’s black, has a British accent and his breath is atrociously close to that of an unwiped keister. I mean, the latter is probably due to the fact he’s on his like, what.. 7th, 8th life by now? I’m sure most of the dead are prone to having death-breath… hehe!! (look what I did there!!) Well, anyhow, the jigs up, you fugly little monster. I know your skecret!

Let me stroll back on topic. There have been some umm, well, “spooky” happenings in my apartment since October began (at least that’s what mom and dad are bellyaching about). I, for one, think my mother is off her wooden rocker and trying to scare the Lebanese out of my dad (not a hard task, by the way). She insists it’s the contrary, but states she does get a good kick out of standing behind doors and jumping out to hear his girly scream and see his eyes pop out.

With all that said, I’ll fill you in since I know you’re just DYING to hear what happened (pun intended and delightfully provided by yours truly):

1. Last week, we’re all getting ready for bed— brushing teeth, combing each other’s hair, applying Carmex and licking the last wall that needed my stamp of approval. I had gotten in trouble the day before for turning up Dave FM too loud and disturbing the tubby pregnant lady above us (she’s a stomper and deserved a taste of her own medicine). My punishment was cleaning duty, all 1200 sq ft (whatever). I’m saying all of this because we went to bed, door closed and locked, to a clean and garden-fresh smelling home (spank you very much). The next morning, we wake up to my dog bowls in the middle of the hall. Dad asks mom, “Did you put these here?” She had some smart-ass remark like, “Why, yes. Yes I did, Matthew,” followed by a disapproving/stank-face look. They immediately turn to me and assume because they’re mine that I must have woken up in the middle of the night, unlocked the door and strewn my plates in a fit of fat-boy rage! I told them I was nestled all night in between dad’s hambones. After all, being the light sleeper he is, he couldn’t deny that fact.

2. Last night, mom and I were doing our usual before bed routine-- all lights off, doors locked, sound machine on and meechums goodnight. We wake up at 7:30 this morning and mom walks out and gasps…. The hall lights were on. We both distinctly remember looking down the dark hall before closing the bedroom door last night…

It’s interesting now that I think of it, but I’m pretty sure the whole dog bowl incident happened a week ago from last night. Regardless, dad’s freaked out and what’s more! American Horror Story comes on tonight. I’m thinking of sneaking out the back window to play a nice little trick on the folks when they’re in the middle of tonight’s new episode…. Might wear a black mask? Might go to Starship and buy a leather one-piece? Might bang on the door and say, “I HATE TREES!” (that’s for those AHS fans)

MMM. Well this could get interesting. Gosh, I love October and not because I’ll be four in 13 days! If anyone else has any bright ideas on how to scare the Bejesus out of my rents, do tell. I’m all ears!

Love,
Angel Joe

You Have Toilet Breath, You Potty Mouth!

I’d be lying to myself and pretty much everyone else (with the exception of my grandmother’s who think I might as well be the second coming of Christ Himself) if I said I wasn’t a hellion on four legs. Hey, at least I can admit it aloud; a perfect example of exhibiting real moral fiber (or so they say). Here of lately, my temper is easier to set off than a hair-trigger. To flip the switch from seraph to menace can be done faster than you can say, ‘you’ve-got-toilet-breath-you-potty-mouth.’ (I'm going to attribute a lot of my pent up anger and lash outs on the voice in my head/ brat on my back, Craig... you'll meet him soon enough).

You know that Jim Carrey movie, ‘Yes Man’ (and I’d honestly rather watch reruns of The 700 Club from 1979 than that atrocious film) where that goof of a human has to say ‘yes’ to everything he’s asked to do? Well, check it out: when my parents are in like stage 5 of REM sleep, I press play and let them subconsciously hear the concept of the movie. So, I’m hoping instead of hearing, “No Julian, you can’t construct a gay bar at the dog park.” Or, “No, Joe. I’d rather you not be the nude model for a college art class.” I’ll someday hear, “Joe, I think Piedmont is in dire straits for a classy yet dimly-lit watering hole for gay canines. Great idea!” And, “You know, Joe. Fat is the new skinny. Go pose nude, and make sure I get a copy of every canvas!”


But sadly, my world is converse to this. It’s always, “No Joe, don’t bust that medicine ball/volley ball/beach ball/my balls.” Or, “Julian, don’t you dare bite Grandma Sue’s plants out of anger!” Or, “Joseph, I can’t believe you ripped another set of blinds because I had to go to work and couldn’t stay home and play Taboo or Don’t Wake Daddy!”




It’s a never-ending no-fest in my neck of the woods, and I’m just a squirrel trying to crack a nut on a yes! Speaking of squirrels, I made this little novelty for a special someone :)


Whatever.

And yes I know, I know...It’s been a hot minute since I’ve given you guys the dirt and bones via BlogSpot—so run me over with your Prius already! (HA, that's a laughable exaggeration. A paraplegic could win that race).



One could say the past three weeks have closely resembled a nice joy-ride on Griffin’s finest fair ride, The Scrambler.



I’ll do all you homo-erectus’ a solid and fill in the blanks.

First things first: we moved...again…for the 2nd time in two months. Let’s just say change and I go together about as well as your mom’s string bikini and those luscious liver spots of hers (mmm).
I feel like I was born clutching scotch tape, old newspapers and water –stained cardboard boxes. In the past four years, we have moved a total of 12 times to four different cities! I’m fed up; I was quick to inform the odd couple that I’m not an army brat (but it’d be cool to do as the Romans do), I’m tired of changing schools, making new friends, and if she even thinks of uprooting me again, I’m calling social services. Deal with it.

Then she laughs and says, “I think you have to actually make a friend first to then make a new one, you spoiled brat.” …And there goes the wind from my sails. I’m as deflated as Ron Jeremy’s personal doll collection.



If she wants to play dirty, that’s fine. Next time she even has the idea cross her mind about moving, I’m going to beat her to the punch.

“Oh so you’re moving again, mom?”

“Yes we are, but what do you mean you’re moving, Joe?”

“Well, I was thinking you could do you and I could do me…I’d move to Mexico, start up my own business, let all my fantasies and ideas blow like crop-dust in the wind.”

“So, your future dreams and goals can be compared to flatulence, am I right?”

“No! Now you’re just putting words in my mouth! All I’m saying is: I have a splendid idea that I think would really juice up tourism in Mexico.”

“And…that would be?”

“I’m going to sell Chiclets.”

“Ummmm, you know that’s slang for cocaine, don’t you?”

“Mother, no.….I was referring to the square chewing gum. Come on, don’t be ignorant! You get like 58 pieces for a nickel at every Mexican restaurant in America. Granted they dissolve in your mouth after like six good chomps, but that’s probably why they give you a nice handful to begin with! I can see it now: Little gangly Espanola’s running to and fro in the streets, selling assorted bags of my yummy Chiclet candies. But instead of Chiclets, I’d call them Ju’s Chews… … yeah… I need to Google the translation for that.”

“Well, I can say without a doubt, I’ve never been more proud of you, son.”

Soooo that’s how the conversation would go… in my head. But, she’d probably make some smartass remark like,

“Hah. I’d give my liver to an alcoholic to see you fail in that endeavor, Josephina..You're going to need a new idea because that one's already taken, bud. ”

Whatever…

What else is new?? Mom got a new car; dad and I got season tickets to UGA from Gmama and Gdaddy. Both were AWESOME presents! There’s really not too much else to say other than the window at the new apartment is already getting tricky to see through due to the snot I’ve smeared on every inch of it. I sit by that damn window for eight hours every day waiting on mother’s return…and she wonders why I have separation anxiety….Hmmpph. I’ll post a video or something cool tomorrow.

See ya on the flip side! Muahahahahh!

Touch of Gay

So I had myself a nervous breakdown this morning, and figured I’d share my thoughts on this experience with my dedicated fan base.



As I was doing my daily flexing, spritzing and plucking regime (ehemm), out of the corner of my eye, a patch of shimmering gray hairs snatch my attention away from my flabtastic muscular physique. Before I decided to sashay my way to Walgreens to purchase the first economy size bottle of Just for Men in sight, I began to marinate on the situation...and then…

Light bulb!



A little bit of gray hair is natural, and, not to mention, the perfect scheme for getting me into the bars I’ve been trying to creep into since ’08; like Minx Nightclub and Lounge, Crocodile Rock, Hair of the Dog, The Hen House, The Thirsty Turtle, Horse Feathers Grill & Lounge, Pelican Pub, Green Iguana, Red Dog Bar, The Fox Jazz Club. 2011’s blessing in disguise, really. Thanks Father Time!

I mean, who’s ever heard of a 4 year old with temples of ash and a beard of steel gray? I’d be Atlanta’s sexiest silver fox. Almost reminiscent of Brad Pitt’s character in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at his absolute dog-gone finest (or when his age actually matched his appearance). Am I comparing myself to THE Brad Pitt? You bet your stanky leg I am.

But just picture this: me waltzing into the club, dawning a captain’s hat, a blue fitted sports coat and crisp, white linen shorts. There hasn’t been a more perfect match since dingy, coarse hair met coconut-infused leave-in conditioner (at least in my case. Thanks Miracle Coat!) Every pair of hungry eyes would be on me (predictably so). I’d be the center of every little man’s nautical fantasy… It’d be just like that episode of Will and Grace....



Or perhaps, I’ll try a Latin club like the Minx. Even if the gray hair didn’t do the trick, they’re pretty lenient on letting minors slip under the red rope. I can see it now: I’d rumba, samba, merengue and salsa my way into the hearts of Benjamin Bratt and Emilo Estevez. Speaking of Emilio, let’s take a minute to appreciate my all-time favorite movie indirectly staring Mr. Sheen’s bastard brother himself… Now! Roll that beautiful bean footage…


Emilio

SAUTER | Myspace Video

Ahh, Night at the Roxbury… Such a classic film, especially for its script and cinematography…

Now! Back to me and my stance on the situation at Walgreens. While part of me wanted to completely get rid of these atrocious, stringy grays, I decided to take advantage of this ever-sophisticated look, threw the Just for Men into a discount barrel and opted for the Touch of Gray. I hope this urbane yet classy look will reel me in a top-notch stud—you know, a mountain of a man who’s dark, handsome and sweeter than 8 pound baby Jesus’ leg rolls.

Plus! Mom’s super busy looking for her perfect new condo, so I’ll have ample time to slip Johnny and Rosco in to help me make my fake I.D. I have to think of a good alter-ego name to use. Here are a few ideas:



1. Stevie Turnipseed
2. Muhammad Golightly
3. Dan Dazzle
Or my personal favorite…
4. Demitri P. Ennis

I’d like to hear some feedback, blogspot. Or maybe, throw out a few new bones for me to chew on. Until next time.

-Joe

Foot loose and prancing free :)

This just in: Dance Moms equals my new favorite television show (the marathon on Saturday had me squealing and running out the door to Michaels for ribbons and bows). Not because my mother reminds me of the haughty, vile creatures who lure and stir above the fruit of their loins, critiquing and bellowing over a mediocre pirouette piquee. But because I so desperately dream of meeting Abby Lee Miller, taking her ponderous, curvy rump for a drag and draft at the Church Brew Works, and prodding her oversized brain with questions such as:



1. Must all good dance instructors fit within the stereotype of being overweight and over-bearing with cane in right hand and cigarette in left?

2. How long did it take you to realize that you were more of a “behind-the-scenes” kind of gal rather than a front and center stage sister?

3. What’s the earliest age a child should begin smoking cigarettes to make sure they maintain a dancer’s frail-frame and a neck longer than Alexis Bledel?



And finally…

4. Can a short, black person, like myself, have a real future in ballet?



I have no doubt in my mind that Abby and I would become fast friends. I could entice her with my cat-walk (it’s more of a prance, really) and show her elegance, lace and curls really does come in a small, black (gay) package. Also, I’ve become quite the seamstress as of late (I’m currently working on a trendy bag for my friend Ophelia). If she had a place for little boys who love to reap what they sew (pardon the pun),

then I’m her sequined and stunning knight in shining (metallic) armor!!

I’ve always dreamed of dressing up little girls (and/or boys) in rhinestone leotards, poufy pink skirts and banana-shaped headbands, and that’s probably because I so badly want to be a little girl















…uhmm… uh… anyway!

Wait a tick! I think I’m on to something…MaryKate and Ashley Olson I’ve got it!!!!!

I’ll become a DRAMA TEACHER!

Oh my gosh! I’ll be able to put on performances (like I do around the house), choreograph skits, duets and numbers, all the while being behind the scenes yet indirectly at the forefront of the entire show.

It’s absurdly brilliant how brilliant my brilliance can be.

It should be a sliver of pie to get a job no one wants… right? Guess we’ll see. Maybe I’ll phone Greg Gregson and see how things are on his end of the rainbow.



I’ll be in touch <3 hugs and meechums.

-Julian Joe.