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It’s just Gossip, Girl!


So, I know that my loyal readers are constantly looking forward to the musings of my weekly events and the comings and goings of San Francisco’s eccentric gay community. This week, however, there is bigger news brewing than Hillary’s Pennsylvania victory, (will this ever end!) or Ronaldo’s tranny drug scandal. This week, the most amazing, spectacular, life changing event happened in the history of my column: "Gossip Girl" officially claimed its place as the filthiest, most scandalous, most fabulous, most ama(h)zing and just the fucking best show in the gay television empire. Watch out Bravo, and stop cat fighting Heidi and Iman, there is a hot new set of it-hags on the block.

So, while I could be talking about feeling bored and tired at Thursday’s Hot Chip concert, or how I spent my weekend idling away at Dolores Park, I would rather just get right down to business! How fucking amazing was this past week’s episode, people! I mean, hearing New York Magazine call "Gossip Girl" the Best.Show.Ever. was one great high, but watching it was truly believing. My heart was racing, wondering what Michelle Trachtenberg was going to do next, who Blaire Waldorf was going to personally annihilate, or how Jenny was going to straddle two worlds. It was really one of the best hours of my week.

And then, as if to spoil the rest of the episode, the teaser for next weeks epic scandalizing episode was, like, HELLO! How could it possibly get any better? But there it was, the most intense 45-seconds of the show, served up raw! Sex-tape scandals? A gay outing? Celine bathroom attire hanging loosely off of young, nubile flesh? OMG! Time has all but stopped as I sit by waiting for next week’s episode. And what really kills me, I know that the trailer for that will be just as revelatory! For the Lord’s sake, surrender me now! How will I be able to live without it! I can already tell it is going to be one long, hard summer waiting for season two!

Now, whilst waiting for show time to finally arrive, I did have some distractions of note. It wasn’t like I was holed up at a clock waiting for the moment to arrive, since I haven’t lost myself to meth and I got bills to pay if you know what I mean. I lived outside the realm of the interweb. I saw a concert and was neither over nor underwhelmed, and the same goes for the movie Baby Mama that I saw on Sunday night. I wined and dined at my favorite digs, Pauline’s Pizza on Valencia, where I learned that chocolate cheese and bacon make a splendid pairing. I even attended some impromptu raver-tastic dance fest in Dolores Park and reclaimed my place at the pivotal bend in the manshelf. In fact, I am sure I saw most of my readers there; Hey Ya’ll. Didn’t you love my fringed poncho?

Let me tell you, I saw plenty of shit, henny! I saw a certain tranny den-mother scrambling to keep her little chicks in a row. Then there was the released assumed identity of a certain Mission hipster whose alleged tale of “bunking” with M.I.A. at Coachella may, much to my dismay, be founded in some semblance of truth. Someone even farted directly into a certain castrophile’s face! It was a mess, trust. But who are these scandalous, ridiculous rabble rousers, anyway?

And what happened that all of a sudden it makes it okay to wear a fucking handkerchief in your hair everyday like that little twunk at a certain Castro watering hole. Get a haircut, sweetie, Meatloaf did and my drink tastes like Pert Plus! Let me go, lest I say any more, as I am about to break a pinkyswear, which I have sworn to never do!