Josh & Josh are Rich and Famous

Pity Party for One (Or: I'll Have What He's Having)

The real Andrew, left, and the Andrew I photoshopped to make myself feel better, right.

If the gay world were a McDonald's Drive Thru, Andrew would be the well-dressed hot guy cruising by on the freeway in his butch Jeep Wrangler with his smart and gorgeous boyfriend lovingly batting his eyes in the passenger seat on their way to a nice sit-down restaurant in a recently gentrified neighborhood.

Meanwhile, since I can't get my act together long enough to match my socks, I'd still be angrily mumbling to myself about how the laundromat managed to eat three of my fancy argyles when I roll down the window and order a Number Two, please, with no cheese or pickle and extra ketchup.

The thing is, I don't even have a car. I'd probably be limping off the bus the same moment Andrew and Boyfriend chanced the yellow light, the daring duo.

So if I can't win in this game, I might as well sit this one out, right? Especially when I have perfection staring me right in my lazy eye.

Even if it's mostly tongue-in-cheek, that's pretty much how I feel every time I visit Andrew's MoBlog.

Sometimes I think I can handle their happiness and beauty, but then my sardonic side kicks me in the ass and feeds me a bunch of one-liners that beg to be said aloud.

"Someone's got to be cheating. Or I hope one of them is a raging alkie." [laughs]

I'm thinking: Oooh, I feel a little better.

"What absolute flakes. I mean, look at them. They're so conformist and middle-America. Bo-ring materialists."

Much, much better.

"I mean, who would want to look like that, anyway? And, shit, they're so young. I'd hate to be committed to someone at such a young age."

[beat]

Wait a minute...

"You know? It's like, fuck, man, why would anyone want to be that happy?"

Oh, shit. There it is, in all its insecure glory: insane jealousy. Quick, say something mean. Maybe you can convince it to go away.

"Fuck."

[beat]

Fuck.

Then I think about it for a while, and I conclude that, while I may harbor some initial jealous feelings toward the likes of Andrew and his boyfriend, in the end, I'm left with that bittersweet cross between contentment and loss. It's like when the Japanese won the gold medal in the women's combined figure skating competition after Sasha Cohen fell twice and I wanted to cut a random bitch on the street real deep cuz Sasha bruised her quinny; I was sad Sasha didn't win, but I knew the Japanese gal worked her ass off and deserved every ounce of that gold medal.

But.

That doesn't mean that I'm not interested in seeing the obviously sweet, charming, handsome and loyal Andrew as a mere mortal human being like me. You know, just to temporarily even the score (I'm sorry Andrew, but my only other option was to cut both your legs off. But I'm not very good with blood and I can't afford the plane ticket to Vancouver, so this'll have to do for now).

And, yes, I'd like fries with that.

Cathy from the Block

So, Catherine Zeta-Jones has been on the block all day (in the 'hood where I work) filming some sort of commercial or movie or something wherein she's in a photo booth on the street.  (Yeah, I don't get it either, really.  Perhaps some awful new T-Mobile commerical?  Your guess is as good as mine.)  I feel a little bad for the ol' Welsh girl, though, because New York City has finally decided to whip up a little frigid winter weather just as it's supposed to start becoming springtime.  The cold weather, of course, didn't stop her mane of lustrous black hair from gleaming and her bosom from heaving.  Gotta love CZJ for that.

Joe & Reese

In case you missed it, The New York Times Magazine did a really interesting photo spread of twenty-six actors recognized for their work in film this year.  (Check out the article and the full spread of pictures here.)  I thought the photographs of Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Reese Witherspoon were particuarly good.

Joseph, formerly of NBC's cutesy sitcom 3rd Rock from the Son, emerged this summer in one of the most finely-drawn film performances of the year in the disturbing and amazing Mysterious Skin. (Think Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs without the humor part.) Josh and I saw Mysterious Skin at The Lagoon in Minneapolis over the summer and it absolutely blew us away. If you see it on the shelf at your video store (or if you're clever and you have Netflix), you must check it out.  Meanwhile, how hot is Joseph? He's come a long way from 3rd Rock, baby.

Some people don't think Reese Witherspoon deserves all the hubbub and the Oscar nomination for her performance as June Carter Cash in Walk The Line, but Josh and I thought she was perfect.  She fully embodied the role, completely owning it, and I found it impossible to take my eyes off her when she was on screen.  Reese was charming and refreshing as Elle Woods in Legally Blonde, but now she has proved she's a force, and a talent, to be reckoned with.  If you haven't seen Walk the Line, check it out.  You won't be disappointed.

Ace Young & Chris Daughtry: Gentlemen, Light My Fire

Warning: This is going to be a very intellectually stimulating post. Dig out your Noam Chomsky and Foucault, kids.

That said, I think it should be understood that I would like to immediately marry and spend the rest of my life with Ace Young (above left). He nailed his performance of George Michael's "Father Figure." He worked that room effortlessly and had everybody eating out of his palm. The good boy in me wants to wear his Tiffany & Co. forever.

The bad boy in me, however, wants to get on the back of Chris Daughtry's Harley, and ride off into the sunset. The guy is very, very talented. I'd agree with the judges in saying that he has the most "recordable" voice.

I'm just waiting for the fan fiction portraying Ace and Chris as having a hot, steamy, tawdry affair to hit the Internet. (Hot.)

Even if Ace doesn't win Idol, I promise it won't be the last we see of him. Chris either.

As for the ladies, I'm still in love with Katherine McPhee, Mandisa, and Paris Bennett.

As a side note, is it just me, or do a ton of contestant have serious dental issues? And who else is frightened by Gedeon McKinney's permanent grin?

Mmmm. Ace. Chris.

Night Run, New York City

I lace up my battered New Balance shoes, music already pumping in my ears, and skip down the staircase in my apartment building. I push open the front door and the brisk February air hits my face. I breathe the air into my lungs, the cold invigorating and energizing, and head west.

I trace the sidewalks of some of the most famous avenues in the world, cruising past Park Avenue penthouses in towering brick buildings, swerve onto Madison where couture boutiques with single names whir past. Over the last few weeks, since getting back into the habit of running, my breathing has become slower, easier, more even when I run. The pace has quickened, the tiny aches and pains of first few weeks now forgotten memories. Running is mine again. I own this. I pass museums that have entire coffee table books written about them, the buildings shining like silvered jewels in the crisp Manhattan night, and pick up the pace as I trace the borders of Central Park.

I enter the park when I reach The Plaza, zipping past Wollman Rink where ice skaters cut deep grooves in the ice to the hottest new pop songs, the music echoing off the walls of the rink and pulsing out into the night. I run in the thicket of trees, shoes slapping against the pavement, passing scores of other runners lost in the hypnotic trance of their own run, faces blank, breathing heavily, billowing clouds of steamy breath coming from their mouths, looking invigorated and fiercely determined.

I join them. I become one of them. We are running together, separately, hundreds of feet hitting the ground in a vaguely musical syncopation. I lose myself in my own runner’s trance, my body working seamlessly, like a machine, feeling a slow, easy calm course through my body. This is the moment I’ve waited for: this calm, this quiet, this slow-burning peace.

I smile. I run. I run faster. My sneakers dig into the pavement and I fly through the icy air, leaving a trail of runners in my wake, pulsing forth into the night.

--Josh H.

Sights, Sounds, Words

The Joshes are Watching: The Aristocrats, Rent, The Gilmore Girls
(Oh, please, like you haven't secretly watched Gilmore Girls to soak up the guilty pleasure of smart, snappy dialogue, wholly lovable characters--I dare you to tell me you don't want Lorelei Gilmore to be your mom--and to bask in the fantasy of the utopian ideal of a small town life in the girls' Stars Hollow, Connecticut. If it were a real place, we'd be packing our bags and heading northeast. Season One down, Season Two just begun.)

In Heavy Rotation on Josh H.'s iTunes:
Hide and Seek | Imogen Heap
The District Sleeps Alone Tonight (DJ Downfall Mix) | The Postal Service
I Found A Reason | Cat Power
Lua | Bright Eyes
These Words | Natasha Beddingfield
Haiku Ten | Sigmatropic with Cat Power

Josh H. Is Reading: The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
(Sure, it was a movie that had Barbara Streisand in it. But years before it was just a book known for it's startlingly beautiful, evocative prose. Intermingling the past and present, mixing childhood days in the South with modern life in New York City, it's a magnificent stew of well-hewn characters, unforgettable settings, and delicious language.)

Maybe It's a Football Thing

You know how sometimes you’re just sitting around with your buddy, watching the game on TV and having a brew, and then your team scores and you celebrate by making out with ferocious, insatiable intensity? Yeah, you know how that goes. So do these guys from MadTV. Check out this funny and surprisingly sweet video here. (Thanks, Steph and Alex.)

Josh & Josh Celebrity Sighting #357 (Or: Why Josh K. Doesn't Drink Much)

I had two margaritas under my belt. I wasn't as drunk as I was "feeling the vibe." (I'm a lightweight and a cheap date.) So, of course, like a complete idiot, I take the opportunity to introduce myself to the beautiful Jonathan Rhys-Meyers while he innocently stood smoking a cigarette outside the [gay-ish Hell's Kitchen] restaurant we both patronized. Below is the exciting recap of the 30 seconds I spent with him.

Me: Is your name Jonathan?

Rhys-Meyers (with an Irish accent): Yes. Yes, it is.

Me: Wow. It's a pleasure to meet you. Uh. So . . . how's the cigarette tonight?

Rhys-Meyers: It's good, thanks. What's your name?

[Jonathan extends his hand. I take it and shake it.]

Me: Josh. My name is Josh.

Rhys-Meyers: It's nice to meet you.

Me: You, too. Well, I don't mean to bother you. Have a good night.

Rhys-Meyers: You too.

I want to note that, in real life, he looks more like Joaquin Pheonix than Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Which is odd because he actually is Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. But, still, I thought he might have been Joaquin. Of course, that could have been the result of my pathetic resistance to alcohol. Which is why I don't usually drink. Because I make a complete ass of myself (even more than usual) and say inappropriate things and approach famous people and ask them to describe for me, a perfect stranger, exactly how different the cigarette they're smoking is from the thousands they've smoked before it. I mean, what did I expect? A dissertation? A crotch grap? Fellatio?

Thank god I didn't break out my camera. Because that would have been tacky.

--Josh K.

The Day Dick Went Postal

Is anybody else getting serious laugh mileage about Mr. Dick Cheney, our beloved vice president (gag, gag), shooting a fellow hunter over the weekend?  The laugh quotient grows as the White House uncomfortably acknowledges that President Bush knew about the shooting as soon as it happened and that the White House held the story as long as possible.

First of all, let's talk about what we all know is true: This was no accident.  You know that the hunter, a prominent Texas Republican lawyer, did somethin' that pissed off Dick Cheney.  All of the AP reports I've read about the story mention what a highly skilled hunter and gunman Cheney is.  So, if that's true, doesn't that make you wonder about a few things?  You know the guy said something Cheney so did not agree with, even if it was years ago, even the offending phrase was only gently implied and whispered one time over drinks in the corner of a room during a Christmas party in the mid-1990s. Cheney had it in for this guy.

What do you do when somebody pisses you off and he's hunting with you?  Why, you spray him with bird shot, that's what. It's only logical.

And now the news agencies are reporting that this septuagenarian lawyer who got shot is again in the ICU after suffering a heart attack related to the shooting.  They believe some of the bird shot got lodged in his heart and caused the lovely ol' infarction. 

Poor guy.  It sucks when the VP has it out for you.  Especially when the Veep is Cheney.

In other news, David Letterman shares my glee.  He did a Top Ten list last night, and #2 and #4 are my personal favorites.

Top Ten Dick Cheney Excuses

10. "Heart palpitation caused trigger finger to spasm"

9. "Wanted to get the Iraq mess off the front page"

8. "Not enough Jim Beam"

7. "Trying to stop the spread of bird flu"

6. "I love to shoot people"

5. "Guy was making cracks about my lesbian daughter"

4. "I thought the guy was trying to go 'gay cowboy' on me"

3. "Excuse? I hit him, didn't I?"

2. "Until Democrats approve medicare reform, we have to make some tough choices for the elderly"

1. "Made a bet with Gretzky's wife"

The Burrito That Ate My Birthday

How did I spend my birthday, you ask?

Barfing. That’s how. And it all started with a Chipotle burrito.

Let’s start with the fact that I love Chipotle. Totally love it. I thought it might be fun to get myself a big ol’ burrito on my birthday, but apparently that was the wrong decision.

On the bus, minutes from home, I had a very sudden realization: I am going to throw up. Now. A lot.

Once I got in my front door of my apartment I did just that. Again, and again, and again.

Instead of having drinks with my friends and dinner with Josh K. in SoHo for my twenty-third birthday, I spent it curled up in bed with a fever, headache, back pains, serious stomach cramps, and running back and forth from the bathroom every twenty minutes to retch my innards out.

Pure glamour. All of it. I heart food poisoning.

At the end of the night, when the barfing had slowed, Josh K. came to my bedroom.

“Hey, let’s make a deal,” he said. “Let’s pretend that today never happened, that today isn’t your birthday. This weekend we’ll go out and have a big dinner and then that—that’ll be your birthday.”

In my fevered, exhausted haze, I smiled.

“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got a deal.”

Josh & Josh Celebrity Sighting #356

We see a lot of celebrities here in New York City.

But who cares, right? Not you, I'm sure. But, just for fun, let's say you did. And let's pretend that Pink Is the New Blog doesn't exist and that Josh & Josh is the source of all things cool in celebrityland and that this post isn't just a filler and that you really care that today at 12:35 pm I ran into one of the stars of Lost.

I know you're really excited for this.

Okay.

Today I crossed the street with Josh Holloway at 42nd and Madison. I was directly behind him. We were on the northeast corner of the intersection and he was wearing True Religion jeans and a grey knit hat whose brand I tried to catch the name of but couldn't because Josh then made his way to the trash can into which he threw his cigarette and then veered left (while I went to the right), rendering my craned head and squinted four eyes useless. I'm such a let down, I know. But please understand that he was tall, beautiful, and well-dressed and that I was hungry, frumpy, and on my way to Subway to get a 12-inch turkey on wheat.

--Josh K.

Looking Back on Twenty-Two

This week I turn twenty-three. Yes, alas, I am officially leaving the normative undergraduate demographic, that intriguing 18-22 segment, behind me.

Twenty-two was a big year. In a way, I think it was one of the most important years I’ve had. When I turned twenty-two in February of last year, I was still a college student, living on campus. I was an RA in the dorms, spending my days in class, surrounded by friends, eating from the cornucopia of plenty that is dorm food, spending my weekends with movies and pizza boxes and stacks of homework, looking ahead to graduation in May.

I spent the summer working at an amazing up-and-coming restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. After work I’d scoot over to Josh K.’s apartment, just south of downtown, and we’d sit on his big green couch and stare out the wide-open windows, contemplating our lives and our futures.

Then came the end of August. Josh and I packed two suitcases each, mailed a few books, and hopped a flight to New York City. We moved to the city on the ballsy confidence (ignorance?) that is so common with youth, moving to the biggest city in the United States without jobs, without a ton of money, and without knowing anybody but our roommate.

Fast-forward five months, and here we are. Josh and I are both working full-time. I’ve got health insurance and a 401(k) and I’m making more money than I thought I would be. I’m taking a writing class in the Village. We’ve met a couple of friends, I’ve dated a couple of guys. Life here is becoming normal. Yes, there are hiccups. Actually, sometimes there are seismic collisions that are reminiscent of a hurricane, earthquake, and tsunami striking simultaneously, but with each one, Josh and I have worked through whatever this city and our little lives have thrown us.

The bottom line: I’m doing this—this whole adult life thing, this whole surviving thing, this whole living life in New York City thing. I haven’t fallen flat and irrevocably on my face, I haven’t gone into debt, I haven’t lost (all) hope. I consider those to be accomplishments.

So, I leave the year of twenty-two behind me. I’m actually kind of sad to see it go. Twenty-three sounds . . . different. It sounds hard to place, as if it’s a year in which uncertain things happen. Maybe that’s accurate. But, maybe it could be a year that a lot of new, good, exciting things happen.

And, think of this: Who knows where I’ll be for my twenty-fourth birthday? Who knows what I’ll be doing? I could be here in New York City, I could be in Paris, I could be in Minneapolis, I could be in California. Maybe I’ll still be in the non-profit sector, but maybe I’ll be focusing on writing or I’ll be going back to school, or I’ll . . .

Actually, anything is kind of possible. And I think that’s what I’ll like most about twenty-three, even if I do have to leave twenty-two behind.

--Josh H.

Winter? More Like Spring

It's 65 degrees (17 C) in Manhattan today.  I ate my lunch, sans jacket, in Washington Square Park, and soaked it up.

It's warmer today in New York City than in Los Angeles (LA coming in at a paltry 62 degrees, natch) and it's three times as warm here as it is in our hometown, Minneapolis, coming in at an icy 22 degrees (-5 C).

All this temperate weather makes me feel like I've gotten away with something, like I should feel a little guilty for enjoying the spoils of a tiny stolen treasure.

--Josh H.

An Open Letter to Miss Julianne Moore

Dear Jules,

Let me start by saying that I completely love you. I think you are amazing. You were spot on in Boogie Nights, you rocked the house in The Hours, Heaven was gorgeous, and Magnolia was almost revolutionary.

But, my sweet darling, you and I must have a chat. Come, sit down beside me with your mug of Starbucks, and let's have a little tête-a-tête.

Honey, you can't keep playing the troubled mom/housewife. It's tired, darling, and they're going to pen you into these roles forever if you're not careful. Let's just count roles where you've played housewives (most of them desperate), or disturbed mothers, or both: Safe, Boogie Nights, The Shipping News, The Hours, The Forgotten, The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. . . . I could go on.

And The Forgotten? What was that about, anyway? A bad alien movie hidden inside the shell of a movie about a possibly crazy woman torn over the loss of her adorable son? Girl, if you needed a little pocket money and that's why you made it, you coulda just asked me.

But now--now I see the previews on TV for this new heap of a movie you're in called Freedomland about--oh my God, what a shock--another tortured mom whose poor son has had something bad happen to him. You've got to be tired of these roles that make no use of you and your talent. Sure, this big studio fare pays better, but the end product is so much emptier. I mean, a movie about your son getting kidnapped in a carjacking? And then your character says a black guy did it, so the whole town starts rioting à la Los Angeles circa 1992? Please.

I'm sorry, babe. You've got my devotion. I really do love you. You're a tour de force. But you've got to get yourself out of these movies. It ain't doin' you or anybody else any favors.

Peace out, sister. Let's hope there's better stuff comin' in your near future.

The Day I Regretted Being a Creative

Being a starving artist means doing a lot of pro bono work just so you can add another polished bullet point to your otherwise pathetic resume.

But I don't mind it. Really. I don't.

Like, whenever my dear friend D calls and says, Hey, Josh, we need a flyer designed for this play we're doing and we need it by tomorrow, I say, Yes, Dana, Yes, I'll do it.

And then when I finish it and send it to her and her cohorts and she calls and says, Um, well, the director thinks it looks a little too Clockwork Orange, I say, Okay, D, okay, I'll work on that.

But she goes on:

And while you're working on that can you make Vaclav's name a lot bigger, the director's name smaller, get rid of those big spikey things and change the font to something a little more, oh, I don't know, less harsh? Also, make it sepia-toned if you can. It's a little bright. And did you try using a peep hole instead of an eye? The director doesn't really like the eye. You don't have to change much, really; everything else is perfect. I love it. I really do.

And so then, as politely as I can, I say, D, D dear, I'm doing this for free, I'm tired, it's midnight, I have to be at work in nine hours, I'm hungry, and you're telling me that I don't have to change much but what you're really saying is Change Everything and Make It Good For God's Sake and I'm telling you that it is good and that I'll do my best but I can't promise much more than what I've already given you at this point.

I start over. I send her the new design. The director likes it but not as much as the first one. He asks me to use the first design but change some of the colors. Make it cooler. Less Firey.

So I do. And they love it.

And then I vow to rethink my life as a starving artist and wonder if maybe business school isn't such a bad idea.

Of course, that would be too easy.

(An aside: Ten points to whoever can guess whose eye that is.)

--Josh K.

* * *

Largo Desolato opens this Friday, February 3rd, produced by Beyond the Wall Productions and playing at Abingdon Theatre Arts Complex (312 West 36th Street). Tickets are available at Smart Tix. A summary:

Written by the famed playwright and statesman Vaclav Havel, and translated by Tom Stoppard, Largo Desolato follows Professor Leopold Nettles as he struggles with his beliefs, inner demons, friends, followers, and a government bent on silencing him after he publishes a controversial essay. One of the former Czech President's best-known plays, "Largo Desolato vividly dramatizes the multiple contradictions of the intellectual trapped in a totalitarian nightmare."

Three Brazilian

"So Rumsfeld is giving Bush his daily briefing. Rummy says, 'Mr. President, yesterday three Brazilian soldiers were killed.' Bush says, 'Oh, no! That's terrible!' Everybody's kinda stunned and confused at the president's reaction, but nobody says anything. Bush just sits there for a minute, his head in his hands. Finally, he looks up and says, 'How many is a brazillion?'"

--Tim McGraw in Esquire, January 2006, p. 132