Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep

THE IKEA-YEAR ITCH

"Sweetie, I promise; after we people-watch - and I finish my lingonberry martini - Mommy will pick you up a nice Lewenhaupt on the way out."
"But Mom, will it match my Hastfer-Bielke?"

 

 

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep like the insanity brought on by cheaply-made/vastly-reduced Swedish furniture and the nutcases it attracts? I don't know, but, let's NOT fill me in, okay? I've seen enough to last several lifetimes.

 

[Just because your tee sports the Gold's Gym name and logo front and center, it doesn't automatically make you skinny. Especially when it's at least 2 sizes too small. A muffin-top isn't thin, even when you call it low-cal.]

 

My friends John and Mike - an adorable couple who nearly give me diabetes they're so sweetly cute together [seriously, if I ever get half as happy in a relationship as they are? I've done it right] - asked me to meet them  [read: bribed me with lunch] at IKEA while they bought a few things.

 

After getting lost trusting GoogleMaps AND the friggin' signs [seriously, how shittily must you label your roads Northern VA?] I went with my gut and classic Ooh-I-sorta-recognize-these-landmarks to make it there.

 

[You'd think I couldn't get lost taking the straight-shot to a GINORMOUS mall and IKEA; you'd also think I wasn't screaming at every assclap on the road, but, then, you'd be wrong.]

 

Despite getting lost, I beat the boys there - how the hell? - and waited for them in the everything-lingonberry cafeteria. And despite my sitting ASFARAWAYFROMEVERYONEASFUCKINGPOSSIBLE I was quickly surrounded by cheerful families and bitterly nursing my very-obviously-75cents-burned-coffee.

 

Scowl in-place. 

 

Glaring and hating the perky people who'd suddenly surrounded me. Despite my love of all-things-possibly-bought here [and a compulsive-shopping form of OCD] I'm always in a bad mood at IKEA.

 

They found me 10minutes later and, somehow, soon had me laughing [have I mentioned how much I love these two? Because I do].

 

Much oohing and awing occured (including my awwing over how cute John and Mike are together - seriously, we're talking toothache level of sweet here, people) and we'd soon circled the whole of the place picking up damn-near-everything as we trailed the main floors.

 

[So many good deals, hideous outfits and how-I-want-to-punch-them-Hipsters float around an IKEA, you'd think it's their spawning grounds]

 

Despite coming with a specific set of shopping goals.

 

And spending limits.

 

While I watch these two friends of mine - and resist the urge to fling the inordinately ugly umlauted-name-tauting hideous whatever-the-hell-it-is into the nearest speaker screeching Lady Gaga [seriously, IKEA?] - I think back on my last two trips here.

 

.....

 

  "Ooh, look - I can see my house from up here."
"Dude, you can see the curvature of the earth from up here."

 

In 2006 I visited the church of all-things-Swede with my then-boyfriend, Patrick (a chef), and we did the rounds of the main floor - canoodling, holding hands and being that nauseatingly-cute couple everyone (including me) hates. Focusing on the various kitchens we contemplated just what types of appliances and layouts really struck us.

 

[Being 23 and 19, we really had no business looking at a future like that - looking back.]

 

I mean, I loved leaning against my almost-pocket-gay boyfriend for stolen kisses while we judged [harshly] the butcher-block tiered-kitchen-island in one layout. But, picturing a future together after only a month and a half of dating? WTF? He laughed and smiled at all the right moments, but, was reserved when my glance fell away. I should have seen the writing on the wall.

 

[Read: not have been such a complete dumbass.]

 

Cut to a week later, he went on vacation with his family.

 

A week after that? I received a Dear John Letter via myspace e-mail.

 

Not learning the perils of IKEA on my fragile relationships, I went back in 2007 with my new (and-probably-rebound) boyfriend [okay, everyone sees it coming, right?] Andrew. Together only a few weeks we both needed to pick up a few things from our friendly neighborhood (okay, 25miles away) IKEA.

 

My obsessive-compulsive shopping - which some have commented borders on lunatic - dragged us all over each of the floors, picking up various items we had no need (or want) of. Of course, I commented on how cute the giant bed with 50s vintage room-set would be if we got an apartment down the road.

 

[Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me.]

 

Less than a week later, in preparations for a matching Hallowe'en couple's costume Andrew says he's busy.

 

And doesn't call me back the next day. Or the day after. Or the week after.

 

Oh, IKEA, your Banshee wail calls out the death of my relationships.

 

Of course, most would argue those relationships were doomed and IKEA just helped speed them up. I call those people busy-bodies who need to shut the ... I mean, friends.

 

.....

 

As we exit with the LED under-bed lights John and Mike came for in tow - shopping victory I say! - I mumble to myself: True, IKEA seems to hasten my relationships' demises - as it brings out more of my neurotic and rather bitchier sides - but, it isn't my enemy.

 

As I walk with my friends, and watch their adorable banter [again, so friggin' cute, these two], I know they're in no danger of falling victim to my IKEA-year itch.

 

 

Doll Flowers

I'm scared just looking at the picture. I just know Marie Osmond is behind this horror bouquet!

 

 

 

Pushy Holiday Merchandising

Santa Valentine spotted in Los Angeles at CVS on December 23rd.

 

Condom Christmas Ornaments

Hot to some. A waste to others. and a weepy-ass WTF? to the rest of us. Of course if these loaded tree condoms were selling at a trendy gift shop, they'd be going for $15.95 or some shit. I think the pic is actually the work of some bored tweens.

Christmas Light Hell

Horrible Thanksgiving Centerpieces

Although a work of great artistic skill and talent, a Cheetos and toothpick turkey sculpture is about as weepily redneck as you can get in the WTF? category of Thanksgiving centerpieces.

 
LED Turkey for ridiculous techy hipsters.

 

 

Loch Ness Nessie's cousin Tessie Turkey.

 

Even the cat hates this homegrown mess.

 

All hail the magical white pumpkin and it's nutty followers.

 

WTF Potato inspiration.

 

The Whole Foods Produce aisle makes quite a lovely horrible centerpiece for green lovers.

 

Beware of Edible Turkey From Hell, it wants to ruin your Thanksgiving.

 

 

 

 

Caged Easter Bunnies

 
So who was the dumbass that thought the Animal Testing Cage look would be a perfect Easter novelty for kids? WTF???? Showing up in stores several years ago, these pathetic caged Easter bunnies even look sad - like they are pleading for help: "Save me, I don't want to eat the plastic carrot injected with foot cream!" Every time I see one my gay heart weeps, wanting to engage my hands in tearing apart the cage and setting the fake Easter bunny free. It should be allowed to live a full Easter bunny novelty life by having its ears and eyes torn off by a hellspawn child and eventually becoming the chew toy of a dog or cat.

 

SINGING IN[DOORS] THE RAIN

 

By Benjamin Kissell

What makes a Gay Heart Weep like an Extrme Home Makeover candidate with [closet-case] Ty Pennington's arms wrapped around his shoulders? Why, it's the need for home rennovation or repair - simple words which can strike a cold, dread fear into a Gay Heart's ... uhm, gay heart.

Now, don't get me wrong - many a Gay Heart is more than proficient in working power tools [outside of the bedroom at that] - but, we ALL know that any home repair project will take 2-10 times longer than estimated and make everyone involved suffer like a Rebecca Black music video [and if you don't get that reference, be oh-so-very glad].

After my adventures with the Panic[bath]Room in LA, you'd think I'd have had my fill of bathroom hi-jinks. Which is why this completely caught me off-guard yesterday morning.

........................

 

Still groggy [read: late night with editing and reading british chick lit with a Guinness chaser], I shuffle into my shared bathroom - my roommate's cat nipping at my fuzzy-pink house slippers - at an unGodly hour [okay, so it was 9am, potato/po-tah-to] still in my pajamas. Exhausted, the 3 foot walk from my bedroom door to the bathroom door is interminable.

With the cat solidly placing herself on my foot - belly up, demanding love and rubs - I nudge the door open and am greeted by the softly filtered light through the blinds. My morning ablutions wait for no man and soon I am sitting on the [closed, I'm not that crass] toilet letting my morning face-wash clear my pores when I hear a strange sound ...

#plunk

This piques my interest, but not enough to open my eyes. Soon, it is joined by a second and third ...

#plunk - plunk

By the time I'm washing my face-wash off in the sink the quiet plunk has almost started its own band. I pop open my eyes ... and see nothing amiss. Reaching for the handtowel I dry myself off and tilt my head backwards.

#plunk-thunk-blecht-FUCK

That? Was the sound of a steady stream of water pouring straight down in a series of "small" drips on my face from THE CEILING. Ceiling water in a bathroom translates to toilet-pipe water. Toilet-pipe water just fell all over my Just. Washed. Face.

Repressing the urge to scream [in a totally butch and manly way, of course], run and hide under the covers muttering "PlagueAin'tGonnaGetMe", I frantically wash my face in the sink until my face is sore - I shall be clean.

Washing my face almost-raw, I'm trembling with unease. Looking in the mirror, my eye catches onto something: what appears to be a large bubble directly over the shower-curtain bar.

Slowly, I turn. [Cue the horror-movie theme music.]

The bubble? Is the bowed-out drop-ceiling tile.

Being the smart, college-educated and well-read person brimming with common-sense I do what anyone with 2 functioning brain-cells wouldn't do ... I poke it with my fingertip.

The ensuing deluge of toilet-pipe-water streaming down and loud string of expletives were seen coming by anyone-other-than-me a mile away.

The next hour found me scoured [again], dressed nicely and calmly down at the apartment complex' main office where I politely [I know, I'm surprised, too] told the owners about my little "bathroom ceiling troubles". Being the efficient and on-the-ball people that they are [I'm not being sarcastic, for once] they promise to deal with it and by the time I got home from my erranding, I was greeted by this:

 

They promise the job (something to do with replacing 3 major pipes) will be done in 2-4 days. Who's betting on 2-4 weeks?

GETTING TRAPPED IN A PANIC[BATH]ROOM

 

By Benjamin Kissell

What makes a Gay Heart cry choking sobs of panic? Terrifying, shuddering, seething weeping tears? When ensconced in a plush hotel room, finding oneself not in the frilly bathroom but in a beautifully painted and decked-out Panic Room. A Panic[bath]Room if you will.

After the trauma of the Fashion Faux Pas [my article Airport Fashion Failures] and the Wish-I'd-Had-Xanax-Assisted-First-Ever-Flight, we [Mum and me, judge away, but it was a free trip and a great time] are accomodated in the posh Universal City Hilton in a lovely suite [see? Worth it] on the 6th floor.

Our every need is met while staying there (from the optional personal valets to the on-the-spot-ironing) and we may or may not have spent the first 3 nights in LA enjoying the exceptional Room Service cuisine [oh hush up, they made a freaking amazing California Club sandwich and chocolate cake]. Everything is amazing here. Everything is superbly relaxing. That is, except for the bathroom.

The bathroom is lovely - a calm collection of blond wood, sandstone and a soft blue-white lighting - except for the door, which is painted to match the light colouring: It's solid steel.

Heavier than the hotel room's door and more awkward to open or close. This has the makings of Panic Room: all that's missing is Jodi Foster with a bad haircut and Kristin Stewart's stiff acting [yes, I will get a Twilight dig when/ where I can].

Completing the Panic[bath]Room there was a wall-mounted-phone next to the toilet [fancy? Or last-ditch-rescue?] And a small bolt-lock on the door as well as the lock within the doorknob. The decor attempts gorgeous, all soothing and chic; until you get trapped in it.

Let's take this in, shall we?

I. Got. Trapped.

No, I don't need a Caution: Slow sign to be posted next to my apartment [a la Family Guy], I was merely a victim of bathroom-relaxation [and that's my story].

After a very quiet bath during the afternoon, I lounged in the bathroom basking in the tranquility of the atmosphere [letting my caffeine-free mind relax], re-reading Bright Lights, Big Ass on my eReader and thinking of what to do about the growing zit on my forehead. I stood to leave and couldn't.

Awkwardly clutching my towel I fought with the door handle to no avail. Jiggle up? Nothing. Jiggle down? An angry click. Pull down and push forward? Still nothing.

Is this how it ends? In naught-but-a-towel with a giant zit on my forehead in a Panic[bath]Room in LA?

I plop down on the plush bathmat and glare at the door. Fuming for what felt like hours [a full 7 minutes] my eyes darted up to the top of the door and saw ... the damnable bolt-lock was in-place.

Hmm. Really?

Guess it did relax me. Good thing I wasn't already reaching for the emergency-toilet-phone.

Of course, when Mum got back she sagely looked at the door and commented that it looked sturdy enough to hold during an earthquake.

Guess it's an EarthquakeProof[bath]Room. I panicked for nothing.

Ugly Sculptures In Front of Office Buildings

 
Why is it so many office buildings end up with atrocious sculptures in their courtyards? When they commission these artists and pay them big bucks, do they have any idea they will end up with something that looks like a reject from an alien invasion movie?

This hideous installation is in Beverly Hills of all places! On the corner of Wilshire Blvd. and Beverly Dr, I gag and weep every time I see it because it's right in front of my bank and I'm forced to walked by the twisted, revolting heap that was no doubt created by a blow torch happy artist who raided a scrap metal yard and then went in search of a discontinued paint color on sale at Home Depot.

An interesting fact about about this particular weepy sculpture is that Ron Howard and Brian Grazer's production offices are in that building. How could you allow that to happen Ron? You make amazing films and shows and right at your doorway sits an heinous eyesore that should be hauled off to the dump. 

 
While taking the pics, passersby who had never seen the warped peach horseshoes, grimaced and stared in shock. One old man (visible in the pic below at the crosswalk) said, "What the hell is that thing? It's so ugly!" I told him it was from outer space and we need to find away to send it back.

 
How thoughtful of the blow torch artist to incorporate seating in case someone wanted to sit under the twisted orange arches and make their ass sore.