Remember the days when trying to find gay friendly travel required you to have to rummage through the back pages of gay publications in the hope of finding somewhere that accepted you for your sexuality, but didn’t have you ending up in a dungeon being whipped and chained up as part of a “fun gay weekend away”? Yep, us too.

Well thank the lordy that’s all changed. Now thanks to a host of new discrimination laws people don’t have the power to turn us away in a growing number of countries and have found they actually like us when they invite us in… something undoubtedly to do with our excellent taste and additional interior design tips we usually leave on the bedside table. It’s also not just the hotels themselves who are becoming more friendly.. so are the booking sites with Agoda being one that has definitely caught our eye with it’s ever increasingly listing of gay focused and gay friendly hotels.

Not checked it out yourself yet? Well you should. With oodles of gay friendliness and brilliant discounts this is one site you can’t afford to miss next time you’re off travelling!

Click here to visit Agoda.com

Right about now, there are an insanely incalculable number of questions cavorting in my mind, and per usual beyond being just absolutely random, they are also formidably useless. But I can’t help it if I am a thinker. And not only do I think a lot but I also worry beaucoup about a lot of things of massive importance: When will gas prices reasonably drop? Is there ever going to be peace in the Middle East? Will Lindsay Lohan ever get sober? Is MTV ever going to play music videos again? Will “Footloose” (the remake) be as much of a success as the first one?

But, hands down, the most daunting question I struggle with, more often than not, is, while the unlikely does usually happen, why is it always happening to me?
Now it’s a known fact that I don’t have kids (yet), but, and this may come as shock to you, I do have boys – two of them! While, I can quite decide if they’re on the cusp of puberty or already going through it, one thing I know for sure is that they’re both spectacularly rebellious and remarkably mentally retarded. And please don’t you jump on your high horse and lecture me about my not politically correct use of the word “retard”. I don’t mean it in a derogatory way but rather in its very academic, medical sense. It’s been proven that the brain of teenagers doesn’t reach its full development until the age of twenty-five, so that technically means that anyone below a quarter of a century in age is mentally retarded – at least partially.

Much to my despair and regret, my boys are no exception. They continuously excel at displaying the most absurd of behaviors, which means they’re completely out of their minds – or else they just immensely enjoy embarrassing me. Of course I’m referring to my grandpa and little puppy Georgie. Those two are just trouble – individually, separately and collectively. I’m not gonna lie. Humanly impossible to parent them especially when they’re together. They’re partners in crime always up to no good, and evidently everything turns into double trouble!

So the other day, I was on baby-sitting duty and decided to take the boys out to lunch. We settled on our favorite Lebanese restaurant in Manhattan Beach because: one, the food is delicious; two, they have an outside patio where the likes of Georgie’s species are allowed; three, it’s the only cuisine containing vegetables that grandpa will actually eat without bitching about it; and four, Georgie loves kafta with hummus – grandpa’s leftovers which he with out fail, yet not so inconspicuously, sneaks under the table thinking I am absolutely blind (or stupid) and can’t see even though I am sitting right across the table inches away from him.
I could make a big stink about it, but I never say a word. They have me right where they want me and I am consciously letting those two have at it. After all, it’s not a big deal if they both think they’re totally getting away with this shit. And if anything, I’m actually very pleased to see that my Georgie has fully embraced his Lebanese cultural heritage. That, and also the fact that I don’t want to develop a reputation as the mucho unhip forty year-old constipated disciplinarian. It’d be devastatingly tragic for my once upon a time, not so long ago in the 80s, so fashionably cool and trendy ancient booty.

There we were savoring our decadently succulent entrees when not even two minutes after the plates had been dropped on the table, the waitress suddenly came back. As any other normal human being would surely deduct, I automatically assumed she reappeared to do the customary courteous round of “is everything to your liking” check. Not so much! Grandpa and I (and Georgie) were barely two bites into our meal when Dumb Dumb (that would be the nickname we endearingly gave our fabulously retarded waitress) asked:
“Will you have room for any dessert today? We have a homemade traditional chocolate Baklava and a rice pudding with rosewater that’s to die for.”

Needless to say, I shot her a murderously nasty look as in “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Seriously who in their right minds, enquires about dessert when the freaking entrees haven’t even been consumed yet?
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was purposefully stupid or just stupidly anxious to mentally compute how much tips she’d approximately be making off of our party.
Of course grandpa who always forgets to wear his hearing aids, missed the whole sales pitch on the alleged decadent desserts.
“What did she say?” grandpa enquired.
“She wanted to know if we would have room for dessert,” I replied loudly enunciating every word for him to hear but also for dramatic effect seeing that Dumb Dumb was still within audio vicinity.
“Is she serious? What a moron!” grandpa belched out obviously not aware of the volume level at which he was speaking – but that’s what happens when you’re hearing impaired, you think everyone else is deaf too.

It’s hard to gage whether Dumb Dumb heard him or not, but I’ll go with she didn’t.
How else would you explain the fact that five minutes later, she paid us another visit and again attempted to have us revisit her original idea?
“So how about now? Do you think you will save enough space for desserts, coffee or cappuccino?” she said with as much gusto as the first time.
Here’s a wild idea: how about you let us finish our goddamn entrees in peace and then you try to pique our interest in a freaking dessert? Any of this makes sense to you?

Of course I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, forcing my face into a neutral expression, I simply told her that we hadn’t made up our minds yet but that we would for sure let her know as soon as we did. Frankly it was the best and most diplomatic way I could quickly come up with to subtly let know we wanted no part in her demented psychosis. Clearly she was no graduate from the “Ecole Hoteliere de Lausanne” and was absolutely sans knowledge of proper restaurant etiquette, but, and perhaps even worse, had obviously no kills in the common sense department.

A few minutes later, I was done with my meal and accordingly rested my fork and knife on the plate as a formal sign of capitulation. Of course, grandpa was still working on his plate since he was also secretly feeding his buddy Georgie whenever he thought my eyes were conveniently wandering out of his visual periphery.
And guess who graced us with her majestic presence again? Dumb Dumb, that’s who!
“Let me clear this for you,” she said disposing of my plate, “should I get a dessert going for you?” she immediately dropped in that same breath.
I really wanted to ask her what was the deal with her dessert obsession – I mean did she bake them? Does she get a commission per dessert sold? What the fuck?
“No thank you, I’m quite full,” I politely said.
“Oh that’s too bad, there’re really good,” she replied trying to make me feel guilty. “Now will your dad be having a dessert?” she persisted.
While her calling grandpa “dad” was certainly nothing I found objectionable, I did find her pushiness highly annoying.

Let’s review a few things here, which I shall call the 101 basic ethical rules of proper waitressing:
1) You don’t remove plates until everybody is done eating.
2) You don’t ask about dessert until everyone is done with their entrees
3) And you don’t EVER present the bill until you’re asked to do so

Of course she royally failed to comply with all of the above and more.
So as soon as I informed her we would not be indulging in any of her extraordinary specialty desserts, and mind you, while grandpa was still digging into his Kafta dish, Dumb Dumb, who took the news rather traumatically, dropped the bill on the table.
Not to make everything about me, but I did take that rather attitudinal move very personally – you know as in her oh-so not subtly saying “hurry and get the fuck out of here.”

She could have just shown me her middle finger and call it a day! Frankly, it would have been more honorable of her and I would have had much more respect for her, not to mention she would have immediately regained the points she instantly lost on her tips when she first harassed us with her Baklava, chocolate coulis, pistachio cluster or whatever those killer pastries were made of.

So far, admittedly, my boys remained impressively well behaved while this whole nonsensical charade was happening. And as much as this would certainly qualify as an out of this world episode, here’s where things really took a surreal turn. To think that things couldn’t possibly get worse is almost laughable considering I am a weirdness magnet. Remember the part where I said the unlikely usually happens to me? Well, I wasn’t kidding.

Grandpa had another manly man bodily malfunction and of course it happened in the glamorous presence of none other than moi. I swear I am cursed or perhaps grandpa just finds it highly amusing to perpetually embarrass me.
Once Dumb Dumb had wrapped her imbecilic show and that it finally registered with her pea-sized brain that she needed to majorly back off with the borderline cultish nature of her attack of the sweets technique, grandpa took over for her.

Remember that life-scaring incident having to do with a certain Air France VIP lounge at LAX, I told you about not too long ago? Well history is surely repeating itself. And for those of you who deprived yourselves the immeasurable pleasure of reading my brilliant column, let’s just say grandpa delivered an exceptional display of petulant childishness. In a nutshell, he insensibly exercised his natural primitive rights to let his derriere organically do the talking. That’s right! Once again, grandpa let a big, monumentally loud, not to mention, interminably looooong fart go in public, right in the middle of the restaurant, of course at that exact fatal moment when the entire place temporarily went dead silent (as in you could hear a pin drop). I knew everybody was shooting me a look, but I bravely chose to keep my head down praying somehow I could magically disappear while avoiding at all cost to make eye contact with anyone. I didn’t even dare looking in front of me at the guilty party who caused my utter petrification. Indeed, it was nothing short of humiliating.

After what seemed like a century, I ingeniously decided to use my poor innocent puppy as the Ginny-pig and tried to pass off grandpa’s explosive anal fireworks as Georgie’s. So I gently grabbed my little boy by the collar and proceeded to lecture him out loud so everyone could hear me and mentally applaud my good parenting skills. Poor thing was staring at me probably thinking I was on crack. How do you tell a dog it’s not for real and that you’re just pretending for appearance’s sake?

Speaking about Georgie, the drama that of course enfolded with him was a whole other animal. Right when we settled the check and were about to finally split, some wannabe Lassie showed up out of nowhere and planted his very old and clearly medicated ass in front of my son. They passively stared at each other for a solid ten seconds before Georgie then suddenly decided to cause a ruckus and bite wannabe-Lassie’s nose.

To this day I’m not certain what muted words were exchanged between those two, but if you ask me, wannabe-Lassie started it. Admittedly, I was silently approving of my dog’s behavior and was absolutely co-signing his natural instinct to retaliate in the face of provocation; yet I had to pretend I was just as revolted at his (seemingly) irrational brutal attitude as wannabe-Lassie’s owner was. And of course, said owner was an old fart much displaying the same exceptional mental slowness and retardation aptitudes as her dog. And call me an asshole if you want, I don’t care. The lady was a royal bitch!

“Just so you know your dog made my dog bleed,” she said resentfully before walking away without giving me a chance to formally present my most sincere apologies.
Then barely one minute later, she popped out again in front of my face.
“Does your dog have rabies? Is he vaccinated?” she asked me in a rather aggressive tone. Seriously, I thought I was being interrogated by the Gestapo.
She split again and seconds later returned again to the scene of the crime to harass me with the same line of questions but in a different order.
“Is your dog vaccinated? Does he have rabies?”
And again she immediately disappeared without even waiting for my answers.
She took three steps backwards, then four steps forward and again accosted me.
Here’s the pulse pounding moment of this story – guess what she asked?
Drum rolls please …… ta da: “Is your dog vaccinated? Does he have rabies?”

That was my final cue to grab my boys and get the fuck out of there pronto.
Was this place for real? What was up with these idiots and their uncanny obnoxious habit of repeating the same shit over and over and over again? These were not my kind of people -that much was beyond crystal clear.

It is safe to say that our Lebanese lunching experience felt more like a jihad attack than the anticipated explosively flavorful and divine treat for our palates.
Now, not only do I have a dog named George Michael who’s very much wanted (and not just because he is a superstar), but I also have a grandpa who at nearly 90 years of age, somehow fabulously managed to get us all eighty-sixed from our favorite Lebanese establishment.

As the saying goes: boys will be boys.
It’s a piece of cake!

…I’m just sayin’!
No wait a second … that’s Dumb Dumb’s line!

Right about now, there are an insanely incalculable number of questions cavorting in my mind, and per usual beyond being just absolutely random, they are also formidably useless. But I can’t help it if I am a thinker. And not only do I think a lot but I also worry beaucoup about a lot of things of massive importance: When will gas prices reasonably drop? Is there ever going to be peace in the Middle East? Will Lindsay Lohan ever get sober? Is MTV ever going to play music videos again? Will “Footloose” (the remake) be as much of a success as the first one?

But, hands down, the most daunting question I struggle with, more often than not, is, while the unlikely does usually happen, why is it always happening to me?
Now it’s a known fact that I don’t have kids (yet), but, and this may come as shock to you, I do have boys – two of them! While, I can quite decide if they’re on the cusp of puberty or already going through it, one thing I know for sure is that they’re both spectacularly rebellious and remarkably mentally retarded. And please don’t you jump on your high horse and lecture me about my not politically correct use of the word “retard”. I don’t mean it in a derogatory way but rather in its very academic, medical sense. It’s been proven that the brain of teenagers doesn’t reach its full development until the age of twenty-five, so that technically means that anyone below a quarter of a century in age is mentally retarded – at least partially.

Much to my despair and regret, my boys are no exception. They continuously excel at displaying the most absurd of behaviors, which means they’re completely out of their minds – or else they just immensely enjoy embarrassing me. Of course I’m referring to my grandpa and little puppy Georgie. Those two are just trouble – individually, separately and collectively. I’m not gonna lie. Humanly impossible to parent them especially when they’re together. They’re partners in crime always up to no good, and evidently everything turns into double trouble!

So the other day, I was on baby-sitting duty and decided to take the boys out to lunch. We settled on our favorite Lebanese restaurant in Manhattan Beach because: one, the food is delicious; two, they have an outside patio where the likes of Georgie’s species are allowed; three, it’s the only cuisine containing vegetables that grandpa will actually eat without bitching about it; and four, Georgie loves kafta with hummus – grandpa’s leftovers which he with out fail, yet not so inconspicuously, sneaks under the table thinking I am absolutely blind (or stupid) and can’t see even though I am sitting right across the table inches away from him.
I could make a big stink about it, but I never say a word. They have me right where they want me and I am consciously letting those two have at it. After all, it’s not a big deal if they both think they’re totally getting away with this shit. And if anything, I’m actually very pleased to see that my Georgie has fully embraced his Lebanese cultural heritage. That, and also the fact that I don’t want to develop a reputation as the mucho unhip forty year-old constipated disciplinarian. It’d be devastatingly tragic for my once upon a time, not so long ago in the 80s, so fashionably cool and trendy ancient booty.

There we were savoring our decadently succulent entrees when not even two minutes after the plates had been dropped on the table, the waitress suddenly came back. As any other normal human being would surely deduct, I automatically assumed she reappeared to do the customary courteous round of “is everything to your liking” check. Not so much! Grandpa and I (and Georgie) were barely two bites into our meal when Dumb Dumb (that would be the nickname we endearingly gave our fabulously retarded waitress) asked:
“Will you have room for any dessert today? We have a homemade traditional chocolate Baklava and a rice pudding with rosewater that’s to die for.”

Needless to say, I shot her a murderously nasty look as in “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Seriously who in their right minds, enquires about dessert when the freaking entrees haven’t even been consumed yet?
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was purposefully stupid or just stupidly anxious to mentally compute how much tips she’d approximately be making off of our party.
Of course grandpa who always forgets to wear his hearing aids, missed the whole sales pitch on the alleged decadent desserts.
“What did she say?” grandpa enquired.
“She wanted to know if we would have room for dessert,” I replied loudly enunciating every word for him to hear but also for dramatic effect seeing that Dumb Dumb was still within audio vicinity.
“Is she serious? What a moron!” grandpa belched out obviously not aware of the volume level at which he was speaking – but that’s what happens when you’re hearing impaired, you think everyone else is deaf too.

It’s hard to gage whether Dumb Dumb heard him or not, but I’ll go with she didn’t.
How else would you explain the fact that five minutes later, she paid us another visit and again attempted to have us revisit her original idea?
“So how about now? Do you think you will save enough space for desserts, coffee or cappuccino?” she said with as much gusto as the first time.
Here’s a wild idea: how about you let us finish our goddamn entrees in peace and then you try to pique our interest in a freaking dessert? Any of this makes sense to you?

Of course I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, forcing my face into a neutral expression, I simply told her that we hadn’t made up our minds yet but that we would for sure let her know as soon as we did. Frankly it was the best and most diplomatic way I could quickly come up with to subtly let know we wanted no part in her demented psychosis. Clearly she was no graduate from the “Ecole Hoteliere de Lausanne” and was absolutely sans knowledge of proper restaurant etiquette, but, and perhaps even worse, had obviously no kills in the common sense department.

A few minutes later, I was done with my meal and accordingly rested my fork and knife on the plate as a formal sign of capitulation. Of course, grandpa was still working on his plate since he was also secretly feeding his buddy Georgie whenever he thought my eyes were conveniently wandering out of his visual periphery.
And guess who graced us with her majestic presence again? Dumb Dumb, that’s who!
“Let me clear this for you,” she said disposing of my plate, “should I get a dessert going for you?” she immediately dropped in that same breath.
I really wanted to ask her what was the deal with her dessert obsession – I mean did she bake them? Does she get a commission per dessert sold? What the fuck?
“No thank you, I’m quite full,” I politely said.
“Oh that’s too bad, there’re really good,” she replied trying to make me feel guilty. “Now will your dad be having a dessert?” she persisted.
While her calling grandpa “dad” was certainly nothing I found objectionable, I did find her pushiness highly annoying.

Let’s review a few things here, which I shall call the 101 basic ethical rules of proper waitressing:
1) You don’t remove plates until everybody is done eating.
2) You don’t ask about dessert until everyone is done with their entrees
3) And you don’t EVER present the bill until you’re asked to do so

Of course she royally failed to comply with all of the above and more.
So as soon as I informed her we would not be indulging in any of her extraordinary specialty desserts, and mind you, while grandpa was still digging into his Kafta dish, Dumb Dumb, who took the news rather traumatically, dropped the bill on the table.
Not to make everything about me, but I did take that rather attitudinal move very personally – you know as in her oh-so not subtly saying “hurry and get the fuck out of here.”

She could have just shown me her middle finger and call it a day! Frankly, it would have been more honorable of her and I would have had much more respect for her, not to mention she would have immediately regained the points she instantly lost on her tips when she first harassed us with her Baklava, chocolate coulis, pistachio cluster or whatever those killer pastries were made of.

So far, admittedly, my boys remained impressively well behaved while this whole nonsensical charade was happening. And as much as this would certainly qualify as an out of this world episode, here’s where things really took a surreal turn. To think that things couldn’t possibly get worse is almost laughable considering I am a weirdness magnet. Remember the part where I said the unlikely usually happens to me? Well, I wasn’t kidding.

Grandpa had another manly man bodily malfunction and of course it happened in the glamorous presence of none other than moi. I swear I am cursed or perhaps grandpa just finds it highly amusing to perpetually embarrass me.
Once Dumb Dumb had wrapped her imbecilic show and that it finally registered with her pea-sized brain that she needed to majorly back off with the borderline cultish nature of her attack of the sweets technique, grandpa took over for her.

Remember that life-scaring incident having to do with a certain Air France VIP lounge at LAX, I told you about not too long ago? Well history is surely repeating itself. And for those of you who deprived yourselves the immeasurable pleasure of reading my brilliant column, let’s just say grandpa delivered an exceptional display of petulant childishness. In a nutshell, he insensibly exercised his natural primitive rights to let his derriere organically do the talking. That’s right! Once again, grandpa let a big, monumentally loud, not to mention, interminably looooong fart go in public, right in the middle of the restaurant, of course at that exact fatal moment when the entire place temporarily went dead silent (as in you could hear a pin drop). I knew everybody was shooting me a look, but I bravely chose to keep my head down praying somehow I could magically disappear while avoiding at all cost to make eye contact with anyone. I didn’t even dare looking in front of me at the guilty party who caused my utter petrification. Indeed, it was nothing short of humiliating.

After what seemed like a century, I ingeniously decided to use my poor innocent puppy as the Ginny-pig and tried to pass off grandpa’s explosive anal fireworks as Georgie’s. So I gently grabbed my little boy by the collar and proceeded to lecture him out loud so everyone could hear me and mentally applaud my good parenting skills. Poor thing was staring at me probably thinking I was on crack. How do you tell a dog it’s not for real and that you’re just pretending for appearance’s sake?

Speaking about Georgie, the drama that of course enfolded with him was a whole other animal. Right when we settled the check and were about to finally split, some wannabe Lassie showed up out of nowhere and planted his very old and clearly medicated ass in front of my son. They passively stared at each other for a solid ten seconds before Georgie then suddenly decided to cause a ruckus and bite wannabe-Lassie’s nose.

To this day I’m not certain what muted words were exchanged between those two, but if you ask me, wannabe-Lassie started it. Admittedly, I was silently approving of my dog’s behavior and was absolutely co-signing his natural instinct to retaliate in the face of provocation; yet I had to pretend I was just as revolted at his (seemingly) irrational brutal attitude as wannabe-Lassie’s owner was. And of course, said owner was an old fart much displaying the same exceptional mental slowness and retardation aptitudes as her dog. And call me an asshole if you want, I don’t care. The lady was a royal bitch!

“Just so you know your dog made my dog bleed,” she said resentfully before walking away without giving me a chance to formally present my most sincere apologies.
Then barely one minute later, she popped out again in front of my face.
“Does your dog have rabies? Is he vaccinated?” she asked me in a rather aggressive tone. Seriously, I thought I was being interrogated by the Gestapo.
She split again and seconds later returned again to the scene of the crime to harass me with the same line of questions but in a different order.
“Is your dog vaccinated? Does he have rabies?”
And again she immediately disappeared without even waiting for my answers.
She took three steps backwards, then four steps forward and again accosted me.
Here’s the pulse pounding moment of this story – guess what she asked?
Drum rolls please …… ta da: “Is your dog vaccinated? Does he have rabies?”

That was my final cue to grab my boys and get the fuck out of there pronto.
Was this place for real? What was up with these idiots and their uncanny obnoxious habit of repeating the same shit over and over and over again? These were not my kind of people -that much was beyond crystal clear.

It is safe to say that our Lebanese lunching experience felt more like a jihad attack than the anticipated explosively flavorful and divine treat for our palates.
Now, not only do I have a dog named George Michael who’s very much wanted (and not just because he is a superstar), but I also have a grandpa who at nearly 90 years of age, somehow fabulously managed to get us all eighty-sixed from our favorite Lebanese establishment.

As the saying goes: boys will be boys.
It’s a piece of cake!

…I’m just sayin’!
No wait a second … that’s Dumb Dumb’s line!

The UK based Stonewall organisation has had its request to lobby for gay rights not only in the UK, but internationally approved by the Charity Commission. Acting to allow the charity to ‘promote human rights as set out in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and subsequent UN conventions throughout the world’, Stonewall chair David Isaac said:

‘We’re delighted at the Charity Commission’s decision,’

‘After our biennial supporters’ survey last year a number of supporters raised the importance of international work with us now that the legislative landscape in Britain is almost equalised. Having canvassed a wide sample of our supporters during the last 12 months and reviewed our obligations under charity law, we’re clear that our lobbying and research teams now have the opportunity to influence overseas without undermining the important work – such as our pioneering Education for All programme – to which we’re absolutely committed in Britain. We look forward to working with other groups seeking to deliver change internationally. As Stonewall will seek to influence from within the UK our focus will, we hope, complement the work of others.’

Whilst this has for a long time been the aim of the organisation, it has come as something of a surprise to Stonewall that it has happened so fast with Stonewall’s Chief Executive Ben Summerskill saying that they’d thought it would take at least 10 or 15 years to secure when they first set out on the journey to secure it back in 2003.

Adding that he felt their work in the UK now put them in a strong position to further their work overseas, Summerskill commented that:

’Having achieved almost all of those legal changes, we’re now in a stronger position to commend Britain’s legislative framework to other countries around the world. The dogged support of tens of thousands of individual donors means that we’re one of the few charities in the country whose income has continued to grow throughout the recession. That commitment means that involvement in overseas advocacy will not dilute any of our existing domestic activities; we retain our ambition to make Britain a worldwide beacon for equality.’

(Or do you prefer to be called George Michael?)
Personally I feel I can skip all the proper formalities and call you by your nickname Yog.

Seriously, at this stage, we should pretty much be on a first name basis. After all, we’ve closely known each other for three solid decades now – Although technically, you might probably argue that you do not know me per say, but believe you me I more than do! I’m not gonna go again into the gory details of how I met your mother after two- days of non-stop, massively intense detective investigation throughout the lovely suburbs of London back in 1986 while you were vacationing on the French Riviera in St Tropez, which, by the way, was a tragic irony of fate I have yet to get over myself about it.

Just keep in mind that my (seeming) stalking efforts were successfully rewarded and that not only did I have the immense pleasure of meeting your adorable late mother, but also, and, most importantly, my future mother-in-law (that would be your mom of course) gave me her blessing and full seal of approval when I respectfully made her know of my noble intention to have your hand in marriage. Now just so you know the only reason why I never acted on my proposal was because I was only fourteen and a half years old back then, and obviously not of legal age to be joined (with you) in matrimony.

Then, evidently as luck would have it, by the time I turned eighteen, after you had split from Wham!, you had already released your seminal, multi-platinum solo debut album “Faith”, and had gone to turn into one of the biggest pop stars on the entire planet, which suffice to say made it quite impossible for me to bypass the barrage of executive people in suit surrounding you and directly contact you to make good on my marital objective.

But times clearly have changed now and as the saying goes “good things come to those who wait.” I never thought I would live to see the day you and I would have the chance to be together forever. It’s been my desire since I was knee-high. But since you made it publicly known last week at the opening show of your European tour “Symphonica” at the State Opera House in the Czech capital Prague, that you and long-term partner Kenny Goss were no longer an item (the best news ever!), I feel the timing is now right to redeem my rain check.

I know you’re currently on a tour with a symphony orchestra and are justifiably super uber busy, but this is an urgently pressing matter that can no longer wait.
So this is part where I come in and ask you on my hands and knees: YOG, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Now before you say no and blame it all on the gay thing, please hear me out.
First of all, I beg you to keep in mind that none of this would have ever happened if someone had sent me a letter from the future warning me that fanatically idolizing you to death (for years) would prove to be a pragmatically non-realistic idea – I mean, seriously, what were the odds that both you and I would turn out to be queer, right? But because I am a hopeless optimistic I choose to look at this alleged glitch as just being a minor, rather inconsequential, detail – really nothing worth bothering ourselves with when we look at it from the point of view that we/you’re not gay, but our partners are. But ok, no big deal! So what if we/you’re gay – whatever! Let’s not go on record here.

All jokes aside, the reality of the situation is that we’re actually perfect for each other. Beside the fact that you will never find a woman who will love you as unconditionally as I do (with perhaps the exception of your mother), I have quite the marriage material package – and come highly recommended armed with a spectacularly impressive resume and beyond exceptionally valid credentials. If you ask any members of my entourage they’ll unhesitantly vouch for the fact that since I saw you perform “Careless Whisper” live on Top of the Pop back in 1984, I have persistently being harassing them with my unwavering love for you, not to mention, have obsessively been trying to convert them into my George Michael religion. Admittedly while I have yet to make greater strides in my disciple-recruiting endeavor, I have nevertheless dazzlingly succeeded in sort of preprogramming them to ALWAYS automatically think about me when they hear a song of yours. I mean my late grandmother, God bless her soul, used to call every time one of your brilliant tunes would pop on the radio just to let me know that your song reminded her of me. That speaks volume!

You have no idea how compatible we really are. I for one would even go as far as saying that we’re almost telepathically fuse. I mean, we were both dating someone from Texas at the exact same time: you Kenny, and me, whatever her name was! Also at the exact same time you released your single “I Want Your Sex” – obviously paying tribute to moi – while I wasn’t saying it out loud, I was thinking it! That should account for something, right?

What more do we have in common? There’re the obvious things: we were both born in June; we both have a Mediterranean cultural background (you Greece, me Lebanon); you’re the only boy at home and I’m the only girl; we’re both writers; we both have a dog; we both own a “Choose Life” t-shirt; we’re both classic neurotic queers; your father originally disapproved of your singing career and mine well, just disapproved of me being so invested in your singing career as a queer (I think he was concerned it could potentially be contagious); when you were hanging out with your (fag hags) Shirley and Pepsi, I was hanging out with my own gay gang, namely GI Joe, He-Man and Big Jim.
Oh there’s so much more! Evidently this just a small sample of the many other similarities we share in our “complicity” shop.

Now clearly the most vital part of our commonwealth is our dramatic chops – as in, how exceptionally well we excel at spectacularly displaying our formidable addictive personalities. Having said that, I’m not talking about your highly publicized public bathroom debacle – you know that episode when you were accused of engaging in a “lewd act” in the toilet of a park in Beverly Hills and were arrested by undercover cop Marcelo Rodriguez in a sting operation (don’t as me why I remember the policeman’s name, just know that I got your back and that I know people). That I can’t really compete with! After all the most risqué stunt I’ve done in a public lavatory (besides getting high in one of LAX’s bathroom stalls) was dangerously flush an applicator down the septic tank, which nearly resulted in a bloody embarrassing flood!

On that note I have to say that I’m a bit disappointed you were caught so many times being under the influence and in possession of illegal substances. Seriously had you replied to the letter I sent to your fan club on the topic of how we similarly share a crazy passionate love for dope, you would have gotten my digits and would have been able to call me (as I politely suggested you do) so I could have taught you a trick or two on how not to get caught by the authorities. It’s not that I am a master expert in the getting away with semi-criminal behaviors department, but you’re talking to someone who successfully defied the law continuously using for 3 solid freaking years without once getting her ass nailed by the cops – if you know what I mean! Take my word for it: I’m GOOD at whatever I apply myself to.

Clearly we both made some crazy choices along the way some of which have made us look more deranged than humanly possible; but, and I can only speak for myself here, everything I do, I do it for you. You might not know this but I am the one who inspired Greg Berlanti to write the TV series “Eli Stone” and name each episode of the first season after one of your songs. I don’t personally know Greg but let’s be real here, the entertainment industry is such a small circle surely he got word of how I’ve made my life a monument to you and how the entirety of your repertoire provides for its soundtrack.
How else would he have come up with the idea of having his lead character have hallucinations/visions involving you and constantly find himself in situations revolving around a range of your songs? Hello! That’s the story of my life – everybody knows it!

I’m not just a stupid groupie or psycho fan. I am THE fan!
On that note I have to ask why I am not the one running that fan club of yours?
Seriously, what’s that all about? For God’s sake I’ve been collecting news clips on you since 1984 – and from all imaginable media outlets in all foreign languages known to mankind. I also ditched school twice in a row to see your “Faith” concert in Paris’ Bercy – I practically became homeless for 48 hours sleeping at the door to make sure I would snatch the best possible seats. When you did your “Twenty Five” tour, I drove to San Diego to watch your opening show and then followed you to Los Angeles to see it again (well, technically, I didn’t really follow you since I live in the City of Angels but I like to say that for dramatic effect). When you made the vintage perfecto motorcycle leather jacket fashionably popular courtesy of your “Faith” music video, I almost severed my relationship with my grandmother because, despite my monumental tantrums, she adamantly refused to buy me the exact same one – something about not being lady-like and too dyke-looking. However, she did OK the cowboy boots and the Levi’s 501 blue jeans. In addition, my bedroom was a shrine to you (and Wham!) – I had posters of you covering every inch of my wall to the point where you could no longer see the color of the paint.

Want more proof? I bet you I’m the only one who knows you did a duet with Jody Watley called “Learn to Say No”, which was only featured on her debut album? Am I right or I am right? You also provided the background vocals at the end of Elton John’s single “Nikita”; and did the same on your long-time bass player, Deon Estus’ “Heaven Help Me”.

That’s right! I’m a walking encyclopedia of odd factoids, pointless information, random facts, and useless trivia when it comes to my favorite topic: YOU!
This is probably something that deserves additional professional (medical) attention but at another time. Tell you what: perhaps when you and I are married we could go to couple’s therapy and while I talk about how and why I named my little puppy George Michael (aka “Georgie”), you could discuss your obsessive addiction to anonymous sex and cannabis?

Again, I’m very well aware that you have a lot on your plate right now … as do I.
But we’re not getting any younger and if we want to get going producing mini-yous and mes, I suggest we put everything else on the back burner pronto (that includes Kenny – why rehash the past?).

I say, let’s get married next week and go all out with a big deal, fat ass wedding of the century. We’ll show Kim Kardashian and Chris Humphrey how they have nothing on us! If anything at least our union will be more believable than theirs – not to be a party-pooper, but I give them a year. Seriously this will be a gigantic boost to your career and a great platform for a mega huge comeback. Think publicity stunt!

So what do you say? Are you in or out?
Wait! What? You’ve long been out?

…you’re just saying, right?

I wish I could say that I’ve had my share of odd jobs – you know just to be able in my future E! Entertainment TV “True Hollywood Story” segment to show that I’ve paid my dues. But I haven’t. And admittedly, it absolutely was for lack of trying.
What can I say? Early on I had already developed a severe case of misplaced sense of self. Evidently that translated into constantly being under the influence of a formidably over-inflated ego that would insistently remind me that I’m really terrified to death of being in front of the camera and have an agonizingly immutable stage-fright phobia, which clearly puts a damper on my E! Network Television appearance, and for that matter, my many other TV interview/profile prospects.
So, because I’m smart like that, I never bothered to submit my candidature much less perform any of the traditional transitional odd jobs while I waited for my non-famous career to take off – plus I knew that beside taking too much paper space, they really added no outstanding bonus value to my curriculum vitae.

But as much as I was, and to some degree still am, a little bit of a delusional pretentious princess, I’m happy to report that at least it doesn’t seem to be hereditarily running in the family.
Thank god I have a twenty-three years old younger brother who is not afraid to roll up his sleeves to get down in the trenches, and through whom I can now vicariously experience my own frustrated glamorous waitress career. On that note I still don’t understand why they haven’t change that job title yet to something fancier. I mean if stewardesses and stewards are now collectively called “flight attendants” why not call waiters and waitresses “restaurant attendants”; isn’t it essentially the same customer service gig except that one “serves” people at some whatever altitude (and, at times, attitude) level, perched up in the air?

Anyway, back to my mini-bro. So just the other day, he skyped me to get some sound advice on how to handle the series of rather unconventional things that apparently have been repeatedly occurring at this so-called restaurant he’s been employed at for the past month. Aww! How cute is it that my mini-bro thinks of me as the absolute “go-to”, super cool, (just barely) older sister for counsel?
I didn’t want to crush his blinded faith in me and let him know that in all actuality I still haven’t figured anything out about life and know absolutely nothing because I very much stopped growing up somewhere, sometime back in 1984, which means that mentally, I am a decade behind him – or perhaps more appropriately, he’s ten years ahead of me in the maturity department.

In my defense, any Justin Bieber disciple would have had the whole process down to a science in a heartbeat, as I did. Frankly, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that what was really going on at this ”food service” job of his was that everything was literally going down.

Hmm, how should I put this diplomatically? How about my brother works for a couple of wishy-washy French owners who better define the notion of crooks than cooks! And I’m not just talking about the fact that (allegedly) for cost-effectiveness and timesaving purposes they make their employees serve regular coffee under the false marquee of decaf. If that were the only major unethical problem my mini-bro was dealing with, his customers would only be going home with the prospect of later on suffering from a case of insomnia instead of (potentially) needing urgent medical attention.

Obviously there’s much more going on behind the scene – and by scene I mean the two vital areas of the venue, namely the bar and the kitchen.
In the “Oh Hell No” department this establishment hands down gets the golden medal.

I’m even thinking (as the brilliant publicist extraordinaire that I am) that I should pitch “60 minutes” to do an undercover investigation/ on-the-field reporting and sneak in a few hidden cameras. But as Madonna says: “bad publicist is better than no publicity”, and I don’t really want to waste my precious PR efforts on them. Instead, I’d much prefer, as demonstrated here, to waste my valuable writing time dedicating an entire column on trashing them!

So get this! Somehow these two froggies sort of kind of very much run a low-class mini version of what one might call a savant Medellin cartel. That’s right! These two wannabe Pablo Escobar rookies spend more time sniffing lines of coke than properly running their business. Speaking about lines, I have to say that that type of behavior really crosses the line in my book. And what’s worse is that they try to recruit their own young employees to join them in that very mucho beaucoup fucked up social hobby of theirs during their regular nocturnal after-hours parties – you know when they shut the place down and continue to serve drinks to the few remaining losers who obviously don’t remember they have a home to go back to because of their committed allegiance to alcohol.

“Do you ski?” one of the Frenchies asked my brother. Apparently, to put it in the parlance of modern day drug lords, this is the new code word for chasing the dragon. Thank god my bro had the street-smart lucidity to decrypt the underlying message of what that proposition actually meant because had it been me I would have said “yes” naively thinking my ass was going to be flown first class on an all paid vacation to some quaint and cozy cutie cabin at some Colorado ski resort. Not so much!

What’s quite interesting is that unlike the various brands of imported beers they’re supposedly famed for, when it comes to their stash of coke they’re never in short supply. Maybe that’s because they get it delivered at the restaurant twice a week courtesy of their little protégé named Jesus– one of their bus-boys who after doing time behind (the other kind of) bars is now doing his so-called ex-convict social reinsertion program under the care and supervision of our French duo, which of course includes utilizing his valuable networking skills by rekindling his criminal connections with the gang that put him in jail in the first place. But hey! No big deal, right? When you got to ski, you got to have powder!

Surely that uber convenient home-delivery system is easier than finding the right kind of beers to mix together as a desperate 911 measure to come up with a substitution for the brand they just ran out of, which some poor customer foolishly just ordered. The only glitch is when they’re too high to be smart enough to concoct a mix that produces the right color – you know, as in when you’re served a freaking blonde beer when it’s supposed to be dark ale!

Yet, that’s probably nothing compared to the charlatan method they resort to for their alleged existing wine list. Wait! What’s that you say? Oh yes, they don’t have a wine list – even though the menu pretentiously says so. What they have instead are two cheap ass boxes of white and red wine (they probably buy at their local ninety-nine cents store), which they deceivingly serve to royally duped customers under the labels of Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, and Pinot Gris as white wine choices, and Cabernet, Merlot and Pinot Noir for the red selection.

But enough with the bar and the booze! Let’s talk about food, which naturally brings us to the amazing kitchen and the fabulous chef that runs it – or should I say ruins it? If you thought the bartending ethics were shady, what goes on in the kitchen certainly qualify as seedy. Let me introduce you to Pedro, the self-proclaimed Chef who’s delusional enough to convince himself that his absolutely-not-spectacular culinary skills pose a serious menace to Chef Rocco’s professional trade. If you ask me the extent of his haute cuisine expertise pretty much narrows down to his tenure in the federal prison’s kitchen. The only serious threat he really poses is to Chef Ramsay’s “Hell’s Kitchen” – and I mean that in the literal sense of the word “hell”.

According to my bro, it’s clearly bedlam in the cook-room and the man plotting all of the insanity in the caboose is evidently loco Pedro. Pedro likes to share his ongoing state of neurosis by perpetually yelling at every waiter and waitress who dares to step into his quarters to place a food order – because while Pedro ambitiously self-appointed himself the official Chef, he is a chef who officially doesn’t like to cook!

Now because the place is called a “restaurant” and guess what? Customers are continuously ordering dishes from the offered menu, our little psycho Pedro is evidently forced to get down and dirty behind the stove – again I mean that literally.
Talk about health and safety in commercial kitchen food service operations, clearly our food guru skipped that entire chapter in the “Cooking for Dummies” book.

Committed to applying the worse possible cooking methods, Pedro deep-(fat)-fries all his once-upon-a-time comestible food in a bath of hot continuously recycled oil – you know, to expedite the overall cooking process because he has other and much better things to do, like “ski” in the office with the owners.
When products fall on the floor, he picks them up and replaces them back in the pan or (perhaps even worse) on the plate, wherever they were originally supposed to land in the first place.

Oh and forget about wearing the traditional Chef uniform including such useless items as a hat, an apron and gloves – this totally goes against Pedro’s haute couture religion because clearly he’s quite the fashionista with his trendy retro-chic Rico Suave attire, and let’s face it, looks are everything when you glamorously parade your booty on the kitchen’s imaginary runway in-between the oven, the dishwasher and the sink!

Speaking about soap and water, Pedro doesn’t believe in the virtues of rinsing dishes. Apparently my brother recently served a Caesar salad to some innocent gay victim who immediately sent the plate back after successfully identifying “Cascade” as the detergent brand used to run the dishwasher – not to stereotype but only a gay man with OCD could have hit the bull’s eye in the “name that detergent” game. As to how he actually did know what Cascade taste like? Who knows? And who cares, really? That’s obviously not the issue here!

The real issue here is how on earth did my little bro fail to follow the brilliantly lazy footsteps of his super extra cool slightly older sister – and that would be moi, of course. Has he taken a good look at me lately? Clearly, I didn’t turn that bad sans waitressing credits and other useless professional experience to my name, did I?

And mind you, that was at a time far removed from today’s modern-technology/cyberspace landscape. Seriously, there’s no need to do odd jobs to make ends meet anymore when all you have to do is simply Google “earn more, work less” or “how to make money with no job doing nothing.”

Either my mini-bro went to get that very twisted and terribly wrong and absolutely demented waiter gig at that beyond screwed-up dumpy restaurant for spite or else he just didn’t get my point!

I said I’m in show business, not “snow” business!

…. I’m just sayin’!

The hands are starting to go up fast in answer to the question of “Who wants to be the next President of the United States” ,and just as important as it is for them to be sure of what they’re for and against, it’s important that we, as an often marginalised community, know who is there to support us and who is likely to transport us back 400 years in terms of equality (and yes we’re talking about you Michele Bachmann).

However let’s be honest it’s all a bit time consuming having to find all that out, right? What you really want is someone who’s done it all for you already…. like Marriage Equality USA have.

Bringing together the thirteen candidates so far, this chart allows you to find out quickly at a glance who to cheer for and who is give a big old evil at, with Republican Fred Karger currently being the one to love the most with his support of just about everything gay, whilst boos have to go out to Thaddeus McCotter, Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry, Rick Santorum and Michele Bachmann who appear to have fully committed themselves to being as anti-rainbow as is humanly possible.

Via Marriage Equality USA

Talking to Playboy magazine Amber Heard spoke at length about her sexuality, the impact that it’s had on her career and gay rights issues as a whole.

On the subject of her own sexuality, and when she decided to come out and admit that she was gay, Heard said that she never felt the need to, not because she was trying to hide anything, but because she wasn’t hiding it by the way that she was living her life:

First of all, to say I came out implies that I was once in. Let me be straight about that – no pun intended – I never came out from anywhere. I’ve always lived my life the way I’ve wanted and have been honest with myself and everyone around me. In the past I’ve had successful relationships with men, and now I’m in this successful relationship with a woman. When it comes to love I am totally open.

Leading her to then speak about the impact it had had on her acting career, Heard said she felt that it hadn’t really impacted her one way or the other, believing her desire to not be labelled as being one thing or the other had been of benefit:

It didn’t really affect anything in my career. I don’t think the producers and directors I’ve worked with care one way or another. I don’t want to be labeled as one thing or another. And I don’t want to be put into a category, as in ‘I’m this’ or ‘I’m that.’

And when asked about gay marriage, Heard was equally supportive… though it has to be said she doesn’t seem so keen on the idea for herself!

It is an important issue, and I’m fighting for the right to get married. For other people.

Via Perez Hilton.

The Ukranian parliament have introduced some more anti gay legislation.

Ukraine has never been the most gay friendly place on the planet and if politicians get their way it’s about to get even harder as they now want to make it a criminal offence to promote “the propaganda of homosexualism” through both the written media and spoken media.

Saying that they’re doing it to protect children, who would obviously turn gay simple by hearing the word, the reality is by censoring all things gay they act to make the situation a whole lot worse for those who are gay and are looking for some kind of confirmation and support that who they are isn’t wrong, but natural. Speaking out against the proposed bill, the Ukrainian LGBT rights group Insight said:

“The bill strengthens censorship, restricts freedom of speech…and legalises violence against homosexual people,”

This move by Ukraine follows that of a number of others within the former Soviet bloc who have aimed to do the same, despite protest from those within the EU.

Photo credit: ShironekoEuro

Following his world record attempt for saying the most anti-LGBT things in a small space of time, host of the Car Show Adam Carolla has decided it might be a good idea to apologise, but before you think he’s turned over a new leaf,  it should be noted he’s not actually apologising for saying them, just for the fact that they might be hurtful.

So what exactly did he say that lead him to feel that some people might, just possibly, be upset? Well that would be  the following on his podcast The Adam Carolla Show:

“Sure, I went to school with a bunch of transgender guys, and now I work with them, but what the [expletive]? When did we start giving a [expletive] about these people?”

“Every time I see Chaz Bono, my [expletive] looks at me and says, ‘What?’”

Yep, he’s pretty adorable right? But before you get start getting angry he won’t apologise, don’t. Why? Well Carolla would say it’s because he’s a comedian and these are the things that comedians say. We say it’s because it must be hard having one brain cell in your head.

Via SheKnow

Eastenders may have been winning more awards that Coronation Street of late, but if there was an award for the drama serial most supportive of the gay community then Coronation would win hands down following the announcement they’ll be leading out the parade at Manchester Gay Pride for the second year running. Scooping the best float of the parade last year, the Corrie guys and gals have stated that they’re fully committed to ensuring they ”win again” and are working with TV bosses to make sure their float , which must meet the theme of  ”Best of British”, is the best one out there.

Brooke Vincent, who plays lesbian Sophie Webster , has given her support to both Pride and what it stands for  saying:

“I had an absolute ball last year and think it’s a great chance to come together in an awesome city like Manchester and celebrate lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender life. It’s fantastic that Coronation Street is supporting Pride yet again and I’m very proud to be portraying a lesbian character on screen. Hopefully it will go some way towards making people realise there is nothing in any way wrong with being gay. You’re born who you are!”

Other Corrie stars lending their support to the event include Ian Puleston-Davies (Owen Armstrong), Will Thorp (Chris Gray), Samia Smith (Maria Conor), Alison King (Carla Connor) and Michelle Keegan (Tina McIntyre).

Speaking about event and Corrie’s commitment to Pride, Jackie Crozier, festival director of Manchester Pride, said:

“We are thrilled to welcome back the Corrie cast and even more excited that they are a part of ITV’s first ever float in the Pride parade. The parade is one of the most ‘Loud and Proud’ and public parts of our festival so to have Coronation Street and ITV demonstrate such strong support as a part of this means a lot.”

Manchester Pride 2010 runs from Friday 19 – Monday 29 August with tickets available now from the official Manchester Pride site. Artists performing over the long weekend include Angie Brown, Pixie Lott, Alexandra Burke, Sugababes, Heather Peace and Horse.