catch them all! or die!

The Simpsons Are Going to Paris!

Kudos to the Fox marketing team for running a brilliant campaign.

You Mean He Was Still Teaching?

The biggest shock of this story is that Ward Churchill was still tenured at UC. Guess the wheels of trustee action turn slowly in Colorado. Worst of all, Native American actor/activist Russell Means is legitimizing 9/11 revisionism. Always puzzled at irrelevant ethnic solidarity for killers, losers, and miscreants, Bohemigrant is particularly nonplussed by the fact that Churchill isn't even Native American. I don't care how shiny his moccasins were!

this is bad

bitchslap

http://nigoro.jp/game/rosecamellia/rosecamellia.php
Finally someone has put together a game for a new generation of pimps and beyotches, set in old world anime.

Byrd's Words for Sick Vick

The Exalted Cyclops goes Lawrence O'Donnell on Ron Mexico. Now this is the West Virginia-Virginia Tech rivalry at its finest.

Of Pipes, Caves, and AIDS

If you thought the Grand Central geyser was hot, confirmation of Arafat's demise at the hands of Zionist agents (read: AIDS) is even hotter! Still no word on a possible sex cave, where this Ramallah funboy might have taken his jihadi boytoys.

Every Man Is an Island

For someone whose island escapes are usually limited to the Coney variety, any day trip to an off-shore beach is exciting. When the invitation came at my boss's farewell lunch, we accepted with wild enthusiasm. A day at Fire Island. Sun, waves, and margaritas. Drunk on the Friday afternoon air of a Midtown power-munching, we waxed ecstatic for no particular reason. If a waiter had tried to sign us up for a Mahdi Army boot camp right there and then, we'd have cheerfully X'd the spot.

With each day the reality of a get-together on the Gay Riviera loomed nearer, tapering our zeal. Being the only straight guy in our little department, my zeal was turned inside out the night before the jaunt. Luckily, my comrades shared the lackluster attitude.

Unless you're a seaboat captain, or a resident or Sayville, L.I., the trip to this alternative outpost is deterrent enough. The isle's remoteness ingeniously wards off unwanted douchebags, ethnic riff-raff, and Manhattan singles. It all starts with a train ride to the LIRR, followed by an extended train ride in a car full of bourgeois daytrippers and outerborough gays. Then, we're transported by a so-called "people van" to a dock 3 blocks away for the paltry sum of $4 one way. I lead the group onto the most proximate vehicle, which is crammed.

The dispatcher instructs us to move in even though we're on a tiny bus and there is clearly no more room. This inane directive is not lost on a sarcastic lesbian, who gives voice to our thoughts. Now we're in the lap of luxury. After a few minutes at the dock, we are ferried by the Sayville Clipper to a nebulous strip of land off on the horizon. The foreboding approach left me feeling like Jeff Bridges first seeing Skull Island in the original remake of King Kong.

When one of us poses the obvious question, "Why do they call this Fire Island?" the other shoots back, "Because everyone here's a flamer." We accept the explanation. In a orientational roll call of one, I identify as a hetero to our more spunky companion. This is good. We pull into the Fire Island Pines pier, flanked by an outdoor restaurant and bar scattered with men in cabana shorts. Women appear to be extinct. In fact, they don't appear at all.

Our host, dressed casually, is waiting at the port. It's a beautiful day and I feel as though I'm on vacation, arriving at a four-star resort. The air is dry but very clean and there are men hugging one another, celebrating reunions with smiles and hugs. "It's a camp for adults," he informs us, and this is borne out as we set off down a boarded path of wooden planks past rows of American holly, sassafras, oak, pitch pine, and red cedar. Cars are off limits here, but there are about 75 vehicles officially stationed here. We pass a firehouse that looks more like a country museum and a simple white sign announcing "Whorehouse Auditions" with an arrow pointing the way.

We arrive at the house, which doesn't look like much more than a wooden camp shack with a lovely garden from the outside. But as we step through the portal we enter the type of home you might see on a Greg Louganis version of Cribs. Successful gay men with laptops are lounging everywhere. There is an Ivy League architect, a software entrepreneur, and assorted happy young guys, possibly freelance designers.

Our host shows us the ice-machine and points us to the booze cabinet, replete with rum, vodka, gin and margarita mix. Immediately I cause a stir by jerking the icebox too hard, hurtling it to the floor. This is not a good start to my plan of staying low key. I make several tasty Bloody Marys and sit back, enjoying the conversation with my friends for the day. It doesn't take long for me to remember that gay people are not merely excellent at being fabulous, but quite clever as well.

Each succeeding drink made me more inured to my environment, which, in many ways, was far more laid back and civilized than the mainland I'd left behind.... Soon, we proceeded to the beach, where someone observed that even the "purple sand" is gay on Fire Island and I charged into the empty, frigid Atlantic waters to my colleagues' bemusement. That was the way. To charge into things, plow ahead into the unknown...after several drinks, of course.

Back at the house for more drinks, burgers, and dogs. An All-American holiday centered around the BBQ grill. Our more flamboyant comrade passed out, all flirted out, his uncouth snoring filling the summer stillness with restful resonance. We tried to flip his cot into the pool, but, like Lazarus, he miraculously awoke right at the precipice, stepping off the bed like Hannibal Lecter from his gurney...

We sail back, the two gay members of our squad completely hammered from a few extra drinks they snagged at the dockside watering hole. They harass a middle-aged couple wearing wedding bands. The two stoic consorts remind them marriage is not "awesome" but serious commitment between two loving partners. The lesson, like the last drink, is lost on them. Thing seem to climax as they ask me to show my tits. In the spirit of the moment, I comply, carefully considering if I should leave out this part of my account.

We nap all the way back to Jamaica, the smooth train ride gently lulling us back into the heteronormative fold. Fire Island's charms slowly wear off, the vodka flushing from my bloodstream. On the train back, I look around at my immigrant brethren, their faces wrapped in routine preoccupations. They have no idea...

Federal Express ain't so damn express

Well, here I am sitting in my apartment, 3.5 hours after the start of the time period I requested to have some Amazon.com order get Fedex'd to me. This on the heels of two previous failed delivery attempts when said Fedex personnel attempted to deliver at the EXACT SAME TIME I REQUESTED. Both times said delivery personnel also failed to indicate on his/her impersonal door tag why the package couldn't just be left outside my door, leaving me with no idea whether or not I could just sign and leave said tag on my door. But that's OK, it's not like I had a meeting early in the afternoon or anything.

Celebrity Sighting

Sideshow by the Sea Emcee Donny Vomit was seen, parents in tow, waiting in line for La Vie at the Spiegeltent.

W is for Teh Winnar?

Gimme sum o' dat Kristol meth.

More like, Late Night Bots

The Washington City Paper exposes social networking for southern frat douches who, five years on, have sadly still not left the Kappa Alpha house. For once I actually will voluntarily stand by the side of free alt-weekly reading hipsters, although their predictable commentary to this article still irks me. But it's either that, or not opposing dudes in Izod shirts and plaid shorts with names like Davis and Reed. Score one for the DailyKos/KEXP morning show set.

The Laws of Love

One of the bohemigrant's amigo stole the show with his performance in this flick.

I Swear...

Just when you thought Bohemigrant was trying to diversify its audience...Eh, no, Peg.

Everyday Heroes

And now, for no particular reason whatsoever, I post this pic. Hat tip to Duke Bloggins, Blogger at Large.

In McLane I Trust

Architecture in Helsinki may be the least favorite band of a certain friend of the blog, but apparently they can count one of the last Hollywood Republicans (?) as a fan. Yippie-ki-yay, indie rockers!

Oregon

Oregon now wins, at life.

Residents of Oregon town say shape of traffic posts is offensive

"KEIZER, Ore. - The City of Keizer is taking heat for installing a group of cement posts designed to protect pedestrians from cars, but which some say is a phallic symbol."

The Swords

A plug for the hottest Mormon in Coney Island! Heather Holliday!

Top Dogg

Bohemigrant salutes this year's hot dog eating competitors. Staff will be on hand for up-to-the-day coverage. May the fatter man win!

Meet Milmarge

This was only inevitable. I challenge you to create a more accurate Milmarge.

Japan is the greatest country in the world*

*At game shows...this still does not make up for WW2 atrocities in China, however. Check it out (these may be old news items, apologies beforehand):

Silent Library
Human Tetris

Check it out, a freezer geezer

Good to see that the folks at 7-11 have a sense of humor when there are cross-promotional dollars to be made and dork jizz to collect.

A Bohemigrant Summer

Ah, the dog days of summer. Snow cones and soft-serve custard melts away in the Good Humor man's hands. Unexplained blackouts hurl grouchy New Yorkers into paroxysms of self-important petulance. Construction workers and layabouts too mesmerized by cleavage forget to tilt their necks to mentally ass-grab shapely PR assistants. Innocent dalliances made ill-advised flings over happy-hour margaritas. Comic book conventions abut pride weeks and outdoor afro-punk concerts. High culture meets low expectations on great lawns as mayors deny seeking higher office. Newsmakers drone on to a public trying to catch every minute of Paris Hilton in between commercial breaks. Men on soapboxes rant about yuppy condos to an audience of stray dogs. Ghetto children hose each other down as thousands of gallons stream forth from a fire hydrant. Bushwick freegans eat trash to save the planet. College campuses stock up on keychains and fridge magnets for orientations where strangers fumbling about awkwardly drop them into beer-sodden grass. Booming Reggaeton makes enemies of scraggly Jews and husky Latinos at the beach as python-shouldering beastmasters sell photo ops and cotton candy. Barbecues, porches, weekend getaways, island parties, Christmas in July, populist art installations, weeklong waits for gadgets...

Blood In Blood Out

News of thugs duking it out for thug supremacy don't usually faze me, except when gangland beef encroaches on my turf. Inspired by that glorious lazy weekday at the beach... Of course, some loose-tongued Crips don't even get to enjoy one last day at the park. Know your gang affiliations!