I just finished watching Where the Wild Things Are with J and Hill. Glory of glories, I got exactly what I wanted out of it—some brilliant fodder for my nightmares and pervy wet-dreams.

The Wild Things are queer as fuck. Hairy, bearded ladies, piles of wild thing upon wild thing, sleeping, wrestling, and flirting, everybody half-faggy-half-brutal stud, the land of the wild things is hotter than the grizzliest bear bar and the crustiest punk show combined.

“Kings aren’t real!” The motherfucking anarchist wild things declare. “Right on,” I say!

One day, I hope to run out into the woods and get picked up by a bunch of hairy, community-oriented, emotionally complex beasts—oh wait, such is life, and I love it.

On a side note, one of my students accused me of being a hippy. My love of hairy beasts frolicking in the woods does little to disprove this wild accusation. Furthermore, brain-dead after a day of teaching and grant writing, a facebook quiz accused me of being an armpit fetishist (which, no doubt, I am…). So am I a hippy? Fuck no. But I sure act like one most of the time.

After the show, we all went to the Paramount for a beer. It was so good having time to chill and relax with friends. Life has been so wildly busy lately that a late night laughing over beers with two of my favorite people did me good.

Tomorrow, I will run off to the woods for some hairy monster armpit. Grrrrrrrr.

On another side note, James Gandolfini has to be one of the hottest actors around—from temperamental mobster to moody monster, he’s a fat, crude, rude, and butch sexpot. !

I wish I were a little boy curled up in James Gandolfini’s hairy, butch, Muppet arms. James, if you’re reading this, thank you for being a fox.