As someone who is constantly paranoid about being killed by muggers or gay bashers or gay-bashing muggers, I’m super excited about Jodie Foster’s new movie, The Brave One. In the movie, Jodie plays Erica Bain, a woman whose world is shattered when a pair of thugs beat the crap out of her and kill her fiancé. Wracked with fear and frustration, Erica buys a gun for protection. However, she soon finds herself on a vigilante mission that threatens to rob her of her humanity (and the time to find a more flattering haircut…zing!).

Seeing the trailer reminded me that I really should buy some pepper spray or an Uzi or something before my next late-night public transit adventure. But, more importantly, it reminded me of an article that I read years ago about the Pink Pistols, an organization that encourages gay gun ownership as a way to deter gay bashing. Although guns creep me out, I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of a world in which gay people are the most feared minority, and getting lots of queers to carry concealed weapons seems like a logical place to start.

Of course, carrying a gun or a tube of mace has a few drawbacks. First, I really don’t have room on my keychain for anything that creates unsightly pocket bulge. And forget about keeping it in the man purse. Between the umbrella and the emergency KitKat and the whitening gum and the jar of Carmex, there’s just not room for a gun. Second, as much as I like to think I’m as tough as Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy, I don’t think I could shoot a gun effectively in a high-pressure situation. With that in mind, I’d like to invent some sort of self-defense device that is more foolproof. Perhaps a modified pomade that leaves my hair shiny and manageable, while also producing an incapacitating vapor whenever my body’s adrenaline production rises suddenly? Or what about a watch that emits a blinding flash of light whenever I reach for my wallet? I’m sure there’d be a trial period in which a few innocent people would be knocked unconscious or have their retinas scarred, but I’m sure the pros would outweigh the cons. Assuming a surefire self-defense device can’t be created soon, I’m open to other suggestions.

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This article is cross-posted at boystowners.com.

Whenever I worry that my life is painfully mediocre, I like to remind myself (and everyone around me) that I did live abroad at one time. One of the things I miss most about living in France (and Germany—did I mention I lived there, too?) is the constant exposure to Europop. For those of you who haven’t had the chance to live in Europe (you poor things!), it’s a gay music Mecca. For example, you don’t have to go to a gay club to hear the latest Anastacia song because it will actually play on mainstream radio stations (and at the grocery store). And if you miss it there, you can always catch it playing on some European music video channel.

In an effort to spread the Europop gospel, I submit for your consideration some relatively recent music from Swedish ghetto girl (an oxymoron if ever there was one) Robyn. This is the same Robyn who made it big back in the 90s with hits like “Do You Know (What It Takes)” and “Show Me Love.” She’s been releasing music under her own record label for years now, but nobody in the States seems to keep tabs on her. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think!

Design Sponge recently posted some photos of a great line of wallpaper from Fern Living. Modern patterns like these can be a great way to spice up drab walls (especially if you don’t have a lot of artwork or photos to display). However, if you’ve ever had to remove wallpaper, the experience instantly makes you hate anyone who has ever glued anything to any wall, ever. I think stencils or vinyl wall decals like those available at Urban Outfitters are a much better way to go, since they’re easy to paint over or remove. Of course, stenciling can be a hell of a lot more time consuming if the pattern is complex. What the world really needs is wallpaper that’s easy to remove, but I assume such a thing exists only in my dreams.

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My friends over at design boner recently turned me on to walkscore.com, a site that gives a “walk-ability score” to any address based on what’s nearby. It’s a great tool if you share my passion for car-free living and want to evaluate your current place or a prospective pad. It can also be an interesting way to discover businesses in your area that you didn’t know existed.

Before you throw away your hard-earned money on more products with bullshit ingredients like Nutrillium, Revitalift, or Fetal Foreskin, consider socking it away in a high-yield savings account instead. If you don’t already have an account with one of the big online banks, now is a great time to open one. Interest rates keep climbing and the competition to maintain the highest rate is fierce—as in Patti LaBelle fighting crime in a cat suit while singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” fierce.

ING Direct (the company with the big orange balls) has most of the market share in the high-yield online savings business, but they’re hardly the best. Here are two lesser-known banks that are currently offering great interest rates at the time of this posting:

GMAC Bank, 5.3%: GMAC’s high-yield money market offers a free ATM card, free checks, and reimbursement of other banks’ ATM fees up to six dollars per month. You must maintain a minimum balance of $500 to avoid fees.

AMTrustDirect, 5.36%: AmTrust’s rates are typically among the highest available on the Web. However, you can’t get an ATM card with their money-market accounts.

Keep in mind that almost all savings or money-market accounts limit monthly withdrawals to six per month. (There might also be additional limitations on how many of these withdrawals can be by check or ATM.) Most of the big online banks offer free ACH (Automatic Clearing House) transactions that can be conducted through their websites. Customers typically use this feature to transfer funds between their local checking accounts and their online savings accounts.

If you’re willing to live without the ability to move funds between banks for free, American Eagle Bank of Chicago is currently offering a 6% promotional rate on their money-market accounts and 6-month CDs. (You have to open the account in person, so it helps if you live in Chicago.) This rate is a better deal than almost anything currently available online. If you’ve never heard of the bank, you’re not alone. Their one and only office is in Wicker Park, and it has only been open for business since July. The bank is FDIC insured and it has a “sister” branch (loosely affiliated, but independently operated) in Elgin that has been open for years. So, chances are the bank’s staff members won’t retire in South America with a briefcase full of your money. If they do, the federal government will cover your losses (up to $100,000, of course).

So, as Margaret Cho would say, stop throwing away your hard-earned money on some Turnaround Cream that doesn’t turn around shit. After all, nothing minimizes crow’s feet and laugh lines and improves your sex appeal like a big pile of money.

Disclosure: Frugal Fag has recently moved his millions to a high-yield money-market account at American Eagle Bank, but they’re not paying him to reel in new customers (despite his repeated requests for commissions from the bank’s management). This article has been cross-posted at boystowners.com.

Dating a guy with expensive tastes is a lot like buying a white cashmere sweater. It’s great the first couple of times. You tell yourself you deserve it and you feel glamorous by association. But eventually, you get sick of taking the damn sweater to the dry cleaners. You just want to throw it in the washing machine, put on some ratty sweatpants and go to bed.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with dating a guy who likes to treat himself to nice things from time to time. However, there’s a big difference in dating a guy who buys a $60 bottle of cologne every couple months and dating a guy whose medicine cabinet could restock a Sephora. So, how do you know if you’re dating a dry-clean-only boyfriend? Here are a few clues:

• he leases a new car because the driver’s seat in his old one took too long to warm up
• he refuses to eat anything behind a sneeze guard
• he refers to Absolut as “the vodka of choice for hoboes and prostitutes”
• he wears a monocle

If you find yourself struggling to keep up with your boyfriend’s high-maintenance lifestyle, there are several routes of escape. Take him to Olive Garden—in a Kia. Buy him something at Old Navy. Tell him you want to spend Friday night watching a Roseanne marathon and sharing a bag full of Gorditas. If he’s still around, there might be hope for your burgeoning relationship after all.

Ah, this takes me back to the homophobic small-town celebrations of my youth…

Small Town Holds Annual Gay Shame Parade

GRAND PLAINS, NE—A family deals with the anguish of realizing their son is a sinner in one of this year’s most popular floats.

Nothing will vaporize any sympathy you have for the poor like a short trip on public transportation. On my way home from the loop, I’m occasionally greeted by a well-dressed woman who asks for a dollar (yes, a whole dollar) to help her get home because, as a “field worker for the Lord,” she has to rely on charity to get around every day. Apparently she has already saved everyone she can on foot, and now the Lord has called her to spread His word as far as the red line will take her.

Then there are the two homeless guys who roam my stretch of the blue line with incredibly efficient, well-rehearsed requests for money. One of them asks for donations to support his participation in some charity walk—an event that must take place at least once a week because he seems to be collecting donations every day, all year. The other guy simply goes from car to car asking for change, which wouldn’t bother me so much if I thought he was actually going to buy food with it. I offered him a granola bar once, which he thanked me for, then threw on the ground when he thought I wasn’t looking.

When professional public-transit panhandlers aren’t around to entertain me, I like to pass the time by counting all the discarded bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos that litter the tracks between my home and my office. If that fails to hold my attention, I eavesdrop on the teenage mothers who only take a break from their cell-phone-based screaming matches just long enough to spit a few sunflower seed shells on the floor and tell their kids to shut up. Of course, I should probably be thankful they’re disciplining their children at all. I recently watched a kid kick a plastic bottle off the platform and onto the el tracks while his mother looked on and said nothing. I wanted so much to lecture him, but every speech that came to mind seemed like an answer to the question, “How would a 67-year-old Republican grandmother handle this?”

Trendy Sunglasses Make Any Teacher More Hip

Whenever I feel particularly frustrated by my encounters with the poor and classless, I usually daydream about becoming an inner-city schoolteacher. I know exactly what today’s troubled youth need to turn their lives around because I’ve seen a lot of movies on the subject. First, I’d need to get their attention, so I’d start by scratching my fingernails on the chalkboard just like Whoopi did in Sister Act 2. Surely that would get them to stop their crunk dancing and turn down their jam-boxes long enough to allow me to introduce myself. To command respect, I’d begin by describing my experience as a marine, then incapacitate the most rambunctious students with quick judo chops to the neck. This worked wonders for Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds.

After that, it would be safe for me to show them my softer side, just like Hilary Swank did in Freedom Writers. I’d encourage student-teacher bonding by placing a line of tape on the floor, then asking everyone to step on it if they’ve ever been gang raped or helped their mothers bake black-tar heroin in a rusty spoon. Then, I’d teach them about the Holocaust by comparing the Nazis to the gangs that rule their own neighborhoods. Finally, I’d wrap up every class with a wacky dance party in which my students and I get jiggy and do the electric slide to some inoffensive rap song. After that, there’d be nothing more to do but fast forward 30 years to a gray-haired me, hugging my Nobel-Prize-winning former students as they present me with a lovely Lucite plaque honoring my tireless commitment to the education of at-risk youth. I’d thank them kindly and begin my acceptance speech by saying, “And to think, it all started because I was tired of watching people spit sunflower seeds on the floor of the train.”

According to Perez, Celine is set to release a new album in November, and I’m growing increasingly concerned about her list of collaborators. First, let me say that I have stood by Celine through numerous questionable acts of creative expression. I’ve defended that white leather jumpsuit, the backward Dior tuxedo from the 1999 Oscars, the repeated chest pounding, the bizarre Anne Geddes baby photos, and the creepy sing-a-longs with Frank Sinatra and Elvis. I even embraced “Treat Her Like a Lady,” the duet with Diana King that helped Celine share her passion for reggae-style rapping with the world.

Left and Center: Celine’s homage to Kris-Kross at the 1999 Oscars; Right: Celine attempts to kiss a dead baby back to life

My main cause for concern is that Celine has been working with Timbaland, which has me bracing for a sequel to Nelly Furtado’s “Maneater” video. I’m picturing a sweaty Celine writhing around sans bra and throwing herself on a chain link fence a lot. I’m sure Justin Timberlake will be on hand to dry hump something, and I’m terrified that there will be some sort of awkward lyrical flirtation, with Timbaland promising to work Celine all night long in the second verse or vowing to keep all her freaky secrets in the chorus.

As if the Timbaland collaboration wasn’t enough of a nail-biter, Celine’s working with R. Kelly again. Now look, Celine. I forgave you for “I’m Your Angel” because at the time, you didn’t know R. liked to pee on girl scouts. It was a simpler time and we were all a little naïve. But seriously, what keeps you going back to this guy? Between takes, do you tell him how much you loved the part in “Trapped in the Closet” when he finds the midget in the kitchen cabinet? Do you recommend S&M clubs in Vegas where people don’t mind if Renée pees on you just a little? Sorry, but I don’t get it.

At this point, I’ll just keep my fingers crossed. Maybe the album will be a huge hit and it will inspire other artists to take bigger risks. Perhaps it will pave the way for Missy Elliot to finally create that Las Vegas show with Cirque de Soleil that I’ve been dreaming of. (Am I the only person who is dying to see Missy Elliot and some foreign clowns dancing around in inflatable trash-bag suits while they’re suspended 30-feet above the stage by a complex network of high-tension wires?) Maybe Celine’s crossover will turn the entertainment world upside down in new and interesting ways. Maybe Kathy Bates will try out for American Idol or the Olsen twins will enter pie-eating contests at county fairs. It’s good to hope for the best, but I think it’s also critical that we prepare for the worst. The reality is Celine seems to be planning a hip-hop crossover album and Kelly Osbourne is playing warden Matron Mama Morton in Chicago. If those aren’t horsemen of a gay apocalypse, I don’t know what is.