And The Whole Weekend, Even If No One Was There To Watch It In The Beach House, "Bring It On" Played On The Television.

We've just returned from a long weekend in Rehoboth Beach, DE.

For many New Yorkers, this beach getaway is an unknown quantity. We have Fire Island for a summer refuge, or Provincetown if you're ambitious. But for anyone south of Jersey, Rehoboth is the gay destination of choice.

It's a very cute town - beachy and fun, but family-oriented. There is a lengthy gay section of the beach, where hundreds of men (often in ill-advised boxcut trunks) frolic, gossip and sunbathe. But on the boardwalk and in the town they mingle seamlessly with thousands of families, tourists and residents. The design scheme is a mix of southern fun and rambling New England - think Kennebunkport meets Key West, except without the gin and clothing-optional resorts. Quite lovely, really.

The weekend confirmed what we feared about gay resort towns: when everybody goes to the same place for vacation, you don't get a break from your own society. By removing jobs, women, and most clothing from the equation, all the beach boys were left with was alcohol and drama.

Everyone was always buzzing about something. There was a boy who everyone called the "Fun Guy" because there was a rumor he had a highly contagious fungus. There was another boy who was very handsome but who has a very small penis, which was universally discussed in hushed tones because he had just made a new boyfriend and, really, how generous of the guy to be so understanding. Everyone was SO happy for them. And then there was the requisite gaggle of harmless pretty boys who mostly just smoked cigarettes and talked about themselves, and drifted from place to place in a big flock of fagulouness.

(Also, though no one said it, they were glad the fat one stayed home, because it brought down the median level of attraction to an undesirable level. They were only friends with him out of pity anyway - he isn't even really that nice.)

The other thing the weekend confirmed, which we were reluctant to recognize, was that gays everywhere are the same. DC gays have the same delusions of grandeur that NYC, LA and San Franciscans do. They suffer from the same high school foibles - jealousy, inexplicable resentment, promiscuity and late-night carbo loading. But they're also just as fun, smart, well-dressed, amusing and cute. They were universally friendly to a visiting Fagat, and for that we were impressed.

Wow. That's as close to a nice thing as you'll ever read on this blog. Maybe we should have vacation sex more often.

August Makes Us Think About Sex At Work

As you can tell, the heat is ruining our ability to blog. So we’ve turned to others for help.

First, check out this website for a great photo rundown of National Underwear Day.

Second, appreciate this joke our co-worker just told us:

Q: What’s small and green and consumes nuts?





A: Syphillis.

We’re Sorry, It’s Just Too Hot To Blog. Or Have Sex Indoors.

So we’ve been thinking lately about privacy.

We’re scheduled to spend the weekend in a beach house with a bunch of gays, one of whom we are crushing on. But because the house is so crowded, this could potentially entail fooling around, dorm-room style, with other people in the room. Oddly enough, while in college, this idea would have appalled us. Yet now that we are adults, living on our own, it’s not so upsetting.

And here’s why: New York effectively erases your personal boundaries with strangers.

If your roommates are home, you’ll find a way to stop even the springs in your mattress from squeaking. But if they’re away, you’ll wake the neighbors. You won’t even smooch at the dinner table with friends, but you’ll grope your date in front of a cabbie. Earlier this summer, we had sex on a rooftop, even though there was a house party two roofs away. One time we even met a person who had seen us, from another apartment building, through our window, having sex with our boyfriend. He turned white as a ghost when he saw the two of us at a bar.

What about this city desensitizes us like this? Have we stopped regarding our fellow citizens as human beings? Or does it make us all secret exhibitionists?

Maybe we should start rating one another. Sometimes, the women who live on either side of our bedroom have sex at the same time. We get moaning in stereo. We don’t know either of them, but sometimes we want to cheer them on. Because our neighbor to the east has a boyfriend who clearly satisfies her. But our neighbor to the west clearly needs to teach her man a few things – mostly about rhythm. We’re often tempted to yell through the wall: “pace yourself, or you’ll never make it!”

Then again, she knows that we like to play Erasure’s Greatest Hits during sex. So perhaps we’ll refrain from judging.

We Don't Know What They Were Doing In There, But It Certainly Wasn't Smoking.

So even though it was over 100 degrees on Tuesday, we went to Beige to see what was going on. We were completely unsurprised to see that a crowd of die-hard fags had made the pilgrimage. Dylan P, Daniel V, Drew E, Andrew F, GoGo Mike, Erik Von K, Jesse S, and Jacob B all showed. Somehow, Von convinced us to go with him to Boysroom, which is (thankfully) a block from our house. We showed up, and the place was empty except for a pale, skinny, underage gogo boy getting his stomach licked by an elderly gentleman, a waiter in his underpants, and Jay McCarroll.

We’ve had incidents with the “Project Runway” winner before. This time was no different. After a few moments chatting us up, he asked us if we wanted to fight him, and then tried to initiate a staring contest. We have to give him credit, it was sort of awkwardly brilliant. And then we saw the underage gogo boy walk in on him pooping in the bathroom accidentally, and that made it even better.

Anyway, check out the Village Voice’s article on Boysroom. It’s got some decent eyecandy, at least. But we miss the old place. The first night we ever went there, we lit a cigarette for the guy sitting next to us, because his hands were too busy directing the head in his lap. That’s our kind of joint…

This Is A Skill They Should Clearly Teach In Home Ec.

So we just heard from a friend of ours who was at the Elizabeth Arden Spa on 5th Avenue. He went in for a routine massage, and had a nice male masseuse. It was all very lovely, until the last part, when he got a happy ending. Which was, we suppose, also lovely, but maybe sort of upsetting, too.

It’s not that we’re surprised or offended by the idea of getting a handjob at the end of a massage. In fact, we’re not even really bothered that it occurs at an old-lady place like Elizabeth Arden. But hearing about from a friend made it suddenly very real for us. We now have a million questions – like:

How do you make it know that this is what you want?
Do you make eye contact during the maneuvers, or do you keep your eyes closed?
How is it possible not to laugh?
Are you allowed to moan?
Who cleans up?
How much extra do you have to tip?
How is it possible to be comfortable enough for it to work?
Isn’t there any urge to, you know, reciprocate?

And finally, isn’t it awkward afterward? Because, in our experience, handjobs are almost always followed by awkwardness.

Thank Goodness We Were In Disguise

The best thing happened to us on Friday. We were bathing suit shopping in Soho (FYI - almost no stores there sell bathing suits) before we headed to the beach. We were lugging around our weekend bag, and we were wearing our fake glasses. Sometimes shopping is better done incognito, we reasoned - but of course our fake glasses make it more difficult to SEE.

After an upsetting experience at Vilebrequin where we found the perfect gingham (that's right) trunks, but couldn't afford them, we popped into Dolce & Gabbana. We pushed through the door perhaps a little more angrily than usual, and hooked a right. Immediately, we slammed very hard, face first, into a person. "Oh my God, so sorry!" we yelped as we floundered backward forcefully, getting tangled in our bag.

Then we looked up, and realized that the person we had smacked was... us. We had walked into a MIRROR. We turned slowly in horror to see whether anyone saw. Four gay D&G employees stood nearby gaping, mouths covered.

We shrugged it off, and did a dignified lap around the store, with four sets of eyes on us the whole time. The minute we got out the door, we fled down the street.

There's nothing worse than people laughing at your misfortune. Except, of course, when they don't. And when the gays stop laughing with you, you know things are really bad.

But Then Again, Maybe We're Missing The Point Of This Particular Video

Cleaning our office today, we weirdly found a DVD called "Better Sex Through Yoga - For GAY Men." It's by that dude who does Hot Gay Naked Yoga in New York. It promises a lot of things, including these bullet points:

* Improve self confidence and posture others will be sure to notice.
* Oxygenate the blood, increasing sexual energy and desire.
* Experience more intense, longer lasting full body orgasms.
* Develop amazing control in the bedroom with better strength and flexibility.
* Revitalize nerve endings and increase blood circulation for better indurace.

Umm... oxygenation? Nerve endings? Posture? If you really want to help the gay community get better at sex, how about a video that promises:

* How to prevent pubic hair from getting caught in your teeth - over and over.
* How to avoid drymouth and scratchy blowjobs after a night of dehydrating drinking.
* An alternative to the incrediby repetitive "kiss-down-the-chest-and-then-through-the-underwear" opening move.
* How to easily and quickly refute the "I can't have an orgasm if I wear a condom" argument.
* Strategies for having many condoms available, without seeming like a whore.
* How to abolish, simply and forever, the awkward and distracting 69 position.

We would definitely plunk down $14.99 on that sucker. Hell, for $14.99, we'd FILM it for you.

And While We're At It, Can We Talk About That Whole Garter Thing....?

So sorry for not posting yesterday. Many very important firsts happened in our life: we went on a date with our very first short gay, we woke up early to go to the gym, we considered dating a friend for his apartment, and of course, that fag from 'N Sync gave publications other than blogs something to quickly forget about.

But what we meant to talk about yesterday was this wedding we went to over the weekend. The night before the ceremony, the groom, a very old friend, pulled us aside and said that "all the gays would be seated together." He said it with a wink, as if he were doing us a favor because it would be more fun that way. We laughed and brushed it aside.

Only later, at the reception, did we think about it. What if he had said, "All the JEWS will be seated together"? Or, "All of the BLACKS will be seated together"?

And, aside from the offensiveness of it all (one of the gays was FAT!), it's just a waste to have all the gays at one table. The whole reason you invite them to your wedding in the first place is to keep table-wide meaningless banter moving along at a snappy pace. And to dance with lonely wives whose husbands are too drunk or boring.

Not to mention the fact that we do your wedding planning, hair, makeup, flower design, catering and dance lessons. Wow. We just realized - if you ever let us concentrate on marrying eachother, you straight people are really FUCKED.

Let's See How He Likes It When We Take Away His Personal Trainer, His Interior Designer and His Right To Snap Sassily.

You may have heard about George Michael getting caught by a British tabloid as he fooled around with a chubby old man in the bushes of a park in England. Since then, his boyfriend of ten years, Kenny Goss, has called off plans for a civil union. Can't say we blame him.

What flummoxes us the most, though, is that when Michael was caught by the paparazzi, this was his response:

"Are you gay?" he shrieked. "No? Then f*** off! This is my culture!"

Um... what?

George Michael, who gave the gays the wonderful gifts of "Faith," "Freedom 90," and "Father Figure," says that diddling grandaddies in public spaces is "our culture"?

Boy better watch out - next thing he knows, he's going to wake up with a Fagwa on his hands.

We Can Actually Be Blamed For Pretty Much Anything. Even The Return Of Jean Shorts.

We're sure you've heard about all the bombing that's going on between Lebanon and Israel. You know, the stuff about Israel taking out Hezbollah headquarters across southern Lebanon and meanwhile dismantling that neighboring country's infrastructure? All the while the militant Arab group is lobbing missiles right back at them, and holding their soldiers hostage?

The reason you know all about this is probably because we're the ones that started it. Not the US, mind you. The gays.

That's what a bunch of rabbis in Israel think. They argue that, since Tel Aviv is considering hosting the World Pride Parade, God is no longer on their side.

Which makes at least a little sense, we think. Remember when Madonna cast that fag Rupert Everett in "Swept Away?" And when "K-Pax" producers hung their hopes on that 'mo Kevin Spacey? It's the same thing. Those movies would have been masterpieces, and then the gays got involved. The next thing you know: bombs.

We Should Take This Holiday As An Opportunity To Learn About New Things - Like Underwear That Doesn't Involve Integers

An exciting thing has happened - the FAGAT guide received its first press release! It's a little confusing, but basically, the website CampusMen.com wants us to tell you about their underwear packaging contest. If you take your cameraphone and snap the most hilarious undie packaging that you see (think the discount bin at Universal Gear), you can send them to the website and they will announce the winners on National Underwear Day on August 9.

We recommend that you check out the CampusMen.com, because it's full of really interesting features, including pictures of men in underwear, advice on how to get into pictures of men in underwear, and stories about successful men in underwear. Oh, and also links to pics of Lance's boyfriend.

But getting back to this National Underwear Day thing. Does this mean we can finally have an underoo party at our apartment? Our roommates made us promise not to, because for some reason, they're convinced gay people can't hang out in their underwear and not end up having sex. And it would be hard to Saran wrap all of the horizontal surfaces in our apartment, so they'd rather we just didn't do it.

It makes us wonder: what are our straight roommates doing watching gay porn?

I Want To Stand With Hugh On A Mountain...

Darren Hayes, the lead singer of that band Savage Garden whose popularity you could never understand around the turn of the millenium, has come out. On his fan website he just posted a statement about his recent civil partnership ceremony with his boyfriend in London:

"On June 19th 2006 I married my boyfriend of two years, Richard, in a Civil Partnership ceremony in London. I can honestly say it was the happiest day of my life. I feel lucky to live in an era where my relationship can be considered legally legitimate and I commend the UK Government for embracing this very basic Civil Liberty. I'm proud of who I am, and after what felt like an eternity, I'm finally in a place where my heart is secure and content. And I can finally make sense of all of the searching. I still maintain the belief that families and relationships are not commodities to be sold off for public consumption. In this regard, I am and will continue to be a public person with a private life."

Even though we never really liked that song "Truly, Madly, Deeply," we have to hand it to Hayes. It's true that celebrities have a right not to talk about their private lives if they choose. But no straight celebrity could get married without their fans taking notice. And by participating in this tradition, just by writing a few paragraphs, he's provided young people in the US and the UK with yet another successful, well-respected role model. Hopefully this will be of some comfort to the struggling tweenage closet queens who sit around and listen to his albums surrounded by their "Take That" posters, worrying about how to be proud of who they are. It always seems like this is a group who needs to be catered to, rather than homophobes.

Darren, thanks for being brave. You've finally legitimized the fact that your music was always really, really fucking gay.

"No, what do you DO do?"

This weekend we forewent a trip to Fire Island to participate in Monte L's clothing optional houseparty (is it bad that we now get invitations that just assume we'll be out there every weekend? Is it because we started wearing jean shorts?), and headed to East Hampton. Thankfully, we stayed at the beach most of the time - but at one point we did pick up a crew at the Maidstone Club and end up at a tragic little margarita bar called "The Blue Parrot." Aishwarya and I immediately found the only three gays in the place, and went over to compare whose shorts were the most pastel.

But as we struggled to make pithy conversation underneath the vintage Applebees wall-junk decor, next to the bar television which was blaring the Weather Channel, we ran into a problem: they were touchy gays. Specifically, they reacted negatively when we asked them about their jobs. Now, this may have been because of their social breakdown - one was a 42 year-old buyer for a famous designer, one WAS a famous designer, age 38, and one was a 23 year-old... something. Getting caught with your barely legal weekend marcia escort CAN be awkward, in the wrong company.

We went through the usual introductory remarks: "Where are you from?" "Don't you wish the Hamptons had a gay bar?" "I notice you've altered your french cuff shirt with ribbons to match your yellow cutoff capris," etc. But eventually, we asked the dreaded: "What do you do?

We were immediately castigated.

And the thing is, we've never understood why that's a bad question. Gays will often reprimand you for asking what they do - as if you've asked about their political beliefs, or acne prescription. For a people who toss out "Top or bottom?" before they get to "What's your last name?" this seems a little inconsistent. Your job is where you spend half of your waking hours. Isn't that a natural conversation starter? Is the assumption that if someone is a waiter or, say, a lighthouse keeper, that there will be judgement involved? Aren't we giving one another too little credit?

The most lowly job we ever had was to be a lifeguard at an underground naked pool in Manhattan. That's pretty appalling. And let us tell you - there was no conversation where that DIDN'T come up. So what gives?

We're Just Itching To Wrap Our Hands Around That Pair...

...of Dsquared swim trunks.

And Yet We Still Use It... For The Articles.

This morning we got our 10,000th "smile" on Friendster.

We never know the people who send us these messages, but they always include some witty text, like "U r adorable" or "luv ur profile wanna chat?" Or, if we're lucky, "how hung r u?"

Now, we've already discussed how internet lingo like "LOL," "ROTFL," and "TTFN" is about as much of a turn on as Kathy Bates' hot tub scene in "About Schmidt." But what really bugs us about "smiles" is that they don't require any effort. In a bar, you have to work up the courage to talk to someone. You have to have several questions ready, and several witty responses. You may even have to buy the dude a drink.

But on the internet, you don't even have to have a cute opening line. It's further proof that online dating for gay men is just like eBay. You can search for what shape and size you like, you can look at a few pictures from different angles (often shirtless, so you know EXACTLY what you're getting), and you can even see an object's provenance. You can even get user ratings from the testimonial section! Then you bid on several, by sending a "smile," and sit back and wait to see which items you win.

Which sort of sucks, we think. For a while internet dating was one of the only safe ways to meet gays in places in the US where there aren't a lot of gay bars or organizations. But now it's just another way of shopping - and it's very skewed towards physical appearance. We'd never date the kind of person who's put up a shirtless main picture, so why are we more likely to click on such a profile?

Our other complaint about the eBay-ization about gay online dating is that the products that most frequently pop up turn out to be made in Malaysia. What is that?

And When Mother Nature Made John Waters, She Smiled. And There Was Sh*t In Her Teeth.

The London Zoo is throwing a big party for the gays to encourage the debate over whether homosexuality occurs naturally. There will be cocktails, jazz music, and a VIP room - which we're sure is thrilling for the animals. Drunk humans, loud noises, and yet another area in the world they can't access.

This is our favorite part of the article:


"The famous New York Penguin couple, Silo and Roy had been seen as a clear cut example of homosexuality in the animal kingdom, having been together faithfully for six years, until Silo left Roy for a female last year.

But there is hope for fidelity on the gay animal scene; flamingos Carlos and Fernando from Slimbridge wildfowl reserve have been together for five years and are currently raising a chick that they adopted when it was an egg."


"Flamingos Carlos and Fernando" are our hope for proof that homosexuality occur naturally?

Somebody's trying to tell us something.

Georgetown Is The New West Village.

As we said earlier, this weekend we sent to DC to visit some of our very favorite gays, FHC and LL.

It was a weekend full of tennis, sailing, jogging, and partying – and, of course, the donning of tight shorts to commemorate each activity. We had a spectacular time. We met celebrities, saw many well-decorated townhouses, and were gently rebuffed by a handful of vintage twinks.

We observed the following things about DC gays in their natural habitat (we had to drink and do drugs with them at first, to prove we were non-threatening. Everything scientifically observed, you know):

1) They only have two bars to attend, places called Cobalt and Halo (we went to Halo all three nights we were there), and they hate both of them.
2) They hide their minorities (with the exception of Kevin D, who is allowed to remain exposed because he plays the oboe for the military Ice Capades).
3) As they get older, they lose the ability to carry on spirited dinner conversations. This could be related to prolonged dehydration from hot weather, exercise and drinking. Or the fact that they are concentrating too hard on maintaining their combovers.
4) Kevin D. is like the Kennedy Center – aesthetically pleasing, culturally important, and on most weekend nights, open for memorable performances. His specialty is revivals.
5) Anything or anyone that does not involve the regular use of a polo shirt is called “alternative.”
6) Only one person actually fits that criterion. We forget his name, but he’s clearly not worth knowing anyway.
7) Ben T’s father was on the “Shrinkage” episode of “Seinfeld,” which has set the monkey bar of family success awfully high up.
8) There are a handful of Kevin Bacons, to whom everyone is connected by very small degrees of sexual separation. You know who you are. So do we.
9) This group is not to be confused with the self-appointed “Fab Five,” who are lucky that most people don’t actually know they call themselves that.
10) There is a gay Diner, where everyone goes to judge each other’s carbohydrate intake.
11) JR’s is for old people and closeted Republicans. Chipotle is for everyone.
12) Kevin W. is very popular, if a bit passé, and can be seen at the opening of all of the most important bottles.
13) The nightclub Nation is like McDonalds. They all talk about how they would never go there, so how come so many of them wake up on weekend mornings with their mouths tasting like special sauce?
14) In DC, good things come to those who wait. Bad things come to those with coke problems.
15) Everyone there smokes cigarettes. Also, everyone there knows who has a small penis. Now, so do we.
16) They have better apartments than we do here in New York.
17) They have better taste and can afford more to decorate said apartments than we do here in New York.
18) And yet, they have a collective chip on their shoulders for not living in New York.

Thank you, JH, FH, CB, TB and KD for being such amazing hosts. Everyone come to Manhattan to visit, where the gay bars are plentiful and open late, and the nasty tricks don’t come back to date your best friends!

Superman Could Hear Even The Quietest Whimper For Help.

A straight friend of ours went to see “Superman” in Chelsea over the weekend, and had an experience which he described as chilling. We thought it was hilarious. Here is the way it was told to us:

STRAIGHT FRIEND: So I went to see Superman in Chelsea over the weekend. And something gross happened in the bathroom.
FAGAT: What?
SF: There were two dudes having sex in the bathroom.
FG: Ha! You should have known better than to see it in Chelsea. The hotness of Brandon Routh in tights must have been so overpowering that they couldn’t wait to get home to have sex.
SF: I told the management on them.
FG: What? How did you even know they were having sex?
SF: Well, I was at the urinal, and I heard some squishing noises from a stall. So at first I thought it was just a dude masturbating. But then there was a silence. And couple of seconds later, somebody quietly said: “Stop.”

See Title Of Below Post.

Late yesterday, New York’s State Court of Appeals ruled that our state constitution does not require that marriage licenses be given to gay couples. Here is a New York Times article. Oddly, it was first bylined by gay reporter Patrick Healy – but now it’s bylined by someone called Anemona Hartocollis. Weird. Here is a link to the court documents.

Reading the decision is really eye-opening. The majority opinion, written by Judge Robert S. Smith, is a collection of hedging sentiments, equivocating logic, and responsibility dodging. For example, Smith simultaneously supports the reasoning behind Loving vs Virginia, the 1967 landmark Supreme Court interracial marriage ruling, while at the same time using this language:

“The idea that same-sex marriage is even possible is a relatively new one. Until a few decades ago, it was an accepted truth for almost everyone who ever lived, in any society in which marriage existed, that there could be marriages only between participants of a different sex. A court should not lightly conclude that everyone who held this belief was irrational, ignorant, or bigoted. We do not so conclude.”

If you replace “same-sex” with “interracial,” and “different sex” with “same race,” it would still be true. Did the Supreme Court make that decision “lightly”? Does any court ever make a decision that way? Say what you will about either side of this issue – no one is taking it lightly.

Smith also hedges when addressing the issue of whether it is fair to allow non-childbearing straight couples to marry, as much of his logic is based on the fact that marriage is for the procreation of children.

“While same sex couples and opposite-sex couples are easily distinguished, limiting marriage to opposite-sex couples likely to have children would require grossly intrusive inquiries, and arbitrary and unreliable line-drawing.”

Um… Intrusion? Arbitrariness? Line-drawing? Wow, straight people really don't understand irony. Smith is saying that because the issue is complicated and hard, we can’t get into delineating between child bearing and non-child bearing couples. But with gay couples, who are uncomplicated and easy, delineate away! And who was just talking about how we shouldn’t do anything lightly?

Chief Judge Judith Kaye’s dissent reads like the Gettysburg Address, in comparison. It’s clear, it’s fair, and it’s unequivocating. Quite frankly, it’s downright touching. Because she repeatedly hammers home the only point that matters: We are giving certain citizens rights that we are denying others. “The long duration of a constitutional wrong cannot justify its perpetuation,” she writes, “no matter how strongly tradition or public sentiment may support it.”

Kaye also waggles her fingers at the court for tossing the question to the legislature, thereby shirking “its obligation to remedy constitutional violations in the hope that the Legislature might some day render the question presented academic.” She closes with the flat statement: “I am confident that future generations will look back on today’s decision as an unfortunate misstep.”

In other words, karma’s a bitch, judges. And she works out.


For an interesting side note, see here.

We Really Do Love America, Even When It Doesn't Love Us.

So we watched the Independence Day fireworks in Washington, DC, from the South Lawn of the White House this year, courtesy of our very own White House hottie Thomas B. It was really something. While at first we expected that there would be nothing gay about being surrounded by young white Republicans in seersucker, we were pleasantly surprised. Here are some of the faggier elements:

* The version of “The Star Spangled Banner” that they chose to play during the ‘works, because it was Beyonce’s.
* The version of “God Bless America” that they selected, because it was Celine’s.
* The Bushes appearing on the balcony and Laura waving to everyone like Princess Diana (or was it Evita?).
* The group rendition of “Happy Birthday” sung to the President (well, that was just gay in the pejorative sense)
* The fact that FBI Director Robert Mueller was saving someone’s seat – in a wheelchair (that was just inexplicable)
* The soda pop in commemorative dishwasher safe cups, and the Dove bars.
* Fagat, when he attempted to alienate every young white Republican nearby by forcing the handsome boy next to him to walk holding his hand.

And really, what could be gayer than blasting music, flashing lights, and an excuse to eat sausage in the middle of the afternoon? As Thomas B. pointed out, what are fireworks but giant, pyrotechnic jazz hands?