But, if Minskova’s interview is anything to go by, people in glass closets shouldn’t throw (alleged) public BJ McFrisky: It seems that no matter how many times I assure you I’m not a right-winger, you will only continue to assume as much. Smith has never publicly addressed his sexuality, but that hasn’t stopped Out magazine from including him on their annual power gays list, nor did it stop conservative wingnut Cliff Kincaid from saying what we’re all thinking anyway. The staff has apparently seen them there on many occasions, but Gawker was unable to attain the name of the secretive stud. When the 49-year-old anchor wasn’t lavishing all that charm on the waitstaff, he was apparently saving the rest for his date, described as a “muscular 6-foot-2 30-something white male” the Bathtub Gin staff referred to as “his boyfriend.” Again, according to Minskova and one other source, the couple likes to hold hands and rest them in each others’ laps under the table.
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Anchor Down's six-song EP Steel to Dust, on Solidarity Records would be the perfect soundtrack to those nights and it's a disc that I'm still excited to listen to now.Katya Minskova, a 30-year-old waitress at New York’s Bathtub Gin did an exclusive interview with Gawker where she claimed that, among other things, Fox News TV host and new breaking news director Shepard Smith is a foul-mouthed, gin-swilling hand-smacker who is possibly dating a younger muscle god.Īccording to Minskova, Smith got impatient and then got loud about the speed, or lack thereof, to refill his and his party’s drinks: “He got up from his table, grabbed my elbow, and started yelling: ‘Where the fuck is my drink! Where is my fucking drink! Get my fucking drink!’ He started smacking his hands, like the back of his right hand into the palm of his left. Jump off roofs into pools, drink at the local park, blow shit up with Mexican fireworks, anything to stay out later and spend more time with the people who you related to more than anything else in the world. Sometimes we'd just go to the home of whoever had parents out of town and hang out there. Sometimes it would be driving to the top of the hill overlooking the city and shooting the shit until the sun came up.
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We'd drive around all night doing whatever came to mind (plans were not a perquisite). These albums required being played as loud as possible, as we all shouted along in the backseat and the car filled with the smoke of the driver's Camel Wides.
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Someone would flip through an oversized CD binder and pick out whatever melodic punk band we were digging at the time Bouncing Souls, the Broadways, NOFX, Operation Ivy all laid side by side, waiting to get selected and put into the portable CD player that was connected to the car's tape deck through a weird adapter that was purchased at Radio Shack. We'd leave a movie, show, party or whatever function we were at that night, and pile into someones 1980-something or other with a rear door that didn't open and three functioning seat belts and peel out like a bat out of hell (even though there was nowhere to really go). Sometimes I find myself looking back on times gone by where a group of friends would seem to spend endless nights idling away at nothing.
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It's easy to romanticize about one's past.