Dog Dates

I've been dating recently. No one else but me is surprised by this, because I just don't think I'm very datable. Maybe only slightly better than average physically, I'm reaching the point where I can say I've 'passed my prime,' and I certainly have enough baggage for a round-the-world cruise. Twice round-the-world. And I don't think that's a stretch. (I'm not fishing for compliments.)

I went on a date with this really amazing guy. He's sweet and considerate, he's smart and funny, really really handsome, incredible body, good job....

I don't think it's going to work out. I want to be wrong, because there's nothing wrong with him - he would make someone very very happy. I don't think that I'm that person. WHAT DID MY PARENTS DO TO ME????!????? Is there any reason why I can't do this? Can I date a nice guy for once? GAWD!

When I was in seventh grade, our black Labrador, Lady, was hit by a car. She was a beautiful, smart, fast gentle dog whose only setback was her predisposition to roll in shit and dead birds.

Immediately after that, my dad rescued a male Dalmatian from an old man who was, I think, going to put him down. The old man named the dalmatian LBJ, but we changed his name to Pongo, from '101 Dalmatians.' We never knew his age, but he was young when we acquired him. No older than two.

He was a jerk.

He constantly killed the neighbor's cats. Constantly. And for no other reason other than that he could. I saw him do it once. This unsuspecting and naive cat was strolling by, on the border of where our yard met our neighbor's yard. And this cat had obviously no ill will to Pongo, and I think was approaching Pongo just to say hi and throw out a peace pipe, so to speak. Pongo's ears perked up and his tail wagged, a crafty ploy to lure the cat closer. As the cat got close enough, Pongo lowered his head, grabbed the cat by the neck and shook with all his might. The cat's neck broke and was immediately killed. To which Pongo dropped the body and continued on as if nothing happened, as I imagine Jeffery Dahmer did. And no lie, this happened constantly. (I blame the neighbors: Really?? You HAD to have cat after cat?)

He would also puke. Gallon upon gallon. On my bed. Pongo would plead to go out at 2 or 3 in the morning by scratching at the door and barking and crying - he had one of those obnoxiously loud barks and yelps that shot through your ears and right into your fillings. He was the Fran Drescher of dogs. So after a half hour of constant argument with him, he would win and I would open the door to let him out (we lived in an unincorporated area, where there were no leash laws and barely any traffic, so dogs off their lead was common.) So on his nightly hunts, he would turn over the (same) neighbor's garbage cans and eat everything in it - corn cobs, paper, bones. I mean literally everything in that garbage can ended up being eaten by him. And I know this because he would come back home, jump up on my bed, whimper with discomfort from being so bloated with garbage, and vomit as if he were auditioning for 'Doggie Exorcist.' So I saw what he ate.And it was A LOT! Never could you imagine that much fitting in the stomach of any animal, let alone a 50 pound dog.

And he was very territorial. That's the nice way to say 'malicious.' If you didn't know Pongo and you came over, God help you, because you were on your own. There was no one in that house that could hold him back if he decided that he was going to send a message through his teeth. Band-Aids and alcohol had a special shelf near the front door at our house for those occasions when we couldn't get Pongo in the rear bedroom fast enough. And all my friends and my sibling's friends knew that our house was always the last resort for any get-togethers, and I think our sympathy as a family waned after the 7th or 8th nip. I can still hear my mother's exasperated sighs and tone when she tried to be sympathetic to Pongo's victims, because, like anyone who has been in a long-running stage show knows, it takes a lot of good acting to make the same lines appear genuine and heart-felt, when its really just a script that you've had to repeat for 8 shows a week for two years and counting. Mother was never that good of an actor.

(At this point I do have to offer Dolly a genuine apology for Pongo jumping up to bite her nose. DON'T BLOW KISSES AT PONGO! He hated that. Apparently.)

And don't even get me started on the fleas he brought into the house, the footprints, the white hair that covered everything, the fights with the neighbor dogs, the pot roast... OH! the pot roast!

Mother took a pot roast out of the freezer and put it on top of the refrigerator to thaw out overnight. Mind you, this was a roast for a family of six. Well, in the middle of the night, the house is awoken to Pongo's crying and yelping. So we all get up to find that he has somehow climbed his up to the top of the 6 feet tall refrigerator, has eaten the ENTIRE pot roast, and couldn't make his way back off the refrigerator. So he had to be lifted off from on top of the refrigerator and brought to the ground, where he subsequently vomited the entire pot roast onto the kitchen floor. He went and hid, then fell asleep, while we all cleaned up dog vomit at 3 in the morning.

He was a horrible animal - totally untrained and untrainable, a huge bully, an obnoxious bulimic, and a street thug, to say the least. I loved him. Like he was the flesh of my flesh: I loved that dog so much, and I'll still shed a tear for him and the tribulations he had to go through (he was only a dog and really can't be held responsible, so I think he was way over-punished!). I will never ever meet a dog again without thinking, 'Sure - it's a nice dog. It's no Pongo, but it seems nice enough.'

That's how I date. Ugh.

Open Wounds

I've had something on my mind a lot recently. Not that it isn't always on my mind. Every waking moment the thought is there. But in the last couple of weeks, it's been prevalent.


Ricardo Antonio Varela Peralta ("Riky") is hard for me to talk about. And not because he died while he was with me. Not ONLY because he died while he was with me, I should say.

That's him in the corner.

It's coming up on the 9 year anniversary of his death. He was a beautiful dancer, a beautiful human being, a beautiful man. Dancer first; it was his art and his passion. And he made a good go of it - he received several awards and amazing reviews for not only his dance, but also his one man show that he toured the world with, called "My Blue Angel."

That's when I met him. He was travelling to Kenya with his show and had to stop over in Hawaii and had to lay over due to some Visa issues (he was a Mexican resident leaving from LAX travelling east to Kenya: of course he had Visa issues!). He came into my shop where I was working and we immediately clicked. Or, he clicked on me, and I followed suit. (Riky was 5'5" tall and about 185 pounds of solid muscle, bald with sideburns and tattoos peeking through his black tank top and the cuff of his tight black jeans. He did not - NOT - fit the image of someone who was exactly approachable.)

It's really cute how shy he was, but he did finally ask me to see a movie that night, and I said yes, and I said I would call his hotel later. And I did, but apparently the hotel staff had unplugged the phone, so I thought he wasn't in, or that he decided to ignore the call, and he thought I stood him up.

I love that he got anxious about the whole thing, and in his mission to will me to call, he discovered that his phone was unplugged. I fortunately left my number with the hotel operator, so he was able to call back.

We had missed the movie at this point, so I said, "Listen, just come over, I'll cook dinner, and we'll eat on the lanai."

He moved in that night for the rest of the week until he went off to Kenya.

And we were together for three years. "Together" in the loosest form of the word.

Riky was Mexican, and, being such, lived in Mexico. So it wasn't like he could just move to the US and we could live together (which is why I have rallied and protested immigration bans on same-sex partners. Riky didn't want to be American, and I couldn't have moved anyway at that time, but that doesn't mean we didn't want the ability to do so.). So he would work and travel with his show for 3 or 4 months, come stay with me for 6 weeks, and go back and start over again.

On his third visit, I picked him up at the airport and he seemed very troubled. There was something bothering him on the trip home - home - that he couldn't tell me and I didn't want to hear.

We had always talked quite a bit on the phone, and I had told him about my partner Eric that died in '91 from AIDS, and how it would be impossible for me to ever be with anyone that had the disease again. The process of his dying was so awful and soul-retching that I couldn't do it twice. So of course he didn't want to tell me that he was HIV positive. (And yes, he should have told me. From the start I should have known, but I always am safe, and the would'ves/should'ves are in the past. I forgave him for that.) But it was too late, emotionally. I was vested, and he was healthy with no signs of the virus as of his last checkups. He was that anomaly that remained HIV+ without dipping into AIDS and the need for medications. He was a case study.

We continued this way for a couple of years. Long times apart, not long enough times together, phone calls twice a week when he crossed the border, and contentment. He even found a dance company in Hawaii that took him in and he performed with them frequently. And energetically. (Age-wise, at 37, he was an old dancer. Never knew it from his moves. For as short and stocky as he was, he could still take that leg that was built like a tree trunk, and kick it straight up and kiss his shin. He was a dancer, to understate it.) No sign of virus or sickness.

Cut to Sunday, September 30, 2001. He was with me in Hawaii and rehearsing for a October 5 performance. I met him after rehearsal - probably around 7:30p or so - and he said he was feeling short of breath.

"Well, you did just finish a 5 hour dance rehearsal, and it's not like you're 23 anymore." And we left it.

The next day was more serious. He said he felt like he couldn't get enough air and it was like he was holding his breath. We decided to go to the clinic just to see what was happening.

They did a blood test and found that indeed their wasn't enough hemoglobin to carry the oxygen through his body. The doctor said it was also safe to assume that he had probably dipped into full blown AIDS at this point, but they still needed to get the test results. Stay home, no activity, and the results should come in by Friday.

The drive home was relatively silent, neither of us knowing what to say. Except for when he turned to me and said, "I'm scared."

That's the last thing I can remember him saying. Wednesday evening I had to call the ambulance as he wasn't coherent, he had vomited a bit, and obviously his brain wasn't functioning.

He was dead Thursday morning.

I'm not even going to go into how dispassionate and horrible people in the death business can be. That I had to pry off a Hawaiian wedding ring from his finger because it would not be released to me after the coroner took his body, as I wasn't a blood relative, is something I will never forget or forgive. There was so much more involved, but I can't and won't ever talk about it, other than to say that people can be intentionally and unintentionally vicious. I don't think I ever saw horror before this event.

As I said, it's hard for me to talk about. Mostly because people don't get it. He was what made me whole, and I understand it seemed not that way because we spent more time apart than together, but we were.... Just that. We were.

I remember I got an email a month or so after from a friend asking where I'd been.

I sent the stock answer, "Hi! Sorry I've been out of touch. Ricardo died October 5, and I've been a bit removed. Bear with me while I recoup."

He sent back, "Oh. I didn't realize you were that close."

So I didn't talk about it because I couldn't talk about it to make it plausible. I know I like being coupled up and I know I can read things larger than what they are. I'm not an idiot - I just finished a relationship with someone whose got the emotional maturity of a 14 yr old school girl, and yet I STILL wax nostalgia for him! But Riky was different; he longed for me the way I longed for him.

I don't believe time heals all wounds. I think we just get used to it. My brother has an enlarged pore on his neck that will occasionally weep pus for no apparent reason, but otherwise it just looks like a tiny pock mark. Riky is my open pore. Just a permanent pock mark that will occasionally weep, but then stops weeping after a bit.

It's weeping now, but it'll stop.

Lowest of the Low

I remember one day when I was still living at home - I must have been 18 or so - and my mother stopped me at the door.

"You're not going out of the house like that!"

I was wearing one of my favorite blue plaid shirts, button-down short sleeved and very traditional casual - sort of a Hollister style, if Hollister actually existed back then in 1936.

Except it was torn in the back. Not a huge tear; it was just enough a vertical slice going from the tail to just above where the pants waist was, so a scintilla of flesh was exposed just above the belt.

"What's the big deal?!"

"No son of mine is going out like that! You are going to take that shirt off THIS INSTANT!!!"

She was mortified. I couldn't believe her reaction was so great as to this infinitesimal jot of skin on my back.

I met overreaction with overreaction., naturally.

"FINE! YOU CAN HAVE THE FUCKING SHIRT!!"

And I grabbed the shirt over each pectoral, and I ripped it, scattering the buttons and completing the tear up the back, so that I ended up with the shirt in half in both hands. It was very David Banner, except for the fact that I was probably 100 pounds. I threw the shirt on the ground and ran to my bedroom and slammed the door -- I was very much the teenager. (The pisser is that I cut off my nose to spite my face - I loved that shirt!)

I said right then and there that I would never do that - everyone has his or her own style, and he or she has every right to express their taste and individuality, as long as it isn't obscene or illegal. I knew at this point I would never be a father, but I would be the favorite uncle or bestest godfather, and my wards would surround me and say I was the coolest adult ever! because I allow free thinking and would never cater to societal norms like every other grownup.

Cut to now: what in God's name is up with these guys wearing their pants below their asses?! Has everyone seen this? What the hell is that?! I hope it's regional, but upon doing some research, it seems not the case.

A slight 'pant sag' in the kids these days isn't that bad - in fact, I think it sort of has a aura of masculinity about it. But NOW! the pants are worn below the cheeks nd its just plain stupid and detrimental to one's day-to-day life. Why would you want to walk like that? And here in NY, we're all taking stairs up and down to the subways - can you imagine going up the stairs with your pants around your thighs? What is wrong with you people?!

It seems this whole thing started in prison, of all things, because belts aren't allowed, so it was commonplace to have your pants hang low. Then, when they came out of prison, they continued the 'style' to show their street cred.

And now, I see nice guys - good, hard-working, non-street cred 20-somethings wearing their pants like the village idiot.

And how are their kids going to learn to walk? Are all the infants now going to start emulating these guys when they learn to walk, so that even after this fad goes away, the teenagers in 15 years will still be walking like a penguin carrying his egg? Good Lord I hope I'm dead if that's the case.

Hold on- I just found a website saying the same thing I am: http://www.angrywhitedude.com/. This extremist right wing zealot is ranting about a guy that shot himself dead due to a loaded gun being carried in his sagging pants. One response to his beef is "I hope you're not encouraging people to carry unloaded weapons! You need two hands to load a gun, particularly a glock, and women would be particularly vulnerable."

I changed my mind.

Best Wishes

I just hit a milestone. Or, more apropos, a big huge milestone hit me right in the face. Or, more apropos yet, a mileboulder. Big goddammed fucking mileboulder. After this summer, life will never be the same (although if you think about it, after every little twitch of the muscle, life is never really the same. The course of the rest of your life is altered by every single seemingly random minutiae of movement. You choose to step on a bug, you leave a smear of goo, someone slips on the goo, breaks their hip, BAM! paraplegic for the rest of their life. So quit squishing bugs!). And I thought I would let it go by as if nothing happened. Can't be done.

I had a birthday. I turned.... I can't say it. It's a big number. It's a number that turns out to be one less than the average age one becomes a grandparent.

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN???!!!!! I'M NOT THAT PERSON!!!! I AM NOT ONE YEAR OFF THE AVERAGE AGE ONE BECOMES A GRANDPARENT!!!!!

Look at my writing!! I have the emotional maturity of an 18 year old! I hold torches (while simultaneously wanting to torch) ex boyfriends. I have BOYfriends, for godsakes!

I know I'm supposed to cherish the passing years, take joy in fantastic health, feel blessed for where I've come from, blah blah. To which I respond, fuck you, you piece of candy assed shithead and I hope you choke on your own sugar-filled bile while having a diabetes induced coma. And that's my birthday wish.

Do you think this is where I envisioned myself at this age? Managing an industrial tool rental department in a large city? Living with a roommate in lower-middle class neighborhood (but it's a fantastic apartment and a great roommie)? Buying moisturizers? Economizing?!

I do not celebrate this birthday; I tolerate this birthday. This is the birthday where I say, 'Finish my Master's? Ehh, why bother....' This is the birthday where I can no longer shop in Abercrombie and Fitch. This is the birthday where I contemplate the advantages of joining AARP (in a few years). This is the birthday where I don't pluck the greys.

Don't misinterpret me- I'm not sad or regretful. I'm shocked that this came so fast. Wasn't I sneaking cigarettes in the back yard just a few years ago? Doing 11pm rehearsals for Naturalism class just a few months ago? Smoking doobies yesterday? What the Hell have I been doing?

So resolved: I'm not where I want to end up, so I'll take steps to where I want to be. Maybe I won't get to where I planned, but I can try.

I'll figure out where I want to be. Soon.

I just saw the 'We Are the World' video remake for Haiti for the first time. I didn't know anyone in the video except Barbra Streisand and Tony Bennett. God - I'm 46.

Tears for Years

I cry. For a fortysomething year old man, I cry a lot.

And it's not about real stuff. I mean not about things like a broken heart, or paths not taken, or other self pity shit. Stupid stuff makes me cry.

I wonder if that's expected of someone like me or not; the first time people meet me, do they think, 'Oh, he seems like a crier?' I don't think so, but I also think I look a lot better than I actually do, so my self-image may be slightly skewed. (I have half-heartedly attempted online dating, and twice when we got to the point of exchanging real photos, not just the ones in the best lighting or the professionally done ones, I never heard from them again. Of course they were both in their early 30's, so maybe the reality of dating someone over forty for them didn't match the fantasy. I probably couldn't have really followed up on it anyway. Incidentally, I'm not too worried about it: the relationships I have and had are decidedly with guys that are way off the Richter scale attractive, so I assume that, while they undershot, I have to be close. The rule is that the people you date are always plus or minus two from where you are on the attractiveness scale. Husbands and wives don't count; love throws the rules out the window. Whatever love is. Point being that Guy Lepore, if that's your real name, I'm not offended. You're very cute and I think you're closer to 25 than 30 anyway, so a conversation about skateboards and Justin Bieber would have been imminent, and I know nothing about either. Conversely, you probably have no idea what the president has and hasn't done as part of his campaign promises, let alone who the president is. Just saying I'm not bitter.)

I will get choked up at the movies. Every movie. I mean almost every single movie. 'Avatar' was not a good movie - it had a predictable a trite story line with an ending to match. But the effects were so overwhelming I cried. (Not every movie- I saw one Tyler Perry movie in my life, and the entire theater cried except me. It was an awful movie with a story line that seemed passable only because the acting was so much worse than the script. And what the fuck was Gladys Knight doing in that piece of shit movie? Just because you're a black celebrity does not mean you have to do a Tyler Perry movie. She should be ashamed. sidenote: my ex, the one appearing in previous posts, needed a Kleenex throughout that movie. That should have been a sign.)

I will bawl recounting the storyline of a particularly moving film. I can't even say the title "In America" without getting a lump in my throat. Or "Lion in Winter." Not that the story is so touching, but that Katharine Hepburn is so good in that movie, I am humbled by her existence. My own humility makes me cry.

Dogs make me cry. I met a Bernese Mountain dog yesterday, Lily, that was so beautiful and amiable and trusting and bouncy and monstrous pulling her mistress around that my eyes welled in awe and jealousy, due to Lily doting on that lady being pulled around and not on me. The stories of Steve (the dog that previously appeared in the upper left corner-I lost the pic!) being such a monster get my eyes watery. Steve has now taken to nipping at his real owner's calves while his dinner is being prepared. And Steve can't help himself; his excitement is so massive that he can't contain it within himself. His honesty and reckless abandon is tear-forming.

Animal abusers will bring a tear. Ashley Yeater made the news because she gave up her dog rather than her boyfriend, who was convicted of throwing her yorkie down so hard that he broke six ribs and lost an eye. Ashley said, "Let's keep things in perspective: it's only a dog." Ashley makes me cry.

Forgetting someone's birthday will make me cry, apparently. It makes me feel so selfish and egocentric, which I don't think I am, that I cry at myself.

Ricardo Antonio Varela Peralta makes me cry if think about him too much. He's not supposed to not be here, and we weren't together long enough.

But I laugh alot, too, just in case you're worried that I'm chronic. But mostly at myself. Like at how much I cry.

Friends, Lovers, Stylists, Bloggers

Well, I couldn't be more pissed! So I have this love/hate relationship with me ex/current/ex. But he is such a dick.

When we first broke up, last summer (right before my birthday, which I don't think is a coincidence at all), it was childish and shocking. I merely mentioned to him that I found it insensitive and demeaning when, in the movie theater, he hissed at me that "You're not helping the situation!" when I whispered that I wish the other theater-goers would stop talking. It was a hiss. Big ol' nelly hiss.

So of course his response to me when I said I felt a little put off by his reaction to my whisper was to put his hand in my face and stomp off to his train platform. When I sit and wait with him, telling him he might feel better if we talk about it, he puts his headphones on and didn't speak to me again. For two months.

But I'm the forgiving type - what can I say? And I think too the fact that he had the final say rubbed my craw for that span of time. So I contacted him via text. Asked him if was doing well, and to tell him I was just thinking about him.

"Who is this?" was the text I got back.

SO, one would think to say 'fuck this', right? But yet I still pursue. All right, I admit it, the sex was amazing. A-MAZE-ING. (I'm reluctant to write that, not because of any protestant editorialism, only that I hate to advertise for him. But it's also an ad for me isn't it?) Male anatomy (read: penis) is like a dog's nose: it can lead you where you know you shouldn't be going, and you know you're a bad dog for turning the garbage can over, but the immediate gratification is worth the potential outcome. And who knows? Maybe the the upside-down garbage can will never be discovered. Worth a shot, right?

And don't get me wrong - I can get along with Ex. We always have a good time when we're out. We understand each other. And while our interests are fairly dichotomous, we can talk for hours, look into each other's eyes, and know that we're each thinking, "ehh. Good enough. I'm not gonna kill him, so...."

Well, it's all past. We have made a not-entirely-unhealthy break-up. It's been about two months or so. And we still talk, and hang out occasionally. And he still does my hair (tonight). Free. Not too bad: friends with the ex, right?

He's blocked me from his Twitter account. He's taken me off as a Facebook friend, and put up some wall that I can't even see that he is still on Facebook (a mutual friend is still friends with him. That's the only way I know he still has a Facebook account). AND he has a blog site on this same portal! Which he was doing whilst we were together and he never told me! Granted, it's one of this 'paste and copy' blogs, where he reads something and relays it on his blog - totally unoriginal-, and he hasn't added to it since October, but all the same, right? Wouldn't you say to your partner, 'Hey, I started a blog. You should check it out?'

Just for that, I'm not telling him that I just wrote about him when I see him. Tonight. To get my hair cut. Free.

Dear John and John and John,

Dear Marles,

I'm sorry I can not see you again. It's not you - it's me.


When I met you at the gym, you seemed like a very nice gentleman doing your leg presses very diligently. It was actually a nice amount of weight; your legs must be very fit.


I should have somehow gotten you to stand up. Totally my fault.


It's not that I don't like overweight people. Most of the people in this country are fat and I have many friends that are overweight. I just can't imagine spending the night with them. Well, most of them. And you.


And also, I assumed when you accepted my invitation, you were single. As you described to me in several details that most people would be embarrassed of and probably not even admit until at least the third date. Maybe ever.


Going through your boyfriend's Blackberry - not endearing. OK, so you found some phone numbers and messages that makes him seem untrustworthy. I give you that. Apparently, he has justifiable reasons to not trust you, also. Besides that you went through his Blackberry, YOU WENT OUT ON A DATE WITH ME!!!!


And really?!! You bit him?!?! On the cheek?! In an attempt to kiss him in the middle of the Blackberry fight?!? I'm trying to visualize how one tries to kiss someone and it turns into a bite on the cheek. Can't see it. Nor do I see it in my future.


So thank you for the text today, and maybe yes we can see each other again. But either you're paying or we're going dutch. No, you're paying because that'd be the only way it'd be worth it.


Sincerely,
Bob


p.s. Word of advice: don't get the tattoo of an arrow on your back pointing to your ass with the caption "Entrance Here." You'll regret it at some point in your life. And could you ever go swimming?


Dear Carlos,

I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's not you - it's me.

You are actually a very nice gentleman and you are going to make some one very happy. Probably. Someone really odd. And appreciates your 'visions.'

I just don't know how to take it when you look at me and tell me you see images of stags and dreamcatchers in a doorway. Is that a compliment? I mean I guess I'll take it that way, since you told me that most people give you panoramic visions, and I give you very specific visions. But can I really live up to it for a long term relationship? Or pretend that I find it unique and fascinating beyond the second date? And guess what - if you wake up with a different chant that is somehow 'communicated' to you each morning, and your chant for the day we got together had something to do with butterflies, and you actually SAW a poster of a butterfly when we were in Chelsea, it's not a sign. Butterflies are kind of gay, and Chelsea is kind of gay. It's like thinking about sand, and later that day you go to the beach. Not a sign of anything - it's just nature.

Also, don't order rose' wine on the first date. Or ever, but particularly on the first date. Does not
impress. Well, it actually does impress, but not the good kind of impressing.

Sincerely,
Bob


Dear Eru,

I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's you.


You are very very very cute and I wish it were different.


I'm all about a fantasy. In the right time and place, everything's game. But I'm probably not going to call you 'daddy' in public. And forgive me for being an ageist and an elitist, but shouldn't YOU be calling ME 'daddy?' It just seems more appropriate for a thirty year old dancer to call the older and, frankly, more established man the daddy. And giving me the nickname of 'Slip and Slide' was a little presumptuous and honestly, something you'll never ever know.


And I'm not sure if you are able to stop drinking. You drank A LOT. Now, you may say that it wasn't that much and you can handle your booze. However, the fact that you fell asleep in a position that most people don't really fall asleep in, tells me that you indeed drank a lot that I didn't see. There was already a lot that I did see.


You'll be fine. I don't think you even remember my name. Actually, I don't think I ever told you. Thank God.


Sincerely,
Bob

Here's a good tidbit

I'm in Phoenix now. I decide I'm going to cook dinner for the folks, but I need some items from the store. Like rice-mom has rice, but she has it already cooked and in the freezer. I have no idea whats she planning on doing with it. No wonder dad doesn't like rice!

So, upon returning from the store, about a block away from mom and dad's condo, there's an ambulance and a sheriff's car at an apartment building.

"Slow down!" Mom screams. So I slow the car down and mom is careening her neck to the building. "Do you see anyone?!"

"No, mom."

"Wait! Here comes the stretcher.. shoot! Turn around!"

"What?"

"Turn around! I want to to see if they bring anyone out."

"Mom, do you no anyone in that building?"

"No. I'm just being curious. Make a U-turn!"

So I turn - in the middle of the street - and we see the EMTs coming out with an empty stretcher.

"I bet someone hit his wife and she refused treatment. Mark my words."

So of course I say, "Now mom, how do you know that?"

AND she says, "Well, of course that's what happened. This is that type of neighborhood. Why else would they bring an empty stretcher?"

This is where we have all learned to just nod our head and say, Oh. OK.

The Joy of Finishing Time Off

No one meant any harm, I'm sure. My family is really not intentionally malicious, I don't think. But the best kept plans....


I'm just finishing up a stay with the family. I haven't seen them in many years. My brother has been at least ten years, and probably much much more. My sister has been maybe five years, and I think the same with my folks. Ahhh, my folks.


So I arrived in Phoenix the day after I was scheduled to arrive (Delta has the collective communication abilities of a kindergarten class. The short story is that they sent me to the wrong terminal to catch my flight, and when I asked when boarding was, they basically told me to sit down and shut up and read the screen. Maybe I'll write about that at some point. It's SO not the story!) Everything's great on arrival to Phoenix. I meet up with Mom and Dad, have dinner with some family friends and call it a night. Nice.

The next day, we hop in the car for a lovely and scenic drive to Colorado. Now, my dad has cataracts in his right eye and can't see out of his left, so the driving is going to be divided between Mom and me. Me as the primary driver, of course. Oh wait! I forgot to mention we had to pack up some food for the trip (we were staying in time shares) that was going to go bad if we didn't take it with us. Like the Jell-o with carrots and celery shavings in it (I told mother that I doubt anyone would eat it. "But it's healthy!" was her response.). And the leftover pasta with marinara sauce (or 'noodles with the red topping,' as we like to call it). Of course, the travel time is a day and a half, so the ice all melted into the leftovers, and we had to pat the 'food' with papers towels to try to absorb the water out of the noodles and Jell-o. It went uneaten, even after we salvaged it (!) with paper towels. Mom really tried to martyr that one - '(sigh)I guess I'll just throw this out. Are you SURE no one wants this?' Oh, and Dad's deaf, but I'm convinced that those 'hearing aids' he's adopted are actually ear plugs.

So I drive quite a few hours. It's a long, boring drive. And lots of U-turns. "BOB! That's your turn!" was a common scream en route. My navigator was less than effective, hence the U-turns. "What!?" was also a common scream. "Goddammit, Roy!" - another favorite.

After quite a bit, Mom says, "Let me drive." I'm thinking that this is OK; I need to rest my eyes and our goal is to go only maybe a couple of hours more to Santa Fe.

To say that Mom swerves while driving is like saying whales enjoy a nibble of krill now and again. A massive understatement. At first I thought it was just the wind catching the car causing it to veer. Just a gust of wind nudging the car into oncoming traffic, and Mother thankfully corrects this near catastrophe. Not the case. After the eighteenth near head-on, Dad yells, "Carol, what the Hell?!" Mom screams in reply, "Goddammit Roy, I'm cleaning my nails!"

Thirty-second swerve: "Mom, do you want me to drive?" "No! I just need to get a Kleenex out of my purse." (She keeps her purse on the floor under her feet when she drives. Just in case she needs to grab anything.)

Seventy-fifth: "Mom, really. Let me drive." "I'm fine! I thought that lady in the lane next to me was reading a magazine I wanted to pick up. I was trying to see the cover."

And to say that Mom tailgates is like saying George Bush doesn't care about black people. Another massive understatement. You know how angler fish have that glowing little worm thing that attracts the little fish to its mouth? Well, tail lights are like the angler fish to my mom's little fish, only this little fish has two other helpless fish in tow.

As I involuntarily grab the dashboard to prepare for the impact, mom says, "What is the matter with you?! I have the cruise control on!" as if the cruise control somehow corrects itself before collision. Maybe she has an idea that cruise control is sort of like the Autopilot in "Airplane!" and is going to drive the car safely into the passing lane. I don't know. That whole game of 'Guess what Mom is Thinking' has become a very old game for us siblings.

The next day I resume driving ("Why don't we stop in Albuquerque tonight instead of making it all the way to Santa Fe? I'm sure it'll be cheaper." That's how I got Mom to give up driving - just throw the $ sign at her.), and we stop for some gas. Mom says, "Bob, let me drive now." I said, "No. Why?"

"Because I feel like I'm going to fall asleep."

"WHAT!?! Then you REALLY aren't driving!"

"Oh, just keep me occupied. I'll be fine."

And this is just the flipping trip TO our destination! I thought it was my neo-conservative brother that was going to screw up everything.

Well, not him exclusively.

A Haunting

There's something wrong with me. Horribly horribly wrong with me.

I don't think I have intimacy issues. 'Think' being the operative word here.

I love Antoni. He has been a sweetheart and an amazingly dear friend for 1.5 decades. I met him in Hawaii (I think he was trying to pick me up, but he was too young to know how, and I was too insecure to think that this adorable young man could possibly be interested in li'l ol' me!) and he moved away, ended up in Europe, and we lost track of each other. Until I moved to NY and found him online (don't spread it around, but he was on Match.com - I had to subscribe to get his email - that friend cost me $19.98 and countless spams!)

So we got in touch, and we hung out, and laughed and shared. I went to his house for Christmas. That was the last time I saw him.

See, I know that Antoni and I are not meant to be coupled up. We just aren't compatible. But he was after me many MANY years ago, I think, and I guess I was hoping that there was some bit of interest between us. And he looks good, and he would look good on my arm (that's so shallow, but I love going out with societally attractive people - I want to flipping turn heads when I go out!), and maybe I would have learned to tolerate him. You see, he's very sweet with nary a complaint at all. That's so not me. It'd be like the Elmo and Oscar the Grouch coupled up - both are sweet and endearing in their own way, but truth be told, you know Elmo would break out a frying pan and bash Oscar's head in after 2 months of that shit.

So at Antoni's Xmas get-together were his sister and her husband, some giant silver belt buckled, cowboy booted drawling Texan and his Mary Kay'd chiffon pantsuited truck driving wife (they were very nice, I just don't know how they fit in the picture), a co-worker of Antoni's, and Antoni's date. D.A.T.E.

And not only that, but he was the quintessential stereotypical obnoxious rich queen. And unanimously decided ugly. I was mortified by his existence. AND that Antoni saw something in him.

It made me think, 'If that's the kind of person Antoni's attracted to, and Antoni was attracted to me, then I must be.....HEY WAIT A MINUTE!!!!'

So I was scared to talk to Antoni for a while, lest I open my big yap and tell him things that are none of my business to say.

But I have since talked to Antoni and he has thankfully broken up with that guy (actually the guy broke up with him- pissed me off when I heard that), but now I feel awful and need to get together with Antoni, if for no other reason than that Antoni does provide humanity to my circle and I truly envy his outlook and demeanor and attention to self without being self-absorbed.

For some reason, I shun that. So resolved: I will be a better person and allow Antoni to humanize me. More.

Soon.

Bitter Old Nelly Country Bumpkin Queen

I have been called a homophobe.  It's true.  I don't know how it's possible, but there is a thought out there that I may be a homophobe.  I'm gay, for those of you to whom I have not come out of the closet to.  There may be a Zimbabwean reading this.

So I'm at the gym today and I see this guy working out.  Very attractive gentleman, mid thirties, muscular, shaved head, masculine,  Latino origin.  My type.  Nothing happened from it, I just noticed him.  

Ultimately, I'm wailing on my triceps and he gets on the machine next to me.  And a friend of his flounces over to him and they start dissing, and gossiping, and the lisp is in full gear, and the wrist is at an absolute 90 degree angle through the whole conversation.  My interest waned.

My question is:  where does that come from?  It can't be in any way connected with the part of the brain that makes us gay, can it?  I don't have that behavior, and most of the gay people I socialize with don't either.  Now granted, no one has ever accused me of hyper masculinity, but I have surprised a few people when they discovered my sexual preference.  (Apparently, introducing yourself to a friend of a friend by saying 'Nice to meet you, man' is very straight)  And not that that's a good or bad thing, because it's neither.  It's just that we don't HAVE to have a common bond in our mannerisms.

I blame the Christian white man at the end of the day.  I think that 'gay' behaviors are a learned action begun from the pre-teen years when one begins to orient.   Let me go back:

I didn't acknowledge my sexuality until I was 17.  I'm from a small town in Illinois where we just don't have any gays.  Being as such, I had no role models to initiate me or that I could mimic. The only thing I knew about 'the gays' was their annual parade in SF that made it on NBC news, so I witnessed a bunch of men in dresses and leather marching through the city. So, while I did have an interest in men, I wasn't that interested in dresses or leather, so how could I have been gay?  I just assumed it to be a teen sex phase that we are all warned we would go through.  My phase just happened to be taking a very VERY long time. 

But for most of the gay men that are aware of their orientation earlier (which is a bulk of the gay population), there are role models and rituals established from the time of Adam and Steve (or at least Oscar Wilde).  We had to be closeted, or risk getting jailed or beaten up or killed.  Maybe this was a code system set up and it became the expected behaviors to keep us in society, but separate.  

Or maybe this is dictated to our psyche as the behavior we are SUPPOSED to adopt because that it is how we fit in. Maybe the lisp is the gay version of the rings that certain African women put around their neck.  Or foot binding.

I don't know where the gossiping fits in, but for God's sake, stop it!

On the subway the other day, a seemingly harmless youth (say 15 or 16) is sitting in a full car when I step in.  So I grab the bar to hold on, and this kid says, "Sir, would you like my seat?"  I said, "No, it's all right,"  and he says, "No, really.  I can stand."  So I belted him to the ground and stomped on his stomach while screaming, "How The Fuck Old Do You Think I Am, You Bastard Child Of Satan!?"

Where ya been?!

I'm SO SORRY!!! I feel so terrible that I haven't been able to talk with you recently, but I've been super busy, what with packing and moving and all.

What?  I didn't tell you that I was moving?!! Why, yes, yes I did move.  To Manhattan, of all places.  You know what my cross street is?  Broadway.  If I can make it there....  

I think I need a new job.  Being at Foam Creepo does not mix well with new city lifestyle.  Not to mention that I'm really starting to hate it.  

OH!  I ran into a gal the other day, and her husband is a puppeteer, of all things!  Did I mention that I'M a puppeteer?  Well, I've operated puppets, anyway.  And I made a couple in my life.  Not the traditional type like you're thinking of (Charlie McCarthy, Howdy Doody, and the ilk), but more of a body puppet type thing, a la Julie Taymor.  Look her up if you don't know and enlighten yourself.  So that got me excited to pursue that avenue, as I've always been more creative than what my current job allows me to be.  I'm horribly miscast in my role as tool supervisor.  Angela Lansbury would be better cast in that role than me.  John Waters would be better cast.   Lassie would be... you see where I'm going.

So anyway, it's really hard to move when you have a very dramatic situation happening in your life.  Israel, my Mexican mantart was visiting for a week.  Boy was that great!

He was living in Canada for several months as sort of a social experiment.  He went to Canada to work as an illegal immigrant, just to get a feel of what his countrymen are going through.

Apparently it's Hell.  He had several jobs, one of which was SHOVELING THE SNOW OFF OF ROOFS!!!  From 5PM TO 5AM!!!!  IN MONTREAL!!!  AT -16 DEGREES!!!  Can you imagine a scenario where there would be an American on a roof in -16 weather for twelve hours?  I gotta tell ya, we Americans really screwed things up.  Because you know that everyone knows that these soul crushing jobs are manned by the illegal immigrants who are working in basically indentured servitude, and we do nothing to stop it, or make sure that these people are making a decent wage, and not being exploited.  

And yes, I know, he was in Canada.  But the only difference is that Canada at least has a bit more humane treatment of any illegal caught in their country.  Because the USA is a whole lot worse.  And the only reason we have undocumented workers over here is not because we can't get them, but because our economy would be twice as worse off if we didn't have slave labor.  Fucking Republicans.

And I think Israel got his soul beat up pretty bad in the five months he was experiencing that.  Not that I knew him all that well before he came here, but he was pretty deflated.  I think by the end of his visit though, without going into detail, he was re-inflated.  I hope so.  Very very very great man.  At the age of 27.  Born in 1981, for the love of Pete.

I have a really good new roommate who loves to clean the bathroom, but I'm going to miss the shit out of my old roommate.  You remember Brandon, right?  Teen Wolf from Halloween?  Good people.  Gave me a beer tonight when I went back to get a few odds and ends, like my loofah pad.  And don't tell Israel, but I can't find the scarf he gave me.  Pissing me off.

Alright, no more talking -  I gots to go to sleep in my new bedroom.

This just in--

JHitts hates Rachel Maddow! He's starting a war!

This - time - it's - personal.

Nah, I'll shut up.

Trying to begoode? No, trying to BeGOAD!

I haven't been writing much recently- not that I'm not thinking about you. My computer really needs a doctor, and until he gets a checkup, I never know if it's going to have a stroke midstream. Little frustrating. Understatement.

I did get a chance to meet a seemingly charming podunk from Missouri online. You can read his comments to me on my previous post. Sort of a bunch of non-sequiturs, unless you know the background. I suspect he doesn't even know the background. Idiot.

So I was just surfing through some fellow bloggers and read some entries and happen to find a particular entry with added comments by JHitts. He had some rather obnoxious neo-naziesque additions to put on to someone else's blog. I can't even remember what it was he said, but at the time it was ENRAGING! And really important that I let him know. Not sure why now.

SO, I tracked down his own blog site, and he had done some rather infantile music reviews of some groups that I had never heard of before, as they never recorded a cast album. And so I innocently commented on his entry that his writings are that of an illiterate Midwestern inbred swastika-wearing lamb-humping backwoods maleducado.

AND THEN he had the nerve to put some stupid comment on my blog! And it wasn't even in response to my blog! But he corrected me -- he's a self-proclaimed Libertarian, not a Republican, as I accused him of. Pardon-ay moi! The only difference between a Libertarian and a Republican is that Libertarians are scarier. And stupider.

But why did I even go there in the first place? I DID start it, after all. I could have lived in total anonymity and left this trash alone. But I didn't. And so now this JHitts guy (probably a gun carrier, for Christsakes!) has me on his radar.

I think horrible is a really bad thing to call someone. Don't you find it a little more lucid than calling someone something more typical, like ass or bitch?

This lady cut in front of me at the deli the other day and made a huge scene by holding the line up while deciding which 4 of the 17 yogurts to buy she grabbed from the cooler. AND THEN pulling out her cash to pay -- one bill and one coin at a time. This was all after she had already basically pushed the lady in front of her (who was in front of me in the first place, before she flounced herself to the front of the line) out of the way. So when she takes TWENTY MINUTES pulling her money out of this huge black patent leather quilted bag (Chanel -$16,000), I mutter 'Jesus!' under my breath, but loud enough for her to hear. Admittedly on purpose. She turns back to me and says, "You got a problem?" I told her yes, I have problem because you're horrible. Then she called me an ass.

I don't mind being called an ass. I get it more often than you might think. Or not. Water off a duck's back. But being called horrible, I think, would cause pause. And not a sissy thing to say at all.

Some people think it's a rather limp-wristed insult (homophobia unintended). I continue to believe otherwise.

Oh God, am I going to get obnoxious comments from the gays, now? Just great.

Don't be prostertizing on me!

So first of all, thank you to all my faithful blog followers. I'm fine, first of all. Computer-not so much. Stupidfriggingcomputercrashinginmidstream! I'm not even sure I can make it through this post without my computer crashing, but it seems to be getting better. Can computers fix themselves? Now that I think of it, all was well until I filed my taxes online. That was when the shit hit the fan and now my computer stays on for like five minutes before just going down. It's awful. But today, it stayed on for like an hour! Can computers fix themselves? If it's a virus, does it go away like a human virus and some sort of microchippy white cells attack it until it's all better? Should I feed it soup? And if so, which hole do I put it in?

Oh, so it leads to my new theory: George Bush is really pissed at me. All was well until I asked for my money back that I overpaid the government. THEN the computer crashes!! What a vengeful fucker. But color me surpised.

In the several days that I haven't been blogging, I've discovered a new love: sardines. They are de-lic-ious! And oh so good for you and oh so satisfying. They are one of the top 150 foods in terms of nutritional value. As are blueberries. I've yet to find a recipe mixing the two, though. I tend to be a bit monotonous with my diet, so this may stay with me for several weeks. Sardines on bagels with a side of asparagus and blueberries. I'm going to live to be 100. Not sure I want that though, so I'm going to have to revive my bad habits, I think. Just to level the playing field.

I'm on the subway (F Line) the other day, and there's a lovely young gal on the subway walking up and down the train singing. I have my iPod on, so I can't really hear her, so I turn my iPod off, but leave the earphones in, just so I can hear her but she doesn't know it, as my earbuds are still in my ears. And of course she singing Christian songs and is very happy about it, even though singing is not really one of her assets. But she's smiling and not hitting the notes exactly and I suspect just making the words up as she goes along. This is not too unusual on the trains in NY - there's always someone begging or singing or preaching. Kind of pisses me off. I mean, while I can appreciate that some people may enjoy mariachi bands or some guy that plays some sort of weird keyboard that he has attached a tube to and blows into to make the sound come out (I don't know how he does it - but he always plays the same songs, including 'Happy Birthday To You.'), or really loud drums, I also appreciate that many people probably don't share my taste in Dorothy Loudon or Bea Arthur, so I choose not to share it with them. Keep your flipping music to yourself and I'll keep mine to myself! You're welcome.

What I didn't mention was that this gal was direct off the boat from Asia. Evident by her command of the English language. So it was particularly odd to see someone who probably had not grown up Christian preaching on the subway, and rather hysterical that after she sang, she began to quote scripture. With lots of 'Hallelujah' thrown in. Only she didn't say 'Hallelujah' - she said 'Harerujah.' Lots of times. I really tried not to laugh, but I wasn't very successful at it. So you know like when you're in church and something strikes you as funny, but you know you can't laugh, so you stifle it, and end up shaking and bouncing in the pew? That's what I was doing. I had to turn Dorothy Loudon back on, so I didn't embarrass her or me too much.

AND THEN, that same day, en route back, there was another lady sitting across from me on the train. And she decided to eat a piece of pie from Trader Joe's she had bought. They had packed it in one of those clear takeout containers (clamshells they're called in the biz). So she opens the clamshell and has a plastic fork and plunges into the pie. But the crust must have been a little tough, because she struggled quite a bit to cut off a bite with her plastic fork. And the pie is sliding all over and she can't quite get through the crust. Very funny. So I'm trying not to giggle again, and I'm doing pretty good at it, until she finally gets a bite off the bigger piece. She stabs it with her fork, and brings the piece up to her mouth, and it falls off the fork back into the clamshell. She tries again. Same result. And again. And again.

So after like seventeen more attempts (at this point I'm laughing my ass off), she finally decides to get the clamshell closer to her mouth. But not like how you or I would do it. (Or me, at least. I don't even know you.) She instead bends her head down to her lap and then shovels the pie into her face! So she's eating out of her lap! I am of course, rolling on the floor at this point, and she is completely oblivious to the fact that she is being observed. And then, after two bites and twenty minutes, she decides she can't eat another bite she's so stuffed, and puts the pie back in her grocery bag. If it were me and I went to that much trouble, I can tell you that that pie would be totally eaten. Out of vengeance.

Life isn't funny, but idiots are.

p.s. http://www.asknataliehawaii.blogspot.com/

http://zerub-babel.blogspot.com/ (click on the fotolog link on the right hand side of the page to see some interesting artwork - I am not, unfortunately, one of the models. For now.)

Rotten Sex

So this morning I'm eating an orange, and I start choking. Not just a cough type choke, but the air passage blocked, no ability to breathe, total Heimlich time. I had to reach into my throat and pull that skin-membrane stuff out in order not to die. And my roommate is out of town, so in the worst case scenario (subjective), I could have been dead and lying there for days.

The theory of gravity was developed by Newton watching an apple fall. The wheel was invented by cavemen observing a boulder roll down a mountain. Archimedes figured out volume from getting in his tub. Bob discovered the purpose of sex by choking on an orange.

So maybe the purpose of sex isn't for procreation. I think that's pretty much disproved by gay people. And that sex doesn't necessarily make babies. Maybe pregnancy is just a side effect of sex, like drowsiness or nausea.

And maybe its not for recreation. Lord knows there is such thing as unfun sex. Did you know that there is a fetish where people want you to puke on them?! It's called 'emetophilia.'

Maybe sex is so we don't have rotting corpses all over the place.

If you think about it, it makes sense. If we're sexually and monogamously active, you have someone out there who is going to notice you're missing before your decaying body starts to become a nuisance. If you die. Even if it's just your jump-off (if you don't know what that is, look it up or figure it out) and there's not really any connection other than physical, that person(s) is gonna get the urge within the next couple of days and look for you. They (or their genitals) is gonna seek you out and find your dead body laying in the kitchen with a half-eaten orange in one hand and orange membrane sticking out of your mouth. IF you die.

So sex is like the urbanized version of the vulture. Or maggots. Like these scavengers, sex prevents decaying flesh from littering our streets and polluting the air. That's the Republicans' job.

And you always hear these stories about the spinster that was found in her (or his) house after laying there dead for like days or weeks. Do you think these people were getting nookie before they keeled? I don't.

Where did Einstein publish his theories? I got one for 'em.

Clean (sober?)

So I'm cleaning the house today - Rachel's coming to visit with Clementine! Had to clean the hardwood and tile floors which have been swept, but not properly cleaned in a while. First of all let me say that I'm not really a messy person- I clean up after myself, I can't sleep if there's dirty dishes, and 'Martha Stewart's Book of Housekeeping,' which has everything in it from how to store photo albums to a daily, weekly, monthly and quarterly checklist of cleaning duties and how to clean each iota in the house, well, that's my Bible. Sorry, ultra-conservative brother, I have false idols, and thy name be Martha.

That being said, OH MY GOD I never saw a terry cloth floor mop become black so quickly. I don't know what kind of dirt infested dumping ground I've been sloshing through, but I dragged it all in and cleaned the bottom of my shoes on the floor, apparently. Oh wait, I know where I've been - Manhattan. Plus, since I have my windows open year round, as it's 132 DEGREES in here!, I guess Manhattan billows through. I love the city, but it's an effluvial sump, to quote Tom Wolfe (sound smart, ain't I?). And does a mop HAVE to be white? I guess it makes it easy to see the dirt being lifted, but I'm not sure I really want to see what a pig I am. How 'bout a baby blue? Or chartreuse - it would complement my walls.

So while I'm chipping the caked-on mud off my floor, as it would seem, I have the TV on. I leave it on Bravo channel, just so I'm not getting the noise of the lowest of low brow entertainment, soap operas. And today they decide to class it up with reruns of 'Hey Paula,' the reality show where they follow Paula Abdul around so she can prove she's not a mess. But the show's taping happens to coincide with the time she's plugging 'American Idol' on the morning shows, and she is drunker than... well, she's very drunk (I don't know the proper analogy). OH! She's drunker than me at the office Christmas party! They said it was because she was very tired and had simultaneous conversations in her headphones. But I've been tired before, and I have had several people talking at me at once, but I have never giggled and slurred my words and made non-sequiturs as a result. Maybe she's just too special, and I can't wrap my non-special brain around the magnitude of how she can only react. Or maybe it was altitude sickness - like Mars. Or altitude sickness - like high.

But I digress. The point is that she is a horrible, horrible person. She couldn't renovate her house because the place she was going to rent for TWO MONTHS wasn't decorated to her liking (I think she wanted like pink heart pillows and flowy lace and stuff, but she got tasteful instead), she cried and cried and cried because there was a snow storm and the flights were delayed so that she couldn't get her hair stylist AND her publicist to NY in time for her David Letterman appearance (just comb your own fucking hair!), she fractured her hip tripping over her dog (yeah, right - she tripped like 8 times in one episode alone, and there weren't no dog near her then), etc. And then, interspersed throughout this fascinating documentary of Paula Abdul's life, there were cuts of associates and co-workers, all repeating the same chant about what a great person she is, and how hard-working she is, and how she perseveres through all this personal turmoil and all this other spoon fed load of crap. But there is something I did learn that I found interesting: did you know she's white? Or at least her parents are. I guess we can't really be too sure that there wasn't a black mailman or milkman making deliveries nine months before she was born, but it seems she thinks that that's her real dad. That's probably why she's stoned out her gourd most of the time.

And today at the gym, I'm taking a shower, and this other guy in another stall decides to start a conversation. Which is a little odd in and of itself - guys in the shower don't tend to acknowledge other guys in the shower (unless you're in a gym in Chelsea, which is where I was. But this guy was stereotypically straight). But he says this: "I'M SHO'NUFF GLAD I GOTS ME A MEMBERSHIP TO ALL THE BALLY'S GYMS!" And he's screaming this really loud, I mean really really loud, like he's gonna have a sore throat after. And then he looks at me for a response. (pause) I don't know how to respond to to that. What was I supposed to say? So I just nod or something and say, 'hmmm,' and then he says, "BUT THIS BALLY'S DON'T GOT NO SAUNA." Which it doesn't, so again I don't know what to say. But he's still looking at me, so I say, "Well, we just turn the water on really hot and pretend." And then he laughs. Loud. Five minutes. I got out of there pretty quick after that, lest my eardrums implode.

See 'Slumdog Millionaire.' Amazing.

p.s. When you write a blog entry, at the bottom of the screen it gives you the option of labeling the post, and it gives you examples. Here's the text verbatum:

Labels for this post:e.g. scooters, vacation, fall

Now why do you think out of the tens of options they had for examples they chose 'scooters?' My posts aren't labeled - labeled as what?

Music to my mouth

Yvonne De Carlo: Munster, femme fatale, award winning actress, dweller on my iPod.

Some appropriate responses to someone when they say, "You have Yvonne De Carlo on your iPod?!"

-"You mean you don't?"

-"Well, granted, she's no Vampire Weekend..."

-"Why, yes. Yes I do. Right before Linda Lavin (Alice) and after Charlotte Rae (Diff'rent Strokes)."

-"It's a duet with her and Ladysmith Black Mambazo."

-"It's a duet with her and Marilyn Manson."

-"It's a duet with her and Oasis."

-"Not that Yvonne De Carlo! It's the other one that has this amazing contralto voice and recorded an album of standards and starred in tons of musicals, including 'Follies.' Oh wait, it is that Yvonne De Carlo."

-"Well, there's no accounting for taste. Nice shirt."

I could go on. And then this friend/co-worker (who has made numerous appearances in this blog) and I are having lunch today. Suddenly, this jolt of pain shears through my molar as I bite into a plantain. (Yes, I had plantains for lunch.) It was like a Hitler experiment the pain was so intense. I think I bit a piece of aluminum foil on a filling, although no aluminum foil appeared afterward.

"Well, that shut you up for forty-five seconds," was his response as I held my mouth in agony.

No 'Oh gosh! Are you OK?' or 'Do you need help? Water? Anything?' or any inkling of sensitivity or compassion. Just 'Well, that shut you up for forty five seconds.'

We're very close.

Reason #37 why I don't drink, or reason #3 why I'm a jerk

There once was a guy from East Elmhurst
Who had friends and secrets he put first
His elbow he tipped
His lips went unzipped
And now he feels bad in the worst.
Way.

So you are all forewarned from this point - if you tell me something whilst I have a drink in my hand, I may reveal it later. The onus is now on you, not me. I am no longer culpable.

The office party was the other night. It was horrifying. And the problem was not with the party itself, but the expectations of the party. We were told that one of the purposes of this party was to introduce some of the younger and more urban employees to a taste of what a more respectable venue might be than the inner city clubs.

So why was there a stripper? And why did we have a comedian who couldn't utter a sentence without profanities of the genitalia? And where was the 'butlered service?' And the music was absolutely unacceptable. But thanks for bringing in 'Juicy and The Kitten' as a singing duo. I really think they were a comedy team though, because they dressed sort of cheerleader/whore-y, but were a little girthy for the costumes. And I hope to God they were drunk, because if they sing like that sober, they have absolutely no career ahead of them at all, unless it's at Home Depot. Maybe this was an interview process.

Now, had they said that this was going to be a party to introduce some of the more mature and cultured staff members to a more urban form of entertainment, it would have been understood. I wouldn't have gone, but it would have been understood.

But don't look a gift horse in the mouth. I got a keychain out of the whole ordeal.

So I mentioned to this other buddy/co-worker (A) that this other guy (B)was a looker.

And this buddy (A)mentioned that looker-guy (B)was getting some. That's all he said. But what this buddy (A) didn't know was a previous conversation I had with this mutual friend/co-worker female (C) where I was trying to pair her up with looker(B), and she (C) decided that he(B) would be someone she may enjoy knowing more intimately.

So I deduced from buddy/co-worker's (A) statement that looker-guy (B) was hooking up with female co-worker (C). I had no idea! I was shocked!

So I did not IMMEDIATELY run to (C), as one (A) may lead you to believe, to tell her I know her secret. I waited at least an hour and another shot of Dewar's before I went to (C) to tell her I know her secret.

BUT (C) couldn't wait to run to (A) to confront him with revealing her secret. But he (A) didn't really reveal anything, as he didn't know I (D, I guess) had already dropped the idea in (C)'s head in the first place about hooking up with (B).

And one of my co-workers stole a bottle of tequila in the bar. Is that supposed to be a secret, too, I wonder?

Eruptions

So again, I'm a little newsed out. What more can be said about Blogojevich and the economy and the auto bailout, anyway?

Except did you see what Blogojevich's wife said? She was in the background of one of the recorded phone messages screaming at her husband, "Hold up that fucking Cubs shit! Fuck them!" She was referring to the postponement of the sale of Wrigley Field unless money was made in the appointment of the new senator. Don't you just want to eat her up? I bet she's the bomb at PTA (she's the mother of two). "YOU bake the fucking brownies for the bake sale! I have some real estate fucking business to tend fucking to!" She's already under investigation for some shady real estate deals. PS: her family disowned her two years ago and they haven't spoken since. And her family is a bunch of politicians! You gotta be pretty awful if a group of politcians say, 'enough is enough!'

But I can't talk about that right now because I'm watching THE BEST SHOW EVER!! You know that Ultimate Fighting thing where they beat the crap out of each other? As far as I can tell, it's a game where these twenty-somethings take their clothes off and rub on each other until someone rings a bell. Certainly rings MY bell! It's a REALLY good show, except for the kidney punches, which makes me throw up a little bit. I don't know which one I'm rooting for -they're both so hot, err, competitive. (This just in-Efrain Escudero wins! I guess his kidney punches were somehow more impressive. I don't think it was his kidney punches, exclusively.)OK, I'm not that shallow (!). I have been flipping between this and a National Geographic special. About a whale in Taiwan. It died, so they were transporting it on the back of truck through town, and it exploded. No one knows why. Just blew up. Splattered everything up and down the block. Whale guts everywhere. Very interesting. True story.