I Really Need To Read the Fine Print

So, a month or so ago, I signed up at sitemeter.com for a site meter for this site. I wanted to see if anyone was reading my blogs. I gave them my information and waited for the numbers to start clicking.

The first day, I got an email excitedly claiming it had my results for the day. ZERO readers. The same thing happend for day two... and day three... and day four... crap. Silly as it was, I decided to keep writing--why? I'm a glutton for punishment.

As the weeks went by and nobody read anything and no comments were made, I felt pretty good about saying anything I wanted. I almost described a rather unfortunate tryst a few weeks back (it was beyond awful and humiliating. In fact, it might have made a few people ill--I was the 'pretty one'--that's how bad it was).

So, a friend sent a note this morning that he had read something on my site... HURRAY! I can go to sitemeter and it will say 1. Glorious, glorious one!

F'ing Zero.

So, I went to site meter to see what their problem was. They had all the information. I gave it to them, they were sending me reports, everything was set, right?

Wrong.

I didn't read the fine print that was boldly (and repeatedly) noted on the emails they sent as well as the website, that I had to add three pieces of information to link it up.

I quickly added the information and submitted the information. I got an error. In fact, I kept getting errors. All they wanted were three things: My my login, password, and blog number ("http://www.yadayada.blogspot.yada/yada/yada/######" is how they noted it. Note the number in bold.), . And yet, I kept getting error messages. After the sixth attempt, I read their explanation again and realized that I was putting in the entire address, not the number.

Hopefully, it's all okay now.

However, if you don't see a number somewhere on the page, then I've skipped something else. And at this point, I couldn't give a crap...

Happy Anniversary, Your Son’s A Pervert!

So, my sister and I had my parents over for dinner to celebrate their 49th wedding anniversary. We made some lovely hors d’oeuvres and had a nice dinner. As we were sitting around talking, the subject of a trip my sister and I are taking back East came up.

We talked about a bunch of different things and then my mother mentioned our wills. Just because she is in her 70’s she thinks that everyone is thinking about death. However, she pointed out there are stocks and other items to be distributed, which made me think of what would happen if I were to die suddenly and they were to have to go through my room.

Now, my sister knows where to go if I were to die: The Drawer. The Drawer is that one special place that everyone has in their home where you don’t want anyone to know what’s in there. It’s usually personal devices of some type or another—vibrators, if I may be so bold. My Drawer is actually several drawers (and trunks, and those plastic bins under the bed—all containing various types of sweet, sweet porn. There are videos, magazines, DVD’s and CD’s (don’t ask) all containing massive amounts of hot man-on-man action.

I once tried to figure out how much I’d spent on porn throughout the years and stopped when I was looking at one of my trunks-O-porn full of video tapes—none of them costing less than $50—such a huge expense; so many happy times…

So, I mentioned to my mother that should my sister and I die on the trip, that she is not to go into my room until I’ve had several friends go through it first. “Why?” I wanted to mention The Drawer that she must have had (everyone has one, certainly she would too, right?) Then I realized she didn’t have one. In fact, it would never occur to her that anyone would have him—especially her own children. Those drawers were for perverts [cut to a shot of a marquee in large lights: “Pervert! Starring Chris”]

Regretfully, I pressed forward, “There are certain things that I don’t want my nieces and nephews rummaging through my room for…”

“You don’t mean… pornography?” She spewed the word ‘pornography’ like it was an arachnid culinary selection from Fear Factor.

“Yep.”

“Christopher!” She only shouted “Christopher!” when she was shocked at my behavior or beliefs. She says “Christopher!” a lot… My dad usually just sits there—not wanting to comment, because that would continue a conversation he doesn’t want to have. My father doesn’t say a lot to me.

“It’s not like it’s a ton…” I lied, “but, I don’t want the kids rummaging through and finding that stuff.”

“They can find it now…?”

“It’s well hidden… but once you start digging…”

“Oh, my God…” she said with her head buried in her hands.

The subject changed, we moved on to other things and my father began to speak again. I just hoped my mother had stopped thinking about my vast (and by vast, I do mean infinite) collection of hot, beautiful gay porn.

After dinner, we were sitting around and I was talking about an old friend of mine. “So I Googled Yves the other day…”

“What?!”

“I Googled Yves… Zsutty.”

“Christopher!”

“What…?” I asked fully knowing her mind was now back on my immeasurable collection of pornography

“I Google all the time…” adding just the perfect light-sleaziness to Google.

Her head was buried in her hands, but I swear I could hear her muttering “Oh, my God” over and over. My father was completely silent. I’m not sure if he was holding his breath or not, but there was no movement whatsoever.

“Mom, EVERYBODY Googles… Alix Googles. I know Vicki and John Google all the time.”

“But their married…”

Getting ready to trap her dirty little mind, I questioned her, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, married people… I mean… you know.”

“Mom, what do you think Google means?”

[blank stare]

At this point my sister walks out and can immediately sense something is up. “What did he say, now?” pointing at me, as if it were all my fault.

I smiled, “We were just discussing Googling…”

My sister smiled, relieved I was not talking about my porn collection and sat down. “Mom thinks it’s some thing dirty…”

“Christopher!”

“You do! You keep acting like it's something awful when it’s only a search engine on the internet."

"What's a search engine?"

"It helps you find people and things on the internet.."

"Oh... 0-0-0hhhh," she sighed as the color came back into her face.

I looked at my father, who appeared to be breathing again and was smiling as he ate his spinach salad. My father muttered “internet” a couple of times and stayed very interested in the salad.

My mother just sat there for a second and then looked at me and in a serious tone said, “You really need to make sure you have your wills before your trip…”

Apparently, the subject was now officially dropped and we were moving back over familiar, and hopefully, non-threatening territory.

I love family dinners.

Are you bored, or is it just me...?

So, I’m bored at work… well, actually it’s after work, but I’m so bored, I don’t want to go home. It’s a little boring there, too.

So, I’m sitting at work, perusing the internet and looking at fun stuff. However, I am not looking at porn. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to look at porn—love to, in fact—I just know the second something dirty, dirty, oh-I-love-it-it’s-so-very-dirty porn shows up on the screen, someone would enter my office.

Did I tell you about the time a friend made a comment about liking and wearing those way-too-skimpy-shows-too-much-of-your-bulge-briefs I hate/love so much, I went online to look for some too-brief-briefs pictures to send him as a joke… I get distracted with work, when an hour or so later, The Short One comes in and asks a question about some link on the internet. I click on open page and there are bulges as far as the eye could see! I just sat there for a second in confusion and awe (some of those packages were huge--HUGE, I tell you! My GAWD, you could tell their religion).

Well, TSO got all flustered and I said, “You know, there’s a reason, a good reason… but let’s move on, shall we?” TSO just hemmed and hawed and we looked at the stuff he wanted to see and he quickly scuttled out of my office. Not a fun site watching TSO—or anyone for that matter—scuttle away… nope. Not a fun site at all. In fact, I’m against scuttling altogether. I’m a member of a fast-growing anti-scuttling movement known as “The Fast-Growing Anti-Scuttling Movement.” But that’s another story and I don’t want to bore you…

Truthfully, I don't really mind boring you (I think I'm quite good at it, actually). While I'm sure I am boring you, I’m also boring myself, and frankly, I’m also a card-carrying member of another fast-growing movement called “The Card-Carrying and Fast-Growing Anti-Bore Yourself Movement.” I should note, the ‘fast-growing’ is false, because we are shrinking rapidly because we’ve--literally--bored ourselves to death. You’d think our sister organization “The Fast-Growing-Anti-Anti-Bore Yourself to Death Movement” might have something to do with it, but they didn’t. They actually succeeded and bored themselves to death. Which is odd, because you'd think the double-negative would have some effect on that. I guess there's a lesson there, isn't there...?

Man… what was I talking about?

F’ it. I’m going home.

“My husbands an alcoholic…”

I went to dinner with my friend Scott (you know, the guy who’s birthday I forgot?) and we’re sitting outside of Starbucks, enjoying our after-dinner coffees and these guys walk by and make a comment to some woman sitting near us about being a smoker, too. She replies and in the space of a minute, they start chatting in a too familiar pattern. Nothing "saucy" but a little too much like they had somehow instantly become best friends because they both smoke.

Odd, but not too weird, right? Wrong. Very wrong. In less than two minutes, these strangers start to reveal to each other the most intimate of details. The one that caught my eavesdropping ear first was the title of this blog. Who just throws that out in conversation? Seriously, who? (Well… I guess those idiots would be the answer.)

Within five minutes the guy is offering her his manager discount at whatever store he works at ("because my boss totally trusts me..." stupid boss.) and she’s discussing her breast cancer operation and her mother’s various illnesses.

What struck me as the most odd, is that the guy, a perfect stranger to this woman not ten minutes earlier, begins to tell her EXACTLY where he lives. I mean, he gives directions to his place! He had commented about living near by and she said, “Oh, where?” and he tells her to "go out on Hamilton, Right on Leigh, past the school, but before Albertsons, to turn right" and then told her the address and apartment number. I wasn't sure if I missed something, so I looked to see if she was taking notes or something—she wasn’t. Was he just hoping she'd show up?

Smoker Woman: Hi!
Smoke Dude: Who...?
Smoker Woman: It's me! Smoker Chick!
Smoker Dude: Huh?
Smoker Woman: We met at Starbucks... you told me how to get to your house.
Smoker Dude: Oh... yeah
Smoker Woman: I figured you wanted to have sex.
Smoker Dude: Come on in!
[Cue porn music: wacka-chicka-wacka-chicka-bow-wow]

Maybe it’s me, but I try not to get that close to strangers. Heck, a number of my friends still have no idea where I work. I won’t even give my parents my address (that’s all I need is them showing up while I’m at home!)

People are very strange…

The Ultimate Birthday Present: Guilt Points!

I call my buddy Scott on Monday to ask him how his weekend went. We chat for about 30 minutes and hang up. Nice conversation, but not a whole lot said.

Tuesday. I call Scott to see if he wants to get dinner—for no reason in particular, other than I’m hungery—he declines. However, he suggests dinner on Thursday. It’s a date (so to speak).

Wednesday. Neither of us calls the other.

Thursday. In the early afternoon he calls to see if I remembered going out that night. Being the honest fellow I am, I said, “Oops! Thanks for reminding me!”

"Typical," he mumbles.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothin'..."

We chat for a while. Then I remember my great idea. I'm going to impress him. I'm going to make him think I'm giving him a very nice and 'very grown up' birthday present. I told him I wanted to throw a dinner party for his birthday. He said he’s busy this weekend and I said, “Well, I was thinking the 23rd, because that’s closer to your birthday…”

“Um, Chris. My birthday was Monday.”

“Oh... f-f-f-f-f-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-d-d-d-d-d-g-g-g-g-g-e-e-e!"

What a horrible, horrible friend I am. I couldn’t even get away with an “I was so busy, but I meant to call” lie. I spoke to him on the day… the VERY FREAKIN' DAY! Worse, I spoke to him the next day, where I might have recovered had my ADD not been skipping around in my head ('Don't forget it's Scott's... Let's ride bikes!') The kicker is that I forgot plans I had initiated two days earlier! I totally suck out loud.

Scott has banked enough Guilt Points to last a year. He no longer has to feel bad about bailing on plans, ignoring me when I'm talking to him so he can check out some hottie in flip-flops, or forgetting to pick me up at the airport.

I may have forgotten his birthday, but the benefits for him will last the whole freakin’ year.

Happy Birthday, Buddy! Enjoy the gift!

So Groucho Marx and Prince Rainier Go Into A Bar...

...and Elvis and the Pope are on stage singing kareoke together and a reporter is sitting there, but can't seem to understand that as fascinating as E&P are, other celebs have entered the bar...

Oh, you've heard this joke already? Sadly, it's no joke.

So, I'm looking through the San Jose Mercury News this morning... Front Page: The 40th anniversary of Moore's Law of semiconductor chips (3/4 of the front page), The Pope's funeral, and that's about it. No mention of Rainier.

Surely, the death of the leader of a nation, albeit a very tiny principality, deserves some mention, within the confines of a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper... Nope. Not one mention of his passing.

After looking through the entire paper, I decided to check Wednesday's paper to see if, by chance, the information made it in time to be included. And there it was... on page 3. Ten tiny paragraphs contained in an 8"x 3" space. The online version contains a much longer piece, but still, freakin' page 3?

Meanwhile the Pope's funeral takes up a total of FOUR--count 'em FOUR--full pages. I'm a Catholic, and I mourn for the Pope--but you'd think that there is some other news out there as well. You know, like watching what evil the White House is spewing now...

(sigh...)

Not very funny today... not feeling' it. (Well, I've been feeling "it" all morning, but that's another story...)

He Said The Secret Word

Well, Ranier passed away today... and he's third on most websites headlines--actually, he's more of a side note. Headlines are still about the Pope, followed by the American soldiers killed in a helecopter crash in Afghanistan, followed by the byline (and awful picture) of Ranier. FOX "news" doesn't even mention him on the headlines page (but they do mention sharks feeding frenzy in Florida

On two websites, Peter Jennings' lung cancer revelation got mentioned above Ranier.

The man has definitely pulled a Groucho.

Adventures in Porn
[Warning!!! The links in this segment WILL send you to an adult site--so avoid if you are at work or are offended by such sites... but it you're reading this, you've long since thrown away good taste or discretion.]

I rented some porn about a month and half ago... I still have them. Thankfully, it's one of those Porn-Netflix sites, so I'm not charged. I should probably just by them--but I find the thought of paying $60 for porn outrageous. Of course, paying $29 a month to rent it is okay... go figure.

Anyhow, the first is Detention a wonderful film about a school where the late-20's looking high school students have no problem dropping trou and fooling around with the staff... who, oddly enough, also appear to be in their late 20's... go figure.

The star is Matt Summers (obvious porn name) I don't know who he is, but he's going places. He's just stunning... and what he can do with his mouth is even more so. He can deep throat some of the biggest schlongs I've ever seen. I'm talking Chad Hunt! He can deep throat that monster without gagging. In fact, he wants to go back for more.

Quite frankly, he's my hero.

The second film is called Ambassadors of the Ice. It's about a Hungarian ice hockey team. The production values are pretty spectacular, as they use an actual--and very well maintained--arena. As with all Kristen Bjorn directed films, the men are all incredibly handsome, well built and uncut.

Bjorn was a still/art photographer and has a great eye. His films are pretty amazing. I have some of his older films, and they are pretty amazing. Usually, the "money shot" is at the very end of the scene. Not with Kristen... there would be four, sometimes five (!) money shots in a scene. With very little continuity change and it was pretty obvious that it was the same guys... I'm not sure what they put in the water in Europe, but I like it.

Okay, enough perving for today...

Good Name

Just before I delete the hundreds of junk emails in the morning--my spaminator dumps them into a file--I was reviewing the list to make sure nothing got falsely dropped in. It's interesting how they try to get past the spam stoppers by changing "Slut" to "SIut" or "s1ut".

They are clever those spammers...

Usually the addresses are "Bob" or something that instantly tells me that I don't know the person. "Click Here" is the worst name ever.

However, as I was about to delete the 236 spam emails I got today, I noticed a new name: Zsa Zsa LaHore. Muy excellante! That is one terrific name. If I ever get into drag--and I'm pretty confident I'm not pretty enough for drag--Zsa Zsa LaHore will be my stage name.

Heck, I might use it anyway...

Pulling A Groucho

Groucho Marx, who went from an international comedian/movie star with his brothers to a huge success as a game show host, died in 1977. His career followed the golden age of Hollywood into the golden age of television. He was a truly remarkable man. Sadly, he is not remembered that well because he made one final, fatal mistake:

He died the same week as Elvis Presley.

All that history, all that joy was forgotten as the world mourned the passing of a rock 'n roll singer who died on the john...

Now, when someone of note passes at the same time as someone even more of note and gets eclipsed by the press in the process, it is called "pulling a Groucho."

Everyone knows that the Pope has entered his final moments. As a Catholic, I am truly saddened by this fact. Millions of Catholics and non-Catholics alike will mourn his passing. However, another Catholic in the tiny principality of Monaco their ruler since 1947 and the husband of international star Grace Kelly is also entering his final moments.

Prince Rainier, the man who doubled the size of his nation by building out into the Mediterranean and took his small 'gambling friendly' nation into an international banking capital, will most likely pass the same time as The Pontiff. Thus, his 81 years, his ruling of a nation, his changing of Europe and his note as a husband to a great American actress will be instantly passed by another ruler of sorts who also made great changes in the world.

Prince Rainier, ruler, architect, financial mastermind: you are about to pull a Groucho and I salute you!