I signed up for a speech class at work and now I have to actually go. Why do I do these things? Why do I put myself through this crap?

It’s a class on “impromptu speaking,” which I suck at and desperately need to work on my skills. But, it’s for the very reason I suck at it that I don’t want to go there. I have to stand in front of small group and speak! Put me in front of 1000 people and I’m okay, but in front of a small group, I choke.

Now I have to go stand in front of a small group and practice speaking to them. I ditched the speech class yesterday because I had to prepare a 2-3 minute speech in advance. I could think of nothing of any substance to discuss. I’m shallow. I fully admit it. Dare I say, I embrace it. I couldn’t hold a significant thought with a bucket. And I’m supposed to stand in front of a group of intellectuals and talk about something?

Things got busy… (or did I make things get busy…) and I had to cancel. Awww. I was SO disappointed.

No such luck in creating a diversion today, so I’m off to class… I’ll write when I get back.

------

Well, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. About a hair above painful root canal.

First thing our facilitator, Sharon asked was “Who was at the class yesterday?” I slunk down in my chair a bit (if you call being fully under the chair “a bit”). “For those that attended that class, this will be a piece of cake!” F’ing fantastic…

Because I had no coffee this morning and because of my desperately short attention span, I began to look around the room and realized two odd things. First, I was the only guy in the room. Great! Now everyone will know I’m gay. If I’m in a room with at least one other guy, then I’m okay, because then it’s a 50/50 thing. But the second I’m the only guy in the room, they all just know. It’s a fact. Unless it’s a dude that is just oozing testosterone, but I don’t ooze… or at least I try not to in public.

The second thing I noticed, and found far more menacing, was a video camera in the corner. Oh, Christ… they’re going to tape us! F’! F’! F’! I do weird things when I’m nervous, especially in a small group and I seriously thought I was going to distinguish myself in a way that would make me infamous throughout the entire company.

My stomach gurgled ever so loudly as to indicate that it was working on a long, loud and quite heinous fart. I groaned.

“Come on, Chris,” Sharon mused, “it’s not going to be that bad.”

She was in the middle of talking to us and I wasn’t paying a damn bit of attention. What if she gave us some key information? What if she told us something not to do? What if she explained ‘the rules?’

I realized that my panicking was not helping me listen and my chastising myself for drifting off only caused me to miss even more of what she was saying.

Thankfully, a woman arrived late and Sharon felt it necessary to recap.

We would pick from two boxes with topics. One was marked “Issues,” which had questions relating to political or social issues, the other was marked “fun.” Take a wild fricken guess which one I was going for?

We were to critique people on their performance, telling them what worked and didn’t. Thankfully, I was not first or last, I was right in the middle, where whatever embarrassments I might commit could be forgotten.

The first woman got up with a serious case of THO. My gosh, those high beams reminded me of the Fembots in Austin Powers. I think she spoke well, but I kept looking at those monsters—not that I’m into them (ewww), but how could I not notice?

The next few speakers were okay. Boy, we were a sad group. No one jumped up there and knocked us out.

Then it was MY turn…

I picked “What makes the best pet? Why?” I got up and told them my topic and went on about why dogs are the best pet—“they love you. Cats suck. Fish are dull. And birds? Whatever. But dogs, dogs are great.”

It wasn’t until after I sat down that I began to really come up with some fun ideas for my speech. Ideas like: How many cats have saved someone’s life? Have you ever heard of seeing-eye fish? Name an animal movie hero other than a dog? (Note: “The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh” was not about animals and stunk on ice.) You can’t name other hero animals in movies. There are no hero cats (I’m sure one could come up with a poor argument for “The Aristocats” or even “Gay Purr-ee,” but those are animated and I’m talking Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin.

Oh, it could have been brilliant, but as it stood, it wasn’t horrible. And then came Jennifer.

Jennifer works in “relations” so she already had a jump on us. She also was cute and had a hot-muscled bod. Her topic was on how to relieve stress and she jumped right into exercise and the whole Zen bull that comes from it. I began to hate her more and more as I realized that her talk was everything it was supposed to be: quick, to the point, funny, brilliant, well spoken… oh, it was f’ing dagger into my heart. Whatever success my speech might have been was quickly forgotten.

Once the torture was over, we passed out what we wrote about each other—entering into a whole new realm of torture. One person wrote my conclusion sucked. Someone else loved it. Some felt I had good physical presence; other’s felt I was awkward. Half liked my use of my hands; one wrote I should only use it when making a specific point. In other words, these idiots didn’t have a clue and were messing with my mojo.

We went through the process again, this time, without critiquing. We had to say what we were going to work on and then do another topic. Interestingly enough, what everyone stated they were going to correct was the one thing they didn’t. It was ridiculous. I began to feel more at home with this band of merry fools.

My topic was “Which do you like better, Chess or Checkers? Why?” That was easy: “Checkers. I can’t play chess. I’ve had friends explain it to me again and again and I still haven’t a clue. Frankly, I don’t care. It just doesn’t do anything for me. Besides, checkers is fun, while chess is thoughtful. Thoughtful is another word for dull. We give the Checkmate to Checkers! King me!”

Thankfully, we finished early. Sharon asked us if anyone wanted to go again and three fools said yes. I said only if I could redo my first one… (ha ha—what a card).

As each person got up there, filled with their new confidence and determined to correct past mistakes, they all crashed and burned. Sharon looked at me and said, “want another go?” I politely smiled and declined. It’s like those idiots that didn’t get a perfect SAT score, so they go back and re-take it only to get a lower score.

All in all, I learned I’m an okay speaker, but would prefer to forget this morning and this experience. Of course, the last thing we had to do before we could escape Sharon’s clutches was sign up for a time to review the tape of our session, so we can relive the f’ing magic one more time…

This weekend I cleaned out under my bed. Buried deep beneath the mountains of dust bunnies, missing socks, and unpaid parking tickets rested the treasure: my (mostly crappy) movie posters! I am now releasing many of these onto an unsuspecting world. Yes, my collection of late 80’s and early 90’s movie posters are a fascinating trip through bad filmmaking and even worse film marketing. True, there are a few Academy Award winners within, but far too many pieces of junk that I felt I had to possess. Oh, the give-me, give-me of the 80’s!

Alas, I spent the weekend blowing dust out of the tubes (finally, I was blowing something on a Saturday night…) and sifting through the posters, wondering why in God’s name did I ever decide I wanted these in the first place… and wondering why I was sitting at home on a Saturday night going through my (mostly crappy) poster collection, when there is an exciting world of nightclubs, discos and bars where I could be ignored and dismissed by hundreds of hot guys.

Life is grand, no?

Friends said I should sell them on eBay, because, “I’ll make a fortune.” I’ve seen what posters are going for on eBay—a fortune, it isn’t. Plus, since I am the laziest son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet, I have decided to give them away.

If you are reading this and you see a poster you like, send me an e-mail and I’ll give you the poster. If you are in some far corner of the world (known to me as “outside the San Francisco Bay Area), you’ll have to send me postage, because I am not made of money—right now, my net worth is calculated in (mostly crappy) movie posters and dust bunnies.

What posters are on the list, you ask? Well, I’ll list them below. Note that the first section consists of rolled posters in good to excellent condition, the second section consists of folded posters in okay (but mostly crappy) condition.

Godspeed to you perusing this list of (mostly crappy) posters.

ROLLED POSTERS
1492
29th Street
Abyss, The
Always
Amazon Women on the Moon
Avalon
Back to the Future II (teaser & release version)
Backdraft
Batman Returns (teaser & release version)
Beaches
Big
Big Business
Big Easy
Black Widow
Blaze
Brain Candy
Cape Fear
Child's Play
Cocktail
Come See the Paradise
Cool Runnings
Cool World
Crybaby
Days of Thunder
Dick Tracy
Die Hard
Die Hard 2
Do the Right Thing
DOA
Doors, the
Dry White Season, A
Dumbo Drop
Edward Scissorhands (teaser)
Field of Dreams
Fish Called Wanda, A
Fisher King, The
Frankenstein (Mary Shelley's)
Fried Green Tomatoes
Gate, The
Good Morning, Vietnam
Gorillas in the Mist
Guilty by Suspicion
He Said, She Said
Hellbound: Hellraiser II
Hudson Hawk
Hunt for Red October, The (teaser)
In the Line of Fire
Interview with a Vampire
IQ
Jetsons, The
Joy Luck Club, The
Judging Your Life
La Bamba
LA Story
Last Action Hero
Last Starfighter, The
Late for Dinner
Lawnmover Man
Less Than Zero
Less Than Zero
Leviathan
Licence to Kill
License to Kill
Look Who's Talking
Lord of the Flies
Maid to Order
Midnight Run (A and B version)
Milagro Beanfield War, The
Mr. Holland's Opus
Mr. Wonderful
Mrs. Doubtfire
My Cousin Vinny
My Girl
Narrow Margin
Nightmare on Elm Street, A
Old Gringo
Pacific Heights
Parenthood
Perfect World
Posse
Power
Pulp Fiction
Radio Flyer
Raising Arizona
Rambo III
Return to Snowy River
Roxanne
School Daze
Searching for Bobby Fischer
Sex, Lies and Videotape
Soldiers Story
Someone to Watch Over Me (A & B versions))
Steel Magnolias
Striptease
Suspect
Tales from the Darkside
Threesome
Total Recall
Wall Street
War of the Roses
Wedding Banquet, The
Working Girl
Worth Winning
Young Guns

FOLDED POSTERS
Angel Heart
Better Off Dead
Birdy
Blue Velvet
Boy Who Could Fly, The
Buckaroo Banzai: Across the 8th Dimension
Color of Money, The
Crocodile Dundee
Cross Creek
Dead, The
Driving Miss Daisy
Dune
Flashdance
Fly, The
For All Mankind
Fright Night
Garbo Talks
Gardens of Stone
Great Muppet Caper
Innerspace
Jagged Edge
Karate Kid II
King of Comedy, The
Lucas
Lucky Lady, The (Pia Zadora!)
Manhattan
Manhattan Project, The
Mask
Masters of the Universe
Money Pit, The
Mr. Mom
Muppets Take Manhattan, The
Mutant
Never Cry Wolf
Outrageous Fortune
Places in the Heart
Police Academy
Predator
Protocol
Red Dawn
Robocop
Romancing The Stone
Scarface
Short Circuit
Silkwood
Spaceballs
St. Elmo's Fire
Star Trek IV
Starman (teaser & release version)
Sweet Dreams
That's Dancing
Weird Science
White Nights
World According to Garp, The
Year of the Dragon, The

Feel free to e-mail me at ###@####* (be sure to note Movie Posters in the subject line). There is no guarantee any of these posters will be available as some friends have expressed an interest in stopping by and checking out what I've got (if only they weren't talking about the posters). First come, first serve.

*Don't feel free to email me... the posters are long gone (why do people email me on something that is 4 years old?

Friday is here at last!

Short week, but it felt long… Lordy, did it feel LONG.

I finally finished with all my employee reviews… or so I thought. One of the employees, who, at the completion of her evaluation, said she thought she was going to get a lower score and was relieved she was not “put on probation,” has now decided to start pressuring for her evaluation to be re-evaluated.

Tough luck on that… bitch signed it. Done deal. Game over. Better luck next time.

She’s now saying the lower scores are not her fault, but my fault because I did not inform some of her bosses that she was doing extra work for one boss. At what point does she say something? At what point does she take responsibility for her work? At what point does someone say “I f’d up. Great learning experience… let’s move on”?

The reason that I didn’t speak with her bosses is simple: I screwed up. I admit it. I admitted it to her. She took the ball and ran with it. Now, she thinks her scores are all in question. I had to tell her that her consistent (and across the board) low scores were based on an entire year of screwing up, not just the supremely bad job she has been doing lately.

She wants to hear none of it. It’s all poor performance from her supervisor (me) and her bosses feel that I am doing a poor job. This is all according to her… I can only imagine what she is telling them.

When I spoke with several of her bosses this morning, I got the impression that she had ratted me out. Interestingly enough, when I was telling them how I screwed up and I couldn’t apologize enough for not informing them earlier that she was being overwhelmed by one boss, they seemed to smell the BS coming from her. All I did was tell the truth… and her BS immediately didn’t make sense. (Funny how that works.) Immediately, they all asked why she didn’t say something to me earlier? Why didn’t she let them know? Why didn’t she apologize for all the shit they’ve gone through?

Interesting, how these guys figured things out pretty quickly on their own, no? I didn’t feel it was my place to rat her out and say “she’s a screw-up through and through.” So, I told them how I would be watching much more closely and if they had any issues, to not hesitate to bring them to me. “Bring your work as well,” I smiled, “I don’t get to do much for you guys anymore, so anytime I can help out it’s fun.” I can out shine anyone in sucking up and putting out the quality work. [...bitch tries to stab me in the back, I’ll chop her off at the knees…]

The irony is, normally, a bad review follows you throughout the year. Not me, I give them the review and use that as a starting point and thinking: "Move forward." She is keeping herself stuck in the same damn spot--and I'm going to have a hard time not thinking about her staying in that spot... What a putz.

Well, the weekend is here and I don’t have to think about this crap for two days… of course, I’ll probably start thinking about it Sunday afternoon and I’ll be in full pissed off mode at 7:30 Monday morning.

Have a lovely weekend…
(i.e. I hope you get laid… actually, I hope I get laid…)

I hope you all had a wonderful and safe holiday weekend…

Man, I love those three-day weekends! I think all weekends should be three days. It’s just the perfect length. Normally, by the time I decompress from the previous week I start stressing because it’s Sunday night and I need to get my stuff together to start another week of work.

With the three day weekend, I can totally waste one day by just vegging out… staying in bed all day, watching TV, reading, perusing my vast collection of porn… there’s nothing like the finer things in life.

My Saturdays usually begin with me cleaning the pig-sty, which is the nicest term I can come up with for my condo. A week’s worth of newspapers, dust, dirty clothes, unwashed dishes, and a ton of mail (including unopened bills, opened junk mail, various catalogs and magazines—both news and porn) are randomly strewn throughout the place. I vacuum, dust, wash, throw out, scrub and polish. Thankfully, my place is about the size of a tic-tac, so it only takes an hour or so. However, once I start laundry, all bets are off… how can one man create such a huge pile of dirty clothing?

Then, I’m off for coffee at Starbucks and any other errand I can think of…

Then lunch…

Then I usually get it in my head that I need to start a project of some kind. Usually, it’s something pointless and guaranteed to undo all the cleaning that I’ve done all morning.

And then comes the moment I desperately fear: finding something to do in the evening. A weekend is a total waste if you spend it at home… alone. Ugh. I can think of nothing worse. I don’t mind being alone the rest of the week, I just loathe sitting around on Saturday night, eating fast food or a frozen dinner. Making a meal is even more pathetic. If I’m home on a Saturday night, I won’t eat. I’m too damn depressed…

If I’m out with friends it’s great. I don’t care if we are doing nothing (so high school), but I love to hang with friends. Or those that I think of as friends. Why is it I always call them, but they never call me? I guess they can only handle me in small chunks… otherwise they tire of me quickly. It’s not great for one’s self esteem when no one ever calls. [I’m more pathetic than even I thought possible.]

If I can’t find any of my friends (because they are avoiding or hiding from me), then I’ll head up to SF to the Lonestar… by myself. Again, not much happens, I smoke a cigar, have a few beers, try and speak to people, get rejected and drive home. Man, that drive home is long if I haven’t had a decent conversation… significantly shorter if I chat with a cutie. I guess driving with an erection cuts down on commute time… there’s a scientific experiment in there somewhere…

And then there’s that nasty bitch called Sunday.

Nothing beats a good early morning wank on a Sunday morning. This replaces the Sunday morning sex that most people get—because I am alone… so alone… [pity poor Chris…]

Another Starbucks morning and reading the paper on the patio. I don’t mind being alone then… of course I’d love to discuss the news with someone besides my sister. The only thing we seem to have a grasp on is the entertainment industry. Otherwise, we really couldn’t give a crap. The Middle East? Get over yourselves! You are crying over dry dusty land with no fun spots to speak of—is there any spot in the Middle East that isn’t a tourist spot because someone died there? The Wailing Wall? Oh, yeah, count me in on the fun for that… I bet they have a sweet gift shop.

I’m shallow and I know it. Still, it would be nice to meet a guy that had some substance (and a big dick) that I could talk about issues with (and F’). Even better if he’d want to talk about the entertainment industry (and have a big dick—although talking entertainment is not a deal breaker… and neither is the big dick…)

The rest of Sunday is spent trying to remove myself from the couch... and to start my ironing for the week (which I usually ignore until it’s too late, so I spend the week either wrinkled or late for work because I’m forced to iron in the morning and I tend to oversleep).

As Sunday afternoon slips into Sunday night, I am again filled with dread. How can the week take SO LONG to get to Friday and then, like a popcorn fart, the weekend flies by and it’s Monday again? It’s just not fair.

Now if we had a three day weekend, I wouldn’t mind spending an entire day running errands and working around the house—for I’d still have two days left to fart around. And Sunday would be the perfect buffer day: a full day off before and after. Truly glorious.

Someone said that in order to work only four days a week, we’d have to work 10 hour days. Like I don’t do that already? Come on, I tend to work 50-60 hour weeks, you do the math—10 hour days would be the same or less.

I think I’ve done enough ranting for one day… and think, only three days left until the weekend! See? This three day weekend and four day week is working out already.

I could get used to this pretty quickly… when’s the next holiday?

Sorry that it’s been so long since I’ve written. Then again, is anyone reading this? If so, why? If not, why not? Come on, I’m as narcissistic as the next guy, I want to be read. Mostly, I’d like to get laid, but I’ll settle for a good read any day. Sadly, usually I do…

Anyhow, I’ve been working on employee evaluations at work, or as I call it: “Reinventing the wheel every other day.” Every time I stay until 10:30 at night, working and reworking these forms, I find out the next morning that I’m using last year’s forms… or this year we’re doing things differently… or I didn’t quite get the concept… or I got the concept, but need to think “like a manager” (read: like an asshole).

No, sir, I just don’t like this evaluating business.

On to something else… something fun… something timely…

I can’t think of anything so let’s talk Star Wars.

I saw it on Sunday… in DLP (digital projection). I must say, I was more impressed with the presentation of the film than the film. It was just so in focus! I have never seen any movie that in focus. It goes to show you how screwed we’ve been all these years.

I liked the movie. Things blew up, Yoda kicked ass, and I got to see Hayden’s nipples. What a day! Yet the critics and the Star Wars geeks hated it for whatever silly reason they could come up with: bad dialog and poor acting (but kick-ass special effects).

Seriously, why is Star Wars held to such an extremely high standard? It’s an f’ing action movie, for Chrissakes! What action film is held to any standards? Are we not continually surprised when an action film has 1) credible dialog, 2) decent acting, or 3) an actual plot? If not, explain the careers of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone.

Examine the first Star Wars (or is it the fourth? It’s chapter IV, but film number one… thanks for confusing us, George): Was the plot that great? No, pretty simple actually. And the dialog? Please! It was dreadful. What about the poor plot points? Luke loses the only parents he’s ever known, burns the bodies and says, “There’s nothing for me here now…” The people that just raised you were viciously slaughtered, are you going to mourn a little more than staring into the double sunset?

Star Wars was not a great film, it was a fun film. Empire was a great film. Dark, twisted and wonderful. Jedi was a load of crap that I still am waiting repayment of my $5.75 for the displeasure of suffering through. The Phantom Menace was three hours of boredom with sprinkles of annoyance liberally spread throughout (generously supplied by Jar-Jar Binks and an annoying Anakin Skywalker).

Did I love it? No. Did I like it? Yeah. Will I see it again? Hell, yeah. It’s Star Wars and one must watch it again and again to catch all the cool things George throws in for us to enjoy. Don’t spend so much time hoping that the film will be something else (i.e. something better, something more exciting, something that answers more questions than it poses, etc.) just enjoy it for what it is.

Rock the Force, baby!

--cml

Merry Cinco de Mayo!

I haven’t written in a while… not sure why. I’ve been busy at work, but my social life is such that it has not prevented me from writing. I guess I’m just lazy…

I had friends over for brunch on Sunday. It’s the first time I’ve cooked brunch. I’ve had many dinner parties and luncheons for events like the Oscars, or the Superbowl, but never brunch.

It was not my finest hour.

Let me just say that breakfast requires a lot of work for not a lot of yield. Bacon, for example requires the clearing of several national forests in order to provide enough paper towels to soak up the fat and grease. And when one has finished cooking up an entire pound of bacon, there are about two teeny-tiny strips sitting there… charred beyond allrecognition.

Pancakes are just a god-damn mess from the start. Flour everywhere, egg shells surrounding you, buttermilk smelling anything but tasty, and the result of this mess are these strange, thin, wrinkled things that look nothing like mom or IHOP would ever hope to serve.

And don’t get me started on quiches. I made two quiches, one regular and one with salsa (for Cinco de Mayo). A huge mess to make, it sloshes EVERYWHERE as I tried to put it in the oven… naturally, the sides of the oven, covered in egg, began to flame as the cooking time went on… and on… and on… As I was standing by the oven bitching about the damn things not cooking right, my sister looked at me and said, “I would have just bought a ready-made one at the store.” Now she tells me…

It was a good learning experience. I learned that I will never do this again. I figure with the amount of time I spent cleaning the place (both before and after—including repainting of the kitchen, plus the purchase of a new oven), cooking, and groceries, the party cost me about $1.4 million. I should be catering to the government.

Okay, it probably wasn’t that much… but it sure f’ing felt like it.

Putting the disaster behind us, in the afternoon we went to The Saratoga Art & Wine Festival. Or should I call it “The Saratoga Terribly Bad Art and Where the Hell is the Wine and is it Too Much Trouble to Have Some Bottled Water on a Really Hot Day? Festival.” Being that it was held on Cinco de Mayo in Saratoga, there was absolutely nothing to indicate the date. Hot dogs, pizza and beer for sale. I don’t know what happened to the wine or water, but lordy, it wasn’t to be found there.

I never knew there were so many talented artists in the area. And I never suspected they were out numbered 10 to one by painfully bad ones. One woman commented on an artist’s particularly horrific group of paintings, “He’s gone through a lot of trial and error.” To which Jill replied, “A LOT of trial and WAY TOO MUCH error.” We found it amusing, the lady did not.

We decided we needed a “key word” to describe the crappy art. We felt it was far too rude to yell out, “Holy God! My eyes! Please God, someone scratch out my eyes!” Instead, we came up with “extraordinary!” Whenever we saw something particularly heinous, we would say, “My, isn’t that extraordinary!”

This worked for a while until we loudly extraordinary-ed a particularly ugly “art-deco” group of night-lights and Laura, standing directly in front of the artist said, “Actually, I kind of like them.” I later had to explain to Laura that we were trying not to insult the artist to their face, rather to mock them maliciously behind their back.

We eventually decided “Fantastic” was to be used whenever one liked something that someone else thought was “extraordinary.” Which worked fine until we walked up to macramé plant holders (my heavens, they made it back after a scant 25 year absence) and I said they were “extraordinary.” Laura looked at them and smiled, “my mom used to do these, I think their fantastic… on second thought, they are kinda ugly… I guess they are pretty extraordinary…”

I just stood there amongst the large group of sellers that we all had made a point of saying how their work was “extraordinary.” The artistically challenged all seemed to turn at once, recognizing that they had not only been duped into thinking we actually liked the crap they called art, but were openly mocking them.

The moved en masse upon us.

Laura tried to explain to them that it was a joke… We never saw her again. She’s probably okay, but, chickenshits that we are, we booked it out of there. I got caught up in some “Authentic Indian Dream Catchers” sold by a woman so white and pale, that the closest thing to her being Indian was that she owned Dances With Wolves. Eventually, I freed myself from the nightmares about me and ran until I could run no more… which was a Starbucks across the street and around the corner (passing two on the way).

Scott tripped over rocks that had metal items drilled into them to look like birds. He has a very odd dent in his forehead. I kept telling him to put his thumb in his mouth and blow real hard and maybe his head would right itself.

Jill, being the smartest of the bunch just bought some crappy macramé vest, put it on and walked through the melee without a care in the world.

Of course she’s now stuck with it.

As we sat in Starbucks, nursing our wounds, a woman walked up to us and said, “You guys look like you’ve had a pretty wild day.”

“We must look pretty silly,” Jill smiled, wearing the ugliest macramé vest in the world, while I sweated profusely from my run and Scott kept puffing away on his thumb, trying to get his head to pop back into shape.

“No,” smiled the woman as she turned to walk out, “you all look extraordinary.”

When we last left Chris, he was talking about his dull weekend and silly expectations…
Oh my, how the week has turned weird.

Carla, my boss, has been hospitalized—I have been forcibly put in charge. Why must the least qualified be forced to lead? Carla (a wonderful boss)* has numerous medial issues and is undergoing diagnostic work. It couldn’t come at a worse time as Sandy is on vacation and deadlines for reviews are rapidly approaching. I haven’t had this job long enough to know what the F’ I’m doing, so I am going to have to wing it. Christ, I’m gonna F’ this up in a heinous manner.

I’ll just refer to this time as either “The Grand F’ Up,” or “The Amazing Learning Experience, Where I Got My Ass Sh**-Canned.” The former sounds great, but I have a feeling the latter is most accurate.

On to other things…

I put a personal ad on line at an online gay personals site. We’ll see if anyone contacts me. Actually, a few have noticed. True, these people probably have criminal records, poor vision and some sort of freaked-out fetish, but it’s always nice to be appreciated.

I’ve e-mailed JD a few times, indicating I’d like to ask him out. He seems receptive, but I’m not sure how receptive he is. Is he just being nice, or is he really interested? I get a lot of “Yes, we should meet sometime” kinds of messages. I think I’m expecting him to show some more enthusiasm for some reason, or at least send a “call me right now and we can talk” instant message. I’m too wimpy for words, aren’t I? Most people would just call and accept whatever happens. Me? I have to analyze the crap out of something until it almost disappears and then whine about it.

I think my fear is that he is just being polite and that he really doesn’t want to go out with me. I will find out tonight, as I’m going to give him a call and see when we can meet. I don’t want to talk him up, or put me down too much, but I keep thinking he can do a lot better than me.

I’ll see tonight.

If you’re curious about what I wrote on my personal, here it is:

I am a man of many contradictions: I believe in following the rules, but believe it is everyone’s right to occasionally break them. A deep understanding of important issues is critical, but all I know seems to come from Dateline (damn that Stone Phillips with his handsome face and sexy, deep voice!) I’m a die-hard liberal with an intense conservative streak. I believe everyone needs to grow up, although I’m the least mature person you will ever meet. Procrastination is something to avoid, but it is my most effective descriptor. I love athletics (particularly, the Olympics) but have the grace and athletic abilities of a refrigerator. I think everyone should exercise everyday and vow someday I will start. Smoking is horrible, but I love my cigars. Television is a vast wasteland, yet I watch it all the time. I adore music, but couldn’t name a song or group if I tried—and I am painfully tone-deaf. I adore books, and have shelves of partially read books to prove it. Movies are mostly crap and should be avoided, and I would do so if I weren’t going at least once a week. I love just about any home improvement show, but put a hammer in my hand and I have the mechanical abilities of a manatee. Speling is important.

One should be passionate about important issues, unfortunately, I am only passionate about trivial items, such as (in no particular order):
Saturday Night Live should just stop already.
Comics should be funny and non-repetitive (hear that Cathy, Garfield, Family Circus, and The Big Picture?)
Lego is the greatest toy ever invented, no ifs ands or buts.
Dogs are better than cats.
Toilet paper goes over.
I think The Simpsons is the greatest television show ever.
The Osbournes is a close second.
Fart jokes are funny.
The ampersand (&) is cooler than at (@).
The word ampersand is one of my favorite words.
Keyser Söze is the greatest character name in all of moviedom.
David Diaz De La Questa is the coolest name of anyone I have personally known.
Sex is great; love more so.
Coke is better than Pepsi.
Nick at Nite is the best cable network (although Discovery, Showtime, HBO, and TLC, are pretty cool too).
If he’s a man and alive, what’s not to like?
Friends are to be kept close; fuck ‘em otherwise.
Fuck is the most useful swearword ever created.
If you can’t take a joke, you should not be within 50 yards of me.
Most important quality in the world: brevity.

With the exception of the scary people who have sent e-mails, all I can hear are crickets chirping...

*UPDATE (6/2006) Much happened shortly after that post--I'm just now going back over them and correcting anything positive I ever said about that unbelievable lying bitch from hell. Seriously, she's the most evil person ever. Spread lies everywhere, blamed everyone else but herself, and when she started to crash and burn, she made a point of trying to take us all with her. Pure fucking evil. If I were to ever see that bitch on the street I'm torn if I should just turn and walk away or tell her how she ruined dozens of lives. Hopefully, a cliff will not be nearby, because it would be too tempting not to push her off it. Evil fucking bitch. Good thing I'm not bitter all these years later...

I had a pretty quiet weekend. I was hoping and expecting something wild and fun, but it turned out to be rather dull. Oh, those expectations, how they will disappoint you.

On Friday I didn’t do much of anything. Laundry, played on the computer and went to bed before 11:00. All week, when I had to be up at 5:30, I never got to bed before 1:00am. But when I can sleep in, I’m in bed at an early hour. Go figure…

Saturday, I cleaned the house—will the fun never stop? It took an hour to clean my bathroom (always too disgusting for words). I have no idea how in a room where I use nothing but soap can get so disgusting. You’d think it would somehow self-clean. At least in my dreams.

Saturday evening, a buddy and I were supposed to go to the Lonestar together, after talking and planning for the last week, he chickened out. It totally pissed me off. Not because he chickened out, but the way he did it. He was excited about going until a few days before when, suddenly, he remembered “previous plans.” He said might not be able to leave in time and I told him we didn’t have to leave until 8:30. He kept saying it might take longer. The event he was going to started at 3:00 and we weren’t leaving until 8:30—I think 5.5 hours is enough for a damn barbeque, don’t you?

About 5:30 he left a message for me saying he would meet me up there, which is his way of saying, “I’m not going, but don’t want to admit it, so I’ll give you the false hope that I’ll see you, but no F’ing way am I going to do that.” I immediately figured out the excuses he was going to use: 1) too tired (from the 5.5 hours he spent at this party), 2) too drunk to drive, 3) didn’t know how to get to the bar (even though the last time he held the map as we drove up there). Any time we have ever had to drive to SF he freaks and can’t do it. He’s scared to drive up there.

So, I went alone.

Not nearly as much fun as last time. I was hoping at least to talk to someone… I didn’t speak to anyone—except the bartender. Sadly, there was no sighting of The Cutie, which I am still bummed on two days later. Lonestar had a totally different crowd this week: there was some sort of Leather-Thing going on at The Eagle and they filtered their way to Lonestar. I am not a leather-boy in any sense (my jacket is fricken suede for crimminy’s sake!). So I had two beers and a cigar (a lovely Hoyo de Monterey), then headed home.

The drive is much longer when you’re not floating on air…

I woke up early on Sunday (first words out of my sister: “YOU were home early.” i.e. YOU didn’t get laid last night.”). I made Scott McCandless’ birthday card (a picture of Lukas Ridgestone and a wonderful Buddhist quote about happiness being all around oneself).

I set off for Scott’s BD brunch at Bella Mia—was late and yet still was the first to arrive. No one I know is ever on time. We are the latest group of people in the world. I don’t know if any of us have ever arrived to anything less than 15 minutes late. Well, we’re nothing if not consistent.

Bella Mia normally has a really nice brunch, but my eggs seemed oddly shaped and somehow I felt disappointed in my eggs. How does one become disappointed in food? I know it seems impossible, but I did it. We then walked around downtown checking out the construction and slowly drifted apart as people had plans.

Eventually, Scott, Larry and I went to see “The Fluffer,” at the Towne. For what it was, it was alright. The ‘fluffee’ was unbelievably hot. Just incredible to look at—I couldn’t have hoped for a better looking dude. He was very convincing as a porn star—man, I wish he was one.

I know they were trying to be ‘mainstream’ in this film, but there was no edge to the film. The sex could have been much more erotic without ever having to show something. Instead, they showed nothing—and based on the looks of this guy, I was hoping for a little something more. Sex consisted of sound effects of sucking and a guy throwing his head back saying, “yeah.” Porn is about sex—mainstream is more about eroticism. They could have made those scenes more exciting than any porn I’ve seen. Especially considering that Wash West was a co-writer/co-director on this.

Wash West is a very well known porn director, particularly for his extremely erotic porn videos. There is a wonderful scene in a film called Animus (a surprise because it had 1) a plot, 2) good acting 3) great sex). Picture it: two “tops” are fooling around, neither is willing to bottom, so they end up simulating anal sex, rubbing against each other in a way that was more erotic and much hotter than any penetration scene I’ve ever seen.

Frankly, I had much higher expectations.

I decided to go home and read before I watched the greatest show on television: Six Feet Under. I am reading a wonderful Buddhist book called “Chasing Elephants.” The premise is not to look outside yourself for happiness—don’t expect others to do things for you and be disappointed by them. My favorite quote is “Only our searching for happiness prevents us from seeing it.” You have to let things be as they are: “It is what it is.” A fascinating premise. So, I started to re-evaluate my weekend and it turns out it was pretty good.

Saturday may not have been what I had hoped it would be at the Lonestar, but I was out among men I enjoy. I may have not been what those men were looking for, but I was there, I was out, the evening was lovely and the men were fun to watch.

The movie may not have been all that I wanted, but it was still a fun movie.

The nice thing about this is that it puts me in a more relaxed state. If one expects too much from others, they are disappointed. If one lets people be as they are, then we open ourselves up to new feelings and adventures.

I just hope the book gets better—I was expecting an easier read…

Robert Blake has been arrested… I think the Hollywood curse that people always talk about happened to The Little Rascals. None of those got anywhere without some horrific tragedy.

Most went broke, Alfalfa died after being shot in his bar, Darla committed suicide when she could no longer find work, Buckwheat died of a heart attack at age 49, Jackie Coopers’ parents spent all of his money… and the list goes on.

These poor kids. While they may have enjoyed a unique childhood, no one ever prepared them for the realities of adulthood. They were given so much as kids, nothing in life could measure up. They peaked by age 5… how can you compete with that?

Rarely does a child actor make that move from child to adult star. Jodi Foster did it. Michael J. Fox did it. But for every Jodi and Michael there is a Dana Plato and a Macaulay Culkin… and a Annison Jones (Buffy, Family Affair)… and the cast of both Diff’rent Strokes and The Facts of Life. Oh, it goes on and on and on… and on.

I feel bad for these kids… the fact that they are forgotten. Mostly, I feel bad because I really don’t care. It’s not their fault their lives are not as wonderful as their initial promise, but neither are most people’s. It’s just that the former child stars have something to compare it to.

Life’s a bitch. It’s nothing new.

My gosh I’m awfully cynical, aren’t I? As a duly registered minister I should come up with some sort of helpful bit of advice… Note that I did not say I would come up with some helpful advice, I only acknowledged that I should come up with some helpful advice. Good advice is hard to get—and even harder to give. Just look at Ann Landers. The woman speaks to millions but continues to F’-up every chance she gets. It’s downright embarrassing.

Maybe I should advise her?

Let’s move on to other issues, shall we? The weekend is here at last! Thank God (remember, I’m allowed to say that). I was hoping to go to a Stanford Baseball game on Saturday—but their in Seattle, so maybe I’ll go for a walk to Lexington Reservoir. It’s a good long walk and the view is wonderful (by “view” I mean hot-looking guys). A buddy and I will be heading up to the Lonestar Saloon on Saturday—I’m hoping to see JD and make up for not being polite last week, but I’m not counting on it. As Shawn said, “There’s a difference in him liking you now and liking you right now.” The truth hurts, Shawny-baby. Thankyousoverymuch for pointing that out to an already insecure individual.

Sunday is Scott MC’s birthday brunch and we have a group of nine showing up, which is pretty good considering it was last minute and no one in our group ever wants to RSVP for something.

All in all, I’m hoping for a relaxing weekend… but with my luck it will be nothing but chaos and hookers, chaos and hookers. You realize that is just wishful thinking, right?

Have a good one!
--cml

I spent the day doing interviews.

Man, what a load of crap. We actually had two GREAT interviews, the rest were junk. Some people just do not interview well. We were interviewing some temps who working the very jobs they were interviewing for and if I didn’t already know they were great employees I would never have hired them.

Some of the questions are tough, but I want to see how the interviewee is going to react to things flying at them from left field. It’s amazing how many stupid answers we get. Especially, when they don’t understand common terms like “initiative,” or “prioritize.”

A number of people had no idea what the term “seat of your pants decision” means.

“Tell me about yourself” gets the oddest of answers. Tell about your work abilities that are hinted at in your resume, but I am not concerned with your personal life—especially, your collection of tea cups.

“What is your greatest weakness” is an opportunity for you to shine and take your “weakness” and make it a strength. “I work too hard.” “I never give up.” “I have a 10-inch dick.” Okay, the last one was just something I’d like someone to say sometime. You know, some kid actually said his weakness was coffee? You are correct if you assumed he was not hired.

At one point, I ask the interviewee about a time in their work where theyfailed and what they learned from it. I want to see two things: 1) the ability to take responsibility and 2) what they f’ing learned. Do you know how many people bring up items that someone else did wrong? Sometimes, they don’t even have anything to do with work—Sarah told us all about her vacation 10 years back and how things went “horribly wrong.” I wanted to ask her if the interview was sort of a déjà vu of her vacation.

Worse, they never seemed to learn something other than “never do that again.” Yeah, well, I wouldn’t try to run a skunk over either—but I knew that without having done it, Sarah.

And then there are the liars…

These guys are great. We ask them if they’ve ever done something (mail-merge, large conference set up, etc.) and when they say yes, we start asking specifics. …and then it all falls apart.

One guy said he did mail-merges all the time, but when we started asking specifics, it turned out he knew not one damn thing about mail-merges. I’m not sure what he thought it was, but it had nothing to do with duct tape.

When the bright and shiny ones come in and blow us away, we just sit there amazed. Are they truly that great, or are all the others just that f’ing bad? Now, many would feel that working at such a prestigious university, we are snobby. No, I just expect you to be able to spell. For Christ’s sake, if you are going to say you are an expert in “Wrod” and “Exell”, you are certainly expected to use the spell-checking option.

A personal joy is when their references reveal “the truth” about them. One person, when told that we were going to hire her ex-employee, said “Run. Run as fast as you can.” She ended up getting a job in another department on campus and they have been trying to rid themselves of her from day one. I guess she didn’t expect anyone to check her references—and it’s obvious that the idiot that hired her certainly didn’t.

Tomorrow, hopefully, a bunch of people will cancel like they did this morning and I’ll get some work done.

I’m tired and I’m gonna go home, so I can wake up and do this again tomorrow.

Until then, my friends!
--cml

Well, JD never sent me an e-mail at work… I was a bit bummed. As my friend Shawn said, “There’s a difference in being attracted to someone and being attracted to them right now.”

Ouch.

Probably true. I don’t think he gave me another thought after that. However, last night I was checking out some Bear Personals when I found this cute cub. Guess who? Yep, it was JD. So I e-mailed him.

Naturally, I waited about 15 minutes to get the courage to send him the e-mail. I asked if he was the same guy that spoke to me and that I was sorry I sort of ran off. Then, I told him about yesterday’s Blog. I’m sure I looked even more like a freak, but I wanted to make sure he knew I wasn’t trying to blow him off, that I was stunned that someone I thought so attractive was interested…

…And he responded!

He told me he was flattered, but that he’s “just an average guy.” If the average guy is extremely cute, then I guess he’s an average guy.

He sent me several URLs for his webpages and I perused them to great lengths. Not a lot in content, but plenty of pictures of him and that was fine with me.

He also sent his phone number, which I was tempted to call, but didn’t want to appear too F’ing desperate. I’m not saying that I’m not desperate. I am. Lord knows I am, but I just don’t want to appear desperate. I feel enough like a stalker as it is.

JD never e-mailed me on his own, I have a feeling he probably wasn’t and is just being nice. In fact, I asked him several times if he was going to the Lonestar this weekend and he never answered the question. He doesn’t drink, so maybe it was my offer of buying him a beer to say thanks? I could always buy him a coke… even a Sprite. If he says Dr. Pepper it is SO over, baby.

Anyway, I was pretty excited that I found him—I just hope after reading all that I wrote he doesn’t think I’m some sort of nut. Appearances… appearances…

Speaking of nuts…

Scott Mc’s birthday is Sunday. So I offered to set up a little something this weekend (praying he wouldn’t say Saturday night, because I really want to go to the Lonestar). He’s going out with his “other friends” and agreed with my suggestion that Sunday brunch at Bella Mia would be nice.

However, he stated that he didn’t want to make a “big thing” out of his birthday, and to let people know it was okay “not to go.” What the hell is that? “Hey, you’re invited to a birthday party, but if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.” It’s like telling people you really don’t want them there.

I sent an e-mail out to all of Scott’s friends, letting them know that his birthday was coming… and naturally, the smart ass in me couldn’t hold back. I created a flier for a “fabulous and sumptuous meal” with “celebrities and porn stars” at the Fairmont and then put a banner across it, canceling the extravagance out for a “Quaker Style Breakfast” (i.e. no porn stars).

Scott thought I was encouraging… or did he say “not discouraging” people to attend his birthday. What is so wrong with celebrating a birthday? (This, of course, is a rhetorical question to all my Jehovah’s Witness friends.)

Who knows if anyone is going to show up? I’m sure they will, everyone loves Scott, even if he doesn’t seem to think so.

My life is filled with such trivial crap. I’m not complaining, I’m just observing. That’s what I do: I observe.

I’ll observe some more tomorrow (or the next day… or the day after…)

On Saturday I went to the Lonestar Saloon in San Francisco alone. Yep, Mr. Chicken went all by himself to a bar. As I drove up I told myself I had to have two beers and then I could come home. As I walked in the bar, I changed it to one beer. I was so damn nervous…

The Lonestar is a ‘bear bar.’ Meaning, it’s full of burly, bearded men and “working class types.” For a guy like me, I feel so out of place in those disco-y bars with all the muscle-boys taking off their shirts and throwing attitude around. The Lonestar is full of guys who enjoy each other. You may not find the guy that finds you attractive, but you thank him for the interest—attitude doesn’t fly.

I found a wonderful spot in the back patio, where I could lean against the wall and bump my head against a wagon wheel precariously hanging on the wall all night. It was a great spot to watch everyone come and go, as I was right by one of the entrances to the patio from the main bar inside. Sure I might get a concussion, but what a place to be.

I finished my first beer (Guinness—ON TAP!) and decided to get another. Since the outside bar was, literally, three steps from my spot, I got another beer, only to find upon my return that someone had stolen my spot. I stood there, in the middle of the floor, like a complete moron for five minutes, waiting for a spot to open up against the wall, so that I could stand THERE like a moron.

“My” spot cleared and I again took my place… banging my head against that damn wagon wheel. I suspect the only reason the person moved on was because he was in danger of a permanent head injury.

After a bit, a group of guys stood near me and were chatting away, one guy mentioned he liked their spot because “the wagon wheel isn’t banging my head.” He looked to me, and I smiled and said, “You mean the way it’s banging mine?” He laughed and rubbed against me in a very sweet friendly manner.

Okay, it wasn’t much, but for someone that gets nothing, this was Something. Well, it was more than nothing, which may not be “Something,” but it was “something.” They were very fun and very loud and I eaves dropped on their entire conversation. They had some wonderful times in the Eighties…

I kept looking at the night sky rather than my watch, so I didn’t look like I was timing how long I was going to stay. It was a clear night in San Francisco, and there were only a handful of stars in the sky. There was one star to the North and I said a small wish upon it, hoping someone would notice me. I decided I would now stay until that star moved to where I could no longer see it: I was thinking about an hour or so—hoping it would be less.

I got another beer, again my space was stolen and again I claimed it back. I so wanted to shout, “I claim this space in the name of France!” But I just KNEW I would be forever dubbed as that idiot that actually claimed his spot out loud. As I was standing there, banging my head against that damn wheel, a guy who was in line to get a beer was looking in my direction. Being the bold person I am, I kept looking down or away whenever we made eye contact. Lord knows, I certainly didn’t want to meet anyone… I mean, what if he were to speak to me? What would I say? And how did I know he was even looking at me? Maybe he was wondering why the fuck there was a precariously hanging wagon wheel on the wall and who was this idiot standing beneath it banging his head? I continued to look away out of embarrassment and possible severe head trauma.

Let the word go forth to friend and foe alike: I am a total F’ing shcmuck.

It took a while but I realized that he WAS staring at ME in a friendly manner and finally, I stared right back. As he got his beer and continued to stare, I smiled.

He stopped.

I blanched.

He walked over.

My stomach dropped. I feared I would belch… loudly. Or worse, send it out the opposite direction.

He introduced himself. Keith and from Oakland. I tried to say “I’m Chris from San Jose,” but it came out more like “Mgflugmklezay.” He then said he had to go see his friends. And he quickly retreated.

Okay, someone noticed me. Someone said hello. I decided to have a cigar. I looked up and thanked my star, which seemed to be slipping away over a building in the distance.

I didn’t speak to anyone else the entire evening. I just stood there. However, as uncomfortable as that may sound, I actually found it nice. In a small way, I was home. I was accepted. I wasn’t looked down upon as I would be in most gay bars, I was “part of the scene.” It was nice just to be among them, if not actually taking part.

Guys continued to walk by coming and going, coming and going. And I continued to watch, smiling occasionally and banging my head.

I watched some guys make out. I saw two men in the very back having sex. I watched a bunch of guys smoke weed. There were a lot of guys smoking weed. I watched dozens of cuties walking by. I watched this unbelievably hot guy with an amazing body, make out with this older guy, who was not very attractive. My God… is this possible? Could I ever be that lucky? The answer was assuredly no, but none-the-less I looked up to my wishing star… but that mother f’er was long gone. I had to be content to watch and dream.

The nice thing is everyone looks at everyone. No one judges, they look and smile and keep walking. If they are interested, they’ll stop. Me? I was too chicken to do anything. My father may have been a US Marine, but I am certainly not of that solid stuff. My motto: I sum esse fui futurus homo ingAvus. Loosely translated: I am a coward.

Occasionally, some adorably cute thing would walk by and it would be all I could do to keep my tongue in my mouth. I had to keep telling myself not to salivate openly. Several cute guys stood in front of me looking out at the crowd and it took all my effort I could summon not to reach out and touch them, or nibble on the back of their necks.

At 1:00am, my cigar finished and my feet tired after standing there for three and a half hours, I decided it was time to go home. I took one last look around at the thinning crowd and headed back through the bar (taking one last look around there) and stepped out onto the street.

I walked out and headed up Harrison, deciding to check for voicemails on my cellphone (like anyone calls) when suddenly, the cutest (and I mean CUTEST) guy in the bar walks up next to me and asks me if I’m leaving. I said yes, and continued walking, thinking that he was heading home too and just making conversation.

We got to the corner and I was waiting for the light and he introduced himself.

Let me say that again: the CUTEST guy in the bar and introduced himself... to ME! His name is JD. I believe I introduced myself as “Krmflking.” Then JD asked ME for my e-mail address. I was stunned, to say the least. I couldn’t think of my e-mail address… hell, I couldn’t breathe. I have issues with speaking to people I find unbelievably attractive: my mind shuts down. My dick, realizing my brain is in overdrive, executed a coup and gained full control of all functions and frankly, my dick can’t think worth spit. Well my fully in charge and inexperienced dick had me just stand there looking like a moron and staring blankly at this totally cute guy.

Nervously, I pulled out my wallet and I shakingly handed him my business card. He might have been a psycho, he might have been a killer, but he was so adorable that I did it without pause (except to shake nervously). He looked at the card and looked at me and looked at the card again. I think I freaked him out somehow, but he read my name aloud (HE read MY name OUT LOUD!) I corrected his pronunciation and the light changed.

I started to walk across the street when he said, “Well, I just wanted to stop you before you left,” and he headed back to the bar.

It was half a block later that I realized what he said, that he chased after me. Each word sort of hung there: HE. CHASED. AFTER. ME. I was sought out. I was desirable enough—in his obviously alcohol clouded eyes—to follow me out of the bar and introduce himself.

I stood there for a moment wondering what to do. Do I go back? What would I say? The only thing I could think of to say was, “What the hell were you thinking chasing me with all these really cute guys all around you?” There were tons of hot men in that bar, and for some reason he took pity on me and expressed an interest in me. I decided that I would F’ this up even more if I had to go back, so I just wandered off to my car.

I flew home. Literally, my car was 10 feet off the ground. I couldn’t believe such an amazing guy would find interest in me.

About 30 minutes later, I suddenly realized what an idiot I was and frantically started looking for an exit to get back to the bar. Then I looked at the clock and realized that I wouldn’t get back there until 2:15am, well after the bar would have closed and my chance at getting to know this guy was gone.

I arrived home exhausted… but couldn’t sleep. I even woke up early. Yes, I woke up early on a Sunday.

I prayed all weekend that JD would e-mail me. You know, with my recent status as a man of the cloth [see last Blog], I would think that might have some weight. Wishing on a star worked and that is Pagan. A Reverend praying to the Lord gets nothing. What a world.

However, realizing my luck with men so far, I finally decided that in the likely event that he didn’t send me an e-mail, I should be happy with that moment that he gave me. That feeling of acceptance; of being desirable. He made me feel comfortable with who I am in a very uncomfortable way, if that makes any sense.

Well, it is now Monday and no e-mail from JD. He probably sobered up and looked at my card on Sunday morning and thought, “Who the F’ is this loser?” However, if I ever see him again, I need to buy the boy a beer and thank him. He rocks. He rocked my f’ing world, made my night and weekend.

I’m going back this Saturday with some friends, so hopefully I’ll be able to see him and thank him… or maybe I’ll just have a nice time ogling the men. That’s the nice thing about the Lonestar, you can ogle to your hearts content and everyone loves it and encourages it.

Today, I am a reverend!

I was listening to the radio this morning (the FABulous Sarah & Vinnie) and Schutte (a producer) mentioned his status as a reverend. He got his certificate off the internet and is now an officially ordained minister.

Naturally, the first thing I did this morning was check out the site, get absolution (I’m clean as a whistle!) and then get ordained as a minister. Actually, I got ordained first and then got absolved.

The Universal Life Church (ULC) believes in just about anything I do—as long as it is legal. And you know, whatever a man and another man and another man and a donkey do in the privacy of their own home is legal as far as I’m concerned. God Bless the internet! As a legally ordained minister, I can bless the internet like that.

In fact, I can bless just about anything! I blessed my computer, my mouse, and my fish in my office. My phone and paperclips have also been blessed. I absolved all of my Jack-In-The-Box antenna balls of any sins they may have committed. My plant looks healthier now that it has been blessed.

I feel so much better about the world now that I am free to minister to the masses. I have grown spiritually over the last 10 minutes since my ordination. I have a maturity like never seen before. I will no longer yell, “motherf’er” when someone cuts me off on the road. I’ll simply pray that their immortal soul doesn’t burn too much in hell where they will surely go for cutting off a truck driven my a servant of the Lord.

I will no longer take the 10th item from the person standing in front of me in the ‘9 Items or Less’ line at Safeway, and throw it back to whence it came. No, I shall merely point out that the Lord hates a liar and a thief and that they will surely writhe in agony in the fires of hell for such a sin.

I will set up prayer meetings at gay bars, “Lord, let us all get a little action tonight.” And if someone feels the need to kneel in front of me… well, they shall get a very special “blessing” and a moist towelette.

God Bless!

--Rev. cml

Well, I’m starting this again. I’m not sure why, but I guess I’m bored enough I might as well kill some time by writing. I should be working… but it’s my lunch hour—or supposed to be my lunch hour. I’ll take a late lunch and write for a bit…

My buddy Scotty is celebrating his 31st birthday today. I kind of wish we were going to a sleazy bar in the City tonight, but we’ll have to wait a week for that. Tonight several friends are taking him to dinner, and I’ve got plans for this weekend—so next weekend we’ll go “sleaze our way across the bay.”

I’m trying to think what’s happened since I last wrote in July:
I had a birthday
The World Trade Center fell down
I went to Italy
I’ve masturbated approximately 300 times
My mother had a mastectomy (2nd on in 13 years)
I got a fish two days ago
My fish is still alive
I have not been laid once

You’d think I could have found something to write about during that time. Naturally, I mean between masturbatory moments.

From the top…
I turned 37. Good Lord, I didn’t realize how old that was until I saw it in writing. Ugh. Old. F’ing old. I still haven’t managed to graduate from college and as it stands, I won’t be doing that before I’m 40! Does working at a university count? What if it’s world renown? It had better…

The World Trade Center… not enough can be said about this, but much has been said by people more eloquent than I. Let’s just say that I cried a lot in September.

Italy. This country does not produce ugly people. They are shipped in from the US. Every man I saw was a hottie beyond belief. The women, the few that I actually noticed when I managed to tear my eyes off of the studliest men in the world, were equally FABulous.

Masturbation: Once a day at least… No lie. I have a massive collection of porn that begs to be viewed regularly…

Mom’s Mastectomy: The woman is a fighter, what can I say? She had surgery on Wednesday and a week later had 26 people to dinner for Thanksgiving. She never missed a beat. My sister and I tried to pitch in and help, but mom did just about everything (I made the gravy—sister made the potatoes). She’s finished her radiation therapy and is doing great.

Oy Fish! My boss gently persuaded me to buy a plant with a fish… Her mother makes those fish bowls with the plant coming out the top and a fish living off of the roots. It’s wonderful to look at, but I’m a killer of any kind of fauna as the pet cemetery in my parent’s back yard will attest. I still haven’t named the thing—the day I do is the day he’ll start floating, of that I’m sure.

No action at all. It’s been years—F’ing years (actually, non-F’ing years) since I’ve gotten some action. I’m too damn shy; too damn insecure, and too damn fat. Most gay men are not into fatboys. Unless their into bears…

So now I’ve been going to ‘bear bars’ in SF lately. Okay, I’ve been going to the ONE bear bar in San Fran: The Lonestar. Terrific place. Good looking men, some on the hefty side (in a terrific way), and all hairy! I just stand there and drool hoping someone will take pity on me and let me F’ them… or give them the casual BJ.

I really should get to lunch, I don’t want to actually risk losing weight and possibly become desirable.

Since I can't think of anything right now, I'll just throw in this item that I wrote on Spring a while back (I'm so timely!):

I hate Spring.

Spring is the time for love and happiness and that romantic crap that makes me ill. Romance has passed me by like a broken down Yugo on the freeway during rush hour. Quite frankly, in case you have not noticed, I am pretty bitter about the whole thing.

This is the time of year that everyone gets together, happy relationships bloom, love fills the air and it disgusts me so much that I can barely breathe. I used to think it was pollen… Whenever I see a loving, happy couple I think the same thing: “I hate them. I hate them SO much. Where’s my gun, where’s my goddamned gun?” I am not sure if I want to shoot them, shoot myself or hunt down that little bastard cupid and put a cap in his ass, however, I am glad I do not actually own a gun, or someone would have been seriously hurt by now.

And I know I am not the only one who feels this way. Remember Columbine? It happened in the Spring. Oklahoma bombing? Spring. Anyone see a pattern here? I think all these things would have been fine if either of those guys had managed to find a real date. I am sure that is all they were looking for in the first place. Plan: Shoot up school. Result: chicks will think we are ‘bad boys’ and will love us.

People often tell me they I “have a wonderful personality.” Which is their polite way of saying I am a big fat oaf. How lovely for me, I have got “personality.” There is nothing worse to say to someone than “you’ve got personality.” No one wants to hear that. I don’t. I want to hear: “What do you mean you’re not dating anyone? You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen! If I weren’t married and straight, I’d do you right here… on second thought, take me! Take me now!” The only thing people with “personality” are asked to take is a friend to the airport.

The worst thing about spring is people feeling they need to boast about being together by holding hands and doing that smoochy stuff in public. Even worse, are the people who don not close their shades. So what if they are on the 5th floor and I need a ladder and surveillance cameras to look in?

Personally, I like summer. Summer is hot and a bit bothersome (much like my “personality”). By that time, the Spring’s love-bug has worn off and most of the relationships have sprung into either sex twice a week (if they are lucky) or they have broken up all together. Regardless, the gym fills up with people looking for someone better and people aren’t so damn joyful, which makes me very happy.

So if you are in an adoring relationship and love spring, go jump off a cliff. If you can’t stand spring and are so full of bitterness you can barely move, come sit by me, we have much to talk about.

For the last two months or so, I have been receiving an inordinate number of sexual dysfunction ads. Everything from herbal Viagra to erection stiffeners to penis enlargers. Lots and lots of penis enlarger ads. It’s to the point I am beginning to feel very self-conscious.

Has someone been ratting me out? Is there a sexual problem of which I am unaware? I’ve always thought that in the family jewels department that I’m a tad above average (I’m including girth in my assessment). I used to measure (a LOT) when I was in my teens, hoping for the elusive “nine inches” that every Penthouse Forum article writer was apparently gifted with. It wasn’t until I read a study on penis length that stated the average was around 6-7 inches that I relaxed (some even go as low as 5!).

Those vacuum pump ads scare the shit out of me. Who would want a dick that big? Okay, stupid question, because who wouldn’t? Seriously, if I saw some of those dicks in the ads coming for me, I’d get up off my knees and run… albeit slowly—hey, blow jobs are work (why do you think they call it a job?), but getting rammed just takes some patience (and a few muscle relaxants).

As for the need for Viagra substitutes, I’ve never had a problem with erections. Oh, sure, in high school the problem was that it was never down. Now, Skipper seems to be hard for only half the day, instead constantly—but that was 20 years ago! Is this why I’m getting stay-hard cream ads or herbal Viagra pop-up ads sent to me at the rate of about three an hour? Am I still supposed to be hard constantly at age 37, like I was at 17? Trust me, the thing can still wake me out of a dead sleep. “Now? You’re hard now? What about 4 hours ago when I was bored and couldn’t sleep?”

I have absolutely no need for the desensitizing creams to prevent premature ejaculation. (That’s like someone sending me an ad for “hot teen girls.” No use whatsoever.) Masturbation has always taken me FOREVER… I can’t do the quick toss off, even when I try. My “moments alone” tend to last at least an hour at the minimum. Granted, with a partner it is significantly less time with ‘active participation,’ but I’ve never had anyone express shock or surprise. In fact, I’m often surprised by others. The worse is when some guy says, “Are you close yet? My jaw is starting to cramp…” Gee, sorry to ruin your day, I’m just the one who HASN’T had an orgasm yet…

Now all this self-congratulatory patting on the back is just that: self-congratulatory. Maybe someone out there thinks I’m not all that great in the sack. Maybe they are saying I’ve got to get past some issues. Maybe I’m the world’s worst fuck and I don’t even know it! That would explain the occasional Be a Better Lover Video ads that flood my mailbox.

Today, I received two weight loss ads, which only served to fill me with self pity and send me off for a mocha and a muffin… and a bagel… and a donut. I also received an herbal Rogaine supplement ad for my “baldness.” One thing I know I have is tons of hair on my head. It’s VERY thick and there is a ton of it. However, I don’t have hair on my chest… Is this a hint to ‘bear up’?

Am I on some sort of list out there as a fat, premature ejaculating, non erect, hairless loser? These ads are not the same company sending me information over and over, they are different companies! To the world, I’m a sexually dysfunctional moron with a nub for a dick!

Perhaps, just perhaps, this could all just be a coincidence. Maybe by going to an adult website (purely by accident as I would never go to one of those places intentionally) I got sucked into some sort of database for sex ads. That would explain the occasional ads for “big buxom broads.”

I have decided not to let these ads bother me. I am going to delete them the second they arrive and move on with confidence. I am better than those ads (at least in my own mind) and I won’t let the bastards get me down.

However, every day this week I have received a coupon for a complimentary order of Bean-o, the anti-farting pill. That, for anyone who knows me, is not an error. I dropped a loud, smelly fart, deleted the ad and moved on.

It’s going to be a glorious day… smelly, but glorious.

Carol O'Connor and Johnny Lee Hooker have passed. Bob Hope is being carefully watched...

Mornings of S&T will be taking a little break (Issue #40 just came out today). We'll return on Tuesday, June 26.

Have a great weekend... get lucky!

My latest purchase in electronics experience is finally coming to a close. My life seems to have been upended just trying to get these things to arrive and to get them set up.

The TV finally arrived. I got a call from another building in our complex asking if I had ordered a TV. Becky said that there was no name on the invoice, but my phone number was listed. I also couldn’t figure out why they would send it the Career Management Center, because I have never had anything to do with them—why wouldn’t the package go directly to the mailroom?

When Manny, the deliver guy, handed me the delivery invoice, it did not have my name or any information related to me, except for my phone number. It wasn’t until later that I noticed the 800.com invoice (on the side, in a clear, easy to read pouch) noting my name, proper mailing address (both home and work), my phone (both home and work) and my e-mail address.

I guess I got what I paid for with the free shipping.

Now I’m waiting for UPS to deliver the DVD player. The DVD player has been resting comfortably at the UPS hub in San Bruno since yesterday morning. It has taken a week for my DVD player to crisscross the country in the most inefficient possible way. I guess the last 10 miles are the hardest.

And now, back to my new TV.

I got the unit home (not an easy task, it weighs a ton) and hooked up (again, not easy as not only does the TV weigh a ton, but it fills almost the entire space in the entertainment unit) and damn, if it didn’t look great. My sister and I sat staring in awe for about 30 minutes before we decided to turn on the TV. It was either awe or the fact that we were exhausted trying to install the behemoth.

The picture is amazing, and clear… who knew the world could look so big? The stereo sound is much improved from the old 22” TV. I know it may sound trite, but an extra five inches makes all the difference in the world. Man, if five does that much to a TV, imagine what I could do with an extra five… heck, I’d settle for an extra two.

I moved the 22” into my room—replacing the very small 12 inch-er that I’ve had for about 14 years. Originally, I wanted the new TV in my room, but my sister convinced me to put the new TV in the living room and the older one in my bedroom. When I say “convinced” I mean she nagged me to the point that I could either act childish and pout, or just capitulate. I’m French, so capitulation comes naturally. You should see me on a date, Me: I’ll top. Date: No, I will. Me: Let me just grab my ankles…

Speaking of grabbing ankles… my room is now much better suited for watching porn (a favorite pastime). Things sort of jump out at you, whereas before I spent a lot of time squinting and wondering what the heck was going on. In fact, I used to worry about plot and acting! Now I sit slack-jawed and have an even greater feeling of inadequacy. Ahhhh… Life is good.

Once the DVD player is installed I can call to have the digital cable box installed… I think that will start a whole other series of annoyances for me. But if my life weren’t thrown completely awry for something so insignificant, it wouldn’t be my life, now would it?

Once again, my credit card and computer have set out to bring about my downfall. Last week, I was surfing the net when I decided to stop by 800.com and see what was on sale. Lucky me, 27” TVs and VCRs were on sale and I “just had to have them.”

Years ago, when I was on Consumer Credit Counselor’s program, I learned the difference between need and want. It used to be if I wanted something I needed it. After not being able to spend so much as a dime in three years, I learned very easily what I could live without.

Now, thanks to several raises, a pretty high credit limit and a T-1 connection to the internet, I can shop at the speed of light. I also love 800.com because they offer free shipping and no sales tax. DVDEmpire.com is another favorite site that loves to add digits to my credit card. For gifts, I like Red Envelope and Hickory Farms (send someone a beef log and you’ve got a friend for life).

Amazon.com used to be a favorite, until they screwed up an order and didn’t bother to acknowledge any of my repeated e-mails to the “customer service” department. Martha Stewart.com offered “7-day shipping,” so two weeks before Christmas I ordered a gift for someone… then 4 days before Christmas I got a note from good old Martha stating my package had just been shipped. So that’s 7-day shipping from whenever you get off your lazy ass and send it?

Adult stuff I order from home… and Lord do order a lot of it from home. It seems like every other day something arrives from some sleazy place—usually Cleveland, OH. I’m not sure why, but they charge an awful lot for porn. The acting isn’t that good, the directing us usually awful, the production values border on the pathetic and yet they still have the nerve to charge sixty bucks for it! And I have the nerve to pay…

So last week I ordered a new 27” TV and a Sony DVD player for less than $500 (total, not each). Why? Because I needed it. Sure, I still have a working TV in my room, and a DVD player in my living room, but I wanted one in my room. And because I wanted it; I needed it. Apparently, I also need a lot of Simpson’s figures from eBay, because I keep purchasing those like they are going out of style (which they probably are…)

The TV arrived today via Pony Express. I guess with free shipping one shouldn’t expect them to use FedEx… but I did half expect to see UPS or Airborne Express. But it was some company called Ho-dunk X-Press. They couldn’t find my office… or my building, even though I gave them the exact address. I guess I’m lucky they found California. Hopefully the same can be said about UPS… “We’re to the left… LEFT… that’s right, bring the package over here… good… good… what are you doing?! NO!!! That’s Mexico!”

The DVD player is supposed to be arriving by UPS. Apparently, UPS does not subscribe to the idea that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, because my DVD player is currently better traveled than I. It started off in Delaware, because that’s where DVD players are born and went to Pennsylvania (where most people go to die). (Fine. Logical.) Then it went to Texas and then to Ohio. (Interesting… not sure, but okay.) Next my DVD player was in Arizona… and then went to Seattle. (Okay… it’s getting closer, but I think that Phoenix is closer than Seattle.) Then yesterday, it went to Los Angeles (yippee! It’s in California!) and then to Denver (D’Oh!) Somebody needs to buy them a map…

This morning, my DVD player inched its way into San Bruno. My player is so close that I could touch it (and if I would actually set foot in San Bruno, I would). I’m curious if the package will make it’s way directly here, or if there will be more stops? Maybe a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf is in order, or a stop down at Disney’s California Adventure.

Either way, it better get here right quick, I’ve got a 27” TV and a LOT of DVD porn that needs some major watching. I have a feeling I will never again need to leave my room, or want to—which is the same thing, isn’t it?

Yesterday, I went to the world’s most boring seminar. I went to learn PowerPoint and came away wanting nothing more than a more comfortable place to nap.

I rarely use PowerPoint, so I thought it best if I got a better understanding of how it works and what I could do with it. After a six hour seminar, I learned that I didn’t need to take that stupid course to learn how to work with PowerPoint—basically, I already knew everything—I just didn’t know I knew it… you know?

The class was held by James a “Certified Life Coach.” I’m not exactly sure what a life coach is, but if it’s being way too excited about a dull subject and entirely too enthusiastic about telling people about your wife, your vacation and yourself, then James is the best coach ever.

Problem one was that the course was not hands on. James explained that adults learn better visually and aurally, but not by hands on. I have since forgotten every last thing James showed and explained to the class. So much for that bullshit theory. Face it, James, they were too cheap to provide computers. He also mentioned that people come to class with little or no experience with computers and the class is slowed by these morons because they keep crashing their computers. I guess James has never heard of having beginning, intermediate and advanced classes.

I’d say about a third of the class had never touched PowerPoint before, didn’t own a computer, and probably stayed with monosyllabic words. I dubbed those people “Computer Cro-Magnons.” They would prove me right throughout the day. Another third were at my level: had worked with it, felt we needed actual training and knew just what the fuck computers were. And the last third were people that were forced to take the class by their bosses so they could look proactive. Those people arrived late, came back late from lunch and both breaks and managed to sneak out early.

Given the group’s odd dynamic, James was still an amazingly positive person. I know this because he told us ad nauseam. He also mentioned his lovely wife what’s-her-butt to the point I began to hate her too. We got to see presentations of his tenth anniversary trip to the Cayman Islands, where playing in crystal blue waters and money laundering are a way of life.

As the session started, James stunned us all by noting that PowerPoint is about the power AND the point…

What the fuck…?

He tried explaining it but I just wanted to raise my hand and say, “that is by far the lamest thing anyone has ever said in a seminar… and I’ve been to Tony Robbins.” For something with a lot of power, James’ point was lost with his amateurish presentation. I wanted something to inspire me, not make me think that my 9 year-old nephew could do better.


We instantly learned that if you raised your hand, you were quickly called upon to come up and work on the lone computer. Naturally, everyone but the Computer Cro-Magnons stopped raising their hands altogether. “Who thinks this is great?” He’s shout happily. Six hands went up. “Who hates this?” The same six went up again…

People kept raising their hands and then would have the audacity to act shocked that they were called upon. This worked the first seven times it happened, but when it happened to the same woman twice, it sort of lost its magic. “Oh my God!” she uttered rising to her feet, “I’m so embarrassed,” she said while knocking aside a woman returning from the restroom, “I can’t” she blushed sitting down in front of the computer, “Oh… alright.” Interestingly, no one encouraged Emily. In fact, James was pointing to the woman behind her, but Emily was blushing and wincing so much on her way up to the computer that she didn’t notice. And let me just say Emily was not exactly a whiz on the computer—more likely she took one on it. It crashed twice at each of her attempts to “get this blasted thing to work.” And, yes, she did utter the words, “stupid computer” several times. The mark of a computer genius is blaming the computer for everything. “Why won’t it work?” she muttered. It was all I could do not to yell out, “Kill yourself!” I chickened out and quietly muttered, “why not try turning the computer back on?” As she had turned it off after she crashed the unit.

Towards the end, James finally got to the point that most of us were interested in, and after being held up by idiots questioning such difficult tasks as “saving files” and the equally complicated and mysterious “wav files” we were ready. After about 30 seconds of James showing us this, I realized that I could do this so easily… by myself. I could see the recognition going off in people’s faces… suddenly the attendance dropped in half. Had James provided computers, we would have been ahead of him in seconds and demanded our money back.

James decided to “put it all together” at the end and create a presentation “on the fly.” “Let’s think of a subject…” Well, before anyone could even raise their hand, James jumped in with the idea of Life Coaching (or whatever the fuck he called it). It’s like EST or Empower Your Ass, or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it was perky and happy and that shit don’t fly with me.

He went along, telling us to dream big. The biggest dream I could come up with was to wish for the roof to collapse, killing us all. He blathered on and stuck in still more pictures of his trip to the Cayman Islands and of his wife. I’m almost positive his anniversary trip was simply a tax right off.

Finally, the agony was over and we were allowed to leave. Looking back, I learned so much from this seminar:
1) read the fine print
2) bring lots and lots of Red Bull
3) Dream Big (trust me, I dream of ‘big ones’ all the time
4) it’s about the power AND the point

I should be off to create great PowerPoint presentations now… but since I learned nothing, I think I’ll just go to lunch.

I have big weekend plans: I’m going to rearrange my bedroom! Wow, just saying it fills me with lethargy… is that the proper use of the word? I’m too lazy to look it up, so let’s just say it is.

I bought a 27” TV and a new DVD player for my bedroom and now, my furniture configuration will not allow me to properly set up all the equipment. Currently, I have a 12” TV (which I refused to replace until it was broken) two VCRs (dubbing? Who me?) and a laserdisc player (welcome to the 1980’s). They are all stacked on my dresser and it’s all precariously balanced. Thank God we haven’t had any earthquakes lately or there would be an electronics disaster in my bedroom.

In the next week or two, I’ll finally get the digital cable box installed in my room and I’ll never have to leave my room… ever. With my immense porn and general video collection, I will only need to leave for the occasional bathroom and food breaks. Other than that, I expect to never see the sun again.

Since I’m moving furniture, I’ve decided I need to clean my room. This is an undertaking that no mortal man should ever have to attempt. It is frightening how much shit I have in my room that needs dusting and cleaning. At this point, my room is divided into piles. Pile “A” consists of clean clothes. Pile “B” consists of dirty clothes. Pile “C” consists of thing I think are dirty, but should pile “A” become depleted, Pile “C” becomes the backup. Pile “D” consists of magazines for shredding (I save pictures for cards) and Pile “E” consists of magazines that are… well, porn that can no longer fit in the drawers because there is just too much of it (I can’t bear to tear them apart). Pile “F” consists of mail and stuff that I need to go through but I’m procrastinating. Pile “G” is uh… what the hell is that stuff? Pile “G” we’ll call the mystery/miscellaneous pile. Don’t turn on the light because it bothers it, and always back out of the room slowly.

Once the furniture is moved, the cleaning will take place. I clean by taking all of the piles and throwing them on my bed. Then I go through each item and put it away. Needless to say, by the end I’m just creating piles again… but they are neat piles.

Let’s talk for a moment about porn on the internet.

I spent an awful lot of time last night perusing the tens of thousands of porn sites. It seems the more I look the less I find. Sex advice columnist Dan Savage (“Savage Love”) wrote in his book “The Kid,” that paying for porn on the internet is a big waste of time. He noted that one can pretty much find the same stuff elsewhere for free, but must invest the time looking for it. Paying for it, in his opinion, is a huge waste of money.

Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped me from trying to prove him wrong. However, I must agree, that for the most part, the pay sites suck. Their sole purpose seems to be to send visitors to other pay sites. Example, I used to go to a free site called Men On the Net (dot com) and write occasional filthy articles for posting (much like Blogger, but with more references to “schlongs” and “jizz”). Recently, I went back and MotN been swallowed up by a large site that I had to pay for. It offered naked pics, movies, and articles. In other words, the same stuff MotN had, but now I was expected to pay for. I paid my entrance fee and entered the site only to find that every time I click on something, I get sent off to a different site to pay more to view. Thank god I only signed up for the one week $7.95 trial offer. I won’t be back—a good porn site is thrilling—a bad porn site is boring. I’m not sure how these people managed to make sex boring, but they do.

One of the most irritating “inventions” of the internet are the multiple pop-up windows that literally pop-up when one opens a porn site. I spent five minutes last night doing nothing but closing the myriad of pop-up advertisements and links directing me to the “hottest site on the web.” As one closes a pop-up box, three more open. It was almost like a video game, trying to do battle with the evil pop-up windows. Usually, they are all leading to the same site… different title and graphic on the link, same ugly-ass destination.

I think what really annoys me is that these pop-up boxes tend to be sites offering women. If I’m at a hairy, butch, man-loving web page, why would I want to be checking out “barely legal teen girls”? And what’s the fascination with barely legal girls? That’s just creepy. (In all fairness, I think “barely legal boys” is just as creepy.)

So, I spent several hours clicking around, opening a site, closing 50 pop-ups, opening another, closing still more pop-ups until it was 1:00am. I decided to see what I’d collected: several hundred shots of naked men… few of which I felt like looking at again. It’s odd how they are hot on the web, but once onto a disk in my computer, they become rather boring. Maybe I’m projecting—my dullness is making hot porn dull.

Or maybe I’m just growing up. I’m maturing and I don’t need all this porn anymore. And maybe George W. Bush is a brilliant man. Regardless, I think I’m doing away with the hunt for porn on the internet. I’ll just have to settle for the hundreds of pornographic tapes, magazines, DVD’s and books that I own to see me through.

I spent the weekend at a screenwriting seminar. I’m trying to learn more about the creation of a story and proper storytelling. As you can tell by any of my previous Blogs, my storytelling ability is sorely lacking.

The sessions were 10 hours each for three days in a row. Let me just say that I dozed through a good portion of the program. It was a fascinating program, however, I am a total attention deficit disorder personality. I’m the MTV generation. I love quick fast edits. Bullet points are god-like to me. After an hour of facts, no matter how interesting or useful, my mind wants to be entertained.

I am the least mature and laziest person you’ll ever meet.

I am 36 years old, with little or no ambition, the maturity of a 16 year-old, the libido of a 14 year-old who just discovered masturbation (except I have no guilt), and would love nothing but to channel surf all freaking day long.

I spent half the time amusing myself with my two favorite pastimes, the first being “Is he gay?” where I look at some cute guy and wonder if he’s gay, what he does sexually, and imagine him giving head and either fucking or getting fucked. The second game is “Would I Fuck Him?” I usually play this game while waiting for friends in a public place, and I just check them off as they walk by: Yes. Yes. No. If I were drunk. Yes. Maybe. EWWW! Yes. Yes. Oh my fucking God YES! Yes. No. No. If he’s got a personality… etc.

As you can see, there are a lot of yeses in there. I’m not that picky. I can pretty much find any man out there attractive, or at least some part of them attractive. My policy is: If he’s a man and he’s alive, what’s not to like?

Basically, I’m a whore. Actually, if I had any sex, I’d be a whore. I’m a wanna-be whore. I’m working up to it. I study hard [insert pun here], but I don’t go out enough to get anything. Boo-hoo, poor Chris.

Currently, I’m in one of my extreme horny stages. I think about sex all the time. Constantly. I need a cold, cold shower.

And now to get some work done… and not to think of hot naked men. Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job as a story editor at a porn magazine.

Palm Spings, CA—(S&T) Bob Hope, 98, star of stage, screen and USO shows throughout the world is still alive. Once again, Mr. Hope has dodged the “Celebrity Three” bullet and came out unscathed—although, no one is sure if he is aware… of anything.

Celebrity Three (CT) is a commonly held belief that celebrities die in threes. Within several days of the first celebrity passing, another will drop dead. And, generally, within a few more days, the third will kick the bucket, thus completing the CT cycle

Recently, singer Perry Como, 88, best known for… uh, singing in a VERY relaxed manner, passed away. Doctor’s were immediately dispatched to the Hope estate for a constant vigil over the ever increasingly disoriented “entertainer.” Shortly after, comedian Imogene Coca, best known for her work on Sid Seasar’s Your Show of Shows, passed away at the age of 92. Upon hearing of Ms. Coca’s passing, Mr. Hope was rushed to Palm Springs General Hospital’s Hope Wing to be hooked up to every monitor in site, while doctors began pumping Bob full of medication. His wife, Delores Hope, was rushed to his side—even though he wasn’t sure she was there.

The next day, cartoonist Hank Ketcham, 81, best known for creating Dennis the Menace passed away—completing the CT cycle. Having once again survived the CT cycle, Mr. Hope was set to be discharged. “We are grateful to have again helped Mr. Hope survive,” said Doctor Arnie Schwartzman of Palm Springs General. “We feel pretty confident that we can keep him alive—but just in case, we keep an eye out for the current location of Charles Nelson Reilly, so if things get real hairy, we send Delores out in her Cadillac to run him down. Although, we are still debating if Mr. Reilly should be considered a celebrity and not just an annoying has-been.”

However, shortly before Mr. Hope was to leave the hospital, word arrived through the Entertainment Tonight Deathwatch that celebrity Arlene Francis, 93, best known for her panel work on What’s My Line died. Schwartzman called out, “We have a Code Hope! I repeat, we have a Code Hope!” Doctors rushed Mr. Hope back up to his penthouse suite of the hospital, overlooking the golf course.

“All we can do now is wait,” said Dr. Schwartzman, “We can only pray for someone else to go quickly, or else Delores will be cruising the streets of LA within two hours,” he said solemnly shaking his head. “Wait a minute… has anyone seen Mrs. Hope?” Dr. Schwartzman’s nurse immediately called Mr. Reilly to inform him of a new crop of male prostitutes along Hollywood Boulevard. “It’s either that, or we tell him that a Match Game reunion is in the works, “ the nurse smiled, smoking a cigarette, “but, he usually doesn’t fall for the line, especially after Gene Rayburns died. Seriously though, who’s going to actually hire him for anything?”

The nurse also noted that special “standby” celebrities are also on Mrs. Hope’s “Listo de la Muerte,” including Joyce DeWitt, Ed Begely Jr., and Didi Conn. “Generally, people no one would ever miss.”

Mr. Reilly could not be reached for comment. His assistant, a “former” male prostitute, said that Mr. Reilly was in seclusion. To be more specific, the heroin addicted waif said, “He’s in the closet… like you couldn’t figure that out. Actually, he said he was going out to an ‘audition.’ Like that’s a reality...”

In the meantime, actor Anthony Quinn and actress Anne Haney have both passed. Mr. Hope continues to rest comfortably at Palm Springs General under tight security. Mrs. Hope was last seen driving on Hollywood Boulevard.

My hellacious week continues. It’s after 9:00pm and I’m still at work (however, now I’m goofing off). So much for “mornings of S&T…”

I’m working on a project for a professor, so I’m staying late (and getting overtime) to finish up. It’s data entry and it is mind numbing work.

I don’t feel funny tonight… I’ll try something tomorrow.

I’ve been trying to get this Blogger thing to work and it has finally started to function. About friggin’ time.

Things to discuss tomorrow:

1) The sad state of Century Theatres
2) My clean colon
3) My upcoming weekend
4) How much I hate George Bush
5) Do I masturbate too much?

Until tomorrow… (me so tired…)

--cml

It's Friday... first day of June.

It's been helacious this week