Where There’s a Will I Want to Be in it, Not Writing It

So, I finished my will last night. Or is it my last will and testament night? Actually, it’s more like a last will, testament, and ‘comedy stylings’ of Chris. I found it hard to be serious throughout. While I did get a little misty when I was thanking my parents for their kindness and my friends for being supportive, however, when it came to giving my stuff away, how do I know if anyone is going to want my junk?

About a year ago, there was a fire in the building behind our place, and my sister and I rushed into our place to take our “valuables.” I ran into my room and looked around frantically… I tried to calm myself down because I thought I was too frazzled to focus enough to actually lock on to something to save. Then I realized that I don’t own anything of value.

Sure, there are many things of sentimental value and lots of “ironic” items, but nothing that can’t be replaced—or one would need to have replaced. I will say the porn represents a significant investment on my part, but I wouldn’t call it value. And who am I leaving that to? My Republican family? “To my mother, I leave my love and good wishes and my DVD of ‘How the West was Hung’.”

So, last night I started looking at crap that means something to me, but on the whole, means nothing to anyone else. I got done and was rather proud of myself that I disseminated all my property. This morning I realized I didn’t mention my CDs or my (non porn) DVDs. There’s a ton of them and I missed them and concentrated on such valuables as framed “art” I printed off the internet…

It’s sad to think that your legacy is porn, crappy art, and 150 Simpsons action figures, a Heinz Ketchup phone, a glow-in-the-dark Madonna, and a collection of obscenely anatomically-correct dolls with names like Carlos and Tyson (guess which one is black?)

However, my biggest concern at this moment is mourners. Frankly, I don’t think there will be enough of them. I want a packed house, but I don’t know if anyone would show up. I don’t have that many friends… and of those that I do have, most will flake. I can just picture Julie saying she had a sore throat… I don’t think I could make that many friends in the next 17 hours, so I just hope those friends that show bring a friend or co-worker along to the funeral. I'm sure my parents will throw a nice reception with lots of food, is that enough of an incentive to go?

Speaking of… I want tears at the funeral. Fake it if you have to, people, but I demand tears! Sobbing would also be appreciated. I request that Scott McCandless shout out “Not Chris! Not Chris!” at some point—he mocked me when I ‘came out,’ saying, “Not you! Not you!” in his most dramatic fashion. Fag. This is your penance buddy (you get 50% of my porn, so you’d better be convincing…)

Other than that, I mainly fear my friends will embarrass me at my funeral: they won’t show up: “Dude, I had a thing…” or when it comes time to say something about me nobody will get up and say anything… or worse they will: “He had the biggest collection of porn…” or “I think he thought he was funnier than he was—maybe it’s best he went before life could crush his dreams completely…” or worst of all, “Christ, he was fat, wasn’t he?” and then it turns into a roast and my ashes are spinning…

I just realized I forgot to mention my TiVo in my will! It’s got a lifetime subscription and that’s worth bucks… man, I had better survive this trip okay, because I’ve still got work to do on my will…

Flappin’ My Wings…

So, I worked on my will the other day… I’m going on a trip with my sister—my current will leaves everything to her—well, instructions on who to give it to and if the plane goes down, no one will know what to do... or to get to "that drawer" before my parents—so, I have to think “worst case scenario” on things like this.

I always watch for accidents around the time I fly. I figure if there was an air crash right before my trip, I feel better, since I feel the air has been pre-jinxed. There has got to be only so many crashes out there—lurking about, waiting to happen—I figure if it happens to someone else, then the chances of it also happening to me are significantly less.

The skies have been eerily calm lately.

Could it be that safety has gone up? Maybe because so many companies are about to go belly up, they just aren’t flying. Personally, I think the Air Crash Deity is looking for me. In 1990, I was on a plane to New York and we got diverted because just before we landed another plane crashed onto the runway. Two weeks before I was to go to Europe, four planes were hijacked, two flew into the World Trade Center, one into The Pentagon and the last into a field in Pennsylvania. Are they after me? Am I being paranoid? You be the judge… You’ve probably been talking about this already, haven’t you? Haven’t you?!



So, as the date of my trip draws ever closer, the chances of a crash increases with each flight.

I’m almost resigning myself to the fact that the plane is going to go down (and not in a good ‘porn kind of way’ – wacka-chicka-wacka-chicka-bow-wow). I’ll be the only one not screaming and crying… I’ll be sitting there pissed off. “Damnit!” I’ll cry out, “I really should have taken the time to watch TV more…” (Okay, I think I’ve spent more than enough time doing that… but I’ll be pissed none-the-less.)

I’ll probably be cursing God for letting Osama bin Laden, Sadam Hussein and KIM Jong Il live, and I—a lowly schmuck with a penchant for television—dies in a firey crash. I’d pop God a good one, if I could actually get into heaven.

I’m hoping it’s a terrorist over a malfunction. I can at least “play” with the terrorists. I figure they're going to kill us all anyhow, I might as well make it miserable for them too: “You know, that’s a type-o in the Koran. It actually says you get 70 minutes on your cell phone—not 70 virgins… the cruel joke of it all is you’re out of your calling zone in Heaven, so you still have to pay roaming fees. What? Why am I an infidel for telling you the truth?”

I have this sick feeling that I’ll be right… and that God will be on the Verizon Friends and Family program and I’ve got a freakin’ Catherine Zeta-Jones (Douglas) T-Mobile. Damn you, CellularOne!

Since I probably have not earned enough “good” credits to get into Heaven, I’ll have to count on my “Get out of Hell Free” card, which means I’ll probably end up in purgatory. I hear purgatory has improved immensely now that they have a Starbucks…*



*three, actually.

Don’t Kill the Joke Teller…

As you may have read, I’m going on vacation next week. Yes, I’m traveling close to the Evil Empire, the Red-Controlled Washington, DC.

So, I sent an email to my bosses, reminding them that I was going to be away for a week. As a side-note/joke I said, “…in fact, one week from my sending this letter I should be at a Red Sox game… or in a bar. Either way it’s a win/win situation.”

My one boss that actually is a Red Sox fan said nothing. No comment, no “lucky you,” nothing.

The rest, apparently, are rabid Yankees fans.

I’m practically getting hate mail! “You like the SOX?! You SUCK!” was the nicest of the replies. They walk into my office, look at me with disgust and leave without saying a word. None of that is unusual, except usually they look at me with disgust and say, “hello.”

Two others think I’m an alcoholic. “What bar,” one asked incredulously.

“I dunno.”

“So,” he said, pausing to choose his words carefully, “you just hang out in bars?”

“No… it was a joke.”

“You don’t go to bars… at all?” Okay, now he was incredulous. I mean really incredulous.*

“No… I go to bars, just not a lot. I was joking.”

“You think drinking makes you cool?” He said, suddenly becoming my father.

I decided to tell the truth, “Look,” I leaned forward so he knew I was serious, “I’m not a looker, so I need all the help I can get. If finding a drunk hottie in a bar is the only way I’m getting some, then I’m getting some… so back the F’ off!”

“Oh,” he said, feeling guilty and embarrassed. He briefly apologized and scampered** from the room.

Now, normally, one wouldn’t react to my previous comment in such a way, so I can only assume that the words I spoke were slightly different from what I just wrote. I think they were along the lines of “I’m an alcoholic—and rather than say I was going back for the national AA convention, I say I’m in a bar and everything thinks ‘how fun.’ I’m just trying to salvage my dignity… one. day. at. a. time.”

Yeah, I’m gonna burn. I know it.


*Man, I’m so glad I had looked up that word this morning… it’s really come in handy.
** I like 'scampered,' too. Although, I did not need to look it up.
*** Uh, there is no asterisk in the text for this, but I do want to note that I AM definitely copying the asterisks motif so brilliantly achieved by An Intern In New York (his blog ended last week and this is my tribute/plagiarism of his work. God Speed, Intern Andy!

I'm Going To Have To Spend The Whole Week With Her?

My sister and I are going back East for a week trip to do a little family history search (her passion, not mine) but I’m going along because… well, I’ve got nothing better to do. I could go to work, but really—I do that everyday and it’s not like it gets me laid or anything.

Actually, it did. But that’s another story for another time.

Anywho… my sister has not been on a vacation in forever. She used to travel a lot, but now only does the occasional day trip or weekend trip to The Crosby, Tahoe, LA, etc. This will be her first real vacation in a long time and she is very excited about it. Very excited.

So excited, in fact that she constantly talks about it. “Just think,” she said Saturday morning, “in a week, we’ll be flying…” In church on Sunday (yes, I go to church… yet another story…), she leaned over and said, “In a week we’ll be at mass at Victor’s church.”*

She’s even started packing! The dining room table is now covered with her underwear (she’s 45 guys, don’t get excited… it ain’t pretty) and toiletries. We leave on Saturday, so I’ll probably start packing on Friday night… or Saturday, if our plane leaves after noon. I’m not sure what time we leave… which leads me to my next ‘problem’:

She’s highly organized.

My sister keeps everything from the trip in a file—hotel reservations, flight information, car rental, maps, ideas, etc. It’s astounding. However, she thinks everyone does this. We received an invitation to go to a party and she looked at me and asked, “Do you want to put this in your file?”

“My file?” I asked.

“Yes, your file folder with all the trip details.”

“Uh… no. I’m good.”

“You have a file, don’t you?” She asked this in the same way my mother asks questions—pretty much giving you a direction in which she expects you to answer. (My mother often asks questions this way, as it saves a lot of time, because you don’t have to think, you just answer based on the cues in the question: “You’re not gay, are you?” [“not” + “gay” = answer: ‘no’] “You’re not a Democrat, are you?” [“not” + + Democrat” = answer: ‘of course not.’] My mother has since learned to live with disappointment—however, I will say she cried more when I told her I was a Democrat than when I told her I was gay… “You’re not going to vote Democrat, are you?” [“not” + “vote Democrat” = my mother in tears).

Back to the conversation:

“No… I don’t have a file,” I confessed. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. She stayed very quiet for a moment. “I just figured,” I said desperately pulling something—anything—out of my ass, “that you being so organized, it would just be duplication of work.” She smiled. I’m sure she knew I was full of it, but I was appealing to her sense of organization…

“Okay, I’ll put it in my file.” She started to walk away and I thought I was in the clear, until she turned back and said, “you really should have your own file, to keep all of the things you want to do organized.”

We’re going on this trip together—we are stuck together the whole time. The only time I have some time to myself is Monday night in Boston. I’m going to try to get into a Red Sox game (good luck), or I’m going to hang out in a gay bar.

Guess which way I’m leaning.

“Hey, Alix! In a week I might be sodomizing a Red Sox fan! Should I put a condom and lube in my file?”

It’s going to be an interesting week.



*Long-dead great uncle that was a Monk at Portsmith Priory.

I Really Need To Read the Fine Print

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

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

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

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

F'ing Zero.

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

Wrong.

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

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

Hopefully, it's all okay now.

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

Happy Anniversary, Your Son’s A Pervert!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep.”

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

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

“They can find it now…?”

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

“I Googled Yves… Zsutty.”

“Christopher!”

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

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

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

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

“But their married…”

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

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

“Mom, what do you think Google means?”

[blank stare]

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

I smiled, “We were just discussing Googling…”

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

“Christopher!”

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

"What's a search engine?"

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

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

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

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

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

I love family dinners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man… what was I talking about?

F’ it. I’m going home.

“My husbands an alcoholic…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

People are very strange…

The Ultimate Birthday Present: Guilt Points!

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

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

Wednesday. Neither of us calls the other.

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

"Typical," he mumbles.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothin'..."

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

“Um, Chris. My birthday was Monday.”

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Buddy! Enjoy the gift!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(sigh...)

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

He Said The Secret Word

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

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

The man has definitely pulled a Groucho.

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

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

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

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

Quite frankly, he's my hero.

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

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

Okay, enough perving for today...

Good Name

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

They are clever those spammers...

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

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

Heck, I might use it anyway...

Pulling A Groucho

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

He died the same week as Elvis Presley.

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

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

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

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

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

Has No One Told Terri It’s Okay to Let Go?

Man, that Terri Schiavo is a fighter, isn’t she? I couldn’t last 20 minutes without something and she’s going on week 7 or something… (With such a personal and national tragedy as this, I could not resist being facetious). Seriously, it always works in the movies. The family sits next to the dying person and says, "It's okay... it's okay..." and then they drift off.

My sister-in-law—a Rabid Republican (foams at the mouth and loves Dubya)—thinks the government is right on in getting involved in her case. This is the same woman that was upset at the government for going after a company that knowingly put carcinogens into the ground water, then lied about it, then lied about lying about it, and then had doctors say that the carcinogens were “good” carcinogens, and then tried to underpay everyone. With that, she felt the government should stay out of our lives.

Yet when it comes to stopping gay marriage and keeping people on life-support systems, this is NOT government intruding on the rights of states or individuals. I’m not sure what planet she lives on, exactly, but it’s a planet with its head up its ass…

Who Crapped on My TV?

I know spring is the dumping season for movies that are never going to be competitive for an Oscar and aren’t decent enough to stand up against any competition with the summer blockbusters, but now spring has become a dumping ground for absolute crap on television.

Case in point: Spring Break Shark Attack on CBS. Just the title sounds like the whole film was thought up by a marketing committee: “Our research shows that people like sharks and they want to see scantily clad women—I’m thinking ‘Jaws’ meets ‘Girls Gone Wild’”. Let me note that “Girls Gone Wild” involves more talented writers.

The film stars a bunch of young actors of no real note. Currently, they are working on such classic shows as Joan of Arcadia and The O.C., as well as soap operas like Guiding Light and The Young and the Restless. All of them I’m sure are fine actors, but with a telefilm as crappy as this, the script was the last thing considered and everything they utter is pretty much pointless. In fact, I’m not sure if they had a script. I think the director said, “Now point at the water and yell ‘shark!’ Yes, dear, I know that the water is filled with blood and screaming people being eaten by sharks and this is redundant, but just point at them and say, ‘shark!’”

Sure they had some good looking actors, but on an event film like this, you need real actors—NAMES—to draw in those that might think that this is some piece of crap spit out by a bunch of hacks. So you bring out the big guns: Kathy Baker and Bryan Brown.

For those of you who don’t know Bryan Brown, years ago, before the heady days of Russell Crowe and Nicole Kidman, Hollywood hired Aussies for a different reason: they were cheap and had accents. Accents, as you may know, adds a touch of class to a film, but Brits are quality actors and that costs money… So, you go outside the ring: Welsh, Irish, Scottish and, finally the Blue Light Special: quality roles… but she had a house payment so, she took the job. She spends much of the film being understanding to her frustrated son. He’s frustrated because… well, does it really matter? It’s the “James Dean Effect”: a good-looking guy that is pissed off for some reason or another. However, he’s still a nice guy. In fact, too nice. He’s so nice and understanding, yet still pissed off that he’s not off getting laid with all the spring break whores that you just know he’s going to live.

Alternate to that is, er, bad guy. I couldn’t tell you his name, and I’ve been looking all over to find it. He’s so unimportant that they list him as an actor, but do not note the character’s name. The actor is Justin Baldoni—a good looking guy with a terrific body. Apparently, women on Spring Break don’t respond to that. They want the kind, good-looking guy, who is also understanding. Not hot guy with hot bod. Right.

Poor guy with no name, while he looks great, he’s an asshole. He even tries to give Danielle (aka “The Virgin”) roofies! Let me just stop here for a moment to note that I’ve been on Spring Break. You do not need roofies to get a girl in bed. A couple of beer shooters or Jaeger shots and tops are off. With the use of roofies, we know he’s bad… very bad. You just know that eventually he’s going to get eaten by a shark.*

The gist of the story is this… They (not sure who ‘they’ are, but it’s most likely the government) installed an artificial reef off shore of a resort. This is bad for Bryan Brown—his resort is on the other side of the island and no one is going to his beach, so he chums the waters off shore of the beach, hoping to bring in some sharks and scare people to his beach. Yeah, that could work. No major holes with this theory. Just how bad of a hotel do you have to run for it to not make any money during Spring Break? I once stayed in a room with 8 other guys with one twin bed, a bathroom that none of us dared to enter. We paid a fortune for that room and felt we got a bargain in the process.

Later, in this mini-epic presented by The Tiffany Network, as the beach is awash in half-eaten college students, and the water is churning red and foamy with 20+ attacking sharks, he mutters in his indistinguishable accent, “I never meant for anything like this to happen.” What did you think was going to happen? You put blood in the water between shark feeding grounds and pouty-breasted college students! I once fed my dog chili and beer and was shocked at the noxious results—I was completely disgusted by the results, but I was in no way surprised. Bryan was surprised.

The best performance was by the shark. I know it’s supposed to be sharkS, but it was pretty obvious they kept using the same shark over and over again. In fact, he seemed to come at everyone from the same direction. After watching this piece of crap, I now know three things: 1) sharks only attack from the right (or underneath if they are being ‘stealth’ and don’t wish to be seen—however, the jets of red water shooting 20 feet into the air as they eat tends to give away a shark’s location; 2) six buoys connected by wire can cause sharks to scatter and 3) sharks live in mortal fear of lifesavers.**

The sad thing about this film is that it was just two steps to the right of being a full-on camp film. Everyone seemed to be trying to take the crappy material and bringing something out of it. If they had taken a cue from the sharks and chewed up the scenery a little, this film would have been hysterical.

Instead, it was just dull.

Okay, there’s more to talk about in bad television*** but I’ll save that for another post.

*He does.
**Not joking… when seven sharks attack the fishing boat with some kids, they don’t attack the livesaver ring thrown to Danielle (“Virgin”), however, they have no problem ramming the boat.
***Mansquito, anyone?

An Act of Futility...

I joined a site metering website to track and manage the throng of visitors at Mornings of S&T. They monitor the number of visitors, how long they stay, what pages they viewed, etc. It's a very sophisticated system and I'm thrilled--yes, thrilled--to use this powerful tool. Tonight, they sent me a comprehensive analysis of my readership.

I anxiously opened it and I am amazed at the information they provided. On behalf of everyone here at both our Palo Alto and San Jose offices: I would like to thank my reader. (Kidding. I'm kidding.) I exaggerated, the meter shows zero hits for the week.

I do this for the joy of writing... f*** that, I want readers. What do I have to do? Bribe people? Write better? Be funny? Use correct grammar and spelling? Well, none of those things are going to happen, so I guess I'll have to be content writing for my own enjoyment.

I guess this answers why no one seemed to be leaving comments. Whatever...

I Loves Me Some Trailers...

The best part about going to the movies is seeing the previews for what I hope will be a better movie than the crap I'm seeing. Let's face it, most movies today are either bad remakes of great films, or unbelievably bad remakes of great films passed off as a "reimagination." Either way, Hollywood has lost it's ability to be creative and has gone for the buck only. Don't they realize if they create something truly original, people will flock to it... more than once?

Anyhow, [he said getting off his soapbox] I love Apple Trailers! It's a great way to see all the great trailers without the expense of going to the movies ($9.00 and Jude Law remains clothed? I don't think so...)

I just went to the site and here are my expectations of these upcoming films:

Fever Pitch: This film starring Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore looks so formulaic they could publish a Working Paper on it. However, all is forgiven for the last 'hit' in the preview. I'm gonna put this down as a Want to See.

Roll Bounce: Um... I can't tell if this is serious or a satire. It's about roller disco in the 70's. If the 70's are no longer being spoofed, then I'm outta here. The soundtrack looks good... which usually means the film bites.

House of Wax: Oh, good! They took a classic horror film and "reimagined" it. Terrific. And Paris "I'm such a whore I make Christina Aguilera look like Mother Teresa" Hilton is in it too? Why not just sh*t on Vincent Price's grave and be done with it? I'll Netflix this.

Unleashed: Jet Li kickin' some ass. You know, this looks like it might be pretty good. Uh oh. Morgan Freeman is in it. There's an Academy rule that states: When an actor wins Best Supporting Actor (particularly for their body of excellent work) their next film must be crap. (I believe it's the Joe Pesci Rule). I'm hopeful, but not expectant on this...

Downfall: I'm thinking the best film of the year might be a German film. What is causing controversy is that it shows Hitler as a complex individual--both as the cruel madman and as a friend in the last days of WWII. I don't know if I can handle thinking about Hitler as anything other than pure evil. However, if someone told me a year ago that I would laugh, applaud and cheer the sight of Hitler on stage with a giant swastika behind him--I'd have punched them. Then I saw The Producers on Broadway—sure they’re mocking him, but we are applauding “Hitler” as he stands in front of a giant swastika... Apparently, Bruno Ganz mimics Hitler's voice to a T. I doubt he’ll get a nomination for this role… It will be tough, but I want to see this one.

"Older People"...
This is an excerpt from a friend of a friend's email. I can tell I'm getting old because I agree withe her. (Her name is Maia... She doesn't know me, so I won't say anything else about her, except she's very funny). I'm saving her Paul Giamatti quote for my next issue of Slap & Tickle.

I interviewed 5 undergrads out of 40 who applied for the job, and asked them the standard questions like, "why do you want the job?" One young lady said to me, "Honestly, I don't know very many OLDER people, and I thought that I could really learn from someone who knows what they are doing in life." The interview didn't last much longer after that, as I didn't want to qualify for the category of being OLD, and I didn't want the pressure of having to seem like I know what I am doing in life. I actually taught her a valuable lesson-that people who are older don't actually like to be reminded of it, and if you choose to draw attention to it, they might not hire you.

That's Entertainment...

Denise Richards is six months pregnant and filing for divorce from the increasingly sleazy Charlie Sheen? Well, that is one marriage where they are definitely not going to remain friends. Thank you, Denise for restoring my faith in human nature and it's ability to cultivate bitterness...

Free at last! Free at Last! Thank God Almighty, Martha is Free (but under house arrest) at last! Will someone sound the church bells? I cannot tell you how happy I am to have her free--if only so we can stop hearing how she is "faring" in jail. If her release hastens the demise of that awful “Wickedly Perfect” show on CBS, then that’s alright with me. I think she’ll come back and come back big. Bitch or not, the woman knows how to throw a party—and properly pronounce crudités.

FOX cancelled North Shore… that thing is still on? I started to watch an episode and the second Shannen Doherty showed her ugly mug, my television shut itself off.

Survivor… well, poor Jeff got voted off the island. Well, at least he’s away from those losers in Ulong (which is Palau for “You Long to Get the F*** Away from These Morons”). Jeff was some nice eye-candy on that team. How am I gonna rub one out to James?

And what is it with Southerner men that they can only be Southern Gentlemen or Rubes? They don’t seem to have a middle ground for that. James didn't trust Jeff and Kim... I like how James was going "keep an' eye on dem"--probably from the bushes.

I also enjoyed how Kim tried to make the snuggling with Jeff an innocent keeping warm strategy. Honey, when your tongue is down his throat, you're not keeping him warm, you're heating him up.

Here are two things I don’t understand on Survivor:

1. They always keep the idiots that don’t do anything. “We need their strength,” is the logic the morons throw out—but if they don’t actually do anything (ever), they probably aren’t doing much more than they need to in the challenges.
   
2. Why is it when someone has a problem with another tribe member, they feel the need to express it by exploding on the individual? Did Caryn wake up and say, “I feel like being a target, so I’ll go and yell at Katie?” Trust me on this Caryn, when they vote out the annoying one, it won’t be Katie…

Get Real…

US Weekly, the bastion of quality journalism, is reporting that Katie Holmes and Chris Klein have called off their engagement. A publicist for Holmes is quoted in the magazine as saying, "They broke off the engagement but are remaining good friends."

When are celebrities going to get real and act like humans when they break up? Where’s the drama? Where’s the public humiliation?

This is what I want to read (and it’s probably closer to the truth):

Katie Holmes and Chris Klein, two minor stars in the Heavens of Hollywood have broken off their engagement. Holmes is quoted as calling Klein a “cheating bastard,” and has stated she “hopes his tiny dick falls off. That’s right… you write that down! It’s T-I-N-Y. Tiny.”

Klein stated, “She [Holmes] is messed up… I’m hangin’ large—totally large,” he stated while playing “Halo2” in the living room of a bud’s North Hollywood condo. “She always wanted to snuggle after and… uh… but… damn, did I just die? F**K! This is her fault! Jerry, I want to beat those Covenant mother f***ers, let me go again… You know, [“actor” Christian] Bale banged her in his trailer…”

“That’s a f***ing lie!” retorted Holmes while shopping at the Beverly Mall. “Christian and I never went past second base…” One of her shopping pals quickly pulled her aside and whispered in her ear, to which Holmes shot back at the reporter, “…third base! Besides, he’s carrying the whole [Batman Begins] movie and he’s stressed. I was just there to help.”

Asked if they were going to remain friends, Holmes said, “Never! To think I let him…” and then ran into a changing room to cry. Klein responded, “No way. Unless she lets me go through backdoor again… then all right.” After some quick high fives with his buds, Klein was quickly lost his game.

Yeah. That’s what I want to see. Less Demi & Bruce and more Liza & David.

Lost... with Boobs

I love the show Lost. It's full of mystery and suspense. While Jack is hot and there's a certain something going on with Sawyer, my favorite character is Hurly. He's the only man who has bigger man-boobs than I. Mine aren't as bulbous as his though. I mean his look round, more 'booby' than mine.

I'm not sure what this means other than I'm a fat ass... and I'm hungry. (well, that explains a lot, doesn't it?)

I'm off to eat...

Amazing Race Returns... and Television is Saved

Amazing Race has started again… oh, how I love this show. 11 two-person teams are on a “race around the world” performing tasks, finding markers, and most humorously, trying to communicate with the locals. (There is always one person per episode that says “Why doesn’t anyone here speak English?!”)

Most reality shows require people to backstab and plot against each other. This show simply requires you not to F’ up… and that’s where the fun comes in. Usually, there is a stunt for them to perform, sky dive, play water polo, etc. Usually, this is connected with something particular with the country they are in. Last night, the contestants were in Peru and they had to wrangle llamas. Disgusting, spitting, smelly llamas… eww.

The best part is the interaction of the members of the teams. They all have a pre-existing relationship, so there is plenty of room for drama and meltdowns. Nothing says “quality television” like watching a marriage self-destruct in a foreign country… While most teams get along, it’s the ticking-time-bomb-couples that make this show work.

Here are the teams for Amazing Race 8 (for future reference, I’ve decided to give each team their own name):

Ryan & Chuck/Team Name: The Rubes. From North Carolina (or was it South… it was a red state so who cares?) Two big (and I mean big) Southern Boys who say things like “I’m a-fixin’ and “Whoo-ee!” No clichés there. They lost… by mere seconds. They would have been fun to watch (or “Fun to be a-watchin’”).

Megan & Heidi: The Boobs. Two blondes who, obviously, had boob jobs. As a guy, I shouldn’t complain, but I’m a card-carrying homo, so they do nothing for me…

Lynn & Alex/: The ‘Mos. These guys couldn’t be any more gay if they tried… and boy do they try. They are “Executive Assistants,” which is one step up from hairdresser or production designer. They aren’t really racing… their swishing.

Susan & Patrick: The Mo-Mos. A Mother and her son, Li’l Mo. How do I know the kid is gay, you ask? Because he tells EVERYONE every chance he gets. I’m sure his mother is open minded… but like most mothers, only to a point. I’m waiting for that melt down: “Patrick, take that thing out of your mouth, put it back in his pants and let’s go!”

Rob & Amber: Suvivuhs. “Survivor” winners Rob and Amber (or as Rob says wit his tick Boston accent: “Ambuh”), think they know everything because they won Survivor… yet they couldn’t figure out how to pop the trunk of their car…

Ray & Deana: Team Timebomb. A poor man’s John & Victoria from AR6...

Uchenna & Joyce: Team Token. Why is there only ONE African American couple per race? This is diversity? They are a power black couple because, as Uchenna made a point of telling us, they “have both been laid off by MAJOR corporations.” Good thing he wasn’t laid off by a minor company… or hired by one, either.

Meredith & Gretchen: Geriatrics. Along with the lone black couple, there is always a lone old couple. I will spend most of the time praying neither breaks a hip. I’m still trying to figure out which one is Meredith and which is Gretchen…

Ron & Kelly: Team America. She was a beauty queen; he, a prisoner of war. Fear them, for they are the self-described “All-American Team.” So, she’s pretty and he had the bad luck to get shot down in Iraq. He tells everyone he got shot down, but tells them to keep it quiet. Hey, Ron, if you really want it “kept quiet” you’d shut up about it. At some point, in the middle of a challenge, he’s going to say, “I was a prisoner of war… in Iraq… I can handle this.” And I will promptly throw up.

Brian & Greg: The Dudes. I like these guys. Their nice looking and their schmoes. They are such typical guys, it’s a riot to watch them. The Hotties team likes to kiss and this gets the Dudes all hot and bothered.

Debbie & Bianca: The Hotties. Currently, they are my favorites. They’re smart, fun and currently in the number 1 spot. They work well together and with the other teams. They should be fun to watch… and to watch the Dudes hit on them.

I already can’t wait for next Tuesday…

Oscar Wrap Up

Wow... 100% again!

Christmatica seems to have found its groove.

For the most part, I enjoyed the Oscars. I thought Chris Rock did an admirable job, but I didn't think he had the control of a Johnny Carson or Billy Crystal. Mabye that will come in time... we'll see.

At least he didn't pull any punches. I don't know if I'd go after Jude Law like that (don't get me wrong, I'd go after Jude Law... just in a different way. By 'different way' I mean I'd pay him to sleep with me... okay, I'd pay him just to sit and stare at him for 20 minutes). He was funny, just not FUNNY.

I was VERY excited about Sideways winning Best Adapted Screenplay. Such a wonderful movie.

Some other notes:

• When did The Simpsons' Sideshow Bob start singing for The Counting Crows?
• A STANDING OVATION for Chris Rock... at the BEGINNING? Johnny coming back, yeah, that deserves a Standing-O. Billy Crystal coming back... sure. But first time out of the gate? Not so sure... and after seeing the results--definitely a no.
• What was up with Scarlet Johansen's arm? It was flopping around like a dead fish.
• I did enjoy Chris Rock's comment about Producers waiting for the actor they really want... then again if you're looking for Salma Hayek, you can easily replace her with a Penelope Cruz (and vice versa).
• I found it interesting that Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz--two people with very thick and hardly understandable accents--gave out the best sound awards.
• I'm not sure if I like the bringing the nominees all on stage... Can you imagine heading back to your seat? "'Scuze me... I'm the guy who just lost... can you move your feet please?"
• I'm also not sure about the handing out awards to people in their seat. "No, no... don't bother getting up... you're really not that important."
• Why must the winners thank everyone they've ever met? Who are these people? Their lawyers, agents, friends, cousins, yada, yada, yada. What about your barrista? The kid who delivers your newspaper... the guy down by that place with the weird limp...
• Where was Peggy Flemming? Sure, she's not an actress and has no reason to ever attend, but we haven't seen much of her lately, and I felt the need to bring her name up.
• I know I mentioned it earlier, but Scarlet Johansen's arm flop was really disturbing to me.
• The handing out of the technical awards (by "L-Flop Scarlet") from the balcony was a little odd. I half-expected her to announce that the first person to climb up and get the Oscar will win it. (The other half expected her to grab it with that floppy arm and chuck it out to the crowd.
• It's amazing how "poor folk" like Hillary Swank can afford lawyers, managers, agents, stylists and a host of other hangers-on can win an Oscar.
• With all the build-up that Swank and Foxx were going to win, shouldn't they have at least come up with NEW acceptance speeches? They reused their speeches from the Golden Globes... and the SAG Awards.
• How much money did the Academy save having Beyonce warble through three nominated songs? Did she at least get three of the swag-bags?
• Lastly... Jeezus. That arm thing of Scarlet Johansen is going to give me nightmares!

I'm sure I'll come up with more on Monday, but I wanted to get some of this out before I forgot.

Only 365 days until the next telecast!

AND THE 2004 NOMINEES ARE…
Last year, I had a 100% success rate at predicting the Oscars using my patent pending method called: Chrismatica™! In the order of their scores, here are this year’s Chrismatica™ predictions:

ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE
Don Cheadle - HOTEL RWANDA: Didn’t see it… and neither did anyone in the Academy. But everyone heard he was really good—and isn’t that what’s important?
Leonardo DiCaprio - THE AVIATOR: Hey, it’s that kid from Titanic! He’s still working… good for him.
Clint Eastwood - MILLION DOLLAR BABY: He’s going to get one for Best Directing, and it would be a little much to give him Best Actor, Director and Picture…
Johnny Depp - FINDING NEVERLAND: Brilliant role. Totally understated. Johnny is truly one of the most gifted actors of his generation. But, he’s practically made a career out of being peculiar, and no one wants a weird-o making an acceptance speech.
Jamie Foxx – RAY: Personally, I thought Clint and Johnny did a much better job. Both were extremely understated roles. Foxx did a dead-on impersonation of Ray Charles. In fact, it was so dead on that most of the Academy think they’re voting for the real Ray Charles…

ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE
Alan Alda - THE AVIATOR: Hey, look it’s Hawkeye!
Clive Owen – CLOSER: Well, he IS British and the Academy LOVES British. Let’s face it: this was a slow year for supporting actors. He really should be happy to be nominated (because that’s where it ends for him).
Jamie Foxx – COLLATERAL: Now this is a performance not only worth nominating, but winning. He did a brilliant job in this film, but it’s an action film… with Tom Cruise. And the Academy hates Tom Cruise (well, Scientology… but to the Academy it’s pretty much the same thing—If the costar was Travolta, he wouldn’t have been nominated).
Thomas Haden Church – SIDEWAYS: A gifted performance in a brilliantly written role that most actors would kill for. Tommy-boy took it and ran with it. However, Paul Giamati in the lead role didn’t get nominated and it would be in poor taste to give him an Oscar and snub Paul…
Morgan Freeman - MILLION DOLLAR BABY: Who doesn’t love Morgan Freeman? Great actor, great voice, great presence and has consistently given many great performances. So what if this is a role he could do in his sleep? He is perfect in this role. The Oscar is more for his body of work than for this film, but it’s Morgan’s all the way.

ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE
Imelda Staunton - VERA DRAKE: Who?
Catalina Sandino Moreno - MARIA FULL OF GRACE: ¿Quién?
Kate Winslet - ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND: Hey, it’s that chick from Titanic! She’s still working… good for her.
Annette Bening - BEING JULIA: What an amazing performance with an amazing role. Sublime and over-the-top at the same time. Magnificent. It seems like nothing can stop her… However, when Annette was nominated in American Beauty, she gave a brilliant performance and was all but guaranteed the Oscar… then Hilary Swank pulled the socks out of her top, stuck them in her pants and stole her award. Don’t look now Annette, but Hilary’s wearing a jock strap…
Hilary Swank - MILLION DOLLAR BABY: A really great role, but why does it seem like she’s done this before? Because she has. However, like Monster a year before, the Academy loves it when beautiful women play “ugly.” Somehow this is considered brave and that translates into “acting.”

ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE
Sophie Okonedo - HOTEL RWANDA: Who?
Natalie Portman – CLOSER: Hey, it’s that chick from Star Wars! She’s still working… good for her.
Laura Linney – KINSEY: The Academy loves Laura, but everyone’s scared of sex right now (shhhhh… Bush might be listening)
Virginia Madsen – SIDEWAYS: My personal favorite. She’s resurrected herself from a former pretty “actress” into a real actress (her looks faded, she had to do something).
Cate Blanchett - THE AVIATOR: Normally, I’m not a fan of an impression, but Cate really played Kate well. It wasn’t just the voice or the look, but she captured the personality of Hepburn and took a movie that worked hard to make you believe you were in the 1930’s and made you feel like you really were in the 30’s. The kicker: The Academy adores the quirky best supporting actress… (Remember Marissa Tomei?)

BEST DIRECTOR
VERA DRAKE: A pro-choice movie in George Bush’s ‘merica? Don’t think so…
RAY: Taylor Hackford hasn’t directed anything of note since An Officer and a Gentleman. Hack/Hackford either/or. Not happenin’ Taylor…
THE AVIATOR: Poor Marty. Brilliant body of work and still nothing. The losing streak continues… (sadly, he will win someday, for some piece of junk. Remember Paul Newman won for Color of Money). The movie was good, but too long and had none of the subtleties of his earlier/better work.
SIDEWAYS: Nicely directed. But it’s a small picture way outside the studio system. Most importantly…
MILLION DOLLAR BABY: Are you going to say “No” to Clint Eastwood? Has anyone seen Peter Jackson since he beat Clint last year? ‘nough said.

BEST PICTURE
RAY: Nice biopic… but it’s already at Blockbuster, who wants to give an award to a movie that already has the outtakes showing around the world?
FINDING NEVERLAND: Deserving in so many ways, it’s just too intimate a film. Understated in so many ways, Oscar loves films an epic.
THE AVIATOR: Ultimately it’s about a really weird rich guy who liked flying.
SIDEWAYS: My personal favorite. Just a wonderfully crafted movie. Sadly for this film, Clint’s baby is going all the way.
MILLION DOLLAR BABY: Everything the Academy loves in a Best Picture: drama, wonderful relationships, great tragedy, narration by Morgan Freeman, a (sort-of) love triangle, a couple of characters you love to hate, overcoming great odds and a bittersweet ending. Since, it’s already going to rack up some big acting awards, they might as well give them The Prize—the Academy is not known for being subtle…

Letter From Paris (I)

Bon Jour!

We made it! Flying on Christmas is not, I repeat NOT less crowded than normal. A lie I am still trying to find someone to blame (currently, I am blaming the Wesely Snipes' movie "Passenger 57").

I am not sure how long I can type because my patience with this keyboard at the little cyber cafe I found is already at an end. Punctuation is all located in the wrong spots and the letters A Z Q W M are placed in places so incovenient, I imagine the French rarely use them at all--making it difficult to type. EXAMPLE: "
We have walked approx. 1000 miles during the last few days. We seem to think everything is much closer than it is. Today was a red-letter day in walking as we went to the Louvre (seeing a lot of it; yet still not seeing it all), and then went to the Arc de Triomphe--walking some 385 steps to the top (there is a warning before you head up). Needless to say, my dogs are barking.

The only news we get here is CNN International--so we are all well informed on what is happening in Iran after the quake--however is anything ELSE happening? That's ALL they are reporting. We've also been watching the French News, and while we don't understand what they are saying, it fun to comment on the fabulousness of the news anchor--he has these amazing eyebrows that form these well sculpted trangle/arches. You can see my priorities remain in order.

The French have been more than patient with our French--or lack there of. Lots of pointing and nodding. Jill nearly killed a poor postal worker who kept urging her to use a pre-paid envelope to send postcards because it saves about half a cent per letter--Jill would have none of it; she wanted the envelopes to have a postmark. The poor guy kept saying how it was cheaper and would get there faster... he couldn't understand why she wanted to spend the extra half cent... after about 3 hours of this he relented. (by the way the 3 hours is in Euros, which works out to be about 10 minutes US). Naturally, I bought the prepaid envelopes--I didn't want to be the cause of the first French employee to go 'postal' ('postale' in French).

I went to mass at Notre Dame on Sunday. Truly spectacular--except for the tourists walking around taking pictures of the church... the mass... the priest... Later, I went back toured the church while a mass was in progress--they had two (count 'em TWO, gift shops running--while the Catholic Church is responsible for the religious aspects of the church, it is owned by the French government who knows a thing or two about getting every last dime from the tourists.

UPDATE: it has now been 40 minutes since I started this letter--If you hear of me being involed in an international incident, it started when a keyboard was thrown through a window...

The French are all young and beautiful--both the men and women--all stunning, thin, well dressed, looking fabulous wherever they go... I hate them.

The weather has been cold--we picked the windiest day to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower: Gorgeous view; bitter cold wind; It cut right through us. I can't imagine the poor people that went up on Sunday when it was even colder, windier... and raining.

Speaking of cold, it is my mission while I'm here to tie my scarf like the French; Everyone does it differently and everyone looks more cool than the last. I am in awe of their scar tying abilities--the US is way behind in scarf tying technology. Every tme I attempt to tie my scarf I look like I stuffed a bunch of socks in the top of my shirt--things pointing up everywhere (there are only two ends, so how can there be six ends sticking up at any given time? You know you've achieved something when the blasè French stop, point and stare.

I shall write more when I get a chance. Musee d' Orsay is tomorrow!

Au Revior (if that's how it's spelled, it was a total accident)

A Sad Day in the Neighborhood:
Tragedy struck Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood recently as Fred Rogers passed at the age of 74. The official cause of death was stomach cancer, although most of us know better: that bitch, Lady Elaine put a hit out on him. Oh, sure, you may say I am heartless to bring up such a subject at this time. I should be more respectful, I should show compassion for all the joy and self-worth that he gave to kids. I loved Fred as well. I learned a lot from him. I made many a journey on Trolley to the Land of Make-Believe, so I must speak out at the injustice of it all.

The monarchy of King Friday XIII has always been a bit shaky. Queen Sarah always seemed to be looking to other monarchies to emulate and Prince Tuesday seemed all-too-ready to try and take the crown. Mister Rogers always brokered the peace in the neighborhood. He fought for unilateral disarmament between Friday and X the Owl. X, with his constant studying at correspondence school, thought himself superior and wanted to prove it to the world. It was only with Mister Rogers sitting down with Friday and Owl, that things got settled…

…until Owl got “sprayed” in the middle of the night.

Everyone suspected Henrietta Pussycat, but with her being so quiet and unassuming, who would put such an innocent pussycat up to such a task? None other than Lady Elaine!

S&T has obtained shocking documents pointing to Elaine as the silent money for ‘Operation Castle Keep.’ Elaine, knowing that she was never going to get the throne legitimately, used underhanded and devious tactics to overthrow Friday. Using drugs, sex, money and an advanced knowledge of puppetry, Elaine’s dastardly plan came to fruition.

Most shocking, Queen Sarah, Elaine’s part-time lover, was also involved. Few involved will even talk to our reporters. Only our "confidential source,' whom we call Deep Pussy would speak, saying, “Meow, meow, kitty, meow, meow, follow the money and you’ll find that meow, meow bitch Elaine is behind it all, meow, meow.”

Rogers’ death is not the first to happen in Make-Believe. Sources indicate that a number of Elaine’s victims were “spun to death” in her “spinning house of pain”: The Carousel. Shouts of “How do you FEEL?!” could be heard coming from the round multi-colored column abode. Pressed for comment, Elaine simply stated, “Look, toots, I got nothin’ to say.”

A spokesman for The Children’s Television Workshop (CTW), at nearby Sesame Street said only that they had heard the rumors of the killings, but they were trying to remain uninvolved. That was, until Speedy Delivery Man was found dead on ‘The Street,’ of an apparent cocaine overdose, next to a 15 year-old muppet prostitute.

A spokesperson for CTW, stated that they were indeed concerned with the goings on in Rogers’ Neighborhood, but they do not discuss any active cases. Inspector Snuffalufogus stated that there are leads and they hope to make an arrest soon, but that the Land of Make-Believe is a monarchy and added soulfully that “It’s Chinatown all over again.”

Rumor around the Neighborhood was that Picture-Picture had a video of the killings, but Rogers’ home was ransacked and Picture-Picture was stolen. A monetary reward and a new pair of sneakers are offered to anyone who can provide information for the safe return of Picture-Picture.

Only two others, who have critical knowledge of the incidents leading up to the death of Mr. Rogers, are available for comment: Trolley and Daniel Tiger. Unfortunately, the only person who could understand Trolley, was Mister Rogers…

…and everyone knows that Daniel is too shy to talk.

Keeping In Touch

It’s been a while since I’ve written, my apologies to those of you who actually read this… [knock, knock, knock] Hello? Anyone there?

sigh...

Anywho… so I got an IM last night from an old… uh… friend? (Acquaintance? Lust? IM buddy?) Basically, he’s a guy I met once in a bar, had a brief but nice chat and then IM’d a few times. I didn’t think he was really interested in me (or that he’d forgotten me—which was most likely the case) and we quickly lost contact. Suddenly, he was back!

I was quite happy to hear from him—he’s rather cute—and thought that maybe my luck with men might actually be turning around.

Alas, no such F’ing luck.

The guy, I’ll call him Buck, has a freakin’ boyfriend! Well, crap on a stick, what’s up with that? Don’t guys usually start contacting old friends/acquaintances/lusts/IM buddies after the breakup?

He started asking me questions about cigars and pipes, etc. And I replied that I enjoyed them, although, most of my pipe experiences have more to do with 4:20 than tobacco. (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)

Apparently, old Buck has quite a thing for ‘gars and God bless him for it. Too often I’m told they smell, they’re offensive, they sit around and do nothing all day but watch Sports Center… okay that last part only applies to me, and my quiet lust for anchor Trey Wingo, but I think you get the drift. He’s a man who likes men who like cigars and the guys that like them for it. Who wouldn't love that?

Now if only he would break up with his current love (or cheat on him) because it’s been a while and I’m feeling mighty restless…

ON TO OTHER TOPICS:

If I’m thankful for one thing this Thanksgiving, it’s that Thanksgiving is over. What a silly holiday: you have to gather with family that mostly drives you crazy and eat until you’re sick, and then sit around with those same losers, because you’re so stuffed you can’t manage to get the hell out the door. Worse, Christmas is less than a month away!

Egad…

I’ve barely done any shopping… I’m trying to be “creative” with my gifts to friends, which can mean only one thing: none of them will be speaking to me next year after they receive my crappy gifts. The idea was somewhat original, the wording mostly clever, the execution, however, sucked like a Hoover set on high shag. Ugh. It’s too late now, the sleigh is packed and the reindeer are raring to go—so my sad, poor friends will be getting the worst gift with the best of intentions.

Okay, that’s a little extreme, my intention was not to be lusciously kind, but to save money. I just thought something that was handmade would be charming, no matter how poorly made. Unfortunately, I lack any kind of creative talent. I’m good with ideas, shitty with execution.

Story of my life… which can be found in a hastily hand-bound book with mostly illegible pages, that is pointlessly and poorly illustrated.

I did manage to get most of my bills paid off this month. Big chunk of change to accomplish that, but I feel much better getting a lot of that debt off my financial books (also hastily hand-bound and poorly illustrated).

Well, I can’t think of much else to say today, but have a night evening. Maybe I’ll be more creative the next time I write… which could be tomorrow, or possibly 2005, keep looking and find out.

Hasta!
--cml

Palm This!

So, my boss gave me her old Palm Pilot as she recently upgraded to a newer, better, faster version. Apparently, it can fly, do her laundry, her taxes and her nails, all while keeping track of her many meetings.

The version she gave me, sits in my office, causing me aggravation and collection dust. At least I think it’s collecting dust, as I boxed the little fucker up and threw him way up on top of my filing cabinet, where it is out of sight and it can rot until for all I care.

Oh, how did such a happy-go-lucky boy like me get so pissed off at an inanimate object, you ask? Well, last week, Carla, my boss, gave me her old Palm Pilot. She handed me the box, the cradle, the Palm Pilot, the instructions and installation disk—everything I needed to get started right away! Oh boy!

It was all so simple.

I followed the instructions, installed everything and hit HotSync, which is supposed to link everything together: my Outlook calendar, address book, tasks, etc. Instead, it started to download all of Carla’s information from the handheld onto my computer! I yanked the SOB out of the cradle and rechecked all the settings. I made sure that the information on my computer would override the information on the Pilot. I didn’t set it up to exchange or synchronize the information. No, I wanted my computer to override the handheld.

I tried again.

Again, the bastard started to download Carla’s information!

Carla suggested I uninstall and reinstall and make sure the system knows to delete her old information.

So, I uninstalled… the folks at Palm were too kind not to attach a uninstall function on their program like everyone else, so I had to search around for a while until I remembered that Microsoft had a link to uninstall any of my programs. God Bless the boys at Microsoft. (Who’d ever thought I’d say that?)

I tried again. This time, when installing, I was not asked to enter my name. Odd, I thought, but who knows? We’ve been hanging out for the past few days, so maybe it understands me? Maybe this time, it will work.

It didn’t work. Again, Carla’s system attempted to invade mine.

Once again, I deleted and once again I reinstalled. This time, I carefully checked each install page and set up everything as carefully as possible. When I went to HotSync, it seemed to know that I was going to shut if off, so it pulled a fast one and dumped Carla’s vast and neverending datebook onto my computer (even though I had set the parameters to never allow the handheld to override the computer. Never).

Since the little bastard wouldn’t listen to me, I said a quick and happy “Fuck you, you fucking piece of fucking shit,” uninstalled again, and promptly threw the “fucking piece of fucking shit” back in its fucking box and under my fucking desk.

When I relayed the story to a co-worker (sans the many “fucks”), she suggested that I do a “hard clean” of memory on the handheld. If hard clean meant dipping the thing in a vat of boiling ammonia, followed by a vat of acid, well, I was all for it. Apparently, I only had to push here and prod there and life was good again. So, after prodding and pushing and pulling and a slight tug here and there, it cleared.

I reinstalled again.

This time, Su—a coworker and a successful user of Palm and its many fine Palm products—stood by me while I installed. She read each page carefully. Oh, dear Lord, was she careful… and slow. As much as I wanted her to hurry her ass up and read, I realized she may be on to something: reading and following directions apparently works for many.

We completed everything and life was good. “Hurray!” I exclaimed, “You did it Su!” Su patted me on the head and said, “No, we did it.” And she was right and everything worked out wonderfully…

…if by wonderfully one means: to totally not fucking work worth a fucking good god-damn!

When we went to HotSync, the system said that because there were “multiple users” on the system, it could not download information from Outlook. Where are the multiple users? Only my name was on the registration. Only my name was on my computer. And only my name was on the handheld.

Well, to make this already too long story not go on too much longer, we couldn’t find the answer, and man, did we try. When we would try and sync, we would get a message telling us to go online and look up “Syncing Multiple Handhelds to Same Profile.” So we searched and searched and searched their website. You know, there is no listing for “Syncing Multiple Handhelds to Same Profile.” And what little information there was on synching (or “syncing” as they spelled it) was not helpful at all. I mean, not one bit.

Amazing.

So, we spent about two hours going through the program, trying to sync the damn thing up—or at least figure out why it thought there were multiple users. Carla was no longer listed anywhere, why did it think there was someone else?

We thought it may be confusing my Outlook profile [clion] with my full name, which I’d entered into Palm at registration. So, we adjusted it and tried again.

No sync.

Uninstalled and repeated the process…

…and did it again…

…and did it yet again…

Each time, we tried something different, hoping we’d find the key.

We read the instructions all the way through and still no luck. The little bastard just wouldn’t give. Finally, I’d had enough and once again, uninstalled.

Then Andrew came in my office.

He had Carla’s USB cable that she’d originally ordered for her handheld (now mine) and did I want it? I practically grabbed it out of his hands. It was the connection! That was it! Oh, how silly I felt…

I reinstalled and then tried to attach the USB cable.

What the fuck?

There was a disk that came along with it, but it didn’t open the installation. When I tried searching the disk, I could never find anything that would start the installation process.

So, I followed the directions, which are very detailed, very precise and yet, incredibly vague. How do the folks at Palm stay in business? Why do people use their products? Is it a world full of masochists?

The directions said to make sure that Palm software was installed, but when I tried that, it didn’t work. So I tried again… after uninstalling again.

I think we all know what happened, don’t we? You know it ended up in a box on top of a cabinet in the deepest, darkest crevices of my office, so why go on? Yet, I must.

Suffice to say, I don’t see how the little bastard could help me accomplish anything. It wasted an entire day of my life. I had things I could have been avoiding at work today, things that I won’t be able to enjoy avoiding tomorrow.

As I was getting ready to leave, Su walked up to one of our IT people and asked if they had any experience installing Palm Pilots? After working all day and pulling what’s left of my hair out of my head, I certainly didn’t want to find out that it only takes minutes to complete. I was ready to kill her.

“Yeah,” smiled Neil, “It might take a few minutes, but I can get it all sorted out in a few minutes.” Now I was ready to kill him.

Right now, I’m enjoying my hatred of Palm too much to allow anyone to quickly and easily install this bitch of a program. So, I’m going to wait a few days, before I request some help.

However, if they don’t run into any problems, then it will clearly be my incompetence that I couldn’t get it to work—and I will probably be even more ticked off (if that's possible). But if they can’t install it, then victory is mine and that “fucking piece of fucking shit” Palm will be torn apart by my palms!

Incidentally, I did send an email to the fine folks at Palm… they say they’ll get back to me in 24 hours. God help the poor bastard that has to help me, as they may end up on the back of a very tall cabinet, collecting dust…

Sweet Home Alabama

I hate seeing movies alone. It’s so depressing. But I really wanted to see Sweet Home Alabama this weekend, and since I couldn’t find anyone to go (and it was so last minute I only called one person), I was forced to go all by myself.

Comedies are the worst to see alone, especially for me. I laugh far too loud, or I’ll try and cut a loud laugh off and sound like I’m choking. Suddenly, everyone is looking over at the pathetic guy choking in the dark… Or worse, I say something out loud, some silly comment and then I’m the guy talking to himself in the theatre. I used to mock those people—and now I’m one of them.

My only way to combat a situation like that is to try and sit near some people and look like somehow I “belong” to them. Usually, I try and listen in to their conversation and laugh when they make a joke. When they look over, I smile, say I couldn’t help hearing and make a favorable comment. In my sad, pathetic little mind, I’m now going to the movies with them. I don’t feel quite so alone.

However, that doesn’t prevent me from making those choking noises…

Back to Sweet Home Alabama, it’s exactly what you expect it to be: cute, funny and no surprises. Sure, there were those people in the audience that audibly gasped at moments (and those of us who laughed at them), but nothing we didn’t already pick up from the trailer.

I tend to hate “cute” and “sweet” movies because they try so hard to be cute and sweet that they end up being pandering and obnoxious. The credit for the success of this film goes directly to Reese Witherspoon. Reese, as always, is adorable and plays the part of Melanie Carmichael, the embarrassed former Southerner well.

Melanie is caught between her soon-to-be ex-husband Jake (played by Josh Lucas, who could not be any cuter) and Andrew (played by Patrick Dempsey, who is so JFK, Jr. it’s almost distracting).

My adopted friends for the feature sat directly behind me: two very chatty queens and their fag hag. I couldn’t say anything out loud, without looking like a complete idiot—so they were my voice in the dark. Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to make a connection, so they were “my friends” only in my twisted mind. However, they made all the right comments at just the right moment—or should I say, just as I was thinking them.

When Jake took off his shirt, revealing his very nice chest (oooh… fuzzy!) one of the guys said, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”) Whenever there was a close-up of Jake, and his eyes sparkled in the lights, they would sigh and talk about how damn cute he was… because he was so damn cute!

But when it came to the town gay-boy Bobby Ray, played by the very sweet Ethan Embry, they were very vocal about wanting to “put him on a plate and sop him up with a biscuit.” Okay, they didn’t actually say that, but I was thinking it when they were salivating over him, so close enough.

When Bobby Ray, Andrew and Jake were all standing on the front porch, I was letting my mind drink in the nasty possibilities of the scene, when one of the guys started making porn music sounds and the other queen said, “That’s a scene I think this movie really needs!”

Not only does this movie work well as a comedy, but the porn possibilities are endless. I have a feeling we are going to see several porn movies based on the very same concept. Frankly, they couldn’t come soon enough for me.

I’m sure they will make a sequel of this film, and I hope to see it with my new movie buddies… whoever they are.

YO!semite

This weekend a group of us went up to Yosemite for the weekend. I drove up with Scott and was pretty happy we were leaving so early, as I had never arrived in Yosemite until after dark.

Not that arriving at night is a bad thing, it’s actually quite nice. The place is dark and quiet. After setting up our tents, we would walk over to the bridge, and with an unobstructed view, we would sit down and gaze at the billions and billions of stars in the night sky. Among all the amazing things at Yosemite, the amount of stars in the sky just floors me (good thing I’m sitting down when I’m looking at them.

And in the morning, I would wake up to the most spectacular scenery: The trees that are so tall they go on forever and just beyond them sits Half Dome. Pictures do not do it justice. It is beyond awesome to gaze up at it. Half Dome is almost hypnotic in it’s grace and beauty. It’s truly inspiring.

…sigh…

Oops, back to my tale…

So, Scott and I left at 2:00, expecting to arrive around 7:30. Maybe that would be cutting it a bit close, but at least it wouldn’t be dark. We had directions, and since it’s not a holiday weekend, we knew traffic would be light.

The directions to Yosemite from San Jose are pretty clear: Take 280 South, which turns in to 680 North, up to 580 East , which turns into 205, and then east on 120 and you’re there! So simple, anyone can do it, right?

We did it all without a hitch. I chattered away, Scott slept—or pretended to sleep to shut me up—and we made really good time. Along 120 there are two big signs for Yosemite. The first says that Yosemite is 66 miles away. The second, some 21 miles later, notes that Yosemite is 45 miles away. I saw the 45 miles and stepped on the gas…

About an hour later, we didn’t seem to be any closer to Yosemite. I no longer saw any signs for Yosemite… in fact, I saw few signs at all. But Scott and I trudged on, noting “familiar” bits of landscape as we drove, not thinking that we’d never seen this area in daylight and how off we might be. No, Scott and I found something familiar with just about anything. “That rock looks familiar…” “Yeah, that mountain looks familiar… in the dark, it blocks everything, just like now…”

As we started up a hill that was a 26% grade, I began to get suspicious that we were not on the right path. Scott had been saying this for about 20 minutes, but I had been “sure” that we were going the right way.

We passed a group of campers and I thought that maybe we should pull over and ask. Scott practically grabbed the wheel from me and said, “keep driving. One of them has got a shotgun and the albino kid is playing a banjo…”

So we slowly chugged up the hill…

“Give me a sign, God. Something that says we’re on the right path,” I prayed very quietly to myself… and then I saw it. On the side of the road, the first white reflector to have any kind of notation clearly read: HWY 108.”

What the fuck? Where the hell did 108 come from?

We turned around and my car no longer heaved at climbing such a hill, instead, my brakes began to smoke as we made our descent down the hill, past the cast of Deliverance and to a little tiny restaurant in some town called Dardanelle. Dardanelle consists of a 1 pump gas station, a general store, a bar and a restaurant… all in the same small building.

The kind folks let us fill up on gas, (at the right reasonable price of two dollars and 30 fucking cents a gallon!) and informed us that we were about 150 miles away from Yosemite.

I had missed the turnoff, some 96 miles previous.

So we trudged our way back. Again we drove past Wawona, right past Cow Creek, through Strawberry Creek, and sure as fuck past Sugar Pine. Yep, we went past all those “familiar” areas that we had never seen before in our sad, sorry lives.

As we drove back, we passed a small sign for route 49 that would take us to Yosemite. I decided to avoid it, as I was unsure if it would take us some “back way” that would be unfamiliar to me. Versus the last hour and forty minutes that had been a regular trip to memory lane…

Again, I missed the 120 turnoff! So, about 2 miles later, there was a small turnout and I practically did a U-turn in the middle of the highway. “Fuckit” became my mantra. We then passed the “Yosemite, 45 miles sign” and then about 100 feet further, there was a teeny-tiny little sign that noted that 120 turned at the small turnout ahead.

So as to not confuse anyone, the wonderful people at the park service, put a small brown and mostly unnoticeable sign for Yosemite. You would think a park of such note would have a much bigger sign…

The second we turned on the road everything became familiar in that “Oh Christ, how could we have not realized how wrong we were before? This IS the way!” From then on, we knew we were on the correct road. Especially, after we past the intersection where route 49 merged with 120. If I had taken it, I probably would have saved myself another half hour…

We arrived on the valley floor some 45 minutes later… at 10:15pm. So much for driving into Yosemite during the day. However, Scott and I did get to see El Capitan under a full moon, which is quite stunning: the granite glowing with these deep, black crevices. Scott thought it looked teutonic, which I totally agreed with (after he explained what the word meant).

We made one or two wrong turns getting to camp, but we made it at 10:30pm… eight and a half hours after we left. But to be able to wake up on Saturday, open the tent and look up at Half Dome was worth it.

And that full moon I mentioned? It was so bright that we didn’t need flashlights to walk around at night. It was so bright, we kept thinking a light was on in our tent. It was so bright that we couldn’t see any stars!

A Good Ride

The traffic Gods were kind to me this morning: not much heavy traffic, some cute boys on the road, and an interesting diversion or two.

I had a lovely drive to work today. The interchange for 880 and 280 was remarkably clear. Hardly a slowdown at all. Usually it takes me about 10 – 15 minutes to muddle through… today, it was less than 2 minutes.

Then, as I was zooming along, I came upon a GMC something or other. It’s a 1970’s-era SUV that looks a lot like the old Ford Broncos. Very cool. Very butch. The dude in it was so adorable. He was this little guy in this huge vehicle, blondish, sweet looking, baseball cap, 30’s-ish. Too cute. Really enjoyed it.

Another guy zoomed up behind me in his truck. Another hottie, but dark-haired; deep, dark eyes; sultry looking. He had that “I’ve been emotionally hurt in the past, don’t come near me, however, I need a hug” look that I adore. I’m sure he’s straight, but I can dream, no? It was hard to keep my eyes on the road ahead.

As I approached Page Mill Road, traffic came almost to a complete stop. I thought it might be another water main break on Page Mill, but it turned out that a woman had spun out and her car was on the shoulder, facing the wrong direction. She had this look on her face that said, “Yes, I know I’m facing the wrong direction. No, I don’t know how it happened. Please leave me alone.”

Boy, her face certainly said a lot, didn’t it?

Traffic cleared up right after the spin out.

I have been continually tailgated by drivers on Stanford Avenue. For some reason these drivers have yet to catch the clue that the police are really watching that small bit of road. The speed limit is 25 and I go absolutely no faster than 25, even though I think I could walk faster. However, seeing two cars pulled over this morning on a road that is less than ½ mile long, was all the proof I need not to speed on that road. There are too many curves and too many places for cops to hide.

My last happy sighting was as I was driving into the parking lot. A very cute guy had backed his car into his parking space and was just sitting there, staring out as I drove by. I got a nice full on look at him. Great eyes. I think I’ve seen him around. Very handsome, guy. Probably in his mid-20’s… such a child. I feel so old… Yet, looking at him made me feel like a 25 year-old, or was it that I wanted to feel up a 25 year-old?

Kudos to the traffic gods…

Java Jive Adventure…

I've removed this one... too many people can figure out who the respective parties are and I just don't want to go there.

If you MUST find out what was said here, send me an email: cmlion@hotmail.com