Ciao, For Now…


Today I went to Becky and Joe Robbins’ going away party in Concord (not a drive I would make for just anyone) and had a really nice time. They could not be any cuter—Italy is getting a wonderful couple.

I was a little worried when they said they were going to move to Italy. I am not sure if it is because I am envious, or was unsure if this was a good idea. But when Becky described the process she went through and how everything kept falling into place for them, I knew this was destined for them.

Their house is sold, they have their Italian citizenship and they are on their way. I wish them well on their journey and hope that life in Italy brings them great joy.

Arrivederci i miei amici, fino a che non veniamo a contatto di ancora.

I Am Shocked!


Did you see the shocking cover of People Magazine this week?! I like to think of myself as keeping up to date on celebrity issues, but this just knocked me for a loop. Can you believe it? I mean, who would have thought?

I’m not talking about Lance Bass—I think Lance was the only one who did not think he was gay…

I am talking about the much more shocking item to the lower right:



Colin Farrell is sober?! What the hell is up with that? A Colin Farrell sober world is a world I want no part of. My only chance of ever getting Colin naked was if he were blind-stinking drunk.*

I stand no chance of ever getting a 10. My only chance is if a 10 gets so incredibly drunk he does not know he is hitting well below his league… and by then, it is too late for him (but so much the better for me).

So, I will have to scratch Colin Farrell off my Potential Lays if They’re Incredibly Drunk list. Now I have to work on getting Josh Hartnett to start drinking heavily… and I should send some wine to Ashton Kutcher as well.




*Naturally, I would bathe him before licking him up and down and up and down, because cigarettes, b.o. and booze do not make for a fun smell.

Are You Shitting Me?

Big news from St. Paul, MN: they found an intact wooden toilette!! Oh, the joy. Can you smell the history? (I smell something and it ain't history.)

The part that made me laugh out loud (LOL for you IM'ers) was it was found at the "B&M Furniture Company". I had to look at the date to make sure that it was not posted on April Fools...


(And yes, I have been enjoying Wikipedia, why do you ask?)

We're Having a Heatwave...
...A Tropical Heatwave...


Oh. My. God. I thought I was going to die over the last few days--temperatures have been in the 100's and we Northern Californians are just not cut out for that Southern California weather. They shut down the chilled water to our A/C at work and it was 85 in the building when I walked in Monday morning.

I think the biggest problem was that there was no wind at all. It was just hot and still. Nasty stuff. I would open windows at night but there was no air movement--even with fans running all over the house, the second you were away from the fan you melted. Seriously, my poor sister is just a pool in the front entry way. I thought about sopping her up with a towel, but it was too hot.

Thankfully, a marine layer came in (i.e. fog) and it dropped about 20 degrees today--they even allowed our building access to the chilled water so by the end of the day, the temperature in the building was tolerable. Oh, lucky us.

However, another heat wave is expected next week.

We're having a heat wave,
A tropical heat wave,
The temperature's rising,I
t isn't surprising,
She certainly can can-can.

It’s Official! Anderson Cooper is Gay

There is an interesting New York Magazine article on Anderson Cooper, that little hottie from The Mole (and subsequently work on CNN covering hurricanes and other weather/vox populi items). In the article Anderson is asked the question about whether or not he is gay?

Anderson’s answer was a resounding “YES!” Well, actually, he disguised it, but it was a “yes” none-the-less. Anderson’s answer was “You know, I understand why people might be interested. But I just don’t talk about my personal life.”

It’s a yes or no question. “Yes, I am gay,” or “No, I am not gay.” Why would anyone hesitate in saying that they are not gay? How many straight-closeted individuals are there in the world? They must really be good at hiding, because I can not think of one in history. Anderson did not answer “no.”

So, when Anderson answered “I just don’t talk about my personal life,” he’s saying, “yes, I’m gay, but I got a career and the idiots in the red states don’t want their news coming from some prematurely gray gay hottie.”

Of course, this could all be solved by bringing out the old girlfriends. No one that privileged, educated, good-looking and successful could go through life without hooking up with a number of women along the way. Where are the old girlfriends? Let’s check his book Dispatches from the Edge, shall we?

Brother’s suicide… check
Dad’s death… check
Mother…. check, check
Lost soul-trying-to-find-way-bullshit…check
A mention of a girlfriend anywhere in the book… NADA!

Okay… who is he currently dating? [Crickets chirping…] Yep, that’s a big: no one. More important, there are no rumors about Anderson being seen with a woman. Nothing. You would think he would make an effort… Soledad O'Brien is single—wouldn’t they make a cute couple?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Coop is a happy straight guy who just does not have sex with anyone. Then again, maybe he’s banging Julio Cesar Recio, the “Julio” he thanked for “his support and calm counsel” in Dispatches. But that is just a rumor that I read about here, here, here, here and here.

And here’s a picture of Julio, which, I’m sure, means nothing…

...except he’s gay.

Michele’s Grand Adventure

Remember my hysterically funny friend Michele? If you don’t you’re not reading enough… Anyway, she has started a blog about her moving to Norway after living in San Francisco for most of her adult life.

She is a terrific writer and an absolute riot—I think you will enjoy it. Go on… go get your Norway on at Michele’s My Grand Adventure blog, you won’t be sorry.

Bush Veto

Dear Mr. President,

Let me see if I get this… You think that fertilized eggs—used for in vitro fertilization, that would otherwise be thrown out—should not be used for research because that is “murder”? But, sending 2500 American soldiers to their deaths for a war you pretty much pulled out of your ass is…? What? If not "murder", then "wreckless idiocy" certainly would apply.

First, you were a joke, then you were dangerous, now you’re a dangerous joke. How I long for the days when the worst thing our president had was a stained dress from a fat girl, with approval ratings and the economy flying high.

For a Christian, you suck. You say you "know Christ," but I spoke to him last week and he said, "I don't even know that dude!"

Why don't you go do something useful like eat a bowl of pretzels or go hunting with Dick Cheney...


PS: You're a total douche...

A Tale of Two Babies, Several Secrets and One Click


This is the story of two of my friends who both have adopted baby girls.

Dude* adopted a baby girl from somewhere in the red states in December. I got progress reports as the date of delivery neared and then several emails right about the time the baby was born. Now I get occasional emails with pictures giving updates on the adoption process and the state of the family. The child is adorable and they are just the perfect little family…

Awwww…

Chick** also adopted a child recently. My friends and I heard she and her husband were attempting to adopt a few years ago and I thought I heard that they were getting a baby last summer. Then I got a notice in the spring noting that the baby had been born in September and they would be picking her up “sometime this summer.” And that was the last I heard on the matter—I have no idea when they were picking up the baby or getting back. When I inquired about a baby shower, I was told that Chick specifically requested not to have one.

The other day I heard that Chick was “disappointed” by the lack of enthusiasm from her friends and that no one had contacted her about the baby. Wha…?

Chick has a very tight close group of friends she shares things with (Chick’s Click) and the rest of us get our information from Chick’s Click. If Das Click does not say anything, then we do not know anything. Pretty simple, no?

Add to that the fact that Das Click is tight lipped (Yes, it’s a TLCC: a Tight Lipped Chick Click). Recently, one of Chick’s Click mentioned that she knew the name of “The Baby” but was “sworn to secrecy.” Is the name that bad or are they looking to copyright it out of fear someone will steal the name? Chick’s Click likes the fact that “they are in the know” and will say they “know something but can’t tell.” Then why say anything at all?

Let’s recap:
—No notification except to Click
—Click that keeps “secrets” really well
—Refusal to have a baby shower…
—Yet she is pissed we are not excited about “The Baby”? How can I be excited about something I know nothing about? Guess what? I am really excited about August 31—but I can’t tell you why or what is going to happen, but you are excited, right? Of course not.

Frankly, I consider this bad parenting. It is the parents job to cram pictures and information about “the most adorable child in the world” while their friends feign interest—it’s all in the job description.

As friends, our job is to be as excited as the parents (many times even when we aren’t…) why? It’s in our job description… As a parent, you are the child’s PR agent. I will not know if your kid is walking until the parent tells me (or the kid walks up to me—hopefully, with a cocktail in hand). These kids will never call me (unless they get a DUI in college and is too scared to call their dad and is hoping I will bail them out***—otherwise, it is all up to mom and dad to let me know how the kid is doing. How did Chick manage to reach the age of 44 and not get this information?

A friend of mine has over 2000 pictures of his 10 month old on his website… 2000! Who needs that many pictures of their child? I doubt a moment of that kid’s life is not fully documented. But that is the job of the parent. There is no child as wonderful, smart, adorable, kind, giving, funny, or as original as your child. You are to torture your friends ad nauseam with these facts and we are to smile and coo and agree and be grateful to bask in the presence of your child.

My rant aside, I love hearing information about my friend’s kids. I do not have any, so I can live vicariously through them. The wall in my office is covered with pictures of kids from friends, faculty and co-workers—proud parents all. And when they tell me of colic, tantrums and unfortunate potty training incidents, I can tell them how sorry I am for them and thank God it is not me…

I still have not heard from Chick that they are home, or even what the baby’s name is. However, through a friend, someone told me the baby’s name. I would tell you, but it is a secret…


Addendum: I am supposed to see Chick tonight… if she does not bring the kid or have pictures of said child, I am officially referring to that child as “Suri”. (7/21/06)

Addendum to the Addendum: Chick never showed that evening... left a voicemail stating that "she" (the baby) would go off "her" schedule and that "she" can get pretty cranky and throw Chick and her husband's schedule off. She never mentioned the kid's name. I am officially referring to the child as Suri. And I am yet again expecting to see Chick this weekend, so this may all change... we shall see (8/4/06)

*Not his real name, although I constantly call him that, so it's close enough.
**Oddly enough, that is her name… (I kid. It’s not. Seriously, it’s not… it’s another Chick you’re thinking of…)
***Which I will totally do. What can I say? It’s in the job description…

Come Join My Birthday Pity Party!

Today is my birthday... I'm 42. Good Lord, I was hoping for so much more by this age. When I was a kid, I used to think of what I would be like when I was older. I turned 36 in the year 2000 and that was sort of the benchmark for me growing up: "What will I be like at 36?"

I thought I'd be married (ha!--remember, I was a kid...) and that I'd have a really cool job like, oh, managing an office at some cool company like IBM, or something. Yeah, that was the dream... (remember, it was the 70's and that was a cool dream. I never said it was a GROOVY dream, just a cool one--I was raised by Republicans, so my view of the world is skewed.)

And my birthday's would be these wild and fun celebrations and all my (hundreds) of friends would be there--it would be wild.

It all flashed on me in the middle of my SafeServ sanitation class tonight as I was trying to stay awake--it's interesting, but I'm tired.* There I was, single me sitting in a class wondering what turn did I make that brought me here? Sure, I feel my life is finally on track again, but when the fuck did it get so off track?

Needless to say, there was no surprise party or any other such "event" for my birthday... Oh, poor me--Lebanon is in ruins, Israel is attacking everyone, Iraq could not be any closer to a civil war if Abe Lincoln were president and I'm feeling sorry for myself. At least I have my sense of perspective: it's all about me!

Or, it could be because, in my state of self pity I came home, opened up a bottle of my delicious** bottle of Limocello and, after two glasses, I am feeling no pain. Happy birthday to me, indeed!




*No, really, it is interesting. You're reading about a man who, after taking this class, will never again eat ground beef, never go to a fast-food restaurant, and will never look at an egg the same way again. But, you... you go on and enjoy your meal. I'll just prepare for your inevitable doom....

**If I do say so myself--and I do. Damn, this shit is g-o-o-o-d! Mmmmm... lemony-alcohol.

Ciao!

My friends Becky and Joe Robbins are leaving California after ten years and moving to Italy. Italy. Friggin’ Italy.

I’m not sure if I wrote about them before, but they are an adorable couple that I have known for almost eight years. Becky and I used to work together when I first started here and we have kept in touch over the years.

She and her husband, Joe (what a cutie) have a painting business in Concord (the SF Bay Area) and through that they got on the Home & Garden TV show Landscape Smart this year. I guess business has been good because they recently made the decision to move to Italy. It seems that all my friends are moving to Europe! I guess there are worse places to live (like Concord).

They are moving to Sestri Levante on the Mediterranean coast of Italy. As I find out what they intend to do for a living in Italy, I will let you know and if you are so inclined to visit the lovely city of Sestri Levante, you can look them up.

It is a strange thing with friends, when they live close, you do not have to see each other all the time and that is okay. However, the second they move far away, you miss them all the time...

In the meantime, check out the picture above and enjoy the view…

Unfortunate Surprise!

Far be it from me to be an expert on what is sexy… although, I am an expert on porn: lovely, wonderful, filthy, dirty porn. However, today I was perusing a wonderful site (full of lovely images of wonderful men doing filthy things, making me feel deliciously dirty) and I came across this picture:

I mean, honestly…. THAT is sexy? No, no my friends. That is desperation! That is not lovely, wonderful, filthy or dirty… that is just freaky-weird is what that is. What the hell did the photographer say to him?

“Okay, Ed* I want you to give me your sexiest turn… and when you do—surprise me!”

I’m sure the photographer was surprised at that… who wouldn’t be? I’m positive that he was so surprised he ran out of the studio screaming. Yet, it managed to make it onto a porn site. There were hundreds (thousands?) of pictures on this site, one hot, hunky man after another… and then “Surprise!”

Who was the genius that thought this needed to be included on the site? Did they only have 49,999 pictures and needed just one more to put them over the top? Do they buy pictures in bulk and this was just snuck in?

What must his friends think?
“Hey, Ed** nice pictures of you on that porn site… but that one…”
“Which one?” Ed*** asks incredulously.
“Surprise!” another friend chimes in sarcastically.
Ed looks down, dejected, “He said to surprise him…”
“Sweetie,” his fag hag friend says stroking his shoulder (but not really wanting to touch him because she’s finally over this whole fag-hag thing and wants to find a guy she can have a real relationship with—sex, damnit! She wants sex!), “that’s not surprise—that’s more of an attack…”
“Closer to molestation…” added another friend, not being helpful in the least.

Anyhow, I’m sure Ed (but really Jim) is really embarrassed about the whole thing, but it’s out there, you know? The whole world is going to see his "surprise."

You know, if that weren’t bad enough, what most his mother think? You’re child poses nude… where did you go wrong? Your child poses nude for a gay website… who’s to blame? (Father? Cousin? Neighbor? Priest?) Your child does a poses nude and looks like that? Now that is an unfortunate surprise.





*I’m sure that’s not his real name. His real name is probably Dick but that wouldn’t be right for a porn star, would it?

**Still not his real name…

***You got this, right? I don’t have to keep telling you, right? (By the way... his real name is Jim, don't ask me how I know...)

Does This Make Me a 'Girl-Drink Drunk'?

You Are an Appletini

Most of the time, you're a typical party guy. But when you get super sauced, you really up your sex appeal.

What Mixed Drink Are You?

Last Dance, Last Chance…


Culinary school begins next week, so my last hurrah going out on a Sunday was last night. Since today is a semi-holiday (it’s Fourth of July Eve!), I could stay out really late and have some great fun.*

I called my buddy Scotty (not to be confused with Scooter—two different Scotts… and neither is Scottish—interesting, no?**) Scotty tends to be a bit more shy and I make attempts to get him to come out of his shell and join in the big gay fun.

Oddly enough, I am secretly shy myself, so it is a fierce internal struggle to fake being confident and not to curl up in a ball in the corner of the bar. As I walk into any bar I have to make “deals” with myself: “Okay, two beers and you have to stay for at least an hour…” or “I will make myself talk to one person…” I’m sure it’s very attractive walking up to the bar, whispering to myself. Very, very attractive. With two outspoken blokes like us heading into a bar, only fun and happiness can ensue.

In my limited bar experience, I find that I spend most of my time just standing there, muttering to myself to go talk to guys who look over, see me muttering to myself and they run. Literally. They see me look over and take off in a full-on run. I spend a lot of times in bars standing by myself watching people race by.

We got ourselves worked up watching the Superman Returns, the new Superdude is pretty hot and Scotty was openly drooling over him through the whole movie. He kept muttering, “Oh my God!” practically every time the man from Krypton was on the screen. When Jor-El’s boy’s little outfit got ripped off, Scotty squealed. No shit. Girly squeal. People moved. No… they left, actually. Parents gathered their children and left. I felt like a leper… Since I was already an outcast, why not head over to the bar right away?

We get to the bar—located in beautiful downtown Oakland in what I am sure can only be described as the “crime-ridden underbelly district” of the city. We head upstairs and the bar is doing some brisk business. Immediately I am thinking with this many people, we are bound to meet (meat?) someone.

I order beers for Scotty and I—and I ask the cute bartender (the amazingly hot, buffed and perfectly hairy-chested Adrian) if the beer bust is going on (“All you can drink for $6!”) and he looks at me like I just asked him to put his shirt back on. Then he looks past me to Scotty and says, “Hi, I haven’t seen you before…” Adrian has never said that to me—even when I was new. Adrian and Scotty start chatting and the next thing you know, he offers Scotty (and I) the beer bust!

With drinks in hand, I saw a friend of a friend (who I mistakenly—and consistently—refer to as “Cole”), so I went over and said hello, chatted for a bit and went back to Scotty, who looked like an wounded tuna surrounded by sharks… they were literally circling. Every guy was checking out Scotty, the leper (“hello—me!”) was pretty much left alone. Scotty would walk up to the bar and Adrian would walk away from prepping some other guy’s drink to help him. Whenever I went up to the bar is when Adrian decided he needed to clean out the drains…

It went on like this all night long. To make matters worse, I was the designated driver, so I could not drown my sorrows in alcohol… delicious, mind-numbing, alcohol.

Cole, who has never spoken to me other than when prompted by his friends or when I make the first gesture, comes over to introduce himself. (I swear I showered and I can’t get any freakin’ love?!) “We’ll show you around,” Cole winked to Scotty. Thanks for not showing me around, Cole!

Scotty, shy-shy Scotty, was practically sprawled on the bar flirting with Adrian when I had finally had enough. The three guys around the bar that I had simultaneously been checking out all night*** had each found someone and were leaving—not one of them even looked in my direction… they all looked towards Scotty. I somehow thought they were looking at me from across the room, however, I achieved the one thing I longed for in locker rooms: I was invisible.

I walked up to Scotty and told him I was going to the bathroom and we would be leaving. Adrian gave me the look of death. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he was too cute. (damnit!)

When I came out of the bar, Adrian was out from behind the bar hugging Scotty goodbye. It was like the final scene of Casablanca. I can not say for certain, but Adrian quite possibly had tears in his eyes. They exchanged numbers and I am sure they will be happy.

A little hungry and probably a teeny bit drunk we decided to drive over to Taco Bell (I said I was the designated driver, I did not say I was a good one). One bite of my Burrito Supreme and it exploded down my shirt. That shit is hot! I dropped Scotty off at his place and drove home reeking of ‘supreme sauce’ (and not the good kind, if you know what I mean… Eww. Even I found that offensive).

So my last chance at getting some lovin’ (or a good grope) until I am out of school next year is gone. On the plus side, being as invisible as I was last night, when I go back, Adrian will think I am new!






*Meaning: I could get laid and not worry about getting up in the morning.
**I didn’t think so, but it never hurts to ask...
***There are always three:
Number 1: The guy I really, really want, but could never get
Number 2: The guy I think is adorable, but will most likely end up with number one, or someone that is wrong I am blinded.
Number 3: The guy I am most likely to get. (I should take this opportunity to note that in New Orleans, I managed to get my Number 1 choice TWICE! I fucking love New Orleans…)

Letter from Norway

My dear friend Michele and her adorable husband Ian have moved to Norway. Why, you may ask... hell if I know. I guess they thought it would be fun to live where the winters are very, very dark and bitterly cold. Sounds like paradise to me.

Anyway, Michele and I have been corresponding and below is a bit of her response to an email I sent last week. She's a fricken crack-up and it's obvioius from the letter why I love her so: she's sweet and funny--a combo you don't find too often.

Hi Chris!!!!

Oh my god, thank you for your note. It is really nice to hear from you! I don't mean that in a "Why don't you ever write kind of way," but in a "I-don'-t-keep-in-touch-thank-you-for-remembering-me" kind of way. And I am so sorry I have not written! I have not had regular access to a computer or a consistent internet connection for the last six weeks and it's been driving right around the bend! Any feelings of isolation and loneliness I have felt since I got here have been compounded, in a terrible way, by not being able to say "howdy" to my friends via email. Anyway, we now have internet installed and, on Monday, our cargo container arrived (YEAH!!!), so I even have my PC now, so should be able to start writing and responding to email more regularly. Wow! So amazing!

Chris, I have so much to tell you about all of the things that I have experienced since I got here! Unfortunately, it's, like, 10:30pm now and I have had a couple of glasses of wine and am finding it difficult to type.... The Draconian Norwegian alcohol laws may have contributed to my sadly decreasing level of tolerance, which is an occurrence of tragic proportions, but, whatever the reason, I am unable to communicate coherently at this moment. It's okay, though---my pent-up mumblings about life in Norway can wait another day or two, for sure. :-)

I'm sorry as well that I have not forwarded to you pictures of any Norwegians hot hunks of burning love. There are a couple of reasons: 1) the sightings of such HHBL are sadly rare (!!??); and, 2) when I do see one, I don't have my camera with me. I'll try to be more diligent in the future. Would you believe me if I said that, when I see a stone-cold babe, I totally think of you? It's true, it really is.

I miss you very much, and miss communicating with you on a semi-regular basis. I am really hoping that, now that I have my machine back, I'll be boring you with Nordic news ASAP. Aren't you the lucky one? :-)

Ian and I are okay, although currently too busy for our own comfort. The container arriving is a good thing, a marvelous thing, but the unpacking, moving, and organizing of all of our stuff is exhausting at best. And, sadly, my "honeymoon-I-love-Noway" phase is over, as the fun, shiny newness of the experience has worn off. The annoying, "different" things that were interesting four weeks ago are now just irritating. Isn't that sad? It's kind of like dating, isn't it? The first month can be quite excellent, and, then, oh god, the snoring, the farting, the nose noises, the bizarre sexual demands, the emotional baggage...you know what I'm talking about. Okay, so Norway hasn't made any strange sexual demands of me yet, but she is snoring and farting and emptying my pockets at an alarming rate that is ebbing away at my initial lust for her. Taxing, tea-totaling, expensive bitch!!! I tire of you!

Anyway, more details later, I promise. Ian and I are going to Britain this weekend for family stuff, but will be back on Monday and I will write more then.

So, please, write again soon! :-) I love you, and hope you are well. And, again, that is so awesome that you are starting school next week. Good on you for following your passions. If only the California courts said that same thing....

I'll send pictures soon, too! Thank you for writing! I'll write again soon!
--Michele

It's All About Keeping Perspective...

Hmmm, let’s scan the headlines and see what’s going on in the world, shall we?

“Israel and Palestine…” Like that isn’t new… “Guantanamo…” Blah, blah, blah
“Gains on terrorists…” Whatever. “Not enough National Guardsman to patrol borders…” At least the price of fruit won’t be going up. “Flooding in the East?” It’s just water, come on—what’s the big deal? “Corporate corruption?” Like that’s new. “Kid dies at DisneyWorld…” Didn’t that just happen last month…?

Come on! Where’s the real news. Wait. Did I miss something? Was there something important in the headlines? Yes, I did! Rob Schneider is okay? He collapsed on a movie set? My God! Call Entertainment Tonight! Get that alcoholic guy from Access Hollywood! Call Larry King! Wait! Better get Anderson Cooper for this breaking story, because this… this is important!

Yes, that is the actual headline section from Comcast.

Breakfast of Champions



Far be it from me to judge someone else’s habits… but since you probably know me by now, you know I am going to do it anyhow.

My co-worker and friend Scooter has this thing he likes to call “The Process.”* Every morning he buys an English Muffin at our cafeteria and toasts it. (That’s not the weird part… keep reading.) While it is toasting, he takes three—not one, not two, but three!—pats of foil-wrapped butter and holds them between his palms to warm them. (still not the weird part… keep going).

Half-way through the toasting process, he pops the muffin up and rotates it 180 degrees to ensure it is properly toasted on both top and bottom. Everything he does with this process is specific and timed. God help you if you slow him down… (Yeah, yeah, ‘strange’ but not really weird. I’m telling you, keep reading).

Once his muffin has been properly toasted (which, much to my chagrin is not a euphemism for anything), he puts the muffin on a paper plate and tops it with another paper plate (to “seal in” the warmth) and then tops that with the pats of butter (to further soften the butter). Again, all significant and integral parts of “The Process.” (And yes, still odd, and even a bit strange… but it gets weirder).

We are now at a time-critical juncture as Scooter must get back to his office so that his muffin is still warm, where he can put on the 1 ½ pats of butter per slice and eat while it is still at “prime temperature.”

This morning, L-Man ran into a problem with his breakfast and had to walk over to the cashier. Scooter left us to rush his English muffin back to his office. Scooters reason being the time it took L-Man to return the (not vegetarian)vegetarian burrito**—less than two minutes—“The Process” would be interrupted. (That’s it! That’s where it zoomed into freaky-weird country! You leave your friends because you have to ‘rush’ your English muffin back to your office? Dude, that’s just freaky fucking bizarre--we're talking about a flimsy English muffin! A danish? I might understand. An actual muffin? Maybe. But you have got to get those little nooks and crannies back to your office? Totally fucking bizarre).

Contrast that to me: I stop by the “El Crapito” toaster oven in the break room on my way to the shower in the morning and toss in my English muffin for about 10 minutes. The oven sucks, so it is always a crap-shoot as to whether my muffin will come out slightly toasted or burned beyond recognition. Frankly, I like the burned bits—they are little bits of heaven if you ask me***—so I can deal with whatever L’il Toaster Oven From Hell gives me.

When I come by for it on my way back to my office I can tell by the smoke content in the air just how burnt my English muffin is. For me, the critical point in my “process” is whether or not to dunk. Actually, that is answered by the toaster oven: if said muffin is burnt to a crisp, I need to dunk; otherwise I don’t. Sometimes I reverse that just to keep myself alert.

I guess we all have our odd morning processes, so I really should not judge someone else’s process as weird. Then again, some processes are just bat-shit insane and I have got to say something.

And don't even get me started on what he does with Australian Toaster Biscuits...






* I like to call it “weird.”
** aka: Vegetarian Burrito with ham! Did I mention the caterers in our cafeteria are the worst? They are.
*** You didn’t but I’m telling you anyhow.

Girl, What You Done Now?




I haven't had a chance to read the article, but look at the little blub from Google: "Calif. Port Closed Amid Possible Threat" and then a picture of Miss Oprah Winfrey right next to it. Never under estimate the power of Miss Winfrey...

Back from New Orleans


I'm back from New Orleans! Did you miss me? Did you know I was gone?

I had an amazing time in Nawlins... the people were so incredibly friendly, and so appreciative that we were visiting.

There is much to tell about the weekend (especially about "Killer Eyes Brian" and "Hottie Jim")--but I've got to go through the 400 pictures I took on the trip and upload them to flickr.

I'll write more later, but have to say that New Orleans is such a wonderful city--despite the word you hear on the news, it is safe to travel there and the French Quarter is up and running full steam (speaking of steam: Good Lord, it is hot down there. Seriously, seriously hot. Tarzan kinda hot...).

In the meantime, dream of a Cafe au lait and declicious Beignets...

Enough with the Bitching...


I've complained enough for a while, so here's a little diversion for all you kids: You get to play Jackson Pollack (without the drinking and the car accident). Drag your cursor around and the paint will "drip." Click on the mouse and the color changes. Above is the amazing "painting" I "created" with my "talent."

Enjoy yourselves (feel free to email me your results, I'd like to see what kind of "talent" my reader(s?) have).

“Is it liberal commie feminist radical bullshit to expect the leader of our country to act with some degree of statesman-like decorum when speaking in public?”

I read this comment on an article about Dubya kidding a blind reporter about wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day… Could he be more of an ass? I shouldn’t ask that, because every time I think ‘he can’t do any more damage,’ he does.



If A Girl Isn’t Pretty…

This made me smile…

Give 'em Hell, Harry

I can't say I agree with everything Senator Harry Reid has to say in this speech, but he's right on one thing: the Marriage Amendment is nothing more than a diversion from all the problems of the Bush Administration.

“Thank You…”

When I was a child and some generous family friend or relative gave me a gift, I had to make the dreaded ‘thank you phone call.’ It was usually to some relative we did not see too often and I had little interest in talking to them when they were in the room, much less on the phone. As a kid, trying to talk to any adult on the phone was difficult, talking to an adult you had no interest in was absolute agony.

For group gifts it was easier: mom would dial and one by one, my brothers, sister and I would take the phone and talk to our benefactor. I liked going last because I could glean the blest from their remarks and come up with something clever… until they asked a question.

If prepared, I can answer anything. Unprepared, I can not tell you what time it is with a digital clock in hand. I tend to go blank when any questions are asked. Even if I raise my hand, once called upon my brain locks up and I forget why I have my hand in the air.

After a couple of years it became a bit easier. I learned to wait for them to ask questions like “What have you been up to?” and the always classic “How is school?” I knew the answers to these and robotically would repeat the same answers each and every conversation.* I knew never to ask a question as that would only prolong the conversation.

I never felt free to tell them what I wanted to talk about: How my favorite summer activities were playing cars in the dirt, and sitting around in the big cherry tree in the back (but not the smaller ones), eating cherries and seeing how many pits I could keep in my mouth without swallowing (26… I believe it’s a neighborhood record). I wanted to talk about how Carol Burnett was the funniest show ever and that along with Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart Saturday night was the best night for television. How lying on our side lawn in the dark, staring up at the stars in the night sky with my friends around me was the best feeling ever. No one ever asked and I never thought to bring it up. Besides, without knowing they were going to deviate from the standard questions ahead of time, I wouldn’t have known how to answer (why no one ever thought of submitting questions in advance was beyond me).

However, on rare and lucky occasions, I would call and get the answering machine! No stilted conversation. No awkward silences. Just pure “Thank you so much for the gift, I love it. I’m sorry you weren’t home, maybe I’ll try again another time.” Meaining: “Maybe I’ll try and miss you again next year!”

However, I think they were equally grateful they did not have to talk to me. Seriously, they knew the answers to the questions as much as I knew what questions were coming. Something tells me Uncle Frank was screening his calls…

Today I got home and there was a phone message from my niece and nephews thanking me for their birthday gifts. The phone was dutifully passed around from one to the next and the relief that they did not have to actually speak to me was evidently clear.

Even though they are teenagers the message they left varied only slightly from the messages they left when they were little kids. They still have not figured out the best way to say thank you and avoid any kind of awkward silences or painfully stilted voicemails. A lesson taught to me by my mother when I was ten and it is a brilliantly simple idea that continues to serve me well: get out a piece of paper and write a thank you note.




*Answer to Question #1: “Not much.”
Answer to Question #2: “Fine.”

I’d like to thank The Academy…

I got a notice from Site Meter today that I have hit 15,000 unique hits to my website. Wow, 15,000 people stopped by, said “what the hell…?” and then promptly left. God bless you all.

Seriously, I must thank Brad Beckett’s Boys for Breakfast and my beloved Evil Gay Lawyer who bring in the most eyes from other sites. Of course, no thank you list would be complete without thanking Giada De Laurentiis and her ample bosom, and for those perverts who are constantly seeking them out.

Speaking of perverts, I guess I should thank you for searching for “Giada De Laurentiis farted,” “Slap Sex,” “Slap BOOBS,” “Chris Evans nude” (if only…), with special thanks for the various versions of “slap” and the weird combination therein: including: slap ponies, “slap onions,” “tickle sadist,” “tickle fight,” and “Elmo”—sans “tickle.”*

I can’t forget my gays! Yes, for those of you on “shirtless” Google hunts for Anderson Cooper, Chris Evans, Rob Marciano, Jake Gyllenhaal, Tyler Florence and Derek Cruise. Thank you for your perverted searches.

For my gay and fellow perverts, I’m including the above picture. However, I cropped off his ‘attributes’ for propriety’s sake.** However, if you really want the nudie pic, (and I think you do… wow) email me and I’ll send it to you. Although, I will probably note it in a future blog: “Hey, guess who wanted the naked pic of Men at Play’s Jason?” Yep, I’m a dick…

Again, thank you for stopping by and glancing at my blog—and if you have actually read an article—a big kiss. If you posted a comment, I owe you…***

Finally, in order to obtain 30,000 hits, I would just like to state the following: Anderson Cooper NAKED and shirtless. Giada De Laurentiis Boobs! Tyler Florence naked! (Oh, how I wish). Dishonest, but I’m a hit-whore… or is it a Slap whore? Who knows? I do know this: someone will probably search for “slap whore” and—God bless the little perv—he’ll stop on by…





*That really shouldn’t be in the “slap” group, but I’m giddy with my 15K, so fuck it.

**Why start now, you ask? Gotta start somewhere…

***Call me… we can work something out (if you know what I mean)^


^And I know you know what I mean…

Image ©2006 Men at Play

When The President Was A True World Leader

"The United States, as the world knows, will never start a war. We do not want a war. We do not now expect a war. This generation of Americans has already had enough - more than enough - of war and hate and oppression. We shall be prepared if others wish it. We shall be alert to try to stop it. But we shall also do our part to build a world of peace where the weak are safe and the strong are just. We are not helpless before that task or hopeless of its success. Confident and unafraid, we labor on – not toward a strategy of annihilation but toward a strategy of peace."

John F. Kennedy
Commencement Address at American University
Washington, D.C.
June 10, 1963


What the hell happened to us?

The Buzz: The Optical Inch


I’m stumbling through the internet and I come across a link for the Philips Bodygroom. What a brilliant ad campaign. Rather than walk around the issue of shaving private areas, the bathrobe-wearing, “Puddy-like” spokesman speaks frankly, but they bleep the words with hysterical results.

It’s a very clever and funny campaign for what some people might consider embarrassing. The kicker? They even have a music video…

As the spokesman warns, “The longer you wait, the longer your pubes get.” I’ll be picking one up tomorrow so I can be clean and smooth:

A Very Skanky Brady

According to Contact Music.com Peter Brady (Christopher Knight) is going to marry that skank Adrianne Curry this weekend in what is described as a “gothic themed” wedding.

First, themed weddings are, to say the least, the most heinous things ever. Wait, let me go back a step: first, weddings are pretty annoying—everyone wants to get to the party and a theme is just going to slow that down. Say your damn vows quickly and get that open bar pouring.*

Now, let’s look at this “gothic theme”: It’s not Halloween, people, it’s a fucking wedding. You will never look this good again—and neither will the guests, so guys will wear suits, women lovely dresses and if everyone’s lucky, we all get laid. No one looks good in ‘gothic’. People wear that gothic crap because they don’t look good in anything else. They consider this a rebellion and wearing black isn’t enough, they have to be monochrome—pasty white skin and everything else nasty, nasty black. Lovely and charming, isn’t it?

Adrianne, true to her trashy roots, wanted her wedding dress to be all black—but settled on cream so as to not break her grandmother’s heart. Right. She doesn’t care about her grandmother, this is typical bride “I’m the prettiest” mentality. Each bridesmaid will be wearing a “blood-red dress… and will carry black roses.” (Klassy!) You know she told those poor bridesmaids that they could wear the dress again—probably to Adrianne’s funeral when she tells the girls they have to pay for their own dresses and the dyeing of the shoes…

Attending the wedding will be Greg (Barry Williams) and Cindy (Susan Olsen). What, are Jan and Bobby too busy to attend? And what about Marcia (Marcia, Marcia)?

More importantly, what does Carol think of this? “Oh, Mike… what are we going to do?” I can’t imagine Mr. Brady coming up with a better solution than to bury her under the carport: “She’s a whore and it’s got to be done.” Sadly, Mike is dead and can’t help Peter get out of this one. Come to think of it, I didn’t see Carol’s name on the invitation list, either. What is this, some sort of anti-Brady conspiracy? She’ll marry a Brady, but doesn’t want to be a part of the family?

This is not groovy, this is not groovy at all.

There has been no word if Alice will attend, on a happier note however, Sam the butcher is catering.

Ten bucks says that she has Tiger put to sleep within three days…





*A wedding without an open bar is one that will quickly be forgotten.

Look into my eyes...


Can you imagine being as beautiful as this guy? I have been lost in his eyes for the last hour and a half and I thought I would share him. I'm torn between being in awe of his beauty and jealous that I will never look like him or date someone as cute.

Look at him! He is so lovely looking... the fucking bastard. I hate him... (but I love him SO much.) Another day in paradise...

FTW?

There is an interesting article in The New York Times about the number of people naming their daughters Neveah—which is Heaven spelled backwards. This is catching on with a number of people that think it is somehow religious to name your child backwards…

Call me crazy—or in this case yzarc—but by naming them backwards, are you not saying they are the opposite of that? Sure, kids are little devils, but heaven backwards is hell to me. Again, maybe I’m just dumb (bmud).

Whenever there are fads like these, they quickly get twisted by people that want to screw with the idea as much as possible, to play on the self-righteous idiots and there, so I’m waiting for someone to name their child Rekcuf or Dratsab. I think they are fitting for both boys and girls.

Of course, this begs the question, is it Rehtom Rekcuf or Rekcuf Rehtom? If I’m going to do this, I want to do it in the best way elbissop.

NYT Da Vinci Code Review


This is the New York Times review of The Da Vinci Code, written by A. O. Scott. This is brilliant and hysterical writing. I am totally using this without permission, but let me just say that more people should be reading The New York Times. You can register for free and read more great writing like this.


A 'Da Vinci Code' That Takes Longer to Watch Than Read
By A.O. Scott
Published: May 17, 2006

CANNES, France, May 17 — It seems you can't open a movie these days without provoking some kind of culture war skirmish, at least in the conflict-hungry media. Recent history — "The Passion of the Christ," "The Chronicles of Narnia" — suggests that such controversy, especially if religion is involved, can be very good business. "The Da Vinci Code," Ron Howard's adaptation of Dan Brown's best-selling primer on how not to write an English sentence, arrives trailing more than its share of theological and historical disputation.

The arguments about the movie and the book that inspired it have not been going on for millennia — it only feels that way — but part of Columbia Pictures' ingenious marketing strategy has been to encourage months of debate and speculation while not allowing anyone to see the picture until the very last minute. Thus we have had a flood of think pieces on everything from Jesus and Mary Magdalene's prenuptial agreement to the secret recipes of Opus Dei, and vexed, urgent questions have been raised: Is Christianity a conspiracy? Is "The Da Vinci Code" a dangerous, anti-Christian hoax? What's up with Tom Hanks's hair?

Luckily I lack the learning to address the first two questions. As for the third, well, it's long, and so is the movie. "The Da Vinci Code," which opened the Cannes Film Festival on Wednesday, is one of the few screen versions of a book that may take longer to watch than to read. (Curiously enough Mr. Howard accomplished a similar feat with "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" a few years back.)

To their credit the director and his screenwriter, Akiva Goldsman (who collaborated with Mr. Howard on "Cinderella Man" and "A Beautiful Mind"), have streamlined Mr. Brown's story and refrained from trying to capture his, um, prose style. "Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair." Such language — note the exquisite "almost" and the fastidious tucking of the "which" after the preposition — can live only on the page.

To be fair, though, Mr. Goldsman conjures up some pretty ripe dialogue all on his own. "Your God does not forgive murderers," Audrey Tautou hisses to Paul Bettany (who play a less than enormous, short-haired albino). "He burns them!"

Theology aside, this remark can serve as a reminder that "The Da Vinci Code" is above all a murder mystery. And as such, once it gets going, Mr. Howard's movie has its pleasures. He and Mr. Goldsman have deftly rearranged some elements of the plot (I'm going to be careful here not to spoil anything), unkinking a few over-elaborate twists and introducing others that keep the action moving along.

Hans Zimmer's appropriately overwrought score, pop-romantic with some liturgical decoration, glides us through scenes that might otherwise be talky and inert. The movie does, however, take a while to accelerate, popping the clutch and leaving rubber on the road as it tries to establish who is who, what they're doing and why.

Briefly stated: An old man (Jean-Pierre Marielle) is killed after hours in the Louvre, shot in the stomach, almost inconceivably, by a hooded assailant. Meanwhile Robert Langdon (Mr. Hanks), a professor of religious symbology at Harvard, is delivering a lecture and signing books for fans. He is summoned to the crime scene by Bezu Fache (Jean Reno), a French policemen who seems very grouchy, perhaps because his department has cut back on its shaving cream budget.

Soon Langdon is joined by Sophie Neveu, a police cryptographer and also — Bezu Fache! — the murder victim's granddaughter. Grandpa, it seems, knew some very important secrets, which if they were ever revealed might shake the foundations of Western Christianity, in particular the Roman Catholic Church, one of whose bishops, the portly Aringarosa (Alfred Molina) is at this very moment flying on an airplane. Meanwhile the albino monk, whose name is Silas and who may be the first character in the history of motion pictures to speak Latin into a cellphone, flagellates himself, smashes the floor of a church and kills a nun.

A chase, as Bezu's American colleagues might put it, ensues. It skids through the nighttime streets of Paris and eventually to London the next morning, with side trips to a Roman castle and a chateau in the French countryside. Along the way the film pauses to admire various knickknacks and art works, and to flash back, in desaturated color, to traumatic events in the childhoods of various characters (Langdon falls down a well; Sophie's parents are killed in a car accident; Silas stabs his abusive father).
There are also glances further back into history, to Constantine's conversion, to the suppression of the Knights Templar and to that time in London when people walked around wearing powdered wigs.

Through it all Mr. Hanks and Ms. Tautou stand around looking puzzled, leaving their reservoirs of charm scrupulously untapped. Mr. Hanks twists his mouth in what appears to be an expression of professorial skepticism and otherwise coasts on his easy, subdued geniality. Ms. Tautou, determined to ensure that her name will never again come up in an Internet search for the word "gamine," affects a look of worried fatigue.

In spite of some talk (a good deal less than in the book) about the divine feminine, chalices and blades, and the spiritual power of sexual connection, not even a glimmer of eroticism flickers between the two stars. Perhaps it's just as well. When a cryptographer and a symbologist get together, it usually ends in tears.

But thank the deity of your choice for Ian McKellen, who shows up just in time to give "The Da Vinci Code" a jolt of mischievous life. He plays a wealthy and eccentric British scholar named Leigh Teabing. (I will give Mr. Brown this much: he's good at names. If I ever have twins or French poodles, I'm calling them Bezu and Teabing for sure.)

Hobbling around on two canes, growling at his manservant, Remy (Jean-Yves Berteloot), Teabing is twinkly and avuncular one moment, barking mad the next. Sir Ian, rattling on about Italian paintings and medieval statues, seems to be having the time of his life, and his high spirits serve as something of a rebuke to the filmmakers, who should be having and providing a lot more fun.

Teabing, who strolls out of English detective fiction by way of a Tintin comic, is a marvelously absurd creature, and Sir Ian, in the best tradition of British actors slumming and hamming through American movies, gives a performance in which high conviction is indistinguishable from high camp. A little more of this — a more acute sense of its own ridiculousness — would have given "The Da Vinci Code" some of the lightness of an old-fashioned, jet-setting Euro-thriller.

But of course movies of that ilk rarely deal with issues like the divinity of Jesus or the search for the Holy Grail. In the cinema such matters are best left to Monty Python. In any case Mr. Howard and Mr. Goldsman handle the supposedly provocative material in Mr. Brown's book with kid gloves, settling on an utterly safe set of conclusions about faith and its history, presented with the usual dull sententiousness.

So I certainly can't support any calls for boycotting or protesting this busy, trivial, inoffensive film. Which is not to say I'm recommending you go see it.


If I could see Poseidon twice*, I can see this once.



*Yeah, I saw it twice—have you seen Josh Lucas’ eyes? Beautiful. And the ship turning over is worth seeing again. Other than that, don’t think about it much because it really wasn’t that great (but neither was the original and I’ve seen that several dozen times…)

Oh, The Humiliation

So, I was dating this guy* and things** were okay*** until he said something strange. I should note that he's kind of butch****, likes to race motorcycles, and seemed to be one tough hombre.

Then, after what I would call a rather unsatisfying session, it was all I could do not to say, "Just finish up, 24 starts in 15 minutes." Finally, in what I hoped would not be misenterpreted as "hurry the fuck up" I said, "What will help you get off?" (I know... subtle.) He looked at me and uttered those words I loathe to hear: "Humiliate me."

What. The. Fuck?

Had I been as quick thinking as Scooter, I would have said what he suggested: "Humiliate you? What kind of an idiot likes that? Oh, that's right, you do you f'ing pussy." Or some other bit of humiliation. Instead, I lamely put together some such statement that got him to the point where I could hand him a towel, put my pants on and go home.

I tend to blanch at dirty talk. How much is enough without going too far? I once knew a guy who thought that I wanted to "be [his] bitch." I didn't. The third time he yelled that in the span of a minute, I got off the sling, undid the handcuffs, pulled off the assless chaps and walked out. I have my pride, you know.*****

Butch Guy seemed somewhat normal--not normal in the idea that I would ever want a relationship with him, but normal enough to fool around every now and again.

I have not returned his phone calls in the last three weeks and don't forsee getting together with him anytime in the near future (the last time we got together it was at the Saratoga Hot Tubs. Ugh. Think of the sleaziest motel ever... and add a hot tub to the room---mmmmmm, can you smell the bleach and stale beer? Oh, yeah...)

Good thing I'm going back to school, otherwise I might begin to miss all the great sex I haven't been having...








*by "dating" I mean: meeting up for sex and then not seeing each other for a while...
**by "things" I mean: the sex...
***by "okay" I mean: we enjoyed ourselves, but nothing else was ever to be expected from this relationship...
****by "kind of" I mean: doesn't think of himself as gay as much as he thinks he's just having sex with a guy--go figure.
*****Total lie: never been in a sling, never worn assless chaps and have no pride whatsoever.

What Next...?

That’s it. I'm done. I'm finished. I am so fed up with the bungling of the Democratic party I can no longer support that (dis)organization.

Howard Dean continues to provide the worst leadership possible. Every time he opens his mouth another embarrassment spills forth. He whines, he complains, he offers nothing. His comments on the 700 Club prove he's incapable of understanding gay & lesbian issues (much less the platform of his own party).

As the Republican Party implodes, Democrats seem only to stand on the sidelines and either a) watch without comment, or b) open their mouths and prove themselves to be idiots. The only way we are going to gain seats in congress this year is because people are voting against the Republicans, not for the Democrats.

What are we offering, besides an opposition? The Democratic Party was the party of hope, of inclusion, of the future. The Democrats offered the Great Society. The Democrats were people like Roosevelt and Kennedy. Democrats lead the debate; lead the charge. Today, we stand around and lamely attempt to counter the Republicans… and almost always too little, too late.

They actually want to put up Hillary Clinton as a candidate for President. Why not just have Jeb Bush move into the White House now and save the expense? No one likes her—again, offers no solutions, but complains an awful lot. I’m sure the Democratic Party could find someone else with even less personality to run. Hey, what’s John Kerry up to?

Personally, I want to see Al Gore run. I want to see him run the way he wants to run—balls out, set the agenda and run. I read a great article on him in Slate recently—if that guy ran, that Al Gore—I would fight tooth and nail to get him elected.*

We seriously have got to get our act together because I don’t think the country can take 4 more years of the religious right setting the agenda. It’s time ALL of us got to be heard.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Slap & Tickle…





*I can’t find that article… if you know it, forward it to me, okay?

"If I had saved, I wouldn't be here."


Last week, I heard Martin Short speak on his new "one man show," Martin Short: Fame Becomes Me. It's in a pre-Broadway run (premiering on Broadway in August), and it is fantastic. The show will be travelling to a few more cities before New York and if you get the chance, I strongly urge you to see it.

The cast is amazingly talented... yeah, it's a one-man show with a cast. Nicole Parker from MadTV is in the cast and--as always--she's hysterical.

While the show is still being tweaked and there is one number I think should go ("12 Steps"), there are two numbers ("Big Titties" and "10:30 aka Big Black Woman Song") that you will be singing and laughing about long after the curtain drops.

All of Martin's characters appear, from Ed Grimley, to a hysterical bit with an audience member with Jiminy Glick. The man is 56 years old, but does some of the most amazing quick changes I have ever seen.

If you get a chance to see this, by all means, GO!

Dough Boy


“Dear Christopher…

“Congratulations! I am pleased to inform you that you have successfully completed all the necessary steps to be accepted as a student here at the Professional Culinary Institute.”

For the two of you who have been wondering why I have not been writing lately, it is because work has been a bear and—as you can see from the above letter I received on Thursday—I applied to culinary school... and have been working (successfully in this case) to get in.

The above picture is my final in a cake decorating class that I have been taking (but in no relation to PCI—just brushing up on some skills). My house is littered with fondant roses and leaves… as well as sugar, cornstarch, and a host of baking & pastry equipment.

My weeks of work and worrying have finally paid off and I am going to sleep in on Saturday. Originally, I thought to not set my alarm, but I am going to Martin Short’s “Fame Becomes Me” in San Francisco tomorrow night, so I need to be up by 1:00pm, so I will set my alarm for then. I will probably still wake up at 5:15am, but it’s the thought that I will be sleeping in that makes me feel all happy inside.

I’m looking forward to a peaceful and relaxing weekend without a care in the world… except for some light housekeeping and just how the hell am I going to pay for school?

Light at the End of the Tunnel

We are on a thousand day countdown until Bush leaves office... I'm sure he can still do so much more damage, but isn't it nice to know that we can now actively count the days until he is gone?

Of course, it would be so much nicer if Congress would do their job and indict, impeach & jail that treasonous bastar... (ahem) individual.

History is on Our Side


A real quick post... I have more to say (I always do), but I've got work to do. I just love Rolling Stone--not only for THIS article, but the Nick Lachey article is pretty great as well.

I have some stories from the weekend... hopefully, I'll post tonight. Happy Monday...

59 Things a Man Should Never Do Past 30

Esquire Magazine recently published the 59 things a man should never do past 30. I am past 30 (well past, some might say—to them I say, “fuck you.”). I thought I should check out this list and ensure that I am following the rules set forth by the magazine that reports they represent “man at his best.”

Let me begin by saying that these dudes are insane. No fireworks? No Disney ties? No “Peace out”?! I’m shocked at this list and I’m sure you will be as well.

Below is the list and my comment on their (insane) observations:


1. Coin his own nickname.
I guess you can all stop calling me “Mad Dog” (just as it was catching on…)

2. Use a wallet that is fastened with Velcro.
What if the Velcro has worn out and it no longer makes that ‘craytch’ sound?

3. Rank his friends in order of best, second best, and so on.
What about color rankings?

4. Hacky sack.
I couldn’t hacky-sack when I was young enough, I’m not going to do it now…

5. Name his penis his name plus junior.
But I can still name it… right?

6. Hang art with tape.
And how am I supposed to hang my “Hang in there!” kitty poster?

7. Hang The Scream, unless he stole it from the Munch museum in Oslo.
Shhhh! Tell no one. It looks great in my bathroom.

8. Ask a policeman, "You ever shoot anybody with that thing?"
Well, not when pointing to his gun…

9. Ask a woman, "Hey, you got a license for that ass?"
Guaranteed.

10. Skip.
I beg to differ… gay men can skip into their late 40’s…

11. Take a camera to a nude beach.
And just how am I supposed to take pictures of the nekkid peoples?

12. Let his father do his taxes.
But he enjoys it so…

13. Tap on the glass.
I need to get their attention somehow and tapping really works.

14. Shout out a response to "Are you ready to rock?"
Because, quite frankly, I’m always ready to rock and I think the band should know that. It’s only polite… they are there to put on a rock ‘n roll show, I should certainly be there to rock, correct? Plus, when someone asks you a direct question you should answer. So, when someone asks me if I’m ready to rock, damnit, I’m going to tell them so. As an added bonus, a big “Whooooo!” adds emphasis to my said excitement.)

15. Use the word collated on his resume.
Thankfully, ‘self starter’ is still good…

16. Hold a weekly house meeting with roommates.
But it makes me feel like I’m on Real World (I wanna be Puck!)

17. Name pets after Middle Earth characters.
How many dogs are named Bilbo Baggins?

18. Jokingly flash gang signs while posing for wedding photos.
Like I’m just going to stand there… sha…

19. Give shout-outs.
Oh no you di’in’t!

20. Use numbers in place of words or locations, such as "the 411" for information, or "the 313" for Detroit.
Sorry but I simply can’t go out and not give a shout-out to my peeps in the Four-Oh-Eight! Yo!

21. Hug amusement-park characters.
Mickey’s not going to hug himself…

22. Wear Disney-themed neckties.
Oh, just kick me why don’t you… Do they realize how many of these ties I own? It’s a significant investment. F’ that, I’m wearing them.

23. Wake up to a "morning zoo."
Not a problem…

24. Compare the trajectory of his life with those of the characters in Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."
Well, I haven’t gotten a divorce as a matter of course, but my life might just parallel Brenda and Eddie’s…

25. Request extra sprinkles.
Fuck that.

26. Air drum.
You have GOT to be kidding me! How can I not?! I’m also going to air-guitar, so let’s make sure that’s clear right here and know.

27. Choose 69 as his jersey number.
Heh… cool.

28. Eat Oreo cookies in stages.
It’s not a chocolate chip cookie… not a macaroon. It’s an Oreo. There are rules to eating an Oreo, and you don’t just chomp on them. They must be broken apart—OR (and this is a BIG OR)—you dunk them in milk, but they are not to just be chewed like any other cookie. That is just ridiculous. Honestly, who wrote this list, Osama Bin Laden?

29. Volunteer to be a magician's assistant.
And just why not? It could be fun.

30. Sleep on a bare mattress.
Ewww…

31. End a conversation with "later skater."
But goodbye is just so pedestrian…

32. Hold his lighter up at a concert.
If one is expected to hold up a lighter, then one should. Not during every power ballad, but there are times it is necessary.

33. Publicly greet friends by shouting, "What's up, you whore?"
What if my friends are whores? Whores are people, too. That’s bigotry, pure and simple.

34. Wear Converse All Stars with a tuxedo.
That’s not an ‘after 30’ thing, that’s a “you’re an asshole if you ever did that” thing…

35. Propose via stadium Jumbotron.
Hey, man. You can’t beat classy.

36. Decide anything based on the ruminations of Howard Stern.
Based on stuff Robin says is okay though…

37. Call "shotgun" before getting in a car.
How else am I going to claim that seat? Man, I’ve got quite a record in calling/getting shotgun.

38. Dispute someone else's call of "shotgun."
Seriously, stop bitching about it you guys. I got it fair and square. The fact that I tripped you has no bearing on this whatsoever…

39. Whine.
Come on… please… puh-leeeeeeze? It’s not fair!

40. Mist up during Aerosmith's "Dream On."
I guarantee nothing…

41. Purchase fireworks.
Well, that is just flat out wrong… I’m supposed to go through the Fourth of July with no fireworks? Blech…

42. Google the word vagina.
That goes without saying… ‘Penis’ is okay, right?

43. Ride a pony.
What the…? Oh. They meant literally “a pony.” Yeah, that makes sense…

44. Sport an ironic mustache.
Sadly, it’s the only thing I can do.

45. Hit 13 against a 6.
Doubling down on a pair of 2’s is okay…

46. Organize a party bus.
They don’t organize themselves…

47. Say "two points" every time he throws something in the trash.
If I’m far enough back, I claim three…

48. Buy a novelty postcard in another country of topless women on a beach and write, "Wish you were here" on it.
No, but I do like to send postcards of Alcatraz to friends with “Wish you were here” on them. Good times.

49. Keg stands.
I don’t like bending over… (for beer)

50. Purchase home-brewing paraphernalia.
Since I got it as a gift, it doesn’t count.

51. The John Travolta point-to-the-ceiling-point-to-the-floor dance move; also that one from Pulp Fiction.
Fine. Take a way two of my three dance moves… (bastards)

52. Put less than ten dollars' worth of gas in the tank.
That goes without saying since that’s putting in less than a gallon of gas…

53. Keep a minuscule amount of marijuana extremely well hidden.
Large batches should be hidden, small amounts can be someone visible…

54. Read The Fountainhead.
You said it… just rent it on Netflix.

55. Watch the Pink Floyd laser light show at a planetarium.
Like I could stay up that late…

56. Refer to his girlfriend's breasts as "the twins."
Not a problem…

57. Own a vanity plate.
I have to give up “HUNG 9”? Jeez…

58. Whippits.
Sucking helium out of a balloon is cool, right?

59. Say goodbye to anyone by tapping his chest and even so much as whispering, "Peace out."
Word.

The list was obviously written by someone under 30 and who knows nothing of being (slightly) older and how getting older doesn't mean you have to grow up. Later skaters!

And I Bet it Still Tasted Like Shit...


Pity poor Lance Nesta, not only did his aunt give him a fruit cake some 40 years ago, he recently found it in his attic. You just can't get rid of those things, no how hard one tries.

I've never fully understood fruitcake--I don't like the taste, the texture, nor the look of the thing, in fact, I don't know of anyone who does. Yet, people still make them... and force them upon others.

Johnny Carson used to say that there was only one fruitcake and it just got passed around from person to person. I tried to break that cycle by throwing them out, however, like the swallows returning to Capistrano, fruitcake seems to find its way back to my house.

Thankfully, I won’t have to worry about this for another 8 months, but it is something to think about. Of course, I could be like Lance and just stick it in the attic and forget about it…

It was 50 Years Ago Today...

...that my parents walked down the aisle...

...and they are still together! Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad!*

Over the years they have said that it was a lot of work to make a marriage work, but they always made it look easy. I can only hope to have been as good of a son as they have been parents.**




*They don't read this... are you kidding?! I talk about sucking body parts of other guys, I'm not going to share that with my parents--speaking of: I got laid the other night. Freaky stuff. Bizarre, actually. Will have to share some of the funnier aspects later (and they will be shared), but right now, it's all about the 'rents.

**I'm definitely stealing that for my toast tonight... (if any of my siblings are reading this and planning to steal it from me, know this: I have taken a meat butchering course (hasn't everyone?), so you have been warned.

When You Live on the Edge of a Continent

My co-worker (and budding author) Heather lives on the coast and when discusing the occasional perils of living here says, "That's the trade off for living on the edge of a continent." Below is a picture of the road slipping into the sea in front of her home (behind the trees) due to all the rain in the last month.*


However, the same week the road continued its descent into the sea, she took a picture of the sunset.


I have no doubt why she stays...**



*It's been like freakin' Seattle here! I'm pretty sick of all this rain. Sure, I enjoy the occasional rain and it's nice to have the resevoirs filled for a change, but enough is enough. I guess I need to do me some talkin' to the sun and tell him I don't like the way he gets things done.

**She also describes the house as "Twenty-dollar house; million dollar view." I disagree that the house isn't worth that much, but she is definitely right about the view.

How Could Anyone Vote for This Guy?



Seriously... how?

Now THIS is Scary


Forget about Osama and Saddam... these guys are truly scary fanatics... and they're coming for us.

My favorite: "By the end, one was left with the distinct impression that the organizers and participants in the conference spend far more time than the average gay person thinking about, talking about, and fantasizing about gayness. "

In discussion of "activist judges"this scary bit came up: Representative Todd Akin (R-Missouri) mused, “we haven’t impeached a judge in a while, it might be fun!” and outlined the strategy whereby conservative activists are beginning to generate lists of potentially impeachable offenses “as a warning” to judges: “Anything is an impeachable offense that Congress says it is, I guess,” he observed.

Scary stuff... very scary stuff.

Closing in on 8000!

I am just 100 visits away from 8000 hits on my site. Thank you so much for visiting! As always, I’m intrigued as to what brought you here—thanks to Site Meter, I know. I’m still a site for perverts and weirdos… God Bless each and every freaky one of you.

Of the 300 people that visited last week, over 2/3 were visiting from Brian Beckett’s Boys For Breakfast.

My beloved EGL managed only to bring in 5 visitors… what happened EGL? Is my love not strong enough? Or is your bad date effecting my readership? Damnit, man! Snap out of it!

Beating out EGL is the incredibly hot Chris Evans whose bulge is popular enough to have some 30 visitors specifically looking for it. It’s quite a bulge… he’s quite a guy.

Giada De Laurentiis still is on the list with a scan 10 visits looking for her boobs.

Oddest and most inappropriate search at Slap & Tickle goes to the strange freak (and I mean that in a nice way) that was looking for “midget boobs.” I’m not sure if that means a woman with small breasts, or if he (she?) is looking for a naked female little person. Who knows…?

Thank you all for stopping by.


Incidentally, this week is my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary. Hopefully, it will be interesting enough to discuss—but I’m not holding my breath.

Personality Test


Draw a pig and see what it says about you…

The test said that I’m a realist, a great listener, and have an “amazing sex life.”

None of this is remotely true—albeit, in my fantasy world I’m a great listener and have an amazing sex life—but this test is just wrong.

However, the ‘welcome pig’ is kinda funny.

I’m still recovering, people, cut me some slack…

Got Cold?


On Wednesday, I woke up with my throat on fire. Whenever I wake up with a nasty sore throat, it usually signals the beginning of a cold. The worse the sore throat, the worse the cold will be… Did I mention my throat was on FIRE?

After resting all day, I thought I might have beaten the cold back a bit, but decided I should take another day just to really kick the damn thing into submission. No one likes a smug cold and I wanted to teach the little bastard a lesson. By Thursday evening, I was feeling a bit better… then I took a nap.

Apparently, this cold likes to sneak up on me when I’m sleeping, because I woke up from the nap in agonizing pain: throat, head, nasal passages… from my shoulders up—nothing but pain.

I slept in on Friday and called my doctor—surely this is the most heinous cold on record, maybe it’s the bird flu! My gosh… I’m Patient Zero! Nurse Ratchet would not let me speak to the doctor but tried to assure me that my symptoms were nothing but a common cold.

Common Cold?! Stuffy head? Feverish (although, there was no actual fever, I did feel feverish)… coughing, aching… and she calls it a cold?!

“I tink it’th more dan a code” I mumbled in my best “Bird Flu Voice.”

“It’s a bad cold,” she assured me, “but it’s a cold just the same.”

“Is dare a pill or shod?”

“Shod?”

“Shod! Shod! Domp’t be mocking my code voith!”

“No, sir, there is no shod…”

“Look here, missy…” I was becoming indignant.

“Sir, you’re becoming indignant. Just drink lots of fluids, take some Nyquil and get some rest.”

“Yed, ma’am.”

So, I spent the day in bed… and not the ‘good kind’ of being in bed: the resting and relaxing and enjoying myself (if you know what I mean).* No, I slept and drank and slept and peed and slept and drank and slept and peed… and then I slept a little more.

I’m feeling a skotch better, but I still have a cough and my nose is stuffy and my head hurts, but I did have a desire to look at porn this evening, which I take as a sign that I’m recovering. I didn’t fully enjoy the online porn (again, if you know what I mean)** but I did look and that’s a good thing.

Whatever you people do, do not get this cold—it’s not what they advertise at all. It’s not fun, there’s no dancing tissues or singing noses.***

Hopefully, I’ll feel better soon and I can write something amusing and wonderful… hey, there’s a first time for everything…







*You do… perv.

**Again, you do… and again, you perv.

***While my nose didn’t sing, it did whistle for a while, but no tune that I know of.