“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.