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