Dear Ann, Now that you’re dead, who’s going to take over your column?

Sadly, there will be no reply to this question, because, poor Ann is dead. At 83, Ann Landers has written her last column, and she never answered my question, even though I wrote her weekly: Everyone talks about length, but no one talks about girth, which begs the question: is having a long-thin dick better than having a short-thick dick? She died before she could tell me. Maybe that’s what killed her: she was testing the theory with a variety of marital aides.

Ann always said her column would die with her and, oddly enough, Ann’s dead but her column will continue on for another month. Which seems odd when you consider how many asking advice for issues that seemed so time sensitive: “I’ve got a lump…” “Who do I call when there’s a fire…” “I’m getting married next week…” (Wouldn’t it have been awful for some poor schmuck to get back from their honeymoon, pick up the paper and read Ann’s reply: “Don’t marry that freak!”)

Then again, Ann wasn’t always well-timed. She seemed to be still stuck in the 50’s at points, especially on women’s issues. I believe within the last year she mentioned something about women staying home while the man went out and worked! Yet, she still encouraged young people to practice safe sex. A 50’s sensibility in a 90’s world?

That chick was enigma. Who else could offer advice on issues on the subject of family harmony, keeping the peace, and being the better person in personality quarrels, all while carrying on a 20-year feud with her twin sister? Actually, the answer would be her twin sister: Dear Abby!

Well, Abby isn’t getting any younger, so I think someone needs to step in and start answering those questions. I think they need to be concerned for others. I think they need to be witty. I think they need not be a they, but a me.

“Now, Chris,” you are undoubtedly saying, “how can you say that you are the most suitable person to answer questions from the heavy-hearted and the easily confused?” Short answer: I’m not. Long answer: I’m not, please write me at my column and I’ll have an answer for you there… someday.

Let’s get started on “Dear Chris” (The Queen is dead… Long live the new King!) Here are some actual letters to Ann and how I chose to respond to them:

Dear Chris: My neighbor has an 18-year-old daughter who attends a prestigious high school. She was recently notified that the girl will not graduate because she has missed too many days and no longer meets the graduation requirements. She has been given ample opportunity to make up the missed work but has chosen not to.

Her parents informed me today that they still plan on throwing her a graduation party the afternoon her classmates graduate. They have asked me not to tell anyone their daughter did not actually finish school. Should I attend the party and bring a gift? -- San Jose, Calif., Neighbor

Yo San Jose! Dude, I know you! Rock on!

Okay, your question is good, but doesn’t give the important information: will alcohol be served? What about the free food? While it’s not your place to say anything, you can always get drunk and let things ‘slip.’ Or get really drunk and tell everyone in a really bad toast.

On your way out, be sure to pick up your gift and return it…

Dear Chris: My husband and I enjoy sleeping in the nude. It makes us feel comfortable and intimate. We have two children, ages 5 and 8, and we are careful to be dressed before they wake up in the morning. Although we do not lock our bedroom door at night, we have taught the children to knock before entering. We keep our bathrobes close by to put on quickly.

Last week, our 8-year-old daughter had a bad dream and ran into our room without knocking. She was shocked to see us naked. To make matters worse, she told her grandmother. My mother-in-law has told several friends and family members about our "lewd practice," making it seem ugly and shameful.

Please, Ann, what should we do? My husband and I are both embarrassed that it has become everybody's business. -- A Family Matter in Maryland

Dear Lewd Naked Mama: Have you ever heard of locking the fucking door?

Dear Chris: I have three grandchildren, the oldest a 6-year-old girl, "Krissy." This girl is very bright and very pretty, but unfortunately, she is very spoiled. I work every day and can see my grandchildren only on weekends. Krissy's other grandparents see her more often.

Last week, Krissy said to me, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Grammy, but my other grammy is my favorite." She said this in front of my daughter-in-law and 4-year-old grandson. No one said a word. I was embarrassed and hurt, but I decided to let it go. Yesterday, she did it again, saying, "I love my other grammy better than you."

I realize children sometimes say cruel things unintentionally, but I think Krissy is old enough to know better. It bothers me that her parents do nothing to curb her trouble-making tendencies.

Right now, I am avoiding Krissy and her parents, but obviously I have to find a way to resolve this. Any ideas? -- Less-Loved Grandma in Virginia

Dear Grandma: Next time Krissy makes a remark like that, you need to do three things: 1) smack the smile off the little brat’s face, 2) say something to the effect of, “well, that’s a relief because your brother is my favorite grandchild,” and 3) tell her mother that none of the jewelry is being left to her or that monster Krissy. If you don’t have any nice jewelry, start buying some with the money you would have spent on the brat and that bitch of a daughter-in-law. You’ll soon see a turnaround in the behavior as they will spend the rest of their lives sucking up to you. If there is another granddaughter, start buying the kid jewelry.

Dear Chris: My 17-year-old son, "Jordan," is a casual pot smoker and has no intention of stopping. As a result, my husband and I refuse to let him drive our car alone until he tests drug-free for three months in a row. One of us always accompanies him. We also told him he has to get his grades up enough to qualify for a "good student discount" so we don't have to pay such high premiums on his insurance. He is smart enough to keep a "B" average but doesn't bother.

Jordan insists he would never drive while under the influence, but I can't be sure. He constantly complains that all his friends own cars and he is tired of walking or biking everywhere. He wants us to buy him a car, and I have to admit, it would relieve us of a huge burden. Any time he needs to drive somewhere, either his father or I have to accompany him.

My husband and I don't want to be the bad guys in this relationship, but Jordan is so insistent on having a car that it is creating problems at home. What do you think we should do? -- Mom in Denver

Dear “Mom”: What kind of parent are you? Who let’s their kid “casually” smoke pot? Your job as a parent (and yes, it is a job) is to forcibly guide the kid into the future, making him a better person and citizen whether he wants it or not. Your kid is a spoiled brat that will feed off the teat of society for the rest of his life or until your life insurance pays out. Get some balls and be a fucking parent. Tell the kid that if you catch him doing any more pot, he’s going to military school. In the meantime, get him a bus pass and tell him those are the only wheels you’ll be supplying him until his grades are up.

Dear Ann Landers: My boss and his wife like to socialize with his employees. Yesterday, he suggested my husband and I meet the two of them for dinner at an upscale restaurant.

Ann, I don't want to socialize with my boss. My job is stressful, and I look forward to going home and relaxing. My boss is OK professionally, but I can only take him in small doses. If I had to see him evenings and weekends as well, I would lose my mind.

Several of my co-workers feel obligated to see the boss socially, but I don't agree. I don't want to hurt the man's feelings or put my job in jeopardy. Can you suggest a tactful way to deal with this problem? -- New York Employee

Dear New York Employee: Wow, you’re the guy that still has a job in this shitty economy. Okay, I feel for you: lousy job, annoying boss, and spending your off time with both. Best bet, for you job and your sanity, is to go out every third time. This way you are not too predictable, don’t look like you’re sucking up and don’t look like you’re avoiding him.

Dear Chris: One of my son's friends has been diagnosed with testicular cancer. I was stunned because he is so young -- in his early 20s. I decided to research the subject on the Internet and discovered that testicular cancer is the most common cancer among males aged 15-35. Yet it is curable if found and treated early.

I asked my male relatives and friends if they ever performed a testicular self-exam to check for lumps or swelling. Imagine my astonishment when not one of these guys had ever heard of it.

Please spread the word that men should be doing a monthly self-exam. Women can help by insisting that their husbands and sons take care of themselves. Maybe if men can get past their embarrassment about this sensitive subject, they will go to a doctor if they discover symptoms. It could save a life. -- Mary in Indiana

Dear Mary: Who would admit to a woman they check their balls? Besides me? You must be fun at parties: "Hi, I'm Mary, how often do you exam your balls?" Here’s what you do: the next time your son is locked in the bathroom for hours on end “combing his hair,” just mention to check his nuts for testicular cancer. This will accomplish two things, 1) he will get a much needed exam, and 2) he’ll get off much quicker and your bathroom will be freed up.

Dear Chris: My 16-year-old daughter received an invitation to a baby shower for a classmate. The father is a 21-year-old family friend who is well-off and has promised to be a responsible father. My daughter knows we disapprove of sex at such a young age, but I am afraid she will think having a baby is wonderful if she attends this elaborate shower. Should we permit her to go? -- Confused in Ohio

Dear Confused: What’s to be confused about? Simply explain the situation to your daughter this way: “It’s a good thing that “John” got “Sue” pregnant, because if it were you, he’d be in jail for statutory rape and you’d be big as a house your life would be ruined and what guy would want to date a girl with a kid? Have fun at the shower!”

If you have any questions you want answered, be sure to send them to me at cmlion@homail.com and put “Gimme Some Answers” in the subject line. If anyone actually asks a question, I’ll eventually answer.

--cml

Sick as a dog…

It’s good to be back at work. Hard for me to believe I would ever say something like that, but today it’s true. I think I’m always happy to return to work after I’ve been sick.

And was I sick yesterday… So bad, it could have been a Stephen King novel: Shitstorm.

It started as a normal morning, but quickly got ugly. I got up, stretched, took a whiz, and went to the gym. As I arrived at the gym, I was attacked by some of the worst gas ever expelled by a human being. Man, did it stink! Big, loud, smelly farts. Ahh… what a way to start the day!

I squeezed the last one out just before going in, had a decent workout without any… er, interruptions.

I had to make a quick stop at Larry & Shawn’s to feed their cats and fish, so I drove to their place with every window down. I could barely see through my tears. These monsters were heinous!

As I rode the elevator to the condo, my body sent me an urgent message that most of the gas was gone and the intense pressure that was building on my ass was not planning on staying in much longer. I kept thinking of Dr. Evil saying “hot, liquid MAG-ma.”

I dashed inside, stumbled over the cat, ran into the bathroom, dropped trou and… “oh dear God…” I won’t discuss the consistency, but let me just say that I physically shuddered several times and found myself shaking a bit afterwards.

The cats were clamoring at the door of the bathroom, desperately trying to get in and play, but when the stench crept over to them, they cried out and ran. When I emerged from the bathroom, both cats were in hiding.

I lit some matches, but it didn’t seem to help. I began to worry that the smoke alarm was going to go off. I think the firefighters could handle the smoke, but what I left in that bathroom no human could stand. I admit, I did worry that the gas I expelled, along with the matches, could have resulted in a nasty fire, but I was willing to risk it (after all, it was not my condo).

Thinking the worst was over, I left the defenseless cats to fend for themselves and made my way home. Getting home, I made a quick dash to the bathroom, where again, I shuddered numerous times. I began to wonder if I was sick or ate something terribly foul (sadly, I did not get laid over the weekend, so I didn’t eat anything like that). Going over the previous day’s meals, I could not think of anything that would make me so ill.

I flushed, washed my hands and started to brush my teeth when… ohmygodnotagain! I jumped back to the toilet. I thought of calling in sick, if only I could get off the toilet. New book title: The Dump That Wouldn’t Stop.

After a few minutes, I was okay and decided I would go in to work… and then it hit again.

The rest of my morning went something like this:

I called in sick.

Thought about lying down.

Instead, I went to the bathroom.

I turned on the TV and sat on the couch.

Immediately, I got up and went to the bathroom.

I watched TV for 10 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 15 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 20 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 20 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

This pattern continued for a few hours.

I finally napped a bit (all that getting up and down wore me out) and awoke to the urge to… yep, go to the bathroom. How much food is in my system at any one time? Admittedly, there was not much there on the last few trips, but it always felt so urgent. I had to go. Jesus, the book should be called “Ass of Fury” (“Hell hath no fury like an ass spewing fire!”)

I ate some oatmeal, hoping it would calm my stomach, but an hour later, I was in the bathroom, going at full force. (Foreign title to the book: Dump de la Muerta.”)

Normally, on days I’m sick, I watch a little TV and try to get things done around the house. You know, little things that have been put off, like cleaning, etc. I was running to the bathroom so much, I was worried that if I took the garbage out, I would get half way there and be forced to run back, ass ablaze!

I was a prisoner of my bowels! Hey, that the best title for a book yet. Maybe I could write a new Harry Potter novel: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of the Bowels. “Quick, Harry,” Hermoine shouted, “before he fires off another one of his Slytherian Bombs!” Better yet, a love story, Mrs. Ludicrous: The Prisoner of Bowels. “Dear me,” Sarah Ludicrous sighed as she sent forth a plume of gas so foul that dogs miles away began to bark, “I am most distressed.” I fear I could go on, so I shan’t.

The rest of the day and night was pretty uneventful (both excitement and bowel-wise), I watched some TV and waited for Larry and Shawn to come by to get the keys to their place, so I could get to sleep.

I think it was an old Jewish recipe that saved my soul, cured my bowels and preserved my nostrils: a nice bowl of chicken soup.

“Chicken Soup for the Bowels,” now there’s a good book title.

Is it Friday yet…?

It’s official. I am addicted to coffee. I cannot function in the morning without a cup of Joe. Sure, a guy named Joe—tall, dark and devastatingly handsome—would be lovely, but nothing beats my morning cup of coffee.

I used to go down [heh, heh… I said “go down”] and get a mocha several times a week, just for a pick me up after late nights, or (more aptly) to kill some time in the morning by avoiding work. After a short while, I started to get a cup around the same time every day. This would last until I had blown most of my paycheck on mochas and bagels for weeks and weeks and I would have to stop… and then I would get really depressed.

I used to think it was because I didn’t have any money, but now I realize I was depressed because I didn’t have my morning jolt of java goodness. This sudden realization came to me because it happened again this morning.

I have been trying to work out these last few weeks, getting up at 4:30am and going to the gym. Along with working out, I’ve been trying to eat better, cutting out sweets, eating vegetables, not swallowing when I’m perusing glory holes… you know, the usual stuff.

Anyhow, this cutting back has also included coffee. I do drink a Red Bull in the afternoon for a much needed afternoon pick-me-up-off-the-f’ing-floor, but coffee was definitely a “no.” Then, this morning, Nanci calls me and asks a simple question for which I nearly removed her head. Okay, I didn’t yell, but I was smarmy and sarcastic. For those of you who know me, you may be saying, “And that’s different because…?” Well, let’s just say I was smarmy and sarcastic… only more so. So much so, that Nanci thought I was being a “real bitch.” [Meow. She was right, but MEOW!]

We had a small thank-you gathering at work and I grumpily arrived, grabbed for the coffee, which promptly did not come out of the urn, which made me even grumpier… if that's possible. After smacking the urn a few times, someone suggested “removing the bolt,” which immediately made me think of Star Wars (remember Luke removing R2-D2’s restraining bolt and comedy hijinks ensued?). I removed the bolt, the coffee poured, I took a sip of the rich Starbucks’ coffee, my mind began to whir, and I started a Star Wars riff about bolts, R2-D2, Luke, Chewbacca…

Not one F’ing person got it. Thankyouverymuch… I’ll be here all week. Try the veal.

I then walked around and chatted with everyone, being the friendly, funny and witty me that everyone has grown to love. They laughed, we cried, I changed their lives. Okay, we all laughed… I was crying on the inside, but that is only because my stupid Star Wars jokes were not flying. Don’t these people know anything about pop culture? I mean… REALLY!

Anyhow, I’m on a bit of a Starbucks’ high right now, sailing along and feeling groovy. I think I might even be in the mood to get some work done.

Yes, I said I was going to get some work done. We’ve just come off an extremely busy time at work—deadlines all over the place, lots of late nights—and I went into lazy mode the second it ended. Now I’ve got to get myself back up into the idea I need to get things done. Nothing on my agenda is big. I could probably do everything in a couple of hours, so it seems rather easy to put it off. And put it off, I have!

Must. Resist. Temptation. To. Slack.

I guess writing this would be considered slacking, so off to work I go…

…but first, another cup of coffee.

Monday, Monday…

Man, I really wish we could nationalize a four day work week. The three day weekend would just be perfect. As it stands, the current two-day weekend sucks out loud. Just as I start to relax, the work week stress pulls me back in…

Here’s the breakdown of my oh-so-exciting weekend (hold onto your hats, kiddies!):

Friday: I went to the Saint Christopher’s Carnival. On the whole, it’s for little kids and families, but there are tons of cute dads running around. Some very hot looking guys. I went to high school with several of them. What the F’?! How did they get to be so F’ing cute?

I ran into Ron, a gay cop I know and we chatted for a while. He had been speaking with one of the women organizers and mentioned he would be doing security for San Jose Pride on Sunday. She thought it was “awful” and it was a good thing there were “no queers at the carnival.” Ron said, “except for the priests…” It really pissed her off. Good. Ron says he gets a lot of numbers from guys at the carnival. No word if they were priests…

We left early and went to a movie: “About a Boy.” I liked it, but spent 20 minutes this morning trying to remember what movie I saw this weekend. As one co-worker put it, “It couldn’t have been that good.” I guess not…

Saturday: I went to the gym and rode 15 hard miles [Keep your thoughts clean, kids], which is good for this wimp. Then I went to get my car washed…what a mistake. The guy taking my order at Classic Car Wash was terribly cute and thus, made me an easy mark for his sales pitch. I ended up going with the “Super Deluxe Complete Rip-Off Package.” It cost $100, took 45 minutes, and they couldn’t get the gum out of the carpet! How do you steam clean carpets and not get gum out?

Instead of waiting there for 45 minutes in the sun, I decided to walk across the street and get a Jamba Juice. As I was standing in line for a refreshing beverage, I realized that I had not showered yet and I stunk from my workout. Jamba Juice is a confined space. Do the math. I felt so uncomfortable… not to mention how grossed-out everyone else must have felt. It was not my finest hour… er, 45 minutes.

When I got back to CCW, they couldn’t find my keys, so I spent 15 minutes waiting for them to find them in the little Detail Shack where no one thought to look. I started looking around my shiny car and realized it wasn’t just shiny clean, but shimmering like it had been slathered in oil, which it pretty much had. They used Armor-All on the dash and it looked like they used about as much as one could without it dripping off onto the floormats.

Speaking of the floormats…

I looked down and realized I had no floor mats! I had just started onto the freeway, so I had to drive around, find a suitable exit and get back (approximate drive time: 15 minutes). They had put them in the very back of the truck, where I couldn’t see them. A nice waste of time.

I needed a nap… but I kept finding things to do throughout the day and never got one [Aww… poor Chris].

By the time I finally got my act together it was time for a couple of buddies and I to go to dinner and Lonestar. We ended up arriving at the bar around 11:00. Not a great time, but we did manage to have a few laughs. One poor buddy had to pee all night, but every time he tried to pee in those f’ing troughs, he got really pee-shy, so he’d come back really frustrated. He finally found the “Lonestar Lone Toilette” and was pretty happy (and relieved) the rest of the evening.

It seemed like the whole place knew each other. I began to wonder if we had crashed a private party. There were only a handful of lone guys standing around. I know how they felt, yet, never made an attempt to talk to them. (I’m such a bastard.) However, they weren’t interested in me, I watched who they were ogling, and it certainly wasn’t me.

At one point this guy sat down by us and I thought he looked familiar. It wasn’t until he left a minute later that I realized I had spoken to him a few weeks earlier. His name is Keith and he’s from Oakland. I felt like a total idiot for not remembering him (especially, since he’s cute). Chalk up another botched opportunity. I’m nothing if not consistent…

Then I saw JD. Aw, shit. He’s the cute guy that I never called. Actually, every time I would Instant Message (IM) him, he was rather curt, and I got the distinct impression that Shawn’s theory was correct: “There’s a difference in being attracted to someone and being attracted to them right now.” I wonder if I had the wrong idea all along and he was never interested at all, so I let it drop. Also, a guy I was IM’ing said he knew JD pretty well and he didn’t think he was very interested. The story of my life.

Anyhow, he didn’t notice me sitting in the corner totally stalking him. I was panicked that he’d come over; bummed that he didn’t even look in my direction. I never caught Keith’s eye, or I would have waived… or probably not. I couldn’t remember Keith’s name until I was taking a leak as we were about to leave. I was standing at the trough when his name popped into my head. “Keith!” I cried out as I peed. The guy next to me said, “I call mine ‘Monstro.’ Like the killer whale,” he smiled flopping his aptly named penis. I smiled, stared, zipped up and slowly backed away…

Sunday: San Jose Gay Pride. I maintain the sole purpose for Pride is those who are extremely proud of their bodies can remove their clothing and show off in front of those of us who are deeply ashamed of ours. That doesn’t stop me from going and staring. I mean, Christ, these people have spent an ungodly amount of time working out, not to mention abusing an unbelievable amount of steroids, to achieve these bodies—someone has to be there to appreciate the effort.

So many cute guys. It’s nice to know we have a lot of ‘lookers’ within the community. We also have a lot of freaks. Who knew there were that many nut-jobs with a fetish for grass skirts, leather Roman skirts, lace bodices, and an occasional Star Trek uniform (this IS Silicon Valley).

Only one of the Weather Girls was there to sing “It’s Raining Men.” I swear the Weather Girls must have a very busy June. The only song of theirs that is a hit was “…Men” and they seem to appear at every gay pride event to sing that f’ing song. They are probably forced to split up so they can cover events on both coasts.

Only two of the Pointer Sisters were able to show (were they pulling a “Weather Girls?”). I wonder how they handled singing “Family”? “We are family/I got ONE of my sisters with me…” I know San Jose is “competing” with San Francisco’s Pride Festival, but it just seems like San Jose’s festival so on the cheap. Maybe we should go in another direction… to specialize. Make it more Latin-oriented (there is a huge Mexican/American community in the valley), or Asian-oriented… heck, anything to make it special. As it stands, it’s so…wimpy. Feel free to think of something and e-mail me an idea. I’ll pass it on… or claim it as my own idea and take full credit, it all depends on my mood.

We left Pride early and went to lunch at the Tech and then hung out by the pool at Shawn’s complex. Then a late dinner at Original Joe’s (“Not affiliated with any other Joe’s”) It was a nice lazy Sunday… if only I didn’t have to go to work today, it would have been a perfect weekend. Yep, a three-day weekend is an idea whose time has definitely come…

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was MY turn…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is grand, no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday is here at last!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then lunch…

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

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

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

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

And then there’s that nasty bitch called Sunday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to something else… something fun… something timely…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock the Force, baby!

--cml

Merry Cinco de Mayo!

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

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

It was not my finest hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moved en masse upon us.

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

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

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

Of course she’s now stuck with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to other things…

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

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

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

I’ll see tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I went alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankly, I had much higher expectations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life’s a bitch. It’s nothing new.

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

Maybe I should advise her?

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

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

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

Have a good one!
--cml

I spent the day doing interviews.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there are the liars…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then, my friends!
--cml

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

Ouch.

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

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

…And he responded!

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of nuts…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped.

I blanched.

He walked over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today, I am a reverend!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless!

--Rev. cml

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate Spring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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