things my friends say, vol. 8

Today's nugget, compliments of:

"I met my soul mate....he is a certified Grade-A dreamboat and I want to civil union the shit out of him right now."

Yup. Civil union as a verb. I'm fine with it.



truth in advertising

I like to take laps at the airport. Sitting while people-watching is fun, but I enjoy taking my show on the road. And since my travel equation always holds true, where (X) the amount of time I give myself inversely affects (Y) any sort of line or delay, my ample two hour allowance for holiday traffic equaled me getting through security in approximately thirty seconds and therefore being quite familiar with Concourse C at PDX.

I was in the best sort of mood for people-watching, but both my shiny new notebook and my shiny new camera were buried deep under clothes and presents, an oversight made while jamming four days of travel and gifts into one backpack without regard for priority. As I didn't feel like unpacking the entirety of my Christmas and my unmentionables for all to see, I was left to observe and report without the aid of pen or photo.

What really struck me, more than the disturbing abundance of Santa hats and the general hodgepodge of humanity waiting for flights, were the giant yellow posters positioned front and center at every Southwest gate. Without graphics or context, each simply proclaimed:

"It's hard to move on if you're standing still."

That's all. No explanation, no gimmick, nothing. I get that they're an airline, travel, moving, suggested action etc., but the syntax as a whole has had me thinking far more than I'm sure was intended. Did they actually intend to play off of typical year-end reflections involving forward motion, or the lack thereof? And if so, what was the rationale behind that decision? Or am I just forcing my own interpretation and insecurities on a vaguely-written ad campaign? Am I the only one to do so?

I don't know. But I do know I stood for a socially uncomfortably period of time, contemplating the concept of movement versus progress as the annual hourglass drains while the queue of folks awaiting their flight back to Houston squinted at their tickets, determined to ignore the staring kid with the yellow backpack while waiting for their rows to be called.



SNA to PDX is A-OK

I booked my last job before Baby Jesus' Birthday and I'm itchin' to get the fuck outta Dodge.

photo credit where credit is due

I'll be in the land o' beaver for a few days, and I try to stay off the interwebs as much as possible whilst in the homeland. So in case I don't make it on here, enjoy yourselves however you deem appropriate. Or inappropriate. If you're already on the naughty list, might as well finish strong.

be well -



eff me

For the record, I realized after posting moments ago that the previous two posts were also just glorified lists.

The hypocrisy is not lost.

Dammit. Love me anyway? Kthanxbye.

and a partridge in a pear tree

If frequency of blog posts determined placement on Santa's list, in four days I'd be opening colorful boxes of reindeer shit. Writing fail on my part this month. Yet another "area for growth" on the ever-growing resolution list.

And this posty-post right here...it's not going to be amazing. Let's just get that out in the open. No one will etch these words in stone because I am channeling my inner six year old and cannot focus on anything other than SANTASANTASANTA.

By and large my self-imposed blogging rules are to avoid (1) emo boo-hoo shit, (2) dear diary references of no relevance to anyone else, and (3) lists. Lists are the least offensive but are an easy out all the same, the written equivalent of offering up a handjob so you can claim effort when really you just want to sleep.

So if you couldn't tell before this, I'm absolutely breaking my third rule today. If this upsets you, well, Rudolph says go fuck yourself. Such a potty-mouthed reindeer he is.

Any-hoo.....things that are currently the schnapps in my cocoa:
  • Wheels up in roughly forty hours, SNA to PDX...I have a middle seat but I'll deal as long as Mr. or Ms. Window Seat isn't a pee-monster. It's a two hour, twenty minute flight. You go more than once, and I activate Beast Mode.
  • My shopping is 99.9% done and I didn't sell any organs to finance this miracle.
  • I get to see my cousin and her cute little bi-racial baby, renewing the sadness over both my parents being white as pure snow.
  • Babs promised me lunch at Juan Colorado's, and nothing makes me happier than a mouthful of Mexican. Pun intended? Bet your sweet ass it was.
  • Presents. Spare me the holier-than-thou shit. I need new socks and that business ain't free.
  • Food. Paid for and prepared by others. Massive win.
  • Reuniting with a bestie for some good old fashioned shenanigans. If being hungover on Christmas Eve is wrong, I don't want to be right.
  • Board games with my dad's side of the tree. Not only is it tradition, but mixing alcohol with mental illness and sarcasm is a special joy not known by the masses.
  • Green. Everywhere. Actual trees, not a weed reference, and yes I do have to clarify because it's Oregon and both are plentiful.
That's all. Sorry to subject you to a list-job, I'd offer more but my mind is 1,000 miles to the north...and I have a headache.

Safe travels amigos -



wonders never cease

Here are some things I don't understand. If you have any insight, by all means share with the class:

Ashley Madison
Have you heard of this? The online "agency" that helps initiate extramarital affairs? Their site motto is "Life is short. Have an affair." This intrigues me. Obviously I don't have the moral marriage-is-sacred hang-up; I'm all for fucking early and often with whoever pulls your trigger. I believe cheating is like love in that it is defined within one's own mind; there's no hard and fast set of standards. I just get hung up on the sheer blatancy of this site. Can you imagine being the partner that finds that in the ol' browser history? It's like finding a Google search on how to hide a body....if you don't connect the dots, you deserve what's coming. Almost 2010, and we can't even manage infidelity the old-fashioned way anymore.....perplexing.

Folgers Coffee
OK, this one drives me insane. At my Ralph's store, they keep the Folgers Instant Coffee locked up in the front of the store with the Skoal and Virginia Slims and other things the lower echelon of Hollywood craves. WHY? There has to be some illicit use of which I'm unaware, like how they guard the cold meds so we all don't whip up a fresh batch of meth in the tub. I'm convinced there is a dark sinister use for those caffeinated crystals, and I won't rest till I know what it is.

Straight Girls in Clubs
After my outing into stereotypical Hollywood club-land last night, I offer this friendly reminder to the young lass that opted against panties in December: no one buys a cow if it looks like a big slutty whoreface. Or something like that. Bottom line, I accidentally saw her vagina. More aptly put, I was visually accosted by her frightening impostor of a vagina, which I can only hope survived a nuclear explosion as an explanation for its deformity. Maybe it was cursed. I don't know. But goddamn. First off, have a modicum of self-respect before you throw your legs open in the direction of unsuspecting homos. Second, if your poor puss looks like it's been whittled out of oak, best to save that surprise for the bedroom lest you frighten away potential suitors. I'm as down to do naughty things with a stranger as anyone, but desperate doesn't begin to explain this chick. Baffling.

Weather in LA
God forbid it ever snow here. I predict people would eat their groceries, their pets, each other, and then die of starvation before attempting a trip to the store. It rains here and people act like they're personally being punished. Anything remotely close to the realities of the outside sends this town into a tailspin. Portland in 12 days. Can't. Wait. To. Escape.

I guess that's all for now. Answers and explanations welcome.

Happy Friday Friends -



check it twice

THE holiday list. Try it...you just might like it.

READ - "SantaLand Diaries" by David Sedaris
Really you should read the whole collection of holiday-themed short stories, but this is the crown jewel. Few things make me laugh out loud, but no matter how many times I read his account of working at Macy's Santaland I still end up in stitches. Good shit.

LISTEN - "River" by Robert Downey Jr.
Didn't know Iron Man / Sherlock Holmes had a Christmas song, did you? A bit on the mellow / depressing side if you acknowledge lyrics, but a great way to shake up the holiday tunage if you get tired of hearing Josh Groban. Which is not only plausible but absolutely certain to happen.

DRINK - Delirium Noel (beer) or Rumple Minze (shnapps)
Noel is the festive offshoot of the Belgian Delirium Tremens brewery, and Rumple Minze is the kick-ass (real) German version of peppermint schnapps. Use liberally to make yourself or others more tolerable while still feeling festive. Also, even though there are usually ample opportunities to get poo-faced, remember most of them happen in the proximity of your family or co-workers. Leave the beer bong in the closet and be aware that just because it's Baby Jesus' party, it doesn't give you the right to act like an asshole.

WATCH - "Love Actually" or "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation"
In the former, watch the scene where he holds up signs in place of caroling if you're down for a good cry; in the latter, watch the scene with the squirrel in the tree if you're in need of a good laugh. Both are classics.

WEAR - something subtle and erring on the side of dressy
The holidays are garish enough without you adding to the visual massacre. Anything with Santa's face on it is a no-no and if caught will result in the end of our friendship.

VISIT - a neighborhood advertised for its lights
Every city has one. If you live in the bottom half of Amerrikuh, put on a festive hat, pour some of the aforementioned spirits in your cocoa, and walk. It's better up close and makes you feel wintery. If you live in the top snowy cold as a witches tittie part of the country, for the love of god stay in the car, but load up all the seats and make an outing of it. It's festive and simple, and lazy individuals like me can enjoy the displays without actually having to do anything.

GIVE - what you can, if you want
If someone expects a gift, fuck them. You can show appreciation for someone without a box and bows. Don't have a meltdown or take out a loan over gifts. Be thoughtful, be reasonable, and no matter what anyone says, giftcards mean you don't care enough to try. Fact.

BE - laid back
This time of year freaks everyone out. Plane delays, check-out lines, shipping failures, food disasters, relatives and their respective disorders, money, the usual year-round assholes....it's enough to seriously consider grinding up a Xanax in the nog and wake up around President's Day. Don't give in. Be pleasant and cut everyone, including yourself, a little slack.

That's my list. Not my gift list, obviously. That includes a trip to Europe and Ryan Reynolds holding chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

Don't judge, Everyone is allowed a Christmas dream.



take two

I know I blame Hollywood for all things wrong in the world short of the atom bomb, but this weekend made me think about a part of life that is usually drastically different from what the movies would have us expect.

The time to say goodbye.

A buddy of mine recently got demoted, and we were discussing his plan of action over lunch. Somewhat tongue-in-cheek, he said in the last meeting with his bosses before he quits, he wants to remind them what a bad decision they're making, and "walk off into the sunset." Whether he does it or not, the essence of his comment epitomizes what we've all grown to believe:

There's nothing in life like a grand finale.

A nail in the coffin. The final word. That perfectly timed quip right before the music swells and the credits role. We crave it. In the movies their voices never shake, and they never stumble as they walk away. If we're angry, we want to leave on a real TKO of a verbal slap, striding away defiantly as they shamefully realize their mistake. If we're feeling bittersweet, we hope for a lingering last touch during a meaningful silence before slowly walking away without turning back. If we're sad, we want to be the last thing they see as the plane/train/automobile door closes, trying gamely to smile as a single tear escapes.

I'm just saying... Rhett Butler frankly not giving a damn in Gone With the Wind? Powerful exits are legendary.

I was all geared up for a particular bittersweet goodbye this weekend. I had a my choice lines picked out and everything. And while the banter was sufficiently poignant and a lingering touch occurred, what I had hoped to be a grand finale felt more like fireworks in the rain....not quite how it was meant to be.

But in real life, no one yells "CUT!" as you walk away. Goodbyes are rarely plain and never simple, and I'm not even sure with a million takes I could have said everything I wanted to say.

I guess that's the blessing and the curse of not looking back...you'll never know if you were right to move forward.


don't touch the turducken

Well it's Tuesday, it's officially December, and I'm wearing these little beauties:

...so for all intents and purposes, today is officially The Tits.

I like this time of year because I like seeing the truth. Messy, hilarious, awkward truth about families and relationships, the little man behind the great big facade that we're never supposed to acknowledge. It is not usually warm sweaters and easy conversation and foods both tasty and light shared with people you enjoy. It is, however:

- learning a better way to roll a joint on a bathroom floor at 2am Thanksgiving morning, and then laughing hysterically over the fact that things like a turducken actually exist.

-having a round-table discussion with your friend's family about when she'll start having solid bowel movements again.

-joining in on cherry pie with your fingers after it fell on the floor, because there's no sense in throwing it out when the three second rule is in effect.

-hearing the explanation of how Jake Gyllenhaal's face makes Aunt Someone nauseous.

-sitting in another family's living room as they discuss who spilled the beans of a cousin's lesbian engagement to Homophobic Grandma....

-...and then finding out said lesbian wedding is set to take place on Halloween. In full costume.

-calling your own family, 1,000 miles away, to find out your nephew ate shampoo and everyone is getting sauced over a rousing game of dominoes.

-coming home to your own apartment, setting up your plastic Target tree, and drinking Sam Adams seasonal variety pack while your friends haphazardly trim the tree while discussing whose job it is to name porno movies.

-sitting alone in the dark after it's all said and done, no fireplace, no snowflakes, just getting lost in the little lights as you think about all the great things you have in your life.

It is not Martha Stewart Living.
It is not Courier and Ives.
But it is pretty damn magical all the same.

photo credit: Aaron Keigher
see more of his work and follow his 365 days of photos here


feast, meet face-hole

Happy Turkey Eve, bitches!

My one request on this weekend of thanks - really go for it. No half-ass gratitude in this house. It's too easy to bust out a pre-packaged "I'm thankful foooooooooor....healthandhappinessandfamilyAMEN, pass the rolls!"

This is the equivalent of people who write "hanging out with friends" and "listening to music" when they're supposed to describe their interests.


C'mon. Take a second. You can do better than that. What moments make you feel alive? Who makes you laugh so hard you snort? What opportunities have you been given that changed the course of your journey?

You don't have to tell me. You don't have to tell anyone, for that matter. But somewhere between the hugs and the stuffing and the football just be sure you're giving a mental hat-tip to the things in life that make it worth living.

Namaste my lovelies....may you eat mashed potatoes till you puke.



things my friends say, vol. 7

Today's nugget compliments of:

"I had the bacon ice cream last time. You would hate it. I want to fuck it."

I have no doubt that this statement is entirely factual.


everyone loves a quickie

A quick n' dirty post as we round the corner toward turkey time...

**I'm only working three of the next ten days. That, friends, is a favorable percentage.

**Yogurtland just started offering peppermint frozen yogurt. It should offer you a smoke and a ride home afterward. It's that good in the mouth.

Gratuitous holiday tie-in? You betcha.

**It's t-minus one hour until I leave for a long weekend in Arizona, and I'm chomping at the bit. I'm long overdue to get the fuck out of Dodge. Every time I visit the Grand Canyon State it's a delightfully messy hodgepodge of intoxication and cacti.

role model.

**I love Thanksgiving. I love turkey and football and naps and looking at the ads even though there's not a snowball's chance in hell of me going to a mall the day after. Can't WAIT.

no words.

One week till the holiday season kicks off my friends...start building your tolerance now if you're ever going to make it through six weeks of family time.



lessons from the fluff and fold

I'm always a bit apprehensive when I feel compelled to write after midnight. You know that trepidation you get when your phone rings in the middle of the night? Like you just know it's not going to be good, because happy topics wait for daylight?

It's similar but not exactly like that.

I've been meaning to write. I really have. Insightful things, transparent things, and all things in between. In the past, oh, week or so, I've been kicking around posts on:

  • hiking
  • how every liquor label releases a new ad campaigns for the holidays
  • things I find funny about straight porn
  • my not-entirely-serious Christmas list
  • motivation
  • the new color scheme of our apartment building (hint: metallic silver and lavender)
  • the means justifying the end

You thought I was kidding, but scatterbrained folk need never exaggerate.

The problem, or part of the problem if it's really a problem, is this random list my roommate dearest found on the interwebs and emailed me about being a better writer. On one line it says to write everyday, but then on another line it says to only write about things you find interesting, because if you're bored, your audience will be too.

I am simply not interesting everyday. Conundrum.

However I do start to feel guilty if I allow for cobwebs to grow on el bloggo, not because I'm delusional enough to think I might miss posting the one day a powerful literary agent goes trolling through the riffraff, but because you can't win if you don't play and this tiny corner of my life is one of few where I'm allowed total control.

Some of those other bullet points, I haven't given up on them yet. But tonight, for whatever reason, this is the last thought on my mind:

I'm thinking about the guy who works at my cleaners, who shall remain nameless because I know him only as Dry Cleaning Guy. He works in the middle of Hollywood, sandwiched between a Subway and a rocking chair store that never actually seems to be open, his every day spent looking across a tiny strip mall parking lot out to stalled traffic on La Brea. This man is happy. And not the forced, I-will-get-fired-if-I-don't-greet-you sort happy. Genuinely excited about life. Every time he gives me my pick-up ticket, me or anyone else for that matter, he presents it like some form of sacred scroll, using both hands like an offering, slightly bowed, not aiming for comedy but sincerely grateful to be handing over the ticket that will eventually allow your slacks back into your possession. Every single time. And every single time I think to myself...I hope I'm on track for that kind of happiness.

I like to think I am.
And hopefully you are too.


when LA doesn't suck (it can happen!)

This is going to be real quick-like, because I'm swamped at work and actually doing my job.

I know....right?

I've been kind of a headcase monster grumpy twat all week, for no real reason. Disturbance in the universal force, to be sure. Funky vibes. Bad juju if you will. However today was pretty good all around, a definite improvement at the very least. And as I was negotiating usage on a German newspaper ad (wtf?), I looked out my office window and saw this:

Call me crazy, but I think this is the universe's way of saying no worries...we're all good here.


bah humbug

I was all ready to be a Perky Peter today, and now the accounting woman tells me I'm out of vacation days for the rest of the year.


This is the hard part about working for small company, owned by people you legitimately enjoy. I've worked for numerous evil corporations and it's simple to trash their policies and procedures, mostly because they're put into place by heartless cyborgs you'll never meet. I used to steal extra orange aprons from Home Depot simply because they acted as if they were made of precious metals and they'd shit a goat if one went missing. Reason being, some random smart ass would put one on and tell people that lumber was free today, or to use the saws themselves, etc.

I envied those smart-asses.
I used to hide aprons between the bags of manure to make them think impostors were afoot.

But I like my current bosses, and I just can't bring myself to rip on them. Instead I'll take my bitter spoonful of reality and I'll swallow it right down.

For the record, it's not like I went nuts and spent 2009 jet-setting between my homes in Barbados and the damned Alps. I took five days off. FIVE. Still, I had, oh, 3-5 days I was planning on taking off between now and 2010, but the rent, she doesn't pay herself, so now I'm in a pickle.

This woman wants to kill herself.
I can't say I blame her.

Weirdest part? For as poor as I am, I would take more vacation over higher pay without hesitation. Money just come and goes before I even really see it, and I'm quite skilled at living one bad month away from the poverty line. Time, on the other hand....when she sent me the list of days I took off this year, I can instantly remember the family or friend (is there a difference?) I went to see, what we did, and why we did it. And I wouldn't trade any of those moments for the world. Because, to steal the quote:

"It came without ribbons!

It came without tags!

It came without packages, boxes, or bags!"

Love those moments friends, whenever you can have them -



things my friends say, vol. 6

Tonight's nugget, compliments of:

"Imbalanced is the new stable"

Ain't that the truth. It's also the reason I'm lacking on the blog front. I had every intention of posting something to brighten your evening, but since I've been home I've cleaned out my closet, eaten half the fridge, and inexplicably teared up during TV commercials. If someone wants to call the Guinness Book, I'm pretty sure in the past twelve hours I've grown a uterus.

Keep it crazy, friends. Hopefully tomorrow I'll be sailing on the sea of sanity.



things my friends say, vol. 5

Today's nugget is compliments of:

"I think 1:11pm is an entirely appropriate time for a booty text. Might as well put it out there before anyone's night gets busy."

A good friend will, without hesitation, always rationalize your shameless afternoon attempt at ending a dry spell. Fact.


the choosiest choice of all

Interesting thought courtesy of cable news....

It being election night and all, Anderson Cooper is on CNN being all knowledgeable and silver foxy, revving my engine whilst discussing New Jersey's new fat governor and other things I moderately care about.

speaking of inflation....purrrrr

AC's wild sex appeal aside, he said something that intrigued me. Regarding health care being all FUBAR and contentious blah blah blah, he said something that I find to be true on every level of existence: we take care of things that are important to us.

His point? After the planes and the bombs and the towers, we were all fired up and "fuck you, sandy countries!" This war, these wars, years down the line, we've pumped so much money into them it sounds like Dr. Seuss describing the budget: kublooions and bagrillions on troops, tanks and more!" But many act as though we couldn't find a dime in the couch cushions to fix health care.

And this isn't a political commentary. I'm not pro or anti war. Point is, there's money. Where it goes depends on what we deem important.

Kind of applicable to all situations, no? We make it work when we need to. Whether we're aware of it or not, we have a set of priorities. Some areas of life get love, and some get the one night stand treatment. No really, it was great. Of course you're important to me. We'll stay in touch.

And you mean it....at the time.

It's a big theme in my life lately, and maybe yours too. Like my old man would say, excuses are like assholes; everybody has one. I'm as guilty as the next guy of cutting myself a little too much slack. And while it's not always appropriate to call out other people, you can always call out yourself. Don't blame distant friends when you don't pick up the phone. Don't blame the weather, is all its innocence, for your mood. You choose to work out or eat, to invest or to spend, to speak up or stay silent. And it's always just that...your choice.

That's all. Just make peace with your priorities, and know you have more control over them than you probably realize.

Namaste, my lovelies -



the naked truth

Yet another chapter in the book of Things I Feel Only Happen To Me....

Last night I'm on the couch, having a lukewarm cocktail, watching reality TV...a fairly common weeknight all around....and I see a "news" story that Levi Johnston (grandbaby-daddy a la Sarah Palin fame) is set to expose his totem pole for an adult publication next month. To which I say, round of applause for that life choice. If there's anything I love more than a barely legal corn-fed lad, it's a naked barely legal corn-fed lad.

So I promptly cruise on over to said adult website, getting the lay of the land before I ultimately hand over twenty some odd dollars next month to see first-hand if everything is in fact bigger in the Great White North. And as I'm clicking through preview galleries, I think, wow, there's a nice looking guy.

In fact, I've maybe seen him somewhere before.
In fact, that tattoo looks strangely familiar.

In fact, he's one of my talent.

Now, a few truths that I hold to be self-evident about the people I represent: they are (a) ripped, (b) poor, and (c) vain. Whenever you take young, attractive people who love attention and dangle wads of cash in front of their bright eyes, their chonies will hit the floor before you can say "arch your back and look this way."

So I'm not surprised, per se. He wasn't the first, nor will he be the last. But now I have a conundrum. I obviously want to click the link that leads to the money shot, because he's hot and I'm voyeuristic and I'm not really sure how you couldn't connect those dots. But I also have to be sure I could have a professional discussion about his marketing tools without breaking down into a giggle fit and squealing "I'VE SEEN YOUR PEE-PEE."

These are the sort of things they don't prepare you for in college. What to do when you find your independent contractors in compromising positions on the internet 101. I need that way more than I ever needed Business Writing. Just another hazard of being an agent, losing the comfortable anonymity that should be internet porn.

....and in case you're wondering, I looked. Totally worth it.


things my friends say, vol. 4

Today's nugget is compliments of:

"We're not made of sugar.
We'll live."

I guess in context it makes even more sense, but I kind of like it by itself. However if back stories jiggle your bits, feel free to cruise on over here.


Random, but is it too early to get excited for Thanksgiving? Because right now I am CRAVIN' a leftover turkey sandwich. With some sharp cheddar. And pickles. Maybe a little pepper. Oh god. Why do I do this to myself?

That's all. Go about your business. But don't pretend you're not thinking about the turkey.



vienna waits for you

I don't think I'm going to change the world today.

I mean, it's only mid-afternoon. A productive blitz could occur, but to what end I'm not entirely sure. Curing cancer looks daunting. Hunger and the global economy seem to be in it for the long haul. And I'm bound to start thinking about dinner before equality comes around.

It is Tuesday October 27th, 2009, and I am the Maytag Repairman of humanity.

If you don't get that reference, ask your parents

I don't not care. But I'm alone, in the office and elsewhere for that matter, and it's just overcast enough to consider finding both a couch on which to rest and a star on which to wish. The radio is on a station that plays hits from the 90's, so it's basically DJ Daydream spinning nostalgia on the 1's and 2's.

Strange but true? It's insanely windy outside, but I've shut all the windows so I'm in a little bubble of calm while leaves and trash and atmosphere swirl around, all frantically going somewhere whether they like it or not.

See: turbulence.
See: middle school metaphor.

Never leave for tomorrow what the early bird can carpe diem, so on and so forth. These mantras of positivity, generally found in motivational speeches and fortune cookies, they're not wrong. But just as not every swing will be a grand slam, not every day will be a pinnacle of productivity.

I will not go down in history because of my contributions on today, October 27th, 2009, and I'm fine with that. True, I could walk outside and take a wayward palm frond to the temple, game set match for Mother Nature. That could happen, before I see Fiji, before I get published, before I work up a real solid obituary. I guess that's the chance you take, ya know, being alive. Big picture? Which is worse, the occasional treading of water or your main motivation being a constant fear of the end? I don't think I'm a bad person because I spent more time today on Wikipedia than in a soup kitchen. I like to think it all evens out.

Seems to be a constant thing lately; don't get too high on the highs, and don't get too low on the lows. I've been blessed with a few helpings of good fortune lately. But just because a day wasn't worth writing home about doesn't mean it wasn't worth living.

So if you have a day like I did today, Tuesday October 27th 2009, don't beat yourself up. There will most likely be a tomorrow, excluding kamikaze palm fronds, and regardless of how it goes...Vienna will still wait for you.



who makes $300 million in a month?

...this guy does.

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking, and don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it.”

- Steve Jobs (quote via Ham and Heroin)

And yet notice how he doesn't mention anything about the money...hmmmmm.....

Going to tuck this one away, good motivation for those tedious days worked just to pay the bills. I'll keep searching if you will. Deal?

the soup du jour tastes like defeat

Last night I got home to the gastronomically thrilling choices of one turkey burger, soup, or spaghetti. Spaghetti was the blue plate special not even 24 hours prior, and we didn't have any buns for the burger. So it was a battle of wills between me and Campbell's Chunky Chicken Tortilla.

The more I stared at the soup, the more it pissed me off. Do you ever get that wholly irrational feeling, where your hatred toward the soup grows and grows until you would somewhat-sincerely consider throwing yourself out the window before just admitting defeat and eating the fucking soup? Blame in on the planetary positions or my monthly flow, or both, but I swear that soup brought me closer to a man-sized tantrum than I have been in at least seven days.

But you know the feeling, yes? I guess it doesn't have to be soup. Insert your own less-than-desirable option. The pure unbridled rage remains the same.

The soup. That soup. Fucking soup. It sat there all high and mighty, flanked by the black beans, knowing it had the upper hand on my very emotional well being.

So when the going got tough...I said fuck it and walked to sushi.

Yup. No one to go with, and not really any money to pay for it, but I took myself on a date. I didn't go crazy or anything, sticking to the happy hour menu, but it was a personal victory nonetheless. Spicy Tuna win, and I went home a noticeably happier camper.

And then today, I suddenly had a craving for Del Taco like I can only imagine sharks get for blood. Visions of crinkle fries danced in my head, and I began smelling phantom scents of spicy chicken burrito. However, not only is it comparable to eating an actual vat of greasy death when I'm working hard to be less-chub, but the checking account can only tolerate my impulsiveness to a certain degree. So I got a $5 footlong from Subway, no cheese, no condiments...but I did get a cookie. One cookie won't kill me, or the budget, but oh the difference it makes in my patience level for the afternoon. Mind-blowing.

Happy Wednesday amigos. Whereas we can't always make our wildest desires come true, we can improvise for the time being. Be sure to take the small victories where you can get them.



the best laid plans

My senior year of college, we would occasionally have big parties. The roommates and I, we'd plan them weeks or even months in advance. It's always fun to think big picture. We'd envision the beer pong and the playlists and the hookah and the jello shots, and the chatter amongst friends was that this time, this time we knew it was going to be one for the record books. The equivalent of a pre-school paper chain, each expectation linked to the next until we were all pretty sure some sort of monument would be erected shortly thereafter in honor of our awesomeness.

And these parties, they were fun. Fun if not predictable. Someone would be so excited he'd start pre-partying when the local news came on, and be well on the way to black-out by Jeopardy. A shot glass would inevitably go down the garbage disposal, usually at the hands of a brand new sorority sister with an affinity for cheap vodka and not eating dinner. We hosts would rock-paper-scissors to see who had to sign the noise complaint, while the others went to talk someone out of the locked bathroom. Randoms would show up, and thus cue the infamous Semisonic lyric; you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

To be honest, I don't really remember specifics from any of our "epic" parties, other than all the above generalities were all true at some point. And not that anyone ever went to bed, or to floor as the case may have been, disappointed, but deep down the grand expectations lead to an experience not unlike unprotected sex: awesome in theory, but usually over far too quickly.

What do I remember? I remember coming home from chapter meeting to make dinner and write a paper, and instead splitting four bottles of wine with Zach and Canseco. I remember the Sunday we all came home from a hike and one roommate and his girlfriend fell out of the shower, stand-up sex not being easy after four margaritas. We laughed until we fell down as well. I remember smoking a joint with Kelson in the bathroom at a weird party, and then climbing on the roof of the auditorium to talk about what the future would hold. I remember road trips and late night talks, what made people cry and more importantly what made us laugh.

I'm writing this more for myself than anyone else, but the moral is the same for everyone's story; looking ahead is great, but the best things in life you'll never see coming.

Enjoy your week, whatever surprises it brings -



oral fixation, the executive branch, and you!

Well, it's Monday....so we've got that going for us....

Gov. Schwarchsldkfjghgehrgernator signed Harvey Milk Day into California law. A couple reasons this made me happy. One, it pisses off those that passed Prop. 8, and I'll take that opportunity whenever it's offered. Two, did you SEE the movie? Yeesh. Cry-fest. Three, and arguably my favorite aspect, GovSchwarz reversed his own position from a year ago when he vetoed a similar bill. So few in the political game have the stones to reverse themselves, especially when it pisses off their ideological base. So kudos to you, Arnold. A firm, open-handed swat on that tight tush for doing the right thing.

he does love a good cigar...

I hate to say this, I really do, but someone who will NOT be receiving a rainbow flag in his stocking is the one and only President Obama. Now to be fair, The Big BO has a lot on his plate; health care and jobs and proving to the nut-job extremists that he's not a Kenyan militant. But we (the editorial "we" as in "me, the voice of Gay America") have been patiently waiting for our campaign favors to be paid back; but days turn to weeks turn to months, and we're no strangers when it comes to smooth-talking men who don't follow up on promises. Defense of Marriage Act? Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Ring any bells? Fool us once, Obama, but be warned that hell hath no fury like a homo scorned.

nom nom nom

Lastly....do you ever do the thing where you flip on the radio and your heart bursts with happiness when you hear a long-lost favorite song? But just as you take a deep breath to belt out some powerful car karaoke, you realize it's the last few beats of the song, and what was going to be two minutes of personal awesomeness slips away too soon, lost to bad timing and an Autozone commercial. Then you're almost bummed you even heard that little bit, because now the following songs just aren't as exciting, even if you like them. Why couldn't you have thought to act just a minute earlier? And yeah it was just a song on the radio, but if you can't look forward to the little victories, what else is there? Of course that applies to more than the FM dial...but the feeling remains the same.

And that's all there is to say about that. Time to call the models.

Happy Columbus Day (be honest, did you even know?)



this is not out of the ordinary

I met up with AK, my beloved roommate and all around partner in crime, for lunch near his work today. And as we're quietly beasting down our Chipotle, this mini-conversation happened...not sure if any exchange could better illustrate our dynamic.

(sitting at a table, not talking but watching people walk by)

"Got a would-you-rather."

"Hit me."

"Would you rather be fat, bald, or Asian?"

(slight pause)

"Well.....what kind of Asian?"

(another slight pause)

"Let's say Korean."

(much longer pause)


These are the moments you have when you're practically common-law married.

Happy weekend to all, be you fat, bald, Asian or otherwise.



life mirrors art

Lots of work-related things lately...not entirely sure why. But today is accurately summed up by this quote:

"Right now this is just a job. If I advance any higher in this company, then this would be my career. And well, if this were my career I'd have to throw myself in front of a train."

John Krasinski as Jim Halpert in "The Office"

Yup. That's all I have to say about that.
Friday, get here soon.



welcome to my world

I always maintain that there's no point in me writing fiction when the actual events that transpire around me are far more entertaining than anything I could create.

May I direct the court's attention to Exhibit A, an actual email reply from an actual talent :

......I'm sorry, was that somehow too complex? I sent a nine-word message and 50% of it got ignored, ranking this person's intelligence slightly lower than dust. Am I in the wrong for wanting to head-butt this individual? I even gave you a fucking smiley face! You obviously read English, and were capable of making the fingers hit the proper buttons....where exactly did you black out in this process?

Speaking of blacking out, this never fails to make me laugh:

....but that's neither here nor there.

All I can say is thank god they're pretty; I simply couldn't handle ugly along with this much dumb.*

* They're not all dumb, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Just sayin'.


Not on Rex Manning Day!

It's very tempting on Sunday nights to use this medium as my therapy couch. As far back as I can remember, it's the one evening that consistently throws me for a loop. Once the sun sets on the weekend fun, thoughts both deep and shallow appear like mental bruises, suddenly visible even if the original force is long gone.

Ew. It's happening already. See, I get
settled in and all of a sudden I'm Mopey McEmoFace.

no one likes a whiny bitch

But taking a cue from everyone's favorite sad-sack, I shall not dwell. Well, I at least won't dwell out in the open. Gotta keep that messiness off the inter-web! Instead, quick notes from another solid weekend of being alive.

(1) Hockey is oddly enjoyable, and it is mostly because of the fighting. There. I admitted it.

(2) Being excited for other people is way more fun than being a jealous, bitter critter. Raining on someone's parade doesn't make yours any sunnier.

(3) I will forever be baffled by how horrific traffic can be when returning to LA on a Sunday....at 9:30pm....when there's no accident. Either evil forces surround the entire county, or there are too many fucking people that use I-5. The longer I live here, the more I think both are true.

Lastly, I'm recycling a quote posted on victoria is a mess (one of my favorite blogs) from Chuck Palahniuk (one of my favorite authors). It's simple and plain and I like to keep it tucked away like a tranny's junk for when things need a little perspective.

"We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens."

Be well, friends...only five days until the weekend.



things my friends say, vol. 3

Today's nugget, courtesy of:

"Unfortunately, not-sober-at-work is something you can't fix. Sometimes I hope for an earthquake...people tend to let you leave then."

I could use an earthquake about now. Or Gatorade and some french fries. Let's be honest, I'm in no position to be picky.

Send sober thoughts and have a good weekend, my lovelies -

- J


neither slumber nor sleep

I'm in a weird rut of completely defying my usual bedtime.

nope. not gonna sleep. don't wanna.

Why? No clue. I'm exhausted, so plain ol' insomnia is not the issue. There are no monsters under the bed, mostly because my mattress sits directly on the ground; very Skid Row chic, fall collection. Neighbors are quiet. Temperature is tolerable. All signs point to slumber.

And yet here I am, a perfect candidate for a montage sequence that shows time creeping from 11:00 to 12:00 to 1:00 as I play poker against the computer and listen to a decidedly melancholy playlist made just for such occasions. Set against a moderately cheesy cover of an eighties power ballad, you'd see rough cuts of me going from window to bed to kitchen back to bed. Very lost soul. Very brooding.

Everything was accurate until the getting out of bed part. Clearly I'm too lazy for that. And I'm not really all up in my thoughts either. But you get the idea.

I'm up. And I don't actually want to be up, not one bit, but here I am looking on Facebook at people so far removed from my actual friends they may as well be the random faces that come in picture frames. Normally I'd just deal with it the American way, you know, take half a prescription pill from someone else's knee surgery and call it a night, but alas the chemical river runneth dry.

Honesty moment? I am the poster child of apathy this week. Don't care, don't care about getting out of bed, don't care about getting in bed, and not feeling real motivated about anything in between. And in my opinion, the only thing worse than caring too much is not caring at all, so I'm disappointed in myself but of course don't really care enough to make a change.

See: vicious cycle.

Hopefully it'll all blow over soon, because life being this constant shade of don't-give-a-shit is far from enjoyable. That and I'm so horrifically bad at poker I only have a 17% win rate over the computer. Some weeks you just can't get ahead....poker, sleep, motivation, take your pick, the best you can do is stay in the game long enough for things to turn in your favor.

Also, take note of the title...quite possibly the only time you will encounter me knowing anything from the Bible. Psalm reference, for the win.




I went to the store, and this is what I walked out with:

- one (1) Lean Cuisine, because I was too lazy to cook.

- one (1) green bell pepper, because I felt guilty all I was going to eat was the Lean Cuisine.

- one (1) container of half and half, because I wanted a white russian.

- one (1) bottle of Prestige Whiskey, which (a) is on the bottom shelf, (b) only $5.99, and (c) I couldn't afford my usual bottle of $10.99 Zachary Boone. And big ol' (d) I only had enough Kahlua for one white russian.

I am one car on the front yard short of a NASCAR fan. Let's chalk this up to a long Monday and never discuss it again.


life in the win column

A fair preface: it's 12:34am and nothing at this hour makes a terrible amount of sense. But I've found that writing at this time is the psychological equivalent of going out without a bra on, or what I can imagine that's like as I'm consistently sans-support. It's a very free-spirited, other-people's-thoughts-be-damned sort of time. So strap in if you're ready for the ride is what I'm getting at.

I have a dear friend who loves dresses with pockets and acknowledging the elephant in the room.

this piece of pure gold right here.

Back in the days when her and I got asked to leave karaoke night for getting too suggestive while performing Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It," she had a saying that, while not hers exclusively, became a sort of mantra for our group of sinners and saints:

Who really wins?

It started in reference to drinking games, as the loser usually ends up drinking the most. But as that's the ultimate goal of a solid binge session, bellowing out "who really wins?" while tossing back warm Coors Light became an acceptable rebuttal to the taunts of the victorious.

On paper, my weekend wouldn't jump out at you as one of many victories. Friday night I drove from Long Beach home to Hollywood (meaning: not close) at 4am after going on a date with someone who I wasn't sure was dating me back. Saturday I spent nine hours moving very heavy furniture and reassembling an Ikea entertainment center that I'm convinced was designed by Satan himself. I showered once, ate out every meal, and spent my free hours on Sunday drinking beer across town and questioning why I continue to love the Miami Dolphins when all they do is cause me pain.

So who really won? Oddly enough, I did.

While my only self-imposed rule of el bloggo is not divulging matters of the heart, I can say it's worth a long drive home to feel like after twenty-four years you've finally learned how to man up and say what you need to say. You move friends because afterwards, when you're sitting on their rooftop deck pairing gin and tonics with s'mores made over a firepit, you realize good friends help with the shitty stuff and that's why they're good friends. And as for ignoring the laundry and the diet and the looming five days of responsibility in favor of an impromptu beer pong tournament and couch naps....well, sometimes mental health comes at the expense of seeming in control.

And now I'm propped up on my frameless bed, exhausted and alone except for an oversized stuffed beaver and some sort of Armenian soap opera coming from the next building over. I should be deep in the REM cycle by now, but instead of adequately preparing for another week of pimping the pretty folk I sit up with the beaver and the Armenians and do what makes me happy at the expense of the logical choice.

I'm tired, broke, romantically perplexed and physically drained, but I still feel like I'm coming out ahead. And in this crazy life, that's all you can hope for.

Close out September on a high note, my lovelies, and remember winning is simply a matter of who's keeping score.



cats, bats, and male enhancement

Holy poop, it's hot outside.

It's September 24th, officially a few days into fall or autumn or equinox if you're crunchy like that, and the mercury is hovering right around the century mark here in La-La Land. Unacceptable. As I've said before, gays are like roses; we wilt in the heat. I have a bit of a perspiration issue even in the cold months, but with this heat wave I'm currently keeping Gold Bond in business.

If I'm allowed one wish, let someone get this joke.

Scrotal references aside, it's been a good week. It's actually been a good few weeks, which is awesome because August was sort of a cluster-fuckery of ups and downs. But currently no friend or family member is in crisis. I'm eating right, sticking with the 30 Day Shred (hard. as. fuck.) and am down about five pounds accordingly. Bills are paid, dishes are done, and work has been noticeably less irritating, downgrading my frustration level to orange, or "only somewhat likely to stab out own eyes." The good times are on a roll.

Part of me wants to prepare for the other shoe to drop. Nothing ever stays good or bad for too long, and I'm an old hat at prepping for disaster mode. But I can't think that way. Might as well enjoy while enjoyment can be had. I just feel like I'm in one of those old Cialis commercials, where Bob walks around with his big assisted erection and the chipmunks dance and the flowers sing everyone is so hap-hap-happy you get type II diabetes just from being in the vicinity. Which isn't a bad thing. But after two years of mostly struggle, it's weird to be back in the black, so to speak.

I'll be taking nothing from Bob, thankyouverymuch

So I'm just going to sit back and soak up the goodness. No sense in over-thinking the positives, right?


Stay groovy amigos, and let the happy in your life shine through, whatever form it takes.



things my friends say, vol. 2

Today's nugget is compliments of:

"You don't deserve anything just because you showed up."

Respectively lifted from his blog, but it was just too perfect not to include given this week's running theme. Speaking of, I did Day One of my 30 Day Shred....I sweat so hard on the carpet we may have to forfeit our security deposit. AK had to pour me water afterward because I couldn't lift the Brita pitcher. Full range of motion is gone for the time being, but hot damn I'm gonna be fit as a fiddle!

Lastly, on occasion I like to post visually pleasing things, because after all this whole masturbatory medium is really about exercising my right to create my own fun bubble. Allow me to introduce Mark Salling, my new favorite person from my new favorite show.

....and now I'm off for a cold shower.
Stay funky my friends.



a different kind of zoo

Lions and trannies and bears, oh my!


I didn't actually have anything to say regarding lions. I just needed a tie-in to trannies and bears. Sorry if I got your hopes up. As a peace offering I give you these two saucy kitties, proving they can in fact feel the love tonight.

ear bite...rawr


Not to sound all ever-since-my-alien-abduction-the-TV-speaks-to-me, but last night it seemed as though every show was telling me to stop being life's power bottom and actually work towards a goal if I truly want it. I know, very bossy for network primetime, but a valid point all the same. The past year or so I've become what could politely be called "comfortable" and could impolitely be called "a chubby lazy fuck." Not that I'm buying husky jeans, but the beer to exercise ratio is growing more imbalanced by the day. So today, flush with determination and motivation and perspiration, I did what any good red-blooded American would do.

I bought Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred DVD and a set of 8lb handweights.

don't be jealous

I mean, thank god I (a) have no shame and (b) shop at the West Hollywood Target, because I practically out-gayed myself by 12:30 but in that setting no one batted an eye. Of course I waited in line to be checked out by Desi, the reigning queen of Tranny-Town that holds court at checkstand seven. While her gigantic man-hands complete with press-on nails picked up my little eight pounders, she eyed me and dead-panned "good luck with that" while her adams apple bobbed in agreement.

Oh, Desi.

But yes. Jillian is going to shred me and I'm going to love it. Normally I would be weary of the whole at-home workout thing, but the woman clearly has a bigger set than I do, and I have no doubt her digitally recorded self will have me in tears by the time we get to cool-down. I'll keep you posted.


If you thought this was going to be about rotund hairy gay men, swing and a miss. I'm referring to the Berenstain Bears, and how they're pissing me off.

I know...forget health care. I have bigger fish to fry.

For whatever reason, the Ralph's next to my office sells Berenstain Bears books. Odd choice, paperback children's books next to the avocados, but I've seen weirder (re: Desi). Anyway, my heart swelled with reminiscent warm n' fuzzies the other day as I was a big BB fan, owning most of the books and always enjoying the very vanilla-ness of the books. They went to the zoo. They learned manners. Normal kid stuff.

So as I glanced over to see what the 21st Century brought to the Bear family, I was puzzled to see they'd apparently all found the Lord? Now they "say their prayers." They "ask the big question." And in case you needed it dumbed down to the lowest common denominator, they beat the children of America over the head with "The Berenstain Bears: God Loves You!"


I get along fine with God, Buddha, Abraham, Muhammad, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost with special guest Creedence Clearwater Revival, whatever. If that's your thing, more power to you. But the Berenstain Bears? Leave them out of it. They were teaching kids right from wrong because it's just what you do, to hopefully point them down the path of upstanding adulthood without fear of eternal damnation if they fuck up. The Bears were great for godless heathen children like me. But I'm also the kid that went to Bible Day Camp for six hours, sat in a corner and cried the whole time, and begged not to be sent back. So I'm arguably biased. It makes me want to take another beloved children's series and swing it the other way. Maybe the Boxcar Children. Remember them? Well be on the lookout for my adaptations, including "Henry and Violet take a bong rip." Maybe "Jesse buys Plan B," or since I get to choose their adventures, "Benny discovers show tunes."

And all of that is what goes through my head on a typical Thursday.
Now you know why I'm slow to get anything done.
Happy almost Friday, amigos.



judgemental pastels and those who love them

Today's top story: I spend too much money on booze.

I didn't say it was shocking news.

I signed up on mint.com, which is a snazzy website that tracks and categorizes your spending. This is all in an effort to become a normal functioning adult that doesn't have to mutter a small prayer for available funds every time he swipes his debit card. On the site you can set budgets, sort your purchases, etc. I did have to disable one feature; it emails you when your checking account gets below $100. HA. Silly website. Just like I would tell my dates if I ever went on any, you should go ahead and lower those expectations now and we'll all have a better time. Email me if it ever gets over $100 and then we'll party like it's 1999.

Anyway...I got it all set up and humming along, and this weekend I get an email notification:

So far this month, you've spent $100.04 on "Alcohol & Bars." This exceeds your budget of $70 by $30.

Keep in mind, this past weekend was the 13th. Meaning not even halfway through the month. Meaning oh fuck. Meaning I'm stuck on this question:

Why does it suck to realize something you already knew?

Last week on Top Chef (one of my many reality TV addictions), a guy got called out on the carpet and told exactly what he did wrong. Upon returning to the other contestants to await his fate, he said, "It's not getting told you sucked that hurts; it's knowing that they're right."

Why is this?

I mean, I obviously know my tendencies. It's no secret I enjoy an adult beverage on occasion. I buy me a drink, I buy my friends drinks, I buy drinks for bachelorettes and birthdays and cute boys and sometimes even not-so-cute boys depending how long I've been hanging out with my partner-in-crime, Maker's Mark. So....I know. I know what happens when I get the firewater in me, when the strobes and the bass and the pretty people blur my discretion and this Stella gets her groove back. I know, and apparently I don't care until I see the cold hard truth with a light green glow. A source that doesn't bend to excuses or explanations. It just reflects the facts, no matter how uncomfortable that might be.

I'm glad I have my new minty friend, even though it brings unwelcome-though-not-shocking news. It's easy to forgive ourselves. But occasionally we need a rude awakening to shake us out of our comfort zone, the disciplinarian that makes you sad to make you grow. Because it's all too easy to ignore the facts, especially when they're not fun-fun happy time facts.

So forgive me if I don't buy a round these next few months. If you had to go home and answer to mint, you wouldn't either.


an unexplained bout of happiness

Do you ever experience the sort of unhappiness that seemingly has no origin? No one wrongs you, nothing hurts, but all of a sudden the next person that so much as thinks about looking your direction will receive venomous wrath in the form of an unnecessarily bitchy retort or a piercing stare usually reserved for child molesters or missionaries on your doorstep. You know you're being a snatch but since you can't put your finger on why, you become an even bigger snatch because now you're resigned to being pissed off for pissed-off's sake and can't fix it even if you tried. Not that you even want to try. Harumpf.

I am thankfully enjoying a day that is nothing like that. In fact, it's the complete opposite.

The jeans I'm wearing have a hole in the knee not as a marketing ploy, but from years of enjoyment. Football is on, loud enough for me to hear the roar of something exciting but quiet enough to allow for a small catnap in front of the open window, if I was so compelled (and I'm always so compelled). It's nice outside, allowing for lofty thoughts of exercise and personal improvement, while deep-down knowing the late game starts in half an hour and at most I might get up to pour chips and salsa. I bought two of those glass pillar candles, the ones that usually have Jesus and Mary and the rest of the biblical entourage, but these are just blue and white, and they're giving off a homey essence that masks the apartment-ness of my space.

Jeffrey Bryan Harris...just happy to be here.

I think it's important to recognize these moments. The pleasant nature of being. I just had a coffee date with Shannon (the wit and wisdom behind holes in my rainbows), as she just recently returned from a year in Amsterdam. We exchanged pleasantries before getting down to the meat of numerous conversations between twenty-somethings:

Um, do you know what you're doing? Because I certainly don't.

We almost whisper this semtiment over our pumpkin spiced foo-foo drinks, leaning in to release a sigh of relief having found another ally in our contentious battle against Future Expectations. We dish about our contemporaries, a number of whom crossed over the invisible line to respectability with their Serious Relationships. Their Fledgling Careers. Their Mortgages or Babies or some other sign of maturity that's currently far beyond our realms of comprehension.

And yet....we're still happy without all that. Because we'll get there. Or maybe we won't, but we'll get somewhere else we didn't even know we were meant to be. I found a Postsecret today that, folded in with my favorite jeans and my new candles and my pleasantly uneventful Sunday, comforts me. Because I have it Good. And even when parts of the Good might be absent, by choice or not, hopefully it's making way for the Great.

Hopefully you're enjoying happiness for happiness sake, if not right now, then soon.
Happy Sunday, my lovelies.



wiggin' out

So here's the skinny - this week was a real challenge when it came to updating. Not entirely sure why, but similar to the first time you received anal....something just didn't feel right.

Wow...hard to transition out of a sodomy reference. Need to remember that. Anyhoo...

I was going to write all about the Festival of Substance Abuse, aka Dad's 50th, but I struggle with creating a series of "and then....and then.....and then...." moments, especially when the humor of the scene is easily lost when you're not some form of impaired. I still might milk a post out of that trip. To be determined. And then between this, that, and the other, nothing came to fruition. But fear not. The day was saved by none other than the US Postal Service.

We received a wig catalog.

Why? Fuck if I know. We get all sorts of bizarre items delivered to the office. My favorite things are the unsolicited packages we get from people looking for agents, because there's generally a reason they don't have an agent, and that reason is they're ugly. However I think even though those submissions become legal property of the office, they don't become legal property of me, meaning I can't remove the names and post them here so you could take part in the joy that is judging others based on looks. Sorry. But stop by any time if that sort of thing jiggles your bits, we have a hidden wall of shame where we keep our favorite homely strangers.

Back to the wigs....WOW. I didn't know such a joyous publication existed. First off, 75% of the wigs have women's names, so instead of calling in to order "a shabbily conspicuous collection of someone else's fur," you can confidently order a "Gwyneth." The other 25% are named within the same category as douches or streets in a housing development: "tranquility," "enchantment," and "bayside"were among my favorites.

So I'm perusing the wig selection and come across my new favorite item of all time: THE WIGLET.

Ohhhhhhh my god. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. As if normal wigs aren't enough fun, for $34 you can get a big ol' handful of what looks frighteningly similar to what covers the bathroom floor after I man-scape and WHAMO you're a new lady, just like that. Who are these models? Pastel there on the left, her "before" picture looks like it was snapped right as someone told her Grandma bought the farm. As for Perfect Secret....she just hates her life because she's a ginger. As she should.

So now you all know what I'm giving as Christmas gifts.

That's all. Sorry I don't have any deep meaningful insights on life. But as it's Friday night, happy weekend to all....party till your Wiglet falls out.


things my friends say, vol. 1

A new feature here on C&K; somewhat-occasional-as-the-mood-strikes-me posts attributed to the wit and wisdom of my friends. By and large they're not scholars, but let's be honest you probably aren't either. There is no grand qualification process, but if I hear it and it sticks it'll be passed on to you, my cheeky monkeys.

Today's nugget is courtesy of:

"Never settle. You need to grab life by the haunches and hump it into submission."


save the tatas!

Breasts! Cans! Jugs! Knockers! Tits, boobies, and sweater pillows!

They all need your help!

I don't often advocate for breasts, as they usually come complete with a vagina and that whole combination is off-putting at best; however there are exceptions to every rule, and today we honor the mammary.

I'll keep it short and sweet: this month is the two-year anniversary of my mom being cancer free. Starting in 2005 she had cancer, got rid of it, got it again, and finally kicked its ass seemingly for good. As she was fortunate in her eventual outcome, she now works to support the very foundations that helped keep her alive.

The Komen Race for the Cure is this month in Portland and my mom's team, Barbara's Bosom Buddies, will be walking once again to raise awareness and funds to keep working towards a cure.

Here's the link if you're inclined to donate. Maybe it's affected you directly, maybe it hasn't (and hopefully it won't), but bottom line? Donations of all sizes are what allow my family to keep having moments like this:

All I ask is that you do what you can, and spread the word.
Namaste, my lovelies -



holding violations and those who love them

I'm about to attempt my first season of fantasy football.

Jesus takes the hand-off...

People always seem to find it odd that I like football. It doesn't usually register high on the List of Things Homos Should Enjoy, usually falling somewhere between church and flannel. However, I maintain that any sport where one man's taint is another man's hand-warmer raises a plucked eyebrow no matter how aghast middle America would get at that assertion.

wandering fingers a happy center makes

Even though it takes me out of the running for Queer of the Year, I like many others will spend the next sixteen or so weekends arranging my activities around who pulled the 10am game. I like blitzes and punt returns and can even hold my own in a debate over the effectiveness of the Wildcat Formation, which to the confusion of my brothers in the rainbow does not involve Andrew Lloyd Webber in any way. I am not however a stats master, which is what I'm quickly deducing this whole fantasy world is all about. Thankfully the computer does everything on autopilot, so it's yet another new-found hobby that furthers my ambition of becoming the laziest human in existence.

I'm actually going to be in two leagues, commanding the forces of Beaver Fever in one and The Hail Marys in the other. Seeing as how I know absolute dick about who is good in what position this promises to be a comedy of errors not unlike when I would occasionally play pick up basketball with the guys in college.

flagrant foul? friendly game? you decide.

I will provide occasional updates as BeavFeve and the Marys grind their way through the season, hopefully allowing me to brag at my awesome predictions and unflappable instinct.

I realize this only digs the not-getting-laid hole that much deeper.
But c'mon, I also wear cargo shorts to bars.
Game on.