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 -