Sunday, July 31, 2005

And it's you and me in the summertime, we'll be hand in hand down in the park

So Ecchinacea may not actually help with your cold, but it still looks awful pretty, don't it? Posted by Picasa

Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger, and old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day

So how many times have you felt you needed to uproot yourself? I mean just totally change your life because you're stalled. Quit your job, pack up your shit and start over. You've spent many years building a successful business and moving will mean beginning again. It's a financial risk. You ain't 25 no mo. You haven't been since the 90's. The mid 90's. Still, not doing it is starting to look like a mental health risk, and where the mind goes, so goes the body. It's always easier to stay, right? You're comfortable. You have lots of electronic gadgety stuff, a cool place and a plush ride. Your job is satisfying about half the time. People do a lot worse. Happiness is over-rated anyway. You rationalize it like dat and then you realize that a lot of cool stuff is a lot of nothing. You feel that if you don't change your life in the next five minutes you are basically deciding to slowly kill yourself. And you let yourself feel like that for over a year.
I'm not saying I feel that way, I'm just wondering if you have. I'm a curious guy.

It's summertime and the livin' is easy

If you don't feel like cooking and need something quick, you will not go wrong getting the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad at Panera. Combine the fact that I never cook with my OCD-like ability to repeat myself and you have me eating this 6 dollar mound of heaven three times last week. Herb-roasted all natural chicken, mixed greens, gorgonzola cheese that had me making embarrassingly audible mmm, mmm, mmmmh! sounds, along with red onions all drizzled with a Fuji apple vinagrette. And a fucking baguette, mofos! It's almost too much goodness for so confined a space. Thank Bob that I can find happiness on a plate.

Friday, July 29, 2005

It's your duty to be beautiful

Learn from my mistake, boys. Resolve to keep your pachysandra trimmed up regularly or it might just take the better part of your afternoon off to get it looking presentable again.

I've been outside myself for so long

OK, this post comes courtesy of your favorite gay Buddhist from Down Under (Aussie, Aussie, yo!) Andrew, he of The Other Andrew fame. It's one of those meme things. I'm not even sure what meme means but I can only assume contextually that it's a shortened version of something like Another Excuse To Talk About Me Me Me, so of course, I'm on board. Herein lies the drilling. I answer the questions my dear OA sent, and as part of this meme you get to request five questions from me. Just read the instructions at the bottom of this post and send me a comment requesting an interview. I'll hit you back with my queries, some invariably inappropriate for polite company, but then you wouldn't expect anything less. OK, here's my shit and FYI, it's bananas. I promise I'll stop with the Stefani lameness. Just give me one more week, k?

1. If you had to leave a legacy to the world, what would it be?
In school, I was the annoying kid who needed more than just an A, I needed perfection. So right here I'd be raising my hand and asking for clarification on this question. Since Andrew is most likely off whoring around Sydney right now, I'll go with my gut. Legacy is a heavy word. Since fame and fortune and notable achievement are unforeseen at this point in my life, I'm going to offer an epitaph that I've considered. If it turns out to be true, I'll be satisfied:
He kept trying and he meant well.

2. What is your ideal pet?
I've had my ideal pet so this is an easy one. To know a hyper, loving, athletic, intelligent and beautiful Wheaten terrier named Scout was to love her. She went running with me, she studied with me, she slept with me and she gave me hugs and kisses like a good girl should. Honestly, you would have loved her. Everyone did. As great as she was, if I ever have another dog (I'd have to get a boyfriend first, about as unforeseen as the aforementioned fame and fortune), I would get one that didn't remind me of her so much. Probably another terrier. A Kerry Blue maybe, named Jem. They're strong and strong-willed and could do the road miles with me. If you are reading this and think you'd like me to take care of you while you take care of our puppy, hit me up already, bitch.

3. What is the biggest misconception most people have about gay men?
I think the biggest misconception is that being gay is all about sex. If I never had sex with a man before and never had sex with a man again, I'd still be gay. Being gay informs everything about me, but at the same time, I'm not so very different from a straight guy. I'm still all guy. I don't know how to explain it. In the end, we're both looking at dick in the showers, my brotha, just for different reasons. P.S. Relax already, it's big enough.

4. Who was your first kiss?
I had girlfriends all through high school, so I can tell you about the real first kiss with a girl, but even I would be skimming that part on the edit, so I'll just get to the goods. My first kiss with a guy was somewhat anonymous and random and inappropriate. And awesome. He wasn't a stranger per se. I had taken Water Instructor courses with this dude, so it was two weeks of us in close proximity in swim trunks. He was seemingly oblivious. I, on the other hand, found it frequently necessary to wait a while before exiting the pool. Anyway, I was a lifeguard, but also worked at a funeral home and that's where I met up with him again. He was at a funeral. We started talking. He asked if he could get a beverage. We talked some more. We went into the casket room for some privacy and noiselessly, breathlessly mashed and groped. I pulled back and our eyes locked. I sank down to my knees in front of him. No, I'm playin'. We just kissed a little. In a funeral home. Surrounded by caskets. His grandpa laid out in the next room. I was 16. His name was Matt. I suppose I could have just answered with those last two sentences.

5. Who would you like your last kiss to be?
I honestly never picture myself growing old with someone. Maybe that's my problem. I need to focus! ::squints:: For now, when I think of this, I see a kiss or three from my family, both actual and acquired. I have two sisters I worship, and a whole other family that has taken me in as one of their own. Again, though, if you like the ring of that me and you and a Kerry Blue scenario, speak up, son.

Am I done already? Don't I get to talk about myself just a little longer? OK, and this is the part that kind scares me, it's your turn. If you're not interested in what I have to ask, that's totally fine because like Anne Bancroft said in that Bridget Fonda classic, Point of No Return, "I never did mind about the little things."

Instructions: 1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “Interview me.” (I will accept "Do me righteously") 2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different. They'll be in the comments for this post. 3. You can answer in your blog but I might let you cheat and answer here. I'll take the fall if the Meme Lord comes a knockin' 4. If you answer in your blog, howsabout including this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post. 5. When and if folks respond to you, rinse and repeat.

Every little step I take

I've got no love for ol' Dr. Frist, but I may grudgingly warm to him if he keeps this up. He's broken from the herd and come out in favor of opening up restrictions on stem cell research. Frist, in a fit of common sense, is now advocating we use stem cells that are otherwise going to be thrown away. Lest you start to feel too warm and fuzzy toward him, he still advocates permanent freezing of unused IVF embryos. Life is best sanctified via frozen inanimation, I suppose. Also, he'd really like to restrict a woman's right to choose. So if you run into him, it's air kisses or maybe a man hug, but no nuzzling and definitely no tongue.

PS I have two precious nieces and one nephew courtesy of in vitro fertilization procedures my sisters underwent. One sister (lovely girl, snores like a hacksaw) is currently required to pay in order to preserve unused frozen embryos indefinitely. She doesn't feel comfortable destroying them. I have no question that she would be OK with them being used for vital, potentially life-preserving research. Can someone explain "culture of life" to me again?

Thursday, July 28, 2005

If I had my way, the world would be different

As hard as I wish that this was really a show, I wish even more that this wasn't.

It's never as good as the first time

I'm feeling close to you right now. Wanna cuddle and share? I'll start. Remember that old college buddy of mine? When last we saw him he was jacking me off at the multiplex. Up to speed? I've been thinking about him ever since my simulated Gap dressing room stripper was in his spitting image. Well, kind of a blend of him and Tony Almeida from 24. He and I spent about 6 months dropping our collective nuts with each other. To be honest, it was mostly me dropping mine on him. He was usually getting finished off by his girlfriend later. It was a confusing time for a naive country boy. I ran into him recently at a seminar and later we had dinner with his current woman in tow. It was a pleasant evening with authentic Italian fare, good wine and sparkling conversation. You'll excuse my disappointment that the evening ended with a hug this time instead of a pearl necklace. I guess it's true. You can't go back home.
O.K. Your turn.

I want the world to know, got to let it show

You've no doubt heard about the new fragrance Cumming from Alan Cumming, right? What? Haven't you bookmarked yet? Well, you're in for a treat, because he's shot a commercial for this shit. He's kind of gross and oddly shaped but make no mistake, I would fuck him 6 ways to Tuesday. I think it's the accent.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

We'll go dancing in the dark, we'll go walking through the park

Over at Max's joint he made mention of Speed Racer which had me happily reminiscing. That link is to the official Speed Racer website, yo. Download the theme song. Enjoy. This show was so ahead of its time, wasn't it? Anyway, I was thinking about my favorite episodes, and I'm a little fuzzy on the details here, but I was fixated as a young boy on the one where Speed is in a jungle and is being terrorized by this giant mutant Amazon spider, which attacks him, ripping his form-fitting white racing uniform (gulp), thereby exposing the Racer flesh underneath. Fixated. What was I but maybe 6-8 y.o. at the time? Born or raised, you make the call.

You know I really am loathe to make every damn post so faggoty. Heh. Did you keep a straight face?

You spin me right round, baby, right round

Who amongst you wouldn't love dressing your man up in some FOOINE shit of your choosing and then having him strip it back off later at your command? Show of hands? That's what I thought. So if you also get to do his hair, alter his facial features (lips should be more, a little more full....oh yeah, that's it) and make him as beefy as he oughta be, you'd be all over it, right? Check it out.

from towleroad

My name is, my name is, my name is

I don't fear death in the least. I don't fear cancer or infarct of any kind. I do, however, have a morbid and distracting fear of mental incapacity. It's not completely irrational because it is a scary prospect. I live alone and work for myself, so it might be a while before anyone notices. It might be a slow imperceptible slide of buying crap on eBay, no one the wiser, and then one day, finally, the precipitous drop-off to full dementia when I dissolve my pension plan in a donation to the RNC.
Just writing that made the short hairs stand on end. And we're not talking neck hairs, cuz I don't allow those. Fag, remember?

You make me feel like dancing

There's a new study that shows promise for using embryonic stem cells to heal spinal cord injuries. It's early, but promising. Sidenote: some folks try to gloss over it, but there are different types of stem cells, from different sources, and they are not all the same. As everyone knows, research using these little engines that could has been hamstrung by our fearless leader.Catering to his base, he has been happy to limit research funding and limit the availability of new stem cell lines. It's a moral issue, he says, supporting the so-called culture of life he's so keen on. Meanwhile, people who are very alive, people with CF, diabetes, spinal cord injuries and Parkinson's, suffer. And what of the undifferentiated stem cells from aborted fetuses and unused embryos from IVF procedures? Are they saved somehow? No, they are discarded. Dumpstered. I realize this is old news, but it's another example of someone else's morality, distorted in my opinion, being imposed on us, to the detriment of living, breathing mothers and daughters and brothers and friends and it's maddening to me so I'm just going to go ON about it as long as I fucking feel like it.
Oh yeah. It's also an example of how this administration gives it to us front and backdoor. They want to keep the gays from marrying, justifying the discrimination by saying the majority of the country wants marriage to be between only a man and a woman. So, though I disagree with that rationale, what does the majority of the country feel about embryonic stem cell research?

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Summer, summer, summer, it turns me upside down

It's been so hot here that at 5:00 this morning, as I was packing my bag for the gym, a sleeveless T seemed like a perfectly acceptable selection. Funny that by noon, when it was time to don said gay apparel, it was so woefully unacceptable. This is the reason I need a man. He would have told me, "Honey, it's fine in the house or maybe mowing the yard or certainly when running outdoors on that trail, but never, never, never in the gym." Well, that's one reason I need him.

On a more positive summer tip, the little cafe' I hit for a quick lunch was grilling sweet corn (!), or roastin' ears in the parlance of my country youth. It was swollen and succulent and delicious. Really delicious. I can still taste it. You know where this is going, right? Yep, some of it's still in my teeth.

You can't take that away from me

For as long as I can remember, I am the guy who bends it (like Beckham?) to the left. I'm fine with it. I've never had any complaints. Well, not many. It's quite a subtle bend, not harsh at all. So here's my problem (secret?). I'm confused by how I'm responding to the so-called "racial profiling" issue with security searches, of late in the NY and London subways, but since 9/11 in the airports. The debate continues. Would it be so wrong if these searches were more pointed/directed and less random? Against my usual liberal bias, right now I feel it would be OK to direct searches toward more likely suspects instead of searching my 60 y.o. mother on each leg of her trip to Boca Raton. I must be wrong about this, right? Am I so quick to let them take away my rights? Someone needs to set me straight on this and I'll tell you up front that they will need to be firm about it.

Monday, July 25, 2005

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together

I remember commenting on Lots of Co. that when I finished Ian McEwan's Saturday, I wanted to start again immediately. Well, I just finished Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jon Foer. I don't want to start it again. Make no mistake, it was wonderful, but it was also incredibly sad. I've read a few things that have been framed around the tragedy of 9/11, but this was the most poignant and beautiful. I think the book has been praised generally, but some have written that it's mawkish and manipulative and in company with the likes of Tuesdays With Morrie. What the fuck do I know from literature, but I couldn't disagree more. It did make me laugh and cry, but I never felt used. You know, the used feeling you're going to experience at least once in every Spielberg movie? Never here. It all felt true. Oskar Schell is the child narrator for a good portion of the book and in my opinion he can join the ranks of some of the great ones that came before him. He's precocious, I'll admit, but never precious. He pulls you in for a ride around the five (or six?) burroughs, some days with heavy boots, some days with light, but every day worth the trip. I would love to hear what anyone else thought of this, even if you wanna call me maudlin or a pussy. Or if you just want to explain the themes to me, I'd also like to hear from you then.
Goo goo g’joob

I bang my own drum, some think it's noise, I think it's pretty

I've been banging away at this lil' blog for a week or so now, all by myself. It was sweet. I was tender with myself, then alternately rough, seemingly just when I wanted it. Anyway, Andrew barged in on me (damn the hasty comment with my blogger ID) and flashbacks to a certain 80's teenaged sleepover had me hastily covering my tracks. Then I remembered I am what I am, so I put it all back, albeit without dates and missing some linkage. Warts and all, bitches, like I give a fuck what you think.

Our star is shining its brightest light

I can't recall any time ever when I really believed or felt there was someone out there for me to spend the rest of my life with. I'm 35. Is that strange?

Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around

5:30 AM, Sunday morning, Summer 2005. It was the most peaceful cusp of dawn you can imagine. Nature was stilled in the last darkness; the coming sun and heat only vaguely imposing themselves. The convenience store was empty but for me, grabbing my newspaper, and the clerk, shrouded in a blue haze of her own exhaust. After paying for the news, I turned to leave and my peace was shattered. Distracted by the headlines, I unceremoniously crashed into a 60-something combed-over dude wearing a purple and blue velour track suit and corduroy house slippers. In a public venue. Christ, what am I saying? Who would wear this shit in private? I trust and pray that my gay gene will be some form of talisman against ever exhibiting this sort of behaviour. Right?

Burn the land and boil the sea, you can't take the sky from me

Let's get something straight. Joss Whedon is a stone cold genius. You don't think so? Get out of my fucking face. OK, tonight on the Sci Fi Channel at 7 EST they will start replaying his gone too soon and without an adequate shot to build an audience space cowboy opus Firefly. It's television that makes you tingle in all the right places. You know the limbic area right at the base of your brain that is all primordial and shit? Joss writes stuff that pings there first and then snakes up to your frontal cortex to give your higher functions the happy, too. It's good shit. You can trust me, so tune in every week. They are even going to broadcast the three episodes that the Network Which Shall Not Be Named chose not to air. All this will lead up to the theatrical release of Serenity, the trailer for which has me frothing and not just out of my mouth, people.

It's obvious you hate me though I've done nothing wrong

So another of these conservative Christian hate groups is boycotting a company that dares to target homos in their advertising. Johnson & Johnson, a company with a long history of tolerance in hiring and employee benefits, placed an innocuous ad depicting GASP! the naked torsos of two men in bed with some copy about boyfriends and not sleeping because of a sore back. Tylenol PM to the rescue. Not a hard sell and not graphic in any way and it was in fucking Advocate magazine which only the homos are reading anyway (hmm, I wonder which bornagain spotted it...) and then only the subset of homos that do read something besides Entertainment Weekly. This is targeted stuff, muthafuckas. PS the Tylenol PM is good shit. I never fly out of the country without it. Buy it, bitches, and thank me later. Also show your support for Johnson & Johnson by dialing the digits.
If any Christians happen to google in here, let me ask you a few questions. How is my life affecting you at all? Don't you have enough to worry about with your own shit? And also, neither I nor any other faggot I know, is interested in recruiting your suburban sons. That's just more young A&F-y competition for me and I'm having to work damn hard as it is to get ass. Besides, we don't need to recruit. Faggots are born, not raised, every damn day, folks. Look around. Look around your own family. No, really look for once. Anyone reading Details? See! I told you.

Ingonyama ifile, ingonyama ilele

I completely forgot the BEST part of seeing War of the Worlds: the trailer for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe! Exhilarating, kids! I haven't felt that way in a theater since the first LOTR trailer and before that it was when my college buddy gave me a handy using the old "I'm just reaching repetitively into this bucket for popcorn and not some dude's dick stuck through the bottom" trick. Brings back memories, huh? Where was I? Oh, and that college buddy? He was only gay when drunk. Again, been there, done that, right? Anyway, the trailer was visually stunning and so now this movie HAS to be great. Who knew I'd get to revisit my childhood innocence so quickly after LOTR ended?

I ain't never seen an ass like that

You know how the local news, when teasing a story about obesity, will use that stock footage, shot from the shoulders down, of all these ginormous asses and pendulous guts sloshing down the street? Do you ever picture someone watching the news at home and the horror of recognition that spreads across their face as they recognize those lime-colored stirrup pants as their very own? It must happen, right?

That won't keep me warm on those long, cold, lonely nights

If you go on about your 3,800 square foot house and your 35 foot boat, as some dude did this morning, just know that my mind will completely shut down and from that point on you will sound like Charlie Brown's teacher to me. Rest assured that what impresses me most isn't measured in feet.

Running in circles, coming up tails....

I went into War of the Worlds fully expecting to be disappointed and fully expecting to be distanced from full escapist involvement by the freak that is the Scientologist. The Cruise pre-hate was in the hizzay. Instead, I loved it. Lurved it. I knew the special effects would be incredible, it's why I deigned, and they were phenomenal. Color me surprised with how spot on the humans brought it. I don't give a damn who he's fucking or if he's kidding himself about loving pussy, the Scientologist/Mind Scientist/Dr. Cruise did a fine job with a tough role. It wouldn't be a Spielberg movie without an emotional scene or two that leaves you feeling blatantly manipulated, and Cruise has those scenes in spades in this flick. The boy acted his faggoty ass off. Instead of making me throw up Junior Mints in my mouth a little, your Lord help me, I wanted to hug him. Several times. So fucking sue me. And shutup. Also, Dakota Fanning is otherworldly talented. Preternatural. Almost creepy. OK, actually creepy.
Finally , I've read so much about inconsistencies and glaring plot holes, but every time I had a sinking sense of things gone awry, questions were answered. My only problem with this shit was a too happy ending. Family reunions occuring against all odds and reason, accompanied by soaring notes from the string section, are not my thing. Part of that may be that I, as a man who loves men, am precluded from experiencing such a family reunion, seeing that I am not afforded the basic rights of marriage and adoption available to all other citizens of this country. Or maybe I'm just cynical and jaded.

It's hip to be square

Curse you, Sudoku! You are a wicked seductress. You beguile with your skilled teasing, drawing the innocent into your relentless maze of tortured pleasure. Satisfaction is exquisitely elusive. I hate you! And of course I love you.
Check this bitch out, folks, on the USA Today puzzle page. I'm not even a game-y type of flamer, but this perfectly symmetrical box has me sniffing around for more.

I think it was the Fourth of July

*war vs. peace
*age vs. youth
*delusion vs. reality
*fate vs. chance
*faith vs. science
*are global conflicts macabre funhouse reflections of our personal ones?
*are we making choices and controlling the consequences or are we just kidding ourselves?
All of this and more plays out in Saturday by Ian McEwen. It's a lot to cover in one day for my man Ian, but he does so in his usual style; page after page filled with concise, vivid prose. It's beautiful stuff, people, but also alternately funny and touching and tense. Check it out and thank me later.

Oh, and on the Saturday in question in the book, there is a huge protest in London against the impending invasion of Iraq. I was in Rome during a very similar peace (pace!) rally in February of 2003. Close to a million people showed up. That is a fucking mass of humanity, my friends. It was both thrilling and a little frightening. I think the skeery was due to all the police in riot gear combined with that pesky history of Italian fascism.

Cuz I ain't no hollaback girl......

Update: So I'm skating along, the sky is incredibly clear and blue and the air, for the first time in days, does not smell like a giant cow pooed all over my neighborhood. Oh, also I'm sporting high-tech breathable fabrics that drape well and match my eyes so you know I'm giddy. The music is good, too, with some Pet Shop Boys, followed by Kylie Minogue, and then a few minutes of Rufus to recover some oxygen debt. About 6 uneventful miles go by, Gwen is talk-singing about how her shit is bananas, and I'm thinking that my shit is right there with hers, when I hit a big rock. Five seconds of frantic bouncing, bending, swinging of arms and grunting ensue (which sounds quite good if taken out of context) and then finally the skidding (never good in any context). My big gay day had screeched to an asphalty halt. Road rash is not fabulous.
And yes, bitches, there were witnesses.
I played it cool, dusted my shoulders off like any gangsta will, and went on in my usual fashion, bloodied, but not broken.

In my life I've loved them all

OK, it's been a slow start for me on this blogging bidnaz. I'll see if I can get a head of steam going. It's not like I'm smelling baited breath from all y'all for a post, so what is the pressure? Anyway, it's Sunday and I'm offering up a slice of my life. It's not exactly a slice of heaven, but fuck all, it's what I have to work with. Reviewing it gives me pause. Have a look:

So, today I read the paper while drinking a rich French roast and listening to Linda Eder's "Broadway, My Way". Got my run in. Exfoliated while I was in the shower. Watched Anderson Cooper reporting live from Pensacola, FL and got erect (did you, just for a second, wish that erect was a link, too?) seeing him buffeted around by hurricane winds. Now, after a lunch of spinach salad with faux lobster (flobster?) and baby carrots (wouldn't it be cute if they came with the baby green part?) and an iced green tea, I'm going out to do some inline soon as I find my tiara.....

It just doesn't make sense that I'm single.

Oh, and I ogled the 20 y.o. neighbor as he floated in their pool entwined with some of those noodles.

Something's coming, I don't know what it is, but it is gonna be...

OK, I'm a few lines and a few minutes into my first blogging experience ever and I've already used a show tune lyric for my title. Name that proclivity! I'm adding my voice to the blogging community because I defy you to name a party that isn't enhanced by one more thirty something homo. No kids + no legal access to marriage = plenty of time to hone cocktail conversation. Plus, I'm at a crossroads. Closer to 40 than 30 suddenly and just now being haunted by those questions about my place in the world, my goals achieved and ignored, and my choice of underpants. I imagine that voicing the random cacophany playing in my head may be therapeutic. Maybe someone will stop by and vilify me, holding me up to public ridicule. Maybe someone will "heart" me or direct some other endearing emoticon my way. And if that person is also missing a finger in part or whole, so be it. Have I lost you already? C'mon, sucking on a finger stump is hot!