Well, where do I start? One would presume the beginning but the beginning isn't a beginning at all. I guess I should just come out with it: John and I broke up. I know, I know, please people, stay seated. I don't really have much to "blog" about it, as it is a personal subject between him and me, but I wanted to just say for the record that I've absolutely enjoyed my relationship with John; he's such a great guy and I think the world of him. We are simply changing the terms and conditions of our relationship to reflect a friendship rather than boyfriendship (that should be a word huh?). Anyway, I wouldn't consider myself single either, because single would denote availability--I'm non-anything. I'm a unisexual (just me, baby) for the time being. And who knows, maybe we are making a mistake (and by "we" I mean "me"--I'm the one that decided it was probably for the best to break it off). Maybe we will get back together, and maybe it will be sooner, maybe it will be later, maybe it will never be the same again, but all I know is I had a great year, I learned a lot about myself and I have some amazing and special memories from my time close with him. I am fine, a little shaken, but I'm good. John and I had talks about this for almost 2 weeks deciding on what would be for the greater good and all that crap, and after our last conversation I'm feeling a lot better about things (good enough to talk freely about it now). If you want to hear more, than ask. and if you want to check in with Johnny, please do not hesitate to ask me for his email (I don't want to publish it on here--a public blog). Anyway... that's all I have to say tonight.
Oh and thanks everyone for your patience with my little blog vacation. Obviously had some stuff on my mind that I couldn't spurt out onto this darn thing. Until next time, bloggettes. I promise, I'll have some good stuff next time!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Weekend Number 16: Earth Dizzle fo' Shizzle
Saturday was a waste. I'm skipping it, thanks (it's my blog; I'll do whatever the hell I want).
Sunday was it though. So my roommate, Mike, and another great friend of mine, Vince (both of whom I've blogged about before) ran in the La Jolla Half Marathon (which I will refere to as the LJ1/2 from now on). So they had to be up in La Jolla at about half past zero in the morning to warm up and stretch and wax and breathe and kick and tai bo and all that. They run, I'm sure it's amazing and then they are done. And get back in their cars and ruin the environment. Okay, so I meet Vince at Urban Mo's (for you non-San Diegans, Mo's is an open-patio burger bar that's SUPER popular on Sunday mornings--and for those don't know, "Mo" is short for "homo"). Okay, meet Vince there apres his run (John and I walked--the environment) and had a celebritory cocktail. Horray! We order some food, meet up with a couple other friends, one of whom is Mr. Alex Blayden (some may refered to him as Mackinzie Tartan). After consuming our fried, delicious Earth Day feast we casually jaunt to Starbucks ready to concume our daily allowance of calories in one cup. So we get there, order a double-what-the-fuckie and enjoy our coffees on the patio, watching the passerbyers. So it's alex, vince, me, some group of people we literally ran into on the walk over (walking, yes, Earth Day) and some other randoms. It was like 10 of us. Lovely.
Suddenly, and without warning, a figure cloaked orange and sagging shorts materializes onto the patio and starts barraging our congregation with stammering nonsense. Yeah. This guy just starts talking about all this stuff like Ibiza platinum memberships and how we are bringing sexy back and how he asked us if we had any vicodin ("Oh shoot, I gave my last one away to the last crazy, creepy kook that asked me for one. Sorry."). He was six kinds of crazy. At least.
We devised a plan to get rid of him (and get booze back in our system) and went to ANOTHER stop on our Earth Day tour, to Baja Betty's. So Baja Betty's is, the exact, exact same as Urban Mo's (previously mentioned) except instead of burgers it's burritos. Clever. So we dominate the patio of Betty's and order beers by the bucket and just talk about everything there ever was to talk about: work, school, madonna, boys, talking inanimate objects, strangers in orange, sunshine, the LJ1/2, music, clogging, etc. We were there from, oh let's say 2:00 pm to, well, until it started to rain, which was approximately 9:00 pm. It was fantastic though. It was the perfect.... oh, I forgot something. There is this troop of trannies that run around San Diego causing all sorts of ruckus called the Sisters of Purpetual Induldgence. They wear white, white faces and red lips and huge eyelashes and look like goth clowns. Goth tranny clowns actually. That's what I look for in a man, okay. No. So they were being SO funny and on their way by they were saying happy Earth Day to us and we started up a chorus of, "Happy Earth Day to you, happy Earth Day to you..." (like the birthday song right?) I pretty much died of laughter afterwards. It was soo freaking funny! So funny. They didn't think they were going to get any bite with their bark.
So anyway, that was pretty much it. A gaggle of cute boys sitting around a patio, drinking quite literally all day and laughing and bonding. Damn what a kick-ass Sunday. Weekend Number 16, you're sure to give the biggest bang for your buck.
Sunday was it though. So my roommate, Mike, and another great friend of mine, Vince (both of whom I've blogged about before) ran in the La Jolla Half Marathon (which I will refere to as the LJ1/2 from now on). So they had to be up in La Jolla at about half past zero in the morning to warm up and stretch and wax and breathe and kick and tai bo and all that. They run, I'm sure it's amazing and then they are done. And get back in their cars and ruin the environment. Okay, so I meet Vince at Urban Mo's (for you non-San Diegans, Mo's is an open-patio burger bar that's SUPER popular on Sunday mornings--and for those don't know, "Mo" is short for "homo"). Okay, meet Vince there apres his run (John and I walked--the environment) and had a celebritory cocktail. Horray! We order some food, meet up with a couple other friends, one of whom is Mr. Alex Blayden (some may refered to him as Mackinzie Tartan). After consuming our fried, delicious Earth Day feast we casually jaunt to Starbucks ready to concume our daily allowance of calories in one cup. So we get there, order a double-what-the-fuckie and enjoy our coffees on the patio, watching the passerbyers. So it's alex, vince, me, some group of people we literally ran into on the walk over (walking, yes, Earth Day) and some other randoms. It was like 10 of us. Lovely.
Suddenly, and without warning, a figure cloaked orange and sagging shorts materializes onto the patio and starts barraging our congregation with stammering nonsense. Yeah. This guy just starts talking about all this stuff like Ibiza platinum memberships and how we are bringing sexy back and how he asked us if we had any vicodin ("Oh shoot, I gave my last one away to the last crazy, creepy kook that asked me for one. Sorry."). He was six kinds of crazy. At least.
We devised a plan to get rid of him (and get booze back in our system) and went to ANOTHER stop on our Earth Day tour, to Baja Betty's. So Baja Betty's is, the exact, exact same as Urban Mo's (previously mentioned) except instead of burgers it's burritos. Clever. So we dominate the patio of Betty's and order beers by the bucket and just talk about everything there ever was to talk about: work, school, madonna, boys, talking inanimate objects, strangers in orange, sunshine, the LJ1/2, music, clogging, etc. We were there from, oh let's say 2:00 pm to, well, until it started to rain, which was approximately 9:00 pm. It was fantastic though. It was the perfect.... oh, I forgot something. There is this troop of trannies that run around San Diego causing all sorts of ruckus called the Sisters of Purpetual Induldgence. They wear white, white faces and red lips and huge eyelashes and look like goth clowns. Goth tranny clowns actually. That's what I look for in a man, okay. No. So they were being SO funny and on their way by they were saying happy Earth Day to us and we started up a chorus of, "Happy Earth Day to you, happy Earth Day to you..." (like the birthday song right?) I pretty much died of laughter afterwards. It was soo freaking funny! So funny. They didn't think they were going to get any bite with their bark.
So anyway, that was pretty much it. A gaggle of cute boys sitting around a patio, drinking quite literally all day and laughing and bonding. Damn what a kick-ass Sunday. Weekend Number 16, you're sure to give the biggest bang for your buck.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Weekend Number 15: J'adore Portland parti deux
(Reader: if you're starting here, please read "J'adore Portland" first. Thanks.)
Brother's think their they greatest thing since sliced hops. We did a couple beer samples and the went to the actual brewery. We got to see these HUGE vats of beer (or soon-to-be-beer) and watch it churn and spray and purify and Saturday I planned two activities ahead of time that were to be surprises for John: the first was a tour of the Widmer Brothers Brewery. We went to industrial North East Portland and arrived at the all-brick, super cute brewery. The hostess escorts us to the boardroom where we will soon meet with our tour guide. Other people start to filter in and soon after the tour guide arrives and we begin. They started with a movie on how beer is made and how it furments and all that. It was super, super cool. We received a Widmer Brother's glass and a bottle opener at the end of the tour and headed off to our next destination.
We arrived now in Old Town Portland where we took a tour of the "Portland Underground." Old Town Portland was very similar to San Diego's historic Stingaree district. It was at one time brothels, casino parlors, opium dens, etc. Portland, being a "port" town and had, what many other port towns called, "shanghaiing." What would happen is when some one was in this part of town and strolling down the streets intoxicated, inebriated or otherwise, they would be knocked-out, kidnapped and then drug down to the harbor and sold to a ship captain as a slave. This started around the 1850's and quickly increased in severity over the years. There was a network of tunnels that were constructed under buildings that made it easier to trap, hide and transport victims. The slavers started buying off the police force, politicians and barkeeps to just turn the other way. In the height of the Shanghaiing, it was 3,000 men a year that would be kidnapped and it lasted till 1941, World War II. The tour actually took us underground into the catacomb tunnels, and we saw some of the artifacts and actual holding cells of these people. It was very interesting to hear about the historic part of Portland, but I could have DEFINITELY done without all the campfire-ghost story-bull hockey. "If you squint your eyes, some people have said they've seen the whistler who whistled until they died....oooohh booga booga booga." Bitch please.
Okay so then what, Oh! So we get done with the Old Town tour and go to Matt's get our belongings and go to a pre-party. A pre-party to what you might ask? The red dress party!! Holla! Okay, so the red dress party is just a giant warehouse party with a bunch of men (yes, gay) in dresses. Not all are drag queens, but the ones who are are probably my old roommates. Oh yeah... okay so we go to Starbuck's house (that's his nickname, is birth name is Dave). Anyway, we get there, have a beer, muster up the balls (or not-balls) to put on a glitzy, glamorous red dress. John's was this full-length, beaded halter top gown and mine was this 80's Tiffany-ish sweater dress. It was hideous. Okay so started to bitch about how it was a little itchy and some guy there was like, "Oh, I brought this other dress that I ended up not wearing but you should totally try it." I tried it on, and what a dream come true. It is totally like a fairytale figure skater dress. It was SOO gay! And if I spun in a circle, my underwear would show, so I was happy. Okay, so we drink, great, and head off the red dress party (except John had a stomach ache and didn't end up going).
The red dress party was like, a line to get in another line, to get in ANOTHER line... uuggg. There was a line to get in the door (outdoors thanks), there was a line to get a cocktail (again, outdoors) and ANOTHER line to go the bathroom (yup...outdoors). This is not San Diego either, this is Portland, Oregon, on the river, freezing, drizzling cold. But so fun. Super fun. so we drink, eat, giggle, twirl, giggle more and go down to Silverado. For are you non-Portlanders, it's this very classy establishment, almost members-only, that the very upper-crust of society patrons. It's a total divy gay strip bar. So we changed out of our red dresses on the streets of downtown Portland (did I mention how classy I am?) and go to Silverado, meet up with friends, drink, twirl, tip, they twirl, tip again, drink and leave. It was fun.
Sunday morning Kurtis (some may know him as Asshole) came home from his work trip. Work flew him to Twinkistan or something and he was like a big in shit. Anyway, Mattgraves picked him up from the airport then we all went out to brunch--which was the most ridiculous meal I've ever had. We walk in and the hostess is like, "Okay yeah, table for four? Okay right this way (read it in a little Asian-lady-Miss-Swan voice)." We sit down, order some food and they are pestering us like, "You can't eat all that? You come wash dishes when you're finished..." and like, rubbing our heads and just being kooky. I can't even explain it. The tip of the iceberg was when I was watching the little girl that was staring into the wall, nose-to-wallpaper, like it was television screen, and I whip around and see this Asian lady cutting Mattgraves' pancake with HIS fork and putting it in HIS mouth. I checked out for the rest of the meal. I was in Kookykook Kooksville. So weird. Okay, so we get to the airport, get on our plane, talk about the amazing time we shared and about how random of a blog the whole weekend is going to make. So there you go.
Portland's fucking weird.
Brother's think their they greatest thing since sliced hops. We did a couple beer samples and the went to the actual brewery. We got to see these HUGE vats of beer (or soon-to-be-beer) and watch it churn and spray and purify and Saturday I planned two activities ahead of time that were to be surprises for John: the first was a tour of the Widmer Brothers Brewery. We went to industrial North East Portland and arrived at the all-brick, super cute brewery. The hostess escorts us to the boardroom where we will soon meet with our tour guide. Other people start to filter in and soon after the tour guide arrives and we begin. They started with a movie on how beer is made and how it furments and all that. It was super, super cool. We received a Widmer Brother's glass and a bottle opener at the end of the tour and headed off to our next destination.
We arrived now in Old Town Portland where we took a tour of the "Portland Underground." Old Town Portland was very similar to San Diego's historic Stingaree district. It was at one time brothels, casino parlors, opium dens, etc. Portland, being a "port" town and had, what many other port towns called, "shanghaiing." What would happen is when some one was in this part of town and strolling down the streets intoxicated, inebriated or otherwise, they would be knocked-out, kidnapped and then drug down to the harbor and sold to a ship captain as a slave. This started around the 1850's and quickly increased in severity over the years. There was a network of tunnels that were constructed under buildings that made it easier to trap, hide and transport victims. The slavers started buying off the police force, politicians and barkeeps to just turn the other way. In the height of the Shanghaiing, it was 3,000 men a year that would be kidnapped and it lasted till 1941, World War II. The tour actually took us underground into the catacomb tunnels, and we saw some of the artifacts and actual holding cells of these people. It was very interesting to hear about the historic part of Portland, but I could have DEFINITELY done without all the campfire-ghost story-bull hockey. "If you squint your eyes, some people have said they've seen the whistler who whistled until they died....oooohh booga booga booga." Bitch please.
Okay so then what, Oh! So we get done with the Old Town tour and go to Matt's get our belongings and go to a pre-party. A pre-party to what you might ask? The red dress party!! Holla! Okay, so the red dress party is just a giant warehouse party with a bunch of men (yes, gay) in dresses. Not all are drag queens, but the ones who are are probably my old roommates. Oh yeah... okay so we go to Starbuck's house (that's his nickname, is birth name is Dave). Anyway, we get there, have a beer, muster up the balls (or not-balls) to put on a glitzy, glamorous red dress. John's was this full-length, beaded halter top gown and mine was this 80's Tiffany-ish sweater dress. It was hideous. Okay so started to bitch about how it was a little itchy and some guy there was like, "Oh, I brought this other dress that I ended up not wearing but you should totally try it." I tried it on, and what a dream come true. It is totally like a fairytale figure skater dress. It was SOO gay! And if I spun in a circle, my underwear would show, so I was happy. Okay, so we drink, great, and head off the red dress party (except John had a stomach ache and didn't end up going).
The red dress party was like, a line to get in another line, to get in ANOTHER line... uuggg. There was a line to get in the door (outdoors thanks), there was a line to get a cocktail (again, outdoors) and ANOTHER line to go the bathroom (yup...outdoors). This is not San Diego either, this is Portland, Oregon, on the river, freezing, drizzling cold. But so fun. Super fun. so we drink, eat, giggle, twirl, giggle more and go down to Silverado. For are you non-Portlanders, it's this very classy establishment, almost members-only, that the very upper-crust of society patrons. It's a total divy gay strip bar. So we changed out of our red dresses on the streets of downtown Portland (did I mention how classy I am?) and go to Silverado, meet up with friends, drink, twirl, tip, they twirl, tip again, drink and leave. It was fun.
Sunday morning Kurtis (some may know him as Asshole) came home from his work trip. Work flew him to Twinkistan or something and he was like a big in shit. Anyway, Mattgraves picked him up from the airport then we all went out to brunch--which was the most ridiculous meal I've ever had. We walk in and the hostess is like, "Okay yeah, table for four? Okay right this way (read it in a little Asian-lady-Miss-Swan voice)." We sit down, order some food and they are pestering us like, "You can't eat all that? You come wash dishes when you're finished..." and like, rubbing our heads and just being kooky. I can't even explain it. The tip of the iceberg was when I was watching the little girl that was staring into the wall, nose-to-wallpaper, like it was television screen, and I whip around and see this Asian lady cutting Mattgraves' pancake with HIS fork and putting it in HIS mouth. I checked out for the rest of the meal. I was in Kookykook Kooksville. So weird. Okay, so we get to the airport, get on our plane, talk about the amazing time we shared and about how random of a blog the whole weekend is going to make. So there you go.
Portland's fucking weird.
J'adore Portland
Our adventure starts on a Thursday evening, after I get off from work, race to school to turn in my homework to my teachers dropbox (because I was missing class to go to Portland) and head to the airport. My roommate Mike took John and I too the airport and we bolted right to the security line (we were already checked in and we had no bags to check thank goodness). We see our good friend Allan who works at the airport and take him through the line with us. Once through the drones of people we make our way to the counter and--guess what, our flight's delayed. Crap. That's like the worst thing, well, not THE worst, but you get where I'm going. We happen to notice on a neighboring reader-board there is another flight to Portland that takes off in about 30-minutes (compared the the 2-hours we'd probably have to wait for OUR flight). We ask the lady at the ticketing counter if we can get on (we didn't check luggage remember) and she said, "You'd have to pay the difference in fair to change airplanes... but since your flight is delayed, I'm going to just put you on." Oh thank goodness! Oh crap. Thank Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth for shining down upon Terminal 1 of San Diego International.
Okay, so we get on the plane, fly in, great, good for us, land, meet one of my best friends, Mattgraves (it's really "Matt (space) Graves" but you say it like one word--for no reason at all, it's just fun). So we meet Mattgraves and head to a place called Doug Fir. It's this super-cute, hipster, modern bar that looks like a funky, futuristic log cabin type thing. There we meet up with some friends, on of whom is Celess. Celess and I met in French class (hence the "j'adore") and we've stuck ever since. She was leaving over the weekend and could only see us on this evening, so we made it work. After jovial rekindling We went downtown to a gay bar with a cocktail or two in our bellies, had another drink there and went home (Mattgraves had to work the next day). While we were downtown at the bar though, I see a familiar drunken homo, wedged in the corner of the room, slouched on a piece of furniture. I order Mattgraves to swiftly inspect. To our surprise it was Dan Quiearcuigrocia! He's another super-great friend of mine whom I was very excited to see. Yay! Okay so we drank, laughed, I spit an ice cube in Mattgraves' mouth by accident (but it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen/done) and we went home and crashed.
The next morning (Friday) John and I woke up and hustled out the door to take a walking adventure of downtown Portland. Since it was Friday, everyone was working, which was great because we got to spend the day to ourselves. Our first stop was a restaurant called Southpark. It's one of my favorites places in Portland. I took my mom their a couple times when she visited me. It's just a super cute restaurant with fantastic ambiance and delicious cuisine. It's just lovely. It's like high-end but their lunch menus are actually quite affordable. Anyway, okay, after lunch we walked down to the "U District" where Portland State University is, then down along Broadway and down to the waterfront. It was very pleasant walking around a city where you don't live yet being completely familiar with your surroundings. Anyway... at the waterfront we caught the MAX (the public transit lightrail--which is free in downtown) and went back to the middle of downtown to meet up with my former boss, Susanne, for a cocktail. Consumed said cocktails, visited a couple other stores then headed back to Mattgraves' house.
Mattgraves decided to have a little BBQ at his place and we invited a few friends over and had a mary ol' time. We drank, ate and conversed. After the BBQ commenced Mattgraves convinced us to go to this club called Halocene; they were having some event called "Gaycation." (The gays think they are so clever with their play on words). I've been to this club before actually, but it was in a fashion show for Portland Fashion week a couple years ago and was runway model (you better work...). Anyway, this night it was so far from a gaycation it was a gaytastrophe. It was purGAYtory. Let me explain: it was NOT a bunch of cute gays running around in muscle shirts and tank tops, drinking blended drinks--no--it was a bunch of gnarly lesbians and their b.o. and attidutes and craziness, making out with each other or cutting in line and just being rude. We begged Mattgraves for departure and he finally caves (why he was enjoying himself is still a mattgraves mystery). We go BACK downtown to the same gay bar we were at the night before and play video poker (well, Mattgraves played video poker) and drank and shortly after went home. Phew!
Continue Story onto Weekend Number 15.
Okay, so we get on the plane, fly in, great, good for us, land, meet one of my best friends, Mattgraves (it's really "Matt (space) Graves" but you say it like one word--for no reason at all, it's just fun). So we meet Mattgraves and head to a place called Doug Fir. It's this super-cute, hipster, modern bar that looks like a funky, futuristic log cabin type thing. There we meet up with some friends, on of whom is Celess. Celess and I met in French class (hence the "j'adore") and we've stuck ever since. She was leaving over the weekend and could only see us on this evening, so we made it work. After jovial rekindling We went downtown to a gay bar with a cocktail or two in our bellies, had another drink there and went home (Mattgraves had to work the next day). While we were downtown at the bar though, I see a familiar drunken homo, wedged in the corner of the room, slouched on a piece of furniture. I order Mattgraves to swiftly inspect. To our surprise it was Dan Quiearcuigrocia! He's another super-great friend of mine whom I was very excited to see. Yay! Okay so we drank, laughed, I spit an ice cube in Mattgraves' mouth by accident (but it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen/done) and we went home and crashed.
The next morning (Friday) John and I woke up and hustled out the door to take a walking adventure of downtown Portland. Since it was Friday, everyone was working, which was great because we got to spend the day to ourselves. Our first stop was a restaurant called Southpark. It's one of my favorites places in Portland. I took my mom their a couple times when she visited me. It's just a super cute restaurant with fantastic ambiance and delicious cuisine. It's just lovely. It's like high-end but their lunch menus are actually quite affordable. Anyway, okay, after lunch we walked down to the "U District" where Portland State University is, then down along Broadway and down to the waterfront. It was very pleasant walking around a city where you don't live yet being completely familiar with your surroundings. Anyway... at the waterfront we caught the MAX (the public transit lightrail--which is free in downtown) and went back to the middle of downtown to meet up with my former boss, Susanne, for a cocktail. Consumed said cocktails, visited a couple other stores then headed back to Mattgraves' house.
Mattgraves decided to have a little BBQ at his place and we invited a few friends over and had a mary ol' time. We drank, ate and conversed. After the BBQ commenced Mattgraves convinced us to go to this club called Halocene; they were having some event called "Gaycation." (The gays think they are so clever with their play on words). I've been to this club before actually, but it was in a fashion show for Portland Fashion week a couple years ago and was runway model (you better work...). Anyway, this night it was so far from a gaycation it was a gaytastrophe. It was purGAYtory. Let me explain: it was NOT a bunch of cute gays running around in muscle shirts and tank tops, drinking blended drinks--no--it was a bunch of gnarly lesbians and their b.o. and attidutes and craziness, making out with each other or cutting in line and just being rude. We begged Mattgraves for departure and he finally caves (why he was enjoying himself is still a mattgraves mystery). We go BACK downtown to the same gay bar we were at the night before and play video poker (well, Mattgraves played video poker) and drank and shortly after went home. Phew!
Continue Story onto Weekend Number 15.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
The Me Only I Know
The title may not be easily understandable, but this entry is to capture the pieces of me that only I know. Everyone has activities they do only in the company of themselves--all the way from talking to one's self to dressing in women's clothing (not strange for a woman I guess but odd for a man in most cases). Following are some of my own personal observations about myself that I can share:
Quasimodo: I tend to make funny faces in the mirror. I like making scary faces, ugly faces, animal faces, puffy faces, whatever kind of face I make. The elevators at both my house and work all have mirrored walls in them and are prime face-making real estate. What else is one going to do in the elevator by themselves for the 4-seconds it takes to go from first floor to? Honestly.
Back-up Singer: We ALL do this--I sing. I sing in the car. I will gladly sing the newest Madonna tune in the privacy of my glass-house Cavalier. It's so interesting how cars are 360' of glass and yet we think NO one can see us, we can just see all of them. I'm sure I look like such a fool, but come on, like 100% of all the other driver's are doing it, thinking of doing it, or wishing they were doing it.
Psychic Public Servant: This is an odd one, and it's not that I truly think I can move things with my mind, but after playing the X-men game on PS2 so much and playing specific characters that can move things with their minds, I sometimes envision THEM moving things with their minds in real life, but through me. Following? Example: As I'm walking down the street maybe I see a piece of garbage lying there, waiting patiently for someone to scoop it up and throw it away. I have envisioned the object being levitated from its current location to a nearby trash container. I'm not doing it, an X-man is, but I still imagine myself making it happen? Got it now? If you don't got it now, just forget about it--read on.
Cigarette Vigilante: This is a stretch too but hear me out. I don't like smoking. It's a horrible, ugly habit and may you find the strength if you do smoke to quit somehow. This is my over-active imagination envisioning scenarios again, but I imagine myself just walking up to someone, grabbing the lit or soon-to-be-lit cigarette from their lips/fingers and flicking it casually into the street--without regret or remorse. It's not that I hate smokers, it's that I hate smoking. Smokers (most of them--honestly) are just not courteous and borderline-obnoxious. But if you know one than they are lovely.
I'm sure there will be many more to come but let's start with this for now. Enjoy.
Quasimodo: I tend to make funny faces in the mirror. I like making scary faces, ugly faces, animal faces, puffy faces, whatever kind of face I make. The elevators at both my house and work all have mirrored walls in them and are prime face-making real estate. What else is one going to do in the elevator by themselves for the 4-seconds it takes to go from first floor to
Back-up Singer: We ALL do this--I sing. I sing in the car. I will gladly sing the newest Madonna tune in the privacy of my glass-house Cavalier. It's so interesting how cars are 360' of glass and yet we think NO one can see us, we can just see all of them. I'm sure I look like such a fool, but come on, like 100% of all the other driver's are doing it, thinking of doing it, or wishing they were doing it.
Psychic Public Servant: This is an odd one, and it's not that I truly think I can move things with my mind, but after playing the X-men game on PS2 so much and playing specific characters that can move things with their minds, I sometimes envision THEM moving things with their minds in real life, but through me. Following? Example: As I'm walking down the street maybe I see a piece of garbage lying there, waiting patiently for someone to scoop it up and throw it away. I have envisioned the object being levitated from its current location to a nearby trash container. I'm not doing it, an X-man is, but I still imagine myself making it happen? Got it now? If you don't got it now, just forget about it--read on.
Cigarette Vigilante: This is a stretch too but hear me out. I don't like smoking. It's a horrible, ugly habit and may you find the strength if you do smoke to quit somehow. This is my over-active imagination envisioning scenarios again, but I imagine myself just walking up to someone, grabbing the lit or soon-to-be-lit cigarette from their lips/fingers and flicking it casually into the street--without regret or remorse. It's not that I hate smokers, it's that I hate smoking. Smokers (most of them--honestly) are just not courteous and borderline-obnoxious. But if you know one than they are lovely.
I'm sure there will be many more to come but let's start with this for now. Enjoy.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wisdom is a Dish Best Served Mushy
About 6-months ago I woke up with a horrible stabbing pain in my mouth. After prolonged agony I found what I thought was a 5th wisdom tooth coming in. After a moment of panic and confusion, I figured out that my wisdom tooth that had already come in, only it had started to shift to the side, outward toward my jawbone and was scraping against bone. It was one of the most painful experiences I've had. I called up my dentist who recommended an oral surgeon for the task. I rang the surgeon's office and they were like, "We can get you in for a consultation tomorrow but we can't extract until about 3-weeks." I gasped (surely a gay-gasp) and replied, "If you don't get this thing out tomorrow I'm going to do have to do it myself." She started to laugh and I quickly said, "Mm, I'm not kidding. This has to come out."
She penciled me in and the doc came in early to see me the NEXT DAY, which was so great, and he removed my wisdom tooth (which was only numero quatro, not a 5th wisdom tooth (which can actually happen, by the way). So anyway I sent them a "thank you" card for seeing me so quickly and being so helpful. Good for me. This isn't the point of this story so let's get to it:
I scheduled an appointment to get my OTHER three wisdom teeth removed preventatively, avoiding the chance of future pain and discomfort. My roommate Mike was free the day of my surgery and offered to take me there and help me out. Props to Mike. So we get to the oral surgeon's office and I check-in with the receptionist, pay my bill and soon after head back. The people had all remembered me from last time and were very nice. I get in the doctor's chair and the oral surgeon comes in the room. He thanked me gratefully for sending a "thank you" card--I guess they rarely get them, considering they torture people for a living. I said, "well, my Mom raised me properly yada yada," or something like that. Props to Momma. So they hook me up to an IV and put a heart monitor on me and start strapping me down to the bed. Like, my arms, legs, chest, everything. He said that I might have a dream when I go under and they don't want to risk me running a marathon in my dreams while they are operating. So I'm all hooked up and have a gas mask on my face and the doctor says, "We just served you your favorite martini, and you're at your best friend's party and..." OUT. The next thing I know, I'm in the lobby of the hospital, in a wheel chair, with a mouthful of gauze and a head wrap, waiting for Mike to bring the car around. There was a lot I missed I guess. Following is the interim:
Mike brought his laptop so he could get some emails out while I was being operated on. A mere 15-minutes after I go back to the OR, the nurse emerges and says to Mike, "We're all finished. Do you want to go back and see him?" Mike walks back with the nurse, walks in and finds me with my pants around my knees saying, "SURPRISE!" I guess I thought it would have been funny--nay hilarious--if I flashed Mike while high as kite. Front side, not back. Front. Well, it would have been funny if the nurse wasn't in the room also. She bolts out of the door, yelping like a kicked dog. She got the doctor and brought him into the room. He sternly questions, "Did you just do what she said you did?" I bashfully remain quiet and he evidently notices my fly is still down. My fate is sealed. He says, "That's unacceptable--but I'll let you get away with it because you're so drugged up,"In like a doctor-y kinda parent tone. Yeah.
The doctor escorts Mike and I to a "containment room" where I can be monitored to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction to the anesthetics. While we are in there some how Mike produces a book on Balboa Park. I start reciting everything there ever was to know about Balboa Park: its history, its origin--all while I have a literal mouth FULL of gauze. I was completely inaudible but Mike let me ramble on, knowing that if he said anything I would try removing the gauze from my bleeding oral cavity.
After everything that happened at the oral surgeon's office, Mike and I head to Rite Aid to get my prescription filled. We do so and afterwards walk across the street to Jamba Juice. Mind you I'm extremely drugged-up and have a mouthful of cotton. The lady takes one look at me, with my puffy cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and icy head wrap and says, "Wisdom teeth, huh?" This little cashier must have seen the like before. We get our Jamba and head back to Rite Aid, get my prescription and head home. I continue to lie on the couch in a groggy, half-lucid state for the next day or so and in a tremendous amount of pain.
My diet now consists of pudding, mashed potatoes, soup, broth and yogurt. Wisdom is a dish best served mushy.
She penciled me in and the doc came in early to see me the NEXT DAY, which was so great, and he removed my wisdom tooth (which was only numero quatro, not a 5th wisdom tooth (which can actually happen, by the way). So anyway I sent them a "thank you" card for seeing me so quickly and being so helpful. Good for me. This isn't the point of this story so let's get to it:
I scheduled an appointment to get my OTHER three wisdom teeth removed preventatively, avoiding the chance of future pain and discomfort. My roommate Mike was free the day of my surgery and offered to take me there and help me out. Props to Mike. So we get to the oral surgeon's office and I check-in with the receptionist, pay my bill and soon after head back. The people had all remembered me from last time and were very nice. I get in the doctor's chair and the oral surgeon comes in the room. He thanked me gratefully for sending a "thank you" card--I guess they rarely get them, considering they torture people for a living. I said, "well, my Mom raised me properly yada yada," or something like that. Props to Momma. So they hook me up to an IV and put a heart monitor on me and start strapping me down to the bed. Like, my arms, legs, chest, everything. He said that I might have a dream when I go under and they don't want to risk me running a marathon in my dreams while they are operating. So I'm all hooked up and have a gas mask on my face and the doctor says, "We just served you your favorite martini, and you're at your best friend's party and..." OUT. The next thing I know, I'm in the lobby of the hospital, in a wheel chair, with a mouthful of gauze and a head wrap, waiting for Mike to bring the car around. There was a lot I missed I guess. Following is the interim:
Mike brought his laptop so he could get some emails out while I was being operated on. A mere 15-minutes after I go back to the OR, the nurse emerges and says to Mike, "We're all finished. Do you want to go back and see him?" Mike walks back with the nurse, walks in and finds me with my pants around my knees saying, "SURPRISE!" I guess I thought it would have been funny--nay hilarious--if I flashed Mike while high as kite. Front side, not back. Front. Well, it would have been funny if the nurse wasn't in the room also. She bolts out of the door, yelping like a kicked dog. She got the doctor and brought him into the room. He sternly questions, "Did you just do what she said you did?" I bashfully remain quiet and he evidently notices my fly is still down. My fate is sealed. He says, "That's unacceptable--but I'll let you get away with it because you're so drugged up,"In like a doctor-y kinda parent tone. Yeah.
The doctor escorts Mike and I to a "containment room" where I can be monitored to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction to the anesthetics. While we are in there some how Mike produces a book on Balboa Park. I start reciting everything there ever was to know about Balboa Park: its history, its origin--all while I have a literal mouth FULL of gauze. I was completely inaudible but Mike let me ramble on, knowing that if he said anything I would try removing the gauze from my bleeding oral cavity.
After everything that happened at the oral surgeon's office, Mike and I head to Rite Aid to get my prescription filled. We do so and afterwards walk across the street to Jamba Juice. Mind you I'm extremely drugged-up and have a mouthful of cotton. The lady takes one look at me, with my puffy cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and icy head wrap and says, "Wisdom teeth, huh?" This little cashier must have seen the like before. We get our Jamba and head back to Rite Aid, get my prescription and head home. I continue to lie on the couch in a groggy, half-lucid state for the next day or so and in a tremendous amount of pain.
My diet now consists of pudding, mashed potatoes, soup, broth and yogurt. Wisdom is a dish best served mushy.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Weekend Number 12: Sunday
With Saturday behind us and the day chalk-full (I wonder where that saying comes from) of exciting activities, John and I wake up early (like 7:45 am--and trust me, for gays on a Sunday, that's like walking on water--miracle) and hit the gym. After an invigorating workout we rendez-vous with our friends David and Todd (another gay couple) and get some brunch. We go to a place called the Mission; I have had heard of it several times by this point but still never went. Excellent choice. Great food, good (enough) service, horrible chocolate mike (don't ever order it from them) but in-out-eat-yum-burp-done and that's all I wanted.
We had a task at hand. We had a goal. We--David, Todd, John and I--had plans: we were going to the Cat Show. I said it--Cat Show. It's like a dog show, except there are more gays and old ladies. Not like, the little old ladies with blue hair that drive 110 miles per hour and sit on a stack of phone books to see over the steering wheel, but like, the old ladies with big, homemade earrings and a sweater with a big cat on it and it says "My cat's shit don't stink" or some bull like that. Oh god. The cats were fun--some beautiful and exotic looking breeds--but the real entertainment was the freak show parade of these ladies and gays. It's like, they were so serious about these cats and how they were brushed a certain way and blow-dried and teased and probably sedated that it was a miracle both the owner and the cat actually made it to the venue.
Let me just say something: cats are predators. Brushed fur does not make them happy, death and carnage does. Let them eat cake. Mice rather. Let them eat Micecake. After the Cat Show (I still can't believe I went to a freaking cat show) we walked to Horton Plaza and casually let time slink by before preparing ourselves for a fantastic and fabulous evening at hand. My dear friend, and peanut, Vince had a little b-day celebration at Lei Lounge. Lei Lounge is a venue unlike any other really--it's hip, it's chic, it's smart--it's SO Vince. It was perf'. The event started out with cool cocktails and warm conversations over the fire pit and in the reserved cabanas. More and more people started to gather and a serious crowd had developed. Vince's parents and brother and all of Vince's close friends and it really was just a fantastic time--an enviable birthday event for sure. Allan, Vince's homohusband, even made a video montage of people that couldn't be at Lei (like former Talk Soup personality Hal Sparks) wishing him a wonderful two-five. Then there was cake (but, no Micecake). It was cupcakes on tiered serveware and just lovely lovely lovely. It gets better--there was a hosted champagne toast to accompany these said cupcakes. Let me just explain how I looked: pink shirt, fierce jeans, bitchin' hair, champagne glass in one hand, cupcake AND a partially spilling martini in the other and a big cupcake-eating grin on my face. Oh, to die for. John you're one lucky bitch. OH OH I forgot to mention it was a total pink party, where everyone had to have something on that was pink. Vince, you're a dream come true (and we happen to have identical taste--coincidence? No. Fate.). Fantastic. Finally the night progresses, (remember, this is Sunday the whole time) and it is time for John and I to retire. He pretty much pours me into the passenger seat of my car and escorts us home.
That was pretty much my weekend in review. I learned that my signature sucks (if you're a gypsy), steak is now on the black market (watch out cocaine), animals can be spoiled (and whored) and Vince is truly lovely (with a capital Meow). Thank you for tuning in and there will definitely be more to come shortly. Signing off.
We had a task at hand. We had a goal. We--David, Todd, John and I--had plans: we were going to the Cat Show. I said it--Cat Show. It's like a dog show, except there are more gays and old ladies. Not like, the little old ladies with blue hair that drive 110 miles per hour and sit on a stack of phone books to see over the steering wheel, but like, the old ladies with big, homemade earrings and a sweater with a big cat on it and it says "My cat's shit don't stink" or some bull like that. Oh god. The cats were fun--some beautiful and exotic looking breeds--but the real entertainment was the freak show parade of these ladies and gays. It's like, they were so serious about these cats and how they were brushed a certain way and blow-dried and teased and probably sedated that it was a miracle both the owner and the cat actually made it to the venue.
Let me just say something: cats are predators. Brushed fur does not make them happy, death and carnage does. Let them eat cake. Mice rather. Let them eat Micecake. After the Cat Show (I still can't believe I went to a freaking cat show) we walked to Horton Plaza and casually let time slink by before preparing ourselves for a fantastic and fabulous evening at hand. My dear friend, and peanut, Vince had a little b-day celebration at Lei Lounge. Lei Lounge is a venue unlike any other really--it's hip, it's chic, it's smart--it's SO Vince. It was perf'. The event started out with cool cocktails and warm conversations over the fire pit and in the reserved cabanas. More and more people started to gather and a serious crowd had developed. Vince's parents and brother and all of Vince's close friends and it really was just a fantastic time--an enviable birthday event for sure. Allan, Vince's homohusband, even made a video montage of people that couldn't be at Lei (like former Talk Soup personality Hal Sparks) wishing him a wonderful two-five. Then there was cake (but, no Micecake). It was cupcakes on tiered serveware and just lovely lovely lovely. It gets better--there was a hosted champagne toast to accompany these said cupcakes. Let me just explain how I looked: pink shirt, fierce jeans, bitchin' hair, champagne glass in one hand, cupcake AND a partially spilling martini in the other and a big cupcake-eating grin on my face. Oh, to die for. John you're one lucky bitch. OH OH I forgot to mention it was a total pink party, where everyone had to have something on that was pink. Vince, you're a dream come true (and we happen to have identical taste--coincidence? No. Fate.). Fantastic. Finally the night progresses, (remember, this is Sunday the whole time) and it is time for John and I to retire. He pretty much pours me into the passenger seat of my car and escorts us home.
That was pretty much my weekend in review. I learned that my signature sucks (if you're a gypsy), steak is now on the black market (watch out cocaine), animals can be spoiled (and whored) and Vince is truly lovely (with a capital Meow). Thank you for tuning in and there will definitely be more to come shortly. Signing off.
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