I Can See, Praise Whatshisname, I Can See

St. Lucy is the patron saint of the blind; her martyrdom included having her eyes plucked out, but then they were miraculously restored! Alleluia! Although it seems like to me it would be better to have a god who would protect you from having them plucked out in the first place, but what do I know? Anyway, that's why she's always shown with her eyeballs on a plate, like creepy hors d'ouvre.

Fortunately ol' Lucy and I have parted ways since I am no longer blind. Yay, alleluia and all that stuff. My eye is all better (thanks to everyone for your concern) plus last night when I go home, I had a voicemail from my optometrist that my new contacts were ready. Obviously the miraculous hand of St. Lucy intervening. We give thanks to St. Lucy. Yo, Loo, thanks a bunch. Mean it, luv ya.

I'm still reveling in the thrill of new contacts. You never see as good as you do when they're brand new. No scratches, no build-up, just crystal clear 20-20. Yay. The weather today is doing its best to co-operate with the dazzling sharp clarity the sun in San Francisco can have some time. The sky looks polished, it's so bright. I'm celebrating by staring out the window while I should be working. We give thanks to Lucy.

The Blind Leading mrpeenee

I am immensely nearsighted. I have 20/500 vision - what other people can see at 500 feet, has to be 20 feet away for me to see it in focus If you were to look through a pane of glass thickly smeared with Vaseline, you’d have a close approximation of what I see without my contacts. Normally, it’s not really a problem; I’ve worn glasses or contacts almost all my life, I get up, put them on and leave them on until I go to bed. It only becomes problematic when, on days like today, I have a scratch on my eye that has worsened throughout the day to the point where I can’t wear my contacts and don’t have my glasses with me. So I sit here at my desk blind as a gay bat, typing by touch (god knows what I’m spelling) and hoping the sound of my busy keyboard will shield me from my office mates.

No, I cannot attend a meeting, unless we spring for a seeing-eye dog first. No, I cannot edit your stupid text until I learn Braille. No, I can’t see you now because I can’t SEE you. Go away.

If I sit really still, maybe I won’t bump into anything.

Kliban

Wandering around on Night is Half Gone's blog, I found a reference to the great cartoonist, Kliban, which reminded me how much I like his pointless sense of humor.

Breaking News

I work with complete idiots. The details are irrelevent.

PS Weekend

We're looking forward very much to our short trip to Palm Springs this weekend. I had brief moment of panic when I thought we would be down there during the Dinah Shore when lesbians from around the world gather and I was afraid I would be confronted with non-stop girl-on-girl action, but no, that turns out to be in April. Whew. Anyway, I've appointed Pangbourne Marius in charge of the houseboys while we're gone, with very strict instructions about the likes of Danny and Wesley, Jason and Thombeau, Joe, Mike, RONDA, and all the rest of you trouble makers. I've made a list called Foxes in the Henhouse and you're all on it, believe you me, especially after that disgraceful affair while I was in Maryland. Yes, I found what Someone had written in Crisco in the boys bunkroom. I suppose you think you're very funny.

Anyway, Pangbourne will be on the look out for you.

Springtime for Hitler

Germans, go into your dance!

Spa Life

R Man is sick, poor lamb, sore throat and congested and achy. He's been that way ever since we got back from Annapolis, it was the flight, I'm sure. Isn't it just a given anymore that the mere act of stepping onto a plane will guarantee you get sick? Plus this one seemed unusually germ-laden. Everyone around us was wheezing and spewing: Southwest Airlines, the Flying Phlegm Bucket. And then the day after we got back he had to fly down to Los Angeles for work, so he got a double dose.

I am, of course, being lovingly supportive because that's just the sort of angelic partner I am. Equal parts of tea in bed, cough syrup, and nagging that he stay home from work, which he ignores. Anyway, Saturday night, I tucked him into the couch, built a fire, put the tea close to hand, said "Try not to die before I get home," and then split because how long can you be Donna Fucking Reed, anyway? Am I right?

I took my little self on off to the Kabuki Spa for a course of steam room and massage. Oh, the glam spa life. I want to reiterate the spa is not That Kind of baths. No friskiness, no sirree. Instead, it's an oasis of high style (very chic asian moderne) and serenity (talking is frowned on and there's a gong you're supposed to strike to request silence in case the patrons forget themselves so far as to start chatting. I'm always dying to whack it a good one, but I never get to.) They offer a fabulously hot steam room and a great big hot tub with salt water rather than chlorine and bowls of delish sliced apples. And plenty of muscular naked men to ogle. If, like me, you're appreciative of Asian beuaty, this is just the place to be. Asian hotties and free snacks - that's my idea of heaven.

And excellent, excellent massage. I'm a big fan of shiatsu where the massage guy digs in and forces your muscles to surrender. Last night the shiatsuer was particularly talented. I said to him, I said, "Jake, you're a genius, an artist," I said. So you can guess how disappointed I was later to find out his name was actually Brad. Jake, Brad, one of them butch little movie star names. It just reinforces my policy of addressing everyone as "honey."

And then when I got home, R Man had not died, in fact, he hadn't stirred from the couch. It's a wonderful life.

Internet Arts et Crafts

thanks to co-conspirator and blogger Are You There, Blog? It’s Me, Stephen for pointing me towards http://www.says-it.com/ where you can make your own church signs


and Pope cartoons.


Big fun on a slow day around the office. Stephen and I both scored as Lolita in another fun internet timewaster (see below).

Sing Out, Klaus

Thanks to the fiercely fabulous Christine for this link about tonight's lunar eclipse: http://sunearth.gsfc.nasa.gov/eclipse/LEmono/TLE2008Feb21/TLE2008Feb21.html

I know it seems like a government funded science site should load faster, but then, George Bush is still president, isn't he? In any case go outside about 7:25 and look up. If you can arrange to listen to the great Nomi belting out "total Eclipse", even better.

Performing Houseboy

One of our favorite houseboys, Tootie Garibaldus (don't tell the other boys, we try not to show favoritism) was so glad to have us home he demonstrated his newest trick for us as soon as we walked in. Isn't that the sweetest thing ever?

Back Where I Belong

Well, thank god that's over. We got back from Annapolis this afternoon, and I have to say, all in all, not so bad. One big plus was R Man caving in to the shame of my blog about the squalid conditions he forced me to endure in his father's basement. Yay, power of blog! Yay, terribly sweet boyfriend who only wants me to be happy so he allowed me to book us into the semi-swank Westin there instead.

Oh, and the car rental people stuck us with a convertible cause it was 34 fucking degrees when we got there and they looked at us and thought "Suckers." But then yesterday turned into a balmy miracle, temps in the high 60s, blue skies with puffy clouds, perfect convertible weather. So we went bombing all over town with top down. Hoo hoo.

Plus, flying there, we snagged the exit row from Las Vegas to Baltimore and even though the plane was stuffed full, no one sat between us. Exit row means extra leg room and no one in the middle seat means enough elbow room not feel cramped, all of which is welcome since I'm a big guy. I considered being offended that everyone on the plane avoided us, but mostly I was so glad not to be squished for five hours, I decided to just overlook it.

And R Man's family, the point of this whole trip? They were just fine, thanks. I heartily recommend minimizing the time you spend with relatives and staying at a hotel seems to be one of the best ways to accomplish that. Try it the next time filial duty calls. You'll be glad you did.

Shiny

I love getting my shoes shined. It's almost like getting a foot massage, and what kind of fool would say no to that? The shoeshine stand I go to is a very elaborate structure located outside the Hyatt at the foot of Market Street looking up the immensely steep hill that is California Street rising into Nob Hill. Recently I was griping about the weather here being chilly (for San Francisco) but today was delectable, cool and sunny, just the kind of weather to make sitting on a shoeshine stand watching the tourists bump by so appealing.

Famous Wayne, the shoe shiner, dresses like a mild-mannered middle aged man who has decided to take up being a pimp, but hasn't gotten the finer points of the costume down just yet. I like him, but occasionally his attempts at small talk include bizarre sentences that seem to be random strings of words. "Doorknob jab, bluely extreme sweet say. Elevator?" I never want to ask him to repeat himself because what if I heard him correctly the first time? Would I want it confirmed that that was what he had said? Instead I reply with a firm "I guess there's just no telling," and Wayne goes back to polishing and I stare off at the cable cars coming down the hill and wonder about doorknob jabs.

Lolita?!?!?!?!

The terribly amusing blog "Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Stephen" pointed me towards this quiz. It turns out we're both Lolitas. BFF!

Go take the quiz, it's easy, just like me.

You're Lolita!

by Vladimir Nabokov

Considered by most to be depraved and immoral, you are obsessed with
sex. What really tantalizes you is that which deviates from societal standards in every
way, though you admit that this probably isn't the best and you're not sure what causes
this desire. Nonetheless, you've done some pretty nefarious things in your life, and
probably gotten caught for them. The names have been changed, but the problems are real.
Please stay away from children.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

The Interview

We were puttering around the kitchen earlier tonight, making stir-fried tofu because we have embraced our inner lesbians, when the doorbell rang. Imagine my surprise to discover it was the two queens doing research on Non-Monogamous Gay Long Term Relationships with whom I had agreed to do an interview and then completely forgotten. Oops. Imagine my even greater surprise to see that one of them is a guy I've been porking at the tubs for years. I had been contacted about this a month ago by email and knew the guys who were looking for interview subjects (gay men who had been together more than eight years and who were "openly non-monogamous." Whatever.) were themselves long term partners, but I didn't know one-half of them was my scrumptous little fuck buddy. My, how we all laughed. Fortunately, they too are non-monogamous (which is research talk for slutty) so there was no more uncomfortableness than if we had discovered we all went to the same gym. Just one more benefit to being easy.

We split up for the interview and it turned out to be a very interesting half hour. For one thing, I adore talking about myself. It's why I volunteer for focus groups - when I found out someone would pay me for my opinions, I was delighted. For that matter, it's why I have a blog. Well, that and all the lovely, lovely friends I've made, honest.

Also, this was the most focussed attention I've paid to the aspect of outside sex in R Man and my life together and that was mighty fascinating, at least to me. The guy interviewing me had plenty of insights into boybutt-on-the-side relationships and I enjoyed very much discussing them with him.

They're looking for more study participants, so if you're part of a Non-Monogamous Gay Long Term Relationship or know somebody who is, let me know and I'll hook you up with the boys. I promise not to call you a slut. To your face.

Scissor Sisters~I Don't Feel Like Dancing

Because my life would be improved if i had really tight, shiny purple pants.

Houseboy Sitting

Gunther Florian, our houseboy Best Boy, reminds me to ask if anyone would be wiling to just pop in while we're out of town to keep an eye on the houseboys. All you'd have to do is change the water, review their underpants, and keep that awful thombeau from sneaking in and instigating another Sissy Boy Slap Party. One more round of those and I swear, I'm going to be driven to distraction. And Jason, TOA, joe*to*hell, wesley and ronda, that applies to you as well. I have all your fingerprints on file and I'll be inspecting the boys for them when I get back.

Anyway, if you could, I'd appreciate it ever so much.

In-law Magic

As I mentioned once to our beloved Diane von Austinberg, as a gay man, I can't get married and yet I have in-laws. Where's the justice?

R Man's mother was simply the sweetest natured woman who ever drew breath. Immensly stylish, she proved that ditzy daffiness is simultaneously both a vice and a virtue. I adored her and knew how lucky I was to have her as my second mother. If R Man and I had split up (goddess forbid) I would have kept her and forced R Man to go find another mommy. When she died, a bright light dimmed.

R Man's father, unfortunately, is just the opposite, a poisonous curmudgeon who treats R Man with barely concealed disdain that drives me crazy. Cold, harsh, domineering, he's like an iceberg of toxic waste. Amazingly, a number of people find him charming and R Man loves him. Sort of. I initially tried to charm him, cause I'm good at that, but he wasn't having any of it. He was only interested in being adored, and I wasn't having of that after I saw how he behaved towards R Man. His birthday is the day before mine which makes me hope fervently that astrology is bunk.

Rounding out the Long Day's Journey into Night roadshow company are R Man's two sisters, aka the Good One and the Bad One. The Good One I like plenty and get along with fine. Yay for the Good One. At sixty years old, the Bad One lives at home with her father and manages to control the entire family with dramatic displays of neuroses that border on insanity.

The house she and R Man's father share has nine rooms and three baths and yet every year when we go visit, we sleep down in the partially finished basement,the basement where R Man was bitten by a brown recluse spider; the resulting wound necrified (isn't that a great word?) The architecture of the room is created by a shabby little partition that my white trash ancestors would have spurned. When the furnace comes on at night, the light from the burner glows through cracks in the wall like the gates of hell. Visiting my family, we stay in a nice hotel and order macaroni and cheese from room service, when we go to see his, I lie in a basement brooding about spiders and waiting for the demon light to come on. Again, where is the justice?

I have never refused to accompany him on these trips back to see the gang, but this time when he glumly announced he needed to go back over President's Weekend, I said I'd make the reservations, pack his bags and see him when he got back. So long sweetie. Watch out for the spiders.

Of course, that lasted about two weeks at which time I caved in and said I'd go with him after all. The words hadn't gotten completey out of my mouth before he accepted, started making plans for where we could have lunch while there and I started regretting them. Oh well, for better or worse and all that. So, a week from Saturday, we're off to the bright lights of Annapolis and the Basement of Despair. I predict a lot of blogging while I'm there, bitter, bitter blogging.

Where is that goddam justice?

It's Mardi Gras!

Try not to get shot at a parade.

Mardi Gras Memories

Darlings, a moment, please, while an old man wipes a sentimental tear away. This is the weekend before Mardi Gras. As a young homo living in the French Quarter in New Orleans, that was a time that never failed to thrill me to my very core. Carnival is a celebration of debauchery, and Mardi Gras is its apex, nominally to get it all out of your system in time for Lent, to which I always said a hearty "whatever". I adored the tons of boys pouring into town looking for sex, which I was only too happy to provide; getting loaded with friends at all hours for hours; the parades; hell, I even looked forward to the nasty little king cakes.

I actually moved to New Orleans because of Carnival. I had been lucky enough to go to several while in college in Austin, driving 10 hours to New Orleans, careening through the weekend and then dragging my sorry ass home. After I left Austin, I briefly wound up in Seattle, but one day suddenly realized I could live in New Orleans and have Mardi Gras come to me instead of the other way around. Coincidentally, that was the same day Reagen was elected the first time and NOLA seemed like a good place to go hide. I was there in time for the next Carnival. I seem to remember costuming as a flamingo.

I spent one Mardi Gras lying on my back athwart the threshold of my bathroom tripping like a million screaming monkeys. My friends alternated between stepping daintily over me to use the facilities and trying to talk me into going outside. I steadfastly refused, announcing that I was perfectly comfortable. And I was. I had spent the whole weekend running around to bars with my dick hanging out. I needed the rest. After another Mardi Gras, I was discussing what a gorgeous day it had been with my dear friend Magda who finally had to point out it had, in fact, rained non-stop and that I had simply been too loaded to notice.

The year I was working as a room service waiter, I amused myself all morning doing acid and then had to go to work for the 3:00 shift still tripping. Oh, that was a year to cherish, let me tell you.

Of course, drugs and sex are not all Carnival has to offer. There's also parades and beads, both of which are dear to me. I vividly recall the image of a float bearing down on me one night on St. Charles Avenue, its glaring lights illuminating a fountain of beads erupting from it. They were cheap and gaudy and I would fight you to the ground for them. Do not get between me and them pearls, bitch. We had bags of them by the time we left town, everyone does.

After we moved to San Francisco I went back once for Mardi Gras. It was terribly amusing, of course, but not the same, poignantly enough. Still, this time of the year, every year, I remember it all longingly. And to that young poofter hanging out in a jam packed bar tonight, high as the proverbial kite, feeling up some humpy guy from out of town, and simultaneously wondering what he's going to wear on Tuesday, I say Here's to ya honey. You go girl.

Aux Barricades

God knows I support the freaky losers in the queer community who feel the need to dress like Brittney Spears in her "Hit Me One More Time" phase. Are not those freaky losers my brothers? Indeed they are. I am one with them in their struggles to overthrow the patriarchy. Just because I find pictures of their pasty legs sort of funny and snicker quietly at the sight of them does not alter that in the least. Long live the revolution, you freaky loser heroes, you.

If you feel the love, visit http://www.skortman.com/skortmanmainpage.html

Looking for a Valentine's Day Treat?

Thanks to the always fascinating Nancy Boy’s link list, http://blog.nancyboy.com/Home/Blog/All/FebruaryLinks.html

Cause nothing would say loving like TWINKIE TRUFFLES:

6 Hostess Twinkies
1 can (16 ounces) chocolate frosting
Valentine sprinkles, finely chopped nuts, unsweetened cocoa, confectioners' sugar or flaked coconut

Position a rack on a tray. Cut each Twinkie into 4 pieces; place cream-side down rack. Remove lid and foil covering on frosting. Microwave on High (100%) power 30 seconds or until warm and of glaze consistency. Stir until blended and smooth. Slowly drizzle warm frosting over each piece of Twinkie, covering completely. (If needed, gently use tip of knife to cover sides or edges of Twinkie pieces.) Refrigerate about 1 hour or until frosting is thick.

Place desired toppings in shallow bowl; gently roll Twinkie piece in toppings, covering completely. Return to rack and refrigerate 1 hour or until set.

Makes 24 pieces.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Make mine valium-covered, please.

Greetings

Of course, I wouldn't dream of being smug, but this is, you know, my home.

Suck it bitches.