Reindeer Games

Stephen, over at Are You There Blog, It’s Me Stephen took this online quiz and, natch, came out as Dancer, a good time girl, all sweetness and whatever. I, on the other hand, am on my way to detention. What about you?

You Are Dasher

You're an independent minded reindeer who never plays by the rules. Why You're Naughty: That little coup you tried to stage against Santa last year Why You're Nice: You secretly give naughty children presents.

Which of Santa's Reindeer Are You?

Krispy Krud

In the fine American tradition, our office is now awash in sugary junk food to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Whatshisname. I tucked into 2 (two) Krispy Kremes that were not merely glazed or chocolate iced, but rather the breathtaking combo of glazed WITH chocolate icing. Only the finest for mrpeenee. Now ten minutes later I feel slightly stunned. What the hell do they put in those things? Uranium? And why doesn't my office have a nap room? Slave drivers.

Naughty, Not Nice

So Jason (or Jeisean as he sometimes known in the low-life cafes he frequents) from Night is Half Gone wins this season's Reindeer Game prize for having run across the first stripper-in-a-santy-hat, or at least the first one to admit it.

In looking for something to illustrate this time honored tradition, I ran across this
tarting up the place in a queer bar called New York, New York in Manchester, England. It scares me. I thought at first it was the color or the shininess, but now I realize it's the tout ensemble that willifies me. I look at the vaguely Victorian mantle mirror, the various equipment dangling about (are they games? Security apparatus? Who knows?) and the lovely peach colored walls and think "I'm glad I don't go to bars anymore."

Unsilent Night

My favorite part of Crixmus (aside from a big ass pile of presents and strippers wearing Santa Claus hats) is coming up. Unsilent Night 2008! Yay!

From their website:
Every year since 1992 I've presented UNSILENT NIGHT, an outdoor ambient music piece for an infinite number of boomboxes. It's like a Christmas caroling party except that we don't sing, but rather carry the music, each of us playing a separate track that is a "voice" in the piece. In effect, we become a city-block-long sound system!

Join us and bring a boombox, or anything that will blast a cassette, CD or Mp3. (Cassettes sound the coolest, but we realize cassette players are getting scarce now.) The more tracks we play, the bigger and more amazing the sound is. In recent years, UNSILENT NIGHTs in New York and San Francisco have attracted crowds of over a thousand people, with hundreds of boomboxes… it's spectacular. If you'd like to participate, please e-mail the contact listed for your city for instructions. If you'd like to participate but don't have a boombox or a music player with speakers, you can just show up and join the parade. Everyone is an important part of the procession. Help us make a BIG (and joyful) noise. This is always a free event and all ages are welcome.

UNSILENT NIGHT has spread around the world. In addition to New York, UNSILENT NIGHT is presented in cities such as Los Angeles; San Francisco; San Diego; Santa Barbara; Philadelphia; Atlanta; Cleveland; Tallahassee; Tucson; Houston; New Haven; Boulder; Baltimore; Charleston; Asheville, NC; Manassas, VA; Milledgeville, GA; Bowling Green, OH; Banff, Alberta; Vancouver, BC; White Horse, Yukon Territory; Hamburg and Berlin, Germany; Middlesbrough, England; Melbourne and Sydney, Australia.

We went a couple of years ago and I loved it. At a signal, everyone in the group starts their music device, but because all those people can't hit Go right on time, the music is coming out in hundreds of different moments. The music is all chimes and bells and chants,so the divergence is not cacophonous, but beautiful. Plus it echos off the buildings as the mob ambles along, startling passersby and neighbors. I love it.

If there's one in your town, go, definitely go. http://unsilentnight.com/

And if you see a stripper in a Santa hat, give him a twenty. I'm sure he deserves it.

San Francisco Revelations

Out running errands, we stumbled on this garage door/art. I like it.

This evening we were killing time in the Castro and dropped into a small candy store we like. There, leering up at me through the glass of the case like a second rate rentboy, was a tray of CHOCOLATE COVERED TWINKIES. I was already stunned by the lurid display and then the owner (who wears her hair in incredibly inappropriate pigtails) announced that she had never had a Twinkie until they started making these because she had grown up in Canada. Is that possible? Aren't some forms of junk food just universal? I felt I had to buy one, like buying a ticket to a horror movie you know is going to repulse you, just to uphold the American Way of Crap.

In this funny old world where nothing is quite as it seems, it's such a pleasure to run across something that turns out to be every bit as disgusting as you thought it might be. Like a cross between a white-trash eclair and some exotic fecal matter, Chocolate Covered Twinkies managed to overwhelm even me, and I can choke down almost anything sweet. I present photographic proof with one bite taken out of it, moments before the whole thing was sent to a watery grave down the sewer. I had to hold my breath, fearing it might take out our brand new garbage disposal, but no, all praise Saint Dolly Madison.

Better Late

December 1, World AIDS Day, bloggers were requested to write about AIDS. And I was going to, a jaunty little piece about living with HIV in these hip now modern times, but I got sick that evening after I got home from work; I believe the AIDS meds I'm taking turned on me, the little bastards. It's things like that which make me so hate cheap irony.

I know I’m lucky, my T-cells are high, my viral load is undetectable, I have no symptoms, I can recite the names of all seven dwarves by memory (can you? I didn’t think so.) and I only have to take one pill a day, as opposed to some of my friends who choke down a couple of handsful every day. So on the very rare occasions when I can’t stray too far from my dear pal the toilet because of medicine reactions, I remember the friends who died and I concentrate on being lucky.

Thumbs Up

Hold your right hand up in front of you, bent at the wrist, as if you were some drunk sorority girl attempting to dance to the Bangle’s great hit “Walk Like an Egyptian.” Elbow crooked, palm parallel with the floor, fingers pointed away from you. Got it? Now with your left hand, try to pull your right thumb back to touch the inside of your right wrist. Can you do it? No? Hah! Foolish mortal. Of course not, because you, unlike mrpeenee, lack the magic of double jointed thumbs. Don’t feel bad (well, ok, maybe you can feel a little bad) just think of me as a wee bit more evolved than the likes of you.

Of course, because of my inherent goodness, I will not use this great power for world domination; and besides, I have something to do this afternoon. But don’t push me, bitch.

Sometimes when R Man is being bad, I punish him by demonstrating this esoteric skill. “Ooh, ick, eek,” he squeals like a little girl “Stop that, that’s gross.” I laugh manically, and then we go back to arguing about decorating, or the cat, or mrpeene’s predilection for wearing knit caps in public because, you know, domestic bliss and all that.