wednesday wank
My G.I. Joe never looked like this! Well… maybe in my world he did.
January 29, 2007
thinking of rain
TLBO offered me an interesting observation about me this weekend on the telephone. He told me that I should move to Seattle. Confused about this complete change in destination advice, I asked him why he would have me move to Seattle. “Who do you know in Seattle that you want to visit?” I asked him.
His response was “I’ve never seen you happier than when it’s raining.” “When you go out for your hours long walks in the rain and come back rejuvenated you always seem so content.” (*note – not exact wording)
It’s true too. I love to go for long walks in the rain. When I lived in San Francisco, I would don my hooded sweatshirt, baseball cap and leather jacket and head out into the storm to wander, splashing in mud puddles like a child. I would spend hours wandering throughout the city, following meandering routes up and down the hills, stopping to peer into closed shop windows, emptying the troubling thoughts from my head replacing them with the sights and sounds of my beloved city.
Often times, I’d stop into the Eagle Tavern and stand outside on the open patio staring blankly into the perpetually lit fire pit.
I don’t do that anymore. For one reason, Stella hates the rain and I don’t like going for long walks anymore without her. Another reason is that I live so far from the beautiful areas of Chicago that I find it pointless to wander. To achieve the same effect as my beloved San Francisco, I would need to take the “el” down to the loop before my wandering commences.
His statement has been sitting with me all weekend.
Damn you TLBO.
January 26, 2007
I’m the decider
Decisions are very difficult for me to make. I struggle with them, i worry about them and constantly second guess them. Even when i have months worth of solid data to help me make the decision, i lose myself in the decision.
So you can imagine the difficulty deciding which 5 of my frequently called telephone numbers i should designate in my new T-Mobile MyFaves section. One was very very easy to decide. The republican and I will sit on the phone for hours talking about nothing, venting about crappy traffic, or scheming our next million. She alone is the reason I kept upping my minnutes, eventually reaching the 2500 minutes a month plan. The remaining 4 slots weren’t quite as simple. I downloaded the most recent three months worth of call data into an EXCEL spreadsheet and sorted by telephone number. TLBO was second to The Republican with 560 minutes, so he warranted a slot, leaving three.
Two more were added and congratulatory text messages were sent. I still have an empty slot and I’m unsure who will fill it. There are three people in the running and each of them, according to the data are within 10 minutes of each other.
I know this relates to nothing in the greater scheme of things; however, it does make it easier to look to “The decider” and appreciate how difficult his job is. I mean, c’mon, he tells us how difficult his job is every time he opens his mouth to lie to us.
January 25, 2007
Wednesday Wank
Wednesday’s Wank is a little late this week…
Quantity of Quality.
It seems like just when I solve one of life’s pressing problems, another rears its ugly head. Twenty two days into my celibacy experiment I kiss a boy and realize that I really like sex and intimacy, but the kind of sex and intimacy that I’d been partaking was not fulfilling my needs and therefore, like eating a cracker on the Atkins diet, I began hungering and craving more and more until my appetite was a loaf of bread a day. (To stay with the Atkins analogy)
Thus realizing the key is moderation and quality over quantity, my devious little mind has twisted yet another life lesson to follow its dark demented will. That devious little twist is quantity of quality. It started out innocently enough; a night in Vegas drinking in a casino with the Republican, an angry exchange of words, dramatically storming out of the bar to calm my anger only to end up in what must truly be the happiest place on earth. Gleefully, with a slight twinge of knowing guilt, handing over my credit card to the handsome man behind the counter and waiting as he carefully wrapped my purchase in the signature orange box with the brown ribbon.
I speak of my first ever purchase from Hermes, Paris. A lovely silk tie, Teal “H”s on a white background. Very classy with touches of understated elegance. How a Hermes tie should be.
Upon returning to my world, I chose to wear my new tie to work my first day, only to notice that the thread holding the little label on the back of the tie had come undone and a second string was about to unravel. I marched myself into Hermes yesterday while in between account visits and asked them for help with repairs. The noticed a few other locations that were equally weakened and assured me that they would send it to the person in New York that repairs all of their silk items, for a small charge.
“I’m sorry” said I, “but I don’t think that will work for me, you see, I just purchased this a few weeks ago in Vegas, and this is the second time I’ve worn it.” The shop girl, tall, thin, model-like in her appearance, apologized and excused herself to find the manager to return moments later with the Assistant Manager in tow. He apologized and assured me they would take care of everything if I could just show him a receipt. “Of course, I’ll fax it to the store later today” happy to finally be able to use the new fax option of my new all-in-one printer.
Transaction completed, I stood there, in what has to be the happiest place on earth, thinking about how un-thought out my trip was. Here it was 11:00am on a Wednesday; I had three more sales calls to make and no tie.
I glanced at the shop girl, tall, thin, model-like in her appearance, and said “well, um, I kind of need a tie for today” thus beginning the search for my second silk tie from Hermes and my second signature orange box wrapped with a brown ribbon.
January 23, 2007
chiming in on a controversy
I like the current discussion going around the net and the media regarding Isaiah Washington’s use of the term “Faggot”. It is enlightening to see people arguing both for and against its use and greater implications. If you believe Oprah, being fat is the last area of discrimination in this country, but I do not agree with Oprah. Being Gay is still a much more discriminatory place to be than to be fat.
In case my evil sister in law is reading this… I’m not being all militant and “woe is me”, I’m stating a simple fact. Though my family for the most part has accepted me, and my life isn’t governed by hiding my true self any longer, there are millions of men and women both adult and teenagers that cannot feel as if they would be safe to be fully honest about themselves. When one grows up an anomaly of society, be it fat, gay, disabled or a minority their life is affected whether they (or society) acknowledge or not. To be marginalized, to feel different, to be singled out leaves lasting scars. Even worse still is to have your life debated in the newspapers, dissected, trashed and ripped open without a chance to refute with the truth of the debate.
There are a lot of closed minded people in this great land. From the hallowed halls of government to the rusted shacks in the hills and small towns, bigotry exists, mainly out of fear, and religious doctrine (which again exists out of fear) but it exists none the less.
I’ve been called a “faggot” for as many years as I can recall. As a child, it hurt. As a teenager it hurt a lot. It scared me because being called a faggot in a small town was and still is something to dread. Giuliano of GLAAD said. “We also know that, tragically, this sometimes can be the last word people hear before they’re attacked, beaten and possibly even killed.” Unless you’ve grown up with this kind of fear in your mind you have no idea how hurtful, frightening and debilitating the word can represent.
The one thing that troubles me however, is that nobody, not a single commenter that I’ve heard and/or read has acknowledged how closely this relates to Michael Richards recent racially fueled scandal. Why is it ok to call someone a “faggot”? If he had been called a “nigger” all hell would have broke loose.
Bigotry is ugly no matter what word you’re throwing around. Bigotry BY a marginalized minority against another marginalized minority makes me shake my head in disgust. Nobody can be truly free to live their lives until all bigotry is eradicated and understanding, education and diversity are the norms.
I look towards the day that hurtful derogatory words are no longer used, by either side of the debate.
return to Sodom
Twenty-one days. Not bad. I made it 21 days without the tiniest slip and then I saw his eyes. He was adorable, looking at me with those big brown Greek eyes like a puppy. He leaned in to kiss me and I knew then the resolution was out the window. I’m a sucker for a good kisser and I’d found a good kisser when I wasn’t even looking for one.
Later, when I arrived home there was a text message from him; “next time we cuddle”. I knew it was a one time thing. I know that is a bitter and horrible response to a sweet and playful message but I can’t help it. The term cuddle, to me, implies something I’m not comfortable with. Use the words “hold me” or something, but “cuddle” seems almost childlike in its need and removes the essence of the need for intimate physical contact between two adults. When someone invites me to “cuddle” goose bumps crawl up my spine and I have to fight the feeling away.
Not a good way to return to the slut life if you ask me.
January 19, 2007
Dinner for one?
I was recently asked a question by a handsome and intelligent man. The question, unbeknownst to him, has caused a bit of strife in my world. It was innocuous enough, yet it swirls around in my head pointing out failures and weaknesses in my life. I feel like a loser, a hermit confined to his apartment stuffed to the ceilings with stacks of newspapers and bric-a-brac, a socially inept heathen who cannot, nor does not have friends with which to fill my time.
The question, mildly put asked if I had any free time for dinner. Yes. Yes I have free time for dinner. I have free time for lunch and breakfast too. I have all the time in the world (until my 60th birthday). I have so much time it is making me crazy.
I pretend I don’t have the time, that I’m super busy but in truth, I sit home with Stella, puttering into the wee hours of the morning every night. Reading, watching television or playing video games.
My phone rarely rings with invites from locals. There are 3 people that call me regularly and I am very thankful for them. Thankful they put up with my neurosis and quirks.
It was rather difficult for me last night to stop at the butcher shop on the way home to buy some food. “Yes, I’ll have one pork chop and one filet please” telling the store and the world that I’m on my own.
So yes, I have time for dinner. And I’ll try not to be too excited when we finally sit down to eat.