Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Hee hee hee

31 July 2006

Mormon missionaries just visited the house. I spent their spiel staring alternatively at their crotches and (admirably worked-out) pecs, muttering an “mm-hmm” whenever it seemed appropriate.

They left before asking to discuss the Good News of another Gospel of Jesus Christ.

LDS: 0 Me: 2 hot boys to ogle.

Set and match.


Kitty Porn

12 July 2006

You turn your back for a minute, and suddenly the imps are throwing shovelfuls of shit at the fan. In the space of a weekend, I got sick, my cat got sick, my roommate got sick, and my other roommate had her toenail torn off, on purpose no less.

Of my illness, I will only say this: when the chunks that come careening out of your ear make even Nurse Ratchet say “Oh, my God,” you know you have a problem.

Sam the cat, in her typically cryptic manner, retreated under the desk one day and refused to come out. After two days of not eating or drinking, we took her to the vet. He found nothing wrong in his examination and was beginning to suggest terminal organ failure, when he took that last vital by shoving a digital probe up her butt. Over her protests, he got a reading of 103 degrees, which I gather is rather high for a cat. Relieved, he said it was probably an infection and took Sam off to get blood to send off to the lab. While there, he also injected water (or a close analogue thereof) into her back to help relieve the dehydration. So the cat came back, rather humiliated, looking like Quasimodo’s unholy sidekick. Sadly, the fluid was absorbed so quickly that I didn’t have time to get a photograph of The Hunchback of Notre Pussy.

The next day, with the cat still not eating despite the antibiotics and the warning shot across her bow of having instruments probe her rectum, the vet called and said the liver portion of Sam’s blood panel was off, indicating a liver problem. Several Google searches later, we decided she had fatty liver disease, which is brought on by acute anorexia, which is itself caused by stress. What kind of stress? Like, say, having another cat move into the house. Which happened in April when my best friend and her husband moved in and brought their young kitten, Allie, with them. My first thought was “huh, my cat was driven to anorexia when a younger woman moved in.” My second thought was “I blame the patriarchy.” Curse the patriarchy, invading, as it does, every aspect of our lives.

To make a long and bloody story short, for four days we force-fed the cat mashed up food and shotgunned water down her gullet. The water was a fairly entertaining process, as we used a 3 cc syringe (needle-less, of course) to shoot water into her mouth while holding her upside down with her paws clamped tight to her body. She fought it, as she fights anything we do to her that’s not her idea in the first place, but she got rather used to the Roman aristocrat aspect of it, being given sustenance without any exertion on her part. As of today it’s like someone flipped a switch in her brain, because she’s back to eating and drinking on her own. I knew she was getting better when she took a swipe at Allie. It meant her personality was returning, and she had enough spare energy to spite her mortal enemy.

A mortal enemy, I might add, who is a big ol’ fashioned prevert. Whenever any of us goes to the bathroom, she runs at top speed from wherever she is to make it in the door before we shut it. She likes nothing better than to sit and watch quizzically as we sit on the toilet. Often she will cavort in the bathtub, as if offering a pagan celebration of our bowel movements. Once, she even took a swan dive into a toilet full of pee before it was flushed. My favorite was the time I went in to pee, standing upright as males are wont to do. Just as I’m about to let loose, I see a furry little head appear between my legs, gazing lovingly into the toilet. Thank goodness for kegel muscles, because there’s really no explanation you can give that will assuage the owner of a cat whose head you’ve just peed on.

Never a dull moment ‘round here.

Schoolmarm Grammar

9 July 2006

Note to the blogosphere:

It’s not “should of,” or “would of” or any other modal auxiliary + “of“. It’s modal auxiliary + “have“. I “should have,” I “would have.” You’re being confused by the pronunciation of contractions like “would’ve,” or “should’ve.”

And while we’re at it, trying to sound fancy at an upscale restaurant by saying “salad nee-swa” just makes you look ignorant and pretentious, which is both annoying and amusing to those of us who are enlightened and pretentious, who say “salad nee-swahz.”
That is all.

My blog has schizophrenia

26 June 2006

Changing gears again.

I’m about to share with you something wondrous.

No, it doesn’t involve nudity, sticks of butter, or whole cloves of garlic, despite the fact that most wondrous things involve at least one of the above.

If you’ve ever spent time in the South, or are from the South, or are fortunate enough to have the acquaintance of a true Southerner, you’ll know instantly what I’m talking about.

And no, by true Southerner, I don’t mean the hate-filled bigots like Trent Lott or Bill Frist that our media presents as icons of the South. Nay, these are not true Southerners and we should repudiate their claims to that identity forcefully and repeatedly. A true Southerner is someone of inimitable grace and hospitality, an easy wit, and unmatched gentility. And chances are, they have their grandma’s recipe for sweet tea.

Southern sweet tea is a thing of beauty. Strongly-brewed tea without a hint of bitterness, brewed in a simple syrup for an extended period, then diluted with cold water and served on ice.

Since I only have 2 liter pitchers around the house, I will give an appropriately-proportioned recipe. If you have a gallon pitcher, just double the sugar and tea bags in the same amount of boiling water, and use the appropriate amount of water to dilute the mother liquor to strength.

Southern Sweet Tea, recipe based on various internet sources and my own recollections.

4-5 tea bags (use strong, cheap tea, like Lipton’s or Luzianne)
.5 C white sugar
pinch of baking soda

To a small, lidded saucepan, add the sugar and enough water to come 2/3 of the way up the side of the pan. Bring to a rolling but not vigorous boil. Kill the heat, then toss in the baking soda and the tea bags. The tea and baking soda will provide nucleation sites for boiling, so expect a vigorous reaction, especially if you’re not quick about killing the heat. Quickly and tightly cover the saucepan, and allow to steep at least an hour. Preferably, if you want sweet tea for the afternoon or for dinner, start the tea a-seeping at breakfast. After seeping, pour the mother liquor (your steeped tea syrup, minus the bags) into a 2 liter (~2 quart) pitcher and fill the remaining space in the pitcher with cold water. Serve over ice, preferably within three days. It will keep up to a week, but the taste goes south (heh heh) after about three days. Not that it’ll last that long.

Best enjoyed on a porch or in the backyard, wearing a straw-brimmed hat and seersucker suit (red tie, of course).

Something to Pass the Time

6 June 2006

10 Bands You’ve Seen Live:
1. Sarah MacLachlan
2. Sixpence None the Richer
3. The Pretenders
4. Sheryl Crow
5. Backstreet Boys
7. Céline Dion
8. Diamond Rio
9. Reba McIntire
10. Elton John

9 Things You’re Looking Forward To:
1. The Fourth of July in Catalina
2. Recreating On Golden Pond in Maine
3. The ‘joint communication’ between Magnolia Lodge and Fraternity Lodge
4. Writing my MA thesis
5. Getting into PhD programs
6. Participating in the 4th of July Golf Cart Parade in Catalina (you’ve not known campy until…)
7. Going to my cousin’s wedding on Saturday
8. My next payday
9. Getting the fire clearance done on the cabin (and getting rid of the poison oak rash I’ve got from the process)

8 Things You Wear Daily:
1. Underwear
2. The watch my cousin got me for graduation
3. Gym shorts (okay, so every other day)
4. Pants (unless it’s one of those days)
5. Deodorant
6. Aveda Be Curly (keeps the friz from exploding)
7. Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Moisturizer with SPF 15
8. Socks

7 Things That Annoy You
1. The President
2. The mainstream media
3. Anti-abortion protesters that demonstrate just how much they value the sanctity and dignity of life by making 4′ by 6′ posters of aborted fetuses.
4. Dry-cleaners that try to press the wrinkles out of seersucker
5. Conservatives that think women should be public property
6. Liberals that think women should be private property.
7. Southerners that claim the Civil War was about states’ rights.

6 Things You Touch Every Day
1. **ahem**
2. My PowerBook
3. Edna’s steering wheel
4. Sam the cat
5. Allie the cat
6. My shower knobs

5 Things You Do Every Day
1. **ahem**
2. Some sort of physical activity
3. Sing in the car
4. Read blogs
5. Listen to music

4 Of Your Favorite Bands or Musicians
1. Elton John
2. Howie Day
3. Céline Dion
4. Dixie Chicks

3 Movies You Could Watch Over and Over
1. The Broken Hearts Club
2. Fried Green Tomatoes
3. Star Trek: First Contact

2 Of Your Favorite Songs At This Moment
1. Ama Credi e Vai [Love, Believe & Go] (Andrea Bocelli)
2. Sugar We’re Goin’ Down (Fall Out Boy)

1 Person You Could Spend The Rest of Your Life With
1. In terms of being able to coexist? Jen’s probably the only person I could spend years at a time with and not club with a tire iron.

It’s Always Time for Cava

2 June 2006

Well, the friends I was supposed to go out with tonight bailed on me, so I sit alone with a bottle of bubbly. Oh sure, I could go out on my own, but 1) I'm far too shy, 2)It's almost 70 miles roundtrip, which puts me more than $10 in the hole before I even pay for parking or a drink, and 3) Cost Plus World Market had a very nice Spanish Cava (I know, thats redundant, like Italian Prosecco or French Champagne) for only $6. So, me, a flute, a bottle of Cava, and the Internets. How fabulous.

Be not sorry for me, however. Last night a friend and I went and had dinner at the WeHo Hamburger Mary's for karaoke night. It was a barrel of laughs; they have good food, and our waiter was hot, nice and could sing (qualities, especially the first two, that are exceedingly rare to have in combination in the L.A. Basin). So I've had some measure of excitement this week.

 I also have to be up at o-dark-hundred to finish up the fire clearance at the cabin. This time we're being smart and bringing the weed whacker, because the thought of bending over and picking one. more. fucking. weed. is enough to make me want to forsake the flute and drink Cava straight gayly from the bottle.

A propops of nothing, I love lesbians. I wish I could be a lesbian. Lesbians rock my socks off. I'd marry a lesbian in a heartbeat. Always so much more down to earth and thoughtful than the little gay boys that sprout up from the earth like the aforementioned weeds. Have you hugged your favorite lesbian today?

 And in case you were wondering, no, that wasn't a drunk ramble. I've had maybe half a glass of Cava, which for a Jesuit-trained liver, might as well be a spritz of Evian.

Did you know "Evian" spelled backwards in "naive"? Tells you something, don't it?

Seacrest out. Heh heh, 'out.' Oh, the day that flaming trainwreck comes out of the closet…

Oh, right, I have a blog

30 May 2006

Boy, I keep falling off the wagon. This does not bode well for the day I hafta go to drug or alcohol rehab.

School’s out! School’s out! Teacher let the fools out!

Nevertheless, I still hafta go down there for work, which is spotty in this academic nether region known as summer. Today I went down and neither of the professors I work for were there. Since I’m not in the middle of any projects I can’t really busy myself except by surfing the web. So I did that for an hour and said screw it. From there I went to the gym, which was even more of a project than usual since the entrance is being remodeled. So I had to walk around three sides of the four-sided pyramid (don’t ask) to get in. The gym’s an utterly different place at 11.30. Usually I’m there somewhere in the 15.00-19.00 range, and it’s full of hot muscle boys and even hotter personal trainers, which make me feel entirely inadequate. At 11.30, though, it’s mostly older people doing PT or taking classes without worry of bumping into a muscle god twice their height and three times their width. So, I felt marginally better about my place on the gym spectrum. I still get slightly panicky when I do the ‘real’ weights, like the bench press, leg press, pull-ups, that sort of thing. I guess no matter how big a little gay boy gets, he still suffers from the ‘real boys will break me!’ phobia. Actually, for me, it’s more like ‘sweet purple Jesus, I’m going to swing the bench press bar badly to one side, the weights are going to fall off the down side, and then the bar will immediately torque to the other side and jettison those weights. Then everyone will point and laugh, their shapely deltoids and pecs rising and falling as they cackle and gesture rudely, while I ponder jumping through the sheet glass window into the basketball court two floors below.’

For another session, however, my luck seems to have held. I even added weight to my leg lifts, clasping a 7.5 pound dumbbell between my ankles as I swung them up. The flip side (oh, there’s always a flip side) is that my inguinal ligaments and lower abs feel like they’re going to snap like rubber bands and send my testes across the room like organic shotgun slugs. I’m fairly certain I don’t have a hernia, though, as Dad had one for years and I don’t see anything on my torso that resembles the odd protuberances he hid badly for so long.

In other domains, the slow-motion train wreck that is my glorious family continues on its inexorable path toward, well, something. Not exactly sure what. My great aunt B has weekly appointments to adjust the machine in her head that adjusts how much cerebrospinal fluid can move through her system. Her sister, great aunt P, is, as ever, a gin-soaked, meddlesome wench who calls us twice a day to demand that we do something for B. Exactly what we are expected to do is unclear, since she doesn’t call us until her third or fourth martini of the afternoon. How her liver hasn’t yet coughed up a quantum singularity is beyond me.

But I digress. She’s worried to death that B is going to die, which is amusing since when her twin sister, my “mom-mom”, died, she couldn’t be bothered to cut either her hair appointment or her subsequent Sweet Adeleine’s concert tour short. This is, it is worth nothing, the same great aunt that periodically calls someone in the family a slut. The first time she did so was when my mom and dad drove to Indiana so that Ma could meet his parents before they got married. Since they were unmarried, P hushedly but excitedly rang the family to gush over what a slut she was.

Now, however, the tables are beginning to turn. Her granddaughter, my second cousin C, is getting married next month. She and her fiancé are currently on a trip in Slovakia as a pre-wedding vacation. When P rang my aunt M (she of the uncensored mouth) in order to brag about her worldly and cosmopolitan granddaughter, M says it took all of her self-control not to remark, “Oh, that slut!”

And, since B is worried that she may in fact be dying, she’s telling all the deep dark family secrets she holds as the matriarch of the clan. Soon I’ll have to write to tell the Internets of the illegitimate black child or the time my great-great-grandmother was left at the altar after the vows had been said.

At least we serve wine with our dysfunctional family theatre.

More Reasons to Love my Aunt M

12 May 2006

This evening, I picked up the phone to call my Aunt M to see if she wanted to go to dinner. Her phone rang and rang, and eventually her answering machine picked up. Halfway through the outgoing message, she picked up with the usual “Hello?”

“Hello.” I said back.

“George W. Bush is a moron,” she replied.

“Well, yes, I know that.”

“I just wanted it to be on the NSA computers since he’s recording all our phone calls.”

“So that’s gonna replace ‘hello’ for you from hereon out?”

“Pretty much.”


This aunt is known for her shoot-from-the-hip style. While in DC for my graduation, my mom and aunts and uncle and cousins were walking around the Mall/Smithsonian area talking politics. As is his wont, my uncle (not Aunt M’s husband) was talking about how wonderful Republicans are and how they never lie and never steal from the people. Aunt M turned around, scrunched up her face, put her arms out with the V salute on each hand, and exclaimed, “I am not a crook!”
That shut him up for a while.
This past Christmas, I was debating which set of china to use for the big dinner: Ma’s wedding china or the set she bought about ten years ago. Aunt M asked which had the bigger plates. I said the wedding china had bigger dinner plates. She looked me straight in the eye and said “We need the bigger plates.” Cause it just isn’t Christmas unless someone’s button pops off their clothing. Or my Great Aunt P calls someone a slut.

I love my family.

ETA: As I was finishing this post, Ma waltzed into my room and announced that she needed a drink. So we did a shot of tequila. Then a mai tai. And now I’m typing this rather drunk indeed. I love my family even more.


4 May 2006

I haven't posted in a while, mostly because I have too many things I want to write about. Ironic, isn't it? It's the same problem I have with my thesis search. I have too many subjects I'm interested in to settle down with just one.

First on the list, I really want a seersucker suit. I know. I'm neither southern nor an aristocrat (although I had a true southern gentleman tell me I am in fact an aristocrat). Part of the impetus is the fact that two of my cousins are getting married this summer, and nothing would horrify their "The Real OC" sensibilities than good old-fashioned seersucker. I doubt 99.5% of the people in California have ever even seen seersucker, so the impact would be all the greater.

While googling to feed my seersucker fetish, I came upon this site, which notes that wearing a red tie with seersucker marks one a something of a 'rakehell'. Since I don't often come upon words I've never before encountered, I then had to google 'rakehell'. According to, a rakehell is "sort of a cross between a playboy (in the classic 50s sense of the word) and a non-threatening pervert." I can honestly say I've never heard a more apt description of me. So, rakehell it is! I have the perfect red tie for it, too….

Next on my list is an open letter to the jackass who was on my flight from DCA to LAX last Sunday.

Dear Jackass,

Do you really think getting mad at the ticket agent that there's no place for people who have checked in online to just hand over their bag is going to effect any sort of change? Alaska Airlines makes maybe two flights out of DCA per day. They have like three ticketing personnel and three stations to work out of. It would be idiotic to take away one or more of those personnel just to indulge the maybe 10% of the fliers that checked in online. And bitching about it isn't going to make them say "you know what, why don't I serve this man's infantile needs?" It's going to get you reseated next to the lavatories.

In the same vein, how is haranguing a poor baggage office employee going to get our baggage there any sooner? Do you think he's sitting there with a magic button that will make our luggage appear? We arrived 45 minutes early. The baggage handling folk probably had other things to do and couldn't rush on over to accommodate us. It's not like they're playing a big practical joke and watching us squirm. "heh heh, look at the poor saps…wanting their bags like peasants. Oh, oh, he's complaining, better let it through." There are so many better ways to expend you energies than yelling and screaming about things you can't change. Asshat.



Moving on, I must be getting kinder-looking as I age. When I was flying back from DC, running on an hour and a half of sleep and looking like absolute hell, unshaven and everything, several elderly folk chatted me up and told me what a nice young man I am and how I was going to go far. I don't know how they came to that conclusion based on my telling them I was in DC to visit friends and am a graduate student, but hey, I'll take what I can get. Personally, if I saw myself with two days worth of beard, big bags under my eyes and hair you could lose a small child in, I'd make a conspicuous effort to avoid talking to me.

Lastly, I have the quote of the day. While watching What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), my movie-watching companion had this one-liner regarding Elvira, the quintessential person-of-color housekeeper:

"Before Elvira, the Mistress of the Dark, there was Elvira: the Mistress Who Was Dark."

I'll leave the question of whether that's racist or not to history. It was damn funny though.


5 April 2006

A small, grainy video in which you can see how I put my Georgetown education to good use.

Link (right/control-click, save as)