Rick & Steve, Happy and Gay Like You Wouldn't Believe!

I was going to do a proper post on this, even bordering on a review, but time is of the essence, so forget all that and just get thee to a television tomorrow night.

What: Logo's new TV program
Who: Rick & Steve, Happiest Gay Couple In the World
When: Tuesday, 10pm EST
Where: In front of your TV, Logo channel
Why: It rocks

This show is funny as hell. It's based on a film short that was done in the late 90s by Q. Allan Brocka. It takes place in a gay and colorful town known as West Lahunga Beach.

The main characters are Rick, a Filipino genius househusband, and his partner, Steve, a hottie gymgod real estate agent. Rick's best friend, Kirsten, is a lipstick lesbian who's hooked up with Dana, the quintessential mullet-sporting Jewish-American bulldyke. Though Rick and Kirsten are friends, their partners aren't fond of each other, so there is much witty verbal sparring between Dana and Steve. Other friends include Chuck, a wheelchair bound HIV+ older guy, and Evan, his hottie twink houseboy and lovah. There are also Ebony & Ivory, politically correct lesbian couple, whose new baby, Echinacea, is gender-secreted for now, as her-or-his Mommies don't want to impose gender roles on her-or-him.

These are not live action characters, nor are they cartoons a la Homer Simpson and South Park. They are modeled after those plastic kids' toys that come in sets like Pirates, Cowboys, Astronauts and the like. (Parents, you will find them oddly reminiscent of Playmobile people. You know what I'm talking about.) Take a gander:

(all photos from the official Rick & Steve website, happiestgaycouple.com. )

Rick, Steve, and Steve's parents, who are in some serious denial..
(Note the Assembly of God Hairdo on Mom)

Dana & Kirsten. Kirsten is Rick's good friend. Note Dana's rockin' mullet.

Rick and Steve at marriage counseling

Dana & Kirsten with friends Ebony, Ivory, and baby Echinacea.

Evan & Chuck (note erotic art on wall.)

I missed the first 2 episodes, but that shit was so funny my daughter and I found them on YouTube and popped some popcorn. I tried to find the links to the episodes for you, but my slowass computer is not cooperating, and patience is not my virtue tonight. They're there, though, although you have to watch each episode in three 7-minute parts, as you apparently can't upload more than 10 minutes to YouTube or some shit. Worth it though. You can also download the episodes from their website.

You can check out a full review here, and their website here. (scroll down to see each character's description) The website has clips that will make you want to download the full episodes. You can even download wallpaper.

Anyway, check it out if you're around at 10pm (eastern, of course, because those guys are sooo important) Tuesday night. This is some funny shit.

Rudy & The Mittster: Not Down With the Little People

Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani are backing out of the Republican YouTube debates. Check it out here, on their own Charlie-Fox news.

Apparently, they have more pressing engagements than answering actual unscripted questions from the American public. Hmm. Really? Because you'd think, with the Republican party's rep basically being in the toilet, they'd want to give the impression of actually giving a shit about any concerns the American public may have.

And here I was thinking that the Republicans would try to distance themselves from their Clueless Leader, in order to show that it's not the party as a whole that doesn't give a flying fuck about the voice of the people, it's just that chimp with veto power who doesn't give the aforementioned flying fuck.

I stand corrected.

Giuliani cited scheduling conflicts. (You know, I really think I'd find a way to work around those conflicts, Rudy.) Romney had this to say about the debates:

I think the presidency ought to be held at a higher level than having to answer questions from a snowman.

Are you kidding me? So the question itself -- how will the candidate address global warming -- is invalidated because the format in which it was asked was creative and memorable? Really?

So this guy holds himself at a "higher level" than having to answer silly questions from the unwashed masses. Wait ... he wants my vote, and he can't even make time to step down and answer a question I might have? Really?

What, does this guy squeeze gold out his ass or something? That is some High & Mighty thinking, right there.

I am disgusted, but not surprised and most definitely not outraged; it only works against him. In my opinion, this is just one more incident illustrating what the Republican party is all about. The rich and elite are the Deciders, and to hell with the rest of y'all, they don't have time for your petty problems, and they sure don't have to answer to anyone.

Romney also said that in the Democratic debates, Senator Obama

... is slowly but surely revealing who he is.

Yeah, Mitt, and your refusal to even step out to that podium is sure as hell revealing who you are. That's ok, because I'm thinking folks will not be impressed. The Mittster may just unwittingly rack up a boatload of votes for the blue side.

You just keep on, Mitt. If the rest of your party is as uptight and Holier Than Thou as you and Rudy and your Boy George, I'm glad I vote blue. Way to represent.

Bumper Stickers for the Soul

Hey, y'all, I spawned a bumper sticker!

OK, I was over at Belle's site (Of the Dead Dating variety, not the Big Ass Belle variety) and made a comment in which I said, "A little nippleage is good for the soul," (which, as you well know, it is.) Belle asked if we could get bumper stickers made. "Ha ha," we laughed, "Bumper stickers! Good one!"

Next thing I know, another visitor to her site, vvk, had actually made a bumper sticker.

Apparently, you can make any kind of sticker you want at Makestickers.com

I haven't really checked it out yet, but this is promising, people. Very promising indeed.

Now, if only we could get royalties...

Bumper Sticker of the Day

Oh! I found the other one I had wanted to put up with the "2 Daddies" sticker!

Is that too good or what? You could really piss some people off with that. Fun and games.

Courtesy of Stamp And Shout.

Bumper Sticker of the Day

I didn't actually snap this pic, Dear Camera being ... well, you know.

---moment of silence---

Even so, it was too good not to share.

Is that not great? Piss a Republican off, buy one today!

Then I saw this one, a play on It's Hard Out There for a Pimp, and about spit my coffee. Appropriate, as our Clueless Leader does sport quite a simian appearance, and also because he has his own brand of Hustle and Flow going on.

Courtesy of Stamp And Shout.

Kucinich: Presidential Candidate or Chick Magnet?

Remember when I was pissed off about Hillary Clinton's femininity being an actual issue in the media, and how it doesn't seem to apply to the guys' masculinity? Remember when I asked why no one questions Dennis Kucinich's masculinity?

Now, I threw that out there, not as an attack on Congressman Kucinich's masculinity, but to illustrate the fact that for those candidates with a penis, masculine/feminine characteristics are a non-issue. It's only brought up in reference to candidates with breasts.

I picked Kucinich for that question because he doesn't strike me as one of those hulking macho guys. Not a bad thing -- those guys are usually arrogant assclowns, and sexist to boot. An overdose of masculinity is not a good thing in my book.

But let's face it, Kucinich isn't exactly butching it up. In fact, he has always put me in mind of a friendly gnome. I don't mean that in a disparaging way -- gnomes are pretty cool. (especially Evil ones wearing sexy hats -- you know who you are.) I know, I know: "Right, Cowbell, how you gonna call somebody a gnome and not mean that in a disparaging way? Sounds pretty damn disparaging to me."

I said friendly gnome, people. No mud-slinging here.

In all seriousness, I was impressed with Kucinich during the YouTube debates. I don't think he can win, but I did like his answers. Did y'all know he's from my home state? Yes, I'm originally a Buckeye. That makes us officially "homies", by the way. As in, "My boy Dennis was giving a speech the other day, and ..." Yeah.

Anyway, I think I know why Dennis Kucinich's masculinity is not in question. I give you his wife, Elizabeth Harper Kucinich. No Barbara Bush the Elder here, people. My man Dennis is coupled up with one smokin' hot willowy sylph of a redhead. I mean, damn! Did I say hot? Yes, I did.

She is 29 years old. He is 31 years her senior. She is British, from Essex, a bit New-Agey, and has a tongue-piercing. Oh yes, she does. A First Lady with a tongue-stud? Yes, I think so.

Now I'm not saying that a woman's hotness is a direct indicator of her man's masculinity -- that's for the testosterone-laden hetero males to debate. I'm just saying I now understand why no one is bringing said masculinity into question.

Why doesn't it work both ways, though? I mean, Bill's a good looking guy. Granted, he's not 29, but still a good looking guy. Why hasn't the media decided that yes, Hillary Clinton is sufficiently feminine (whatever the hell that means) based on the appearance of her husband? Goose and gander, here people.

Of course, if Senator Clinton's husband were a 29 year old hottie, it wouldn't exactly work that way, would it? No, it would not. She would not be "taken seriously". Instead of eliciting high-fives and a You Go Girl! from the masses, she would draw scorn and clucking of tongues. She would be called a Cougar at best, a cradle-robbing hussy buying companionship at worst.

There's just no getting around that double standard, is there?

Bastards.

But back to my man Dennis. Damn! Did you all know this? I didn't. They were married in 2005, after only having known each other for about 3 months. By all accounts, they're very close and genuinely in love. They met in Kucinich's office. This according to Common Dreams:

"Elizabeth Harper walked with her boss into Dennis Kucinich's Capitol Hill office for a meeting and immediately noticed three things. In the reception area, she saw a visiting nun in white robes. In his inner office sat a shelf bearing an illustration depicting "light consciousness" and a bust of Gandhi."

Apparently, that piqued her interest, and she emailed him. Within a few weeks, they were engaged, and married 3 months later. I've got to say, most folks wouldn't imagine them to be partnered up, just based on appearance. I mean, this blows the whole Charles and Diana thing out of the water.

Frog Prince my ass. And did I say gnome? My bad.

Elizabeth though, is no princess. She has volunteered in India with orphaned children, and worked in rural Tanzania as an advocate for regional development. She has a masters degree in International Conflict Analysis. She believes their union to based more on substance than form:

It's not like I'm some ditsy young thing and he's an old fogey. He has the wisdom of an ancient and the energy of youth.

Indeed. I am so sure he must have the energy of youth. That vegan diet must be keeping him chock full o' vim and vigor. I'm sorry, but I've got say it, this man has got to be some sort of freak in the sheets. Think about it.


Her thoughts on their height difference -- she is 6' tall:

Who cares? I like wearing high heels, so I’m used to being taller than most men I stand next to.

That's right girl. Strut.


And for all those who say it must be a money thing, Kucinich doesn't lead an extravagant life, comparatively speaking. At the debates the other night, he said he's still living in a working class neighborhood, in the same house he bought 35 years ago. Can't really say the same for John Edwards. I mean, girl could hook up with a lot of younger, hotter rich guys, if that's what she was after.

Like I said, freak in the sheets.

Now I like a lot of what Kucinich has to say. I have concerns about how he would come across with international relations. And really, after this Charlie-Foxtrot of an administration, we need some serious leadership when it comes to international relations.

However ... if Kucinich had this British enchantress heading to the alter after less than a month, the man must have some serious skillz in the international relations department.

Something to ponder.



Photo credits:
1 & 2: kucinich.us
3: Jason Behnken/Tampa Tribune

Debate This.

How many of you all saw the Democratic debates tonight?

So what did you think about the whole YouTube deal? I loved it. Anderson Cooper was the moderator, which was reason enough to watch in my book, but Anderson did not pose the questions.

The questions were asked by John Q. Public, the man on the street, everyman ... and everywoman, since I can't seem to find a gender-inclusive term.

People sent their questions via YouTube videos -- genius! Folks had some really creative video-questions. One guy asked about No Child Left Behind in music video format using a big flip-pad on which he'd written things. His last page said, Scrap it or completely revise it? (Bill Richardson, first off the block, spoke plainly: "I'd scrap it.")

One video had two women, I believe from NY, who basically said, "Hi, I'm Mary, and she's Jen. Our question is if you were elected President of the United States, would you support us being married ...... to each other?" They then looked at each other and back at the camera a couple of times like, "Well? Let's hear it!", drawing a laugh from the audience. (Only Kucinich stepped up as supporting actual marriage -- and strongly.)

There was a snowman asking about global warming. The scene cut to a much smaller snowman, while the narrator asked something like, "What will you do to make sure my son leads a long and full life?"

One guy with a guitar wrote a little ditty about taxes.

A veteran who had burial flags for his father, grandfather and eldest son asked what the candidates would do to make sure he doesn't collect a flag for his youngest son.

One guy specifically asked Senators Obama and Clinton how they will address the critics who say they are not "black enough" or "feminine enough". (Barack Obama: "You know, when I'm catching a cab in Manhattan, I believe I'm given my credentials,")

A Southern Baptist (I believe) pastor asked John Edwards to address the fact that he used his Southern Baptist faith to justify his stance on gay marriage (against it, for civil unions), and did Edwards think it was right to consider faith when making policy decisions. (Edwards: his faith influences his personal beliefs, but he does not believe in basing political decisions on faith.)

One smug and smarmy guy pointedly addressed Senator Clinton as "Mrs. Clinton", and asked her if she considered herself a liberal, and to define the term. (Clinton: considers herself a progressive, not a liberal)

One guy asked if any of the candidates supported reparations for African-Americans, and went on to say that he knew the question would probably have the candidates "dippin' and dodging". (Again, only Kucinich came out in favor of actual reparations.)

One woman asked about health care, and making preventative care more available and affordable. She said she hoped to be a future breast cancer survivor, and pulled a wig off of her bald head.

One young man asked how the candidates would represent athiests and agnostics.

Anyway, I really liked it. The questions were real questions about the things every day folks think about. Things like social security, health care, uneven tax burdens, Iraq, minimum wage, education. The candidates, not knowing what questions were coming, had to stay on their toes.

Some of them seemed nervous. One of them, Mike Gravel, (I'm sorry, who?) was just ... odd. One of the CNN people (Carol somebody) said he "looked kind of like your kooky uncle at Thanksgiving dinner".

That's pretty accurate. Dude was just weird. Very combative, and said things like, "You can now go to Hanoi and get a Baskin-Robbins ice cream cone! That's what you can do!" (That during a ranting comparison of Vietnam and Iraq)

I have to say that Senator Clinton was all about cool confidence. She came across as a leader, especially when one guy -- a soldier in Okinawa, I believe -- asked how she'd expect to be taken seriously as President when Muslim countries would "see her as a second class citizen". She listed high-level people in Arab/Muslim countries with whom she's met, and said something like, "I don't think there's much doubt in anyone's mind that I can be taken seriously," Her delivery was spot on. I believed her.

My thought on that is that this is our country; we're not electing a president to please folks in other countries, we're electing a president to run our country. And to hopefully fix our shit.

Senator Obama did great as well. He seemed to connect easily, and came across as strong and confident. At one point, he started off a sentence saying, "As president, I would ... " and I popped out in goosebumps.

I also have to say, flaming leftwinger that I am, some of Dennis Kucinich's answers kicked ass. I think he's too far left to get elected, by a long shot, but I personally was liking his answers.

Biden talked tough and straight, but ... I don't know. Eh.

It pissed me off though, when candidates would occasionally try to go all sound-bitey, despite Anderson's efforts to get them to answer the damn question or stay on topic. Please guys, we're instantly aware when you switch from answering a fresh question to falling back on your pat self-serving plugs. Even candidates I like and respect did this. Annoying.

Also, giving the "expected answer". Boring. Someone asked if they'd each be willing to do their jobs for minimum wage. Please. All of them tried to sound believable while giving off a chipper "Yes!" or "Sure!". WhatEVER.

Senator Obama finally said it's easy for them all to say yes, because they all have money, but the question is should the average person be living off minimum wage. One of them (Biden, I think) tried to say something about not having Obama's kind of money, and Obama came back with, "You do all right, Joe,"

(And I'm sorry, Joe, but Obama made his money himself, he sure wasn't born into it, and he spent a lot of years as a community activist, working for beans.)

Also, they had to bring up Senator Clinton's clothes. Please! She's damned either way. She was recently called into question for not being "feminine enough". WTF? OK, first people have a problem with a woman president, then she's not feminine enough? If she wears "feminine clothes", that must be commented on. If she showed up in a dark skirt suit in keeping with The Boys, she'd be accused of trying to dress like a man.

Shoot, they'd probably accuse her of being a man.

I'm sorry, but why don't we hear reporters debating whether Kucinich is masculine enough? Well? I mean, come on, people, he's not exactly butching it up, now. Seriously, I have never heard of a male candidate's masculinity being debated.

Bastards.

Well, I had more to say, but it's late, and I'm tired, and the Male Offspring just said he wanted to "tell me stuff" about his night with his friends -- gotta take those when you can get them -- so I'm out of here for tonight.

I liked this YouTube debate format, though. I hope they keep it. The right may have FOX, but looks like the interneters are making their voice heard in a big way.

Group photo: AP/Charles Dharapak

Obama photo: obamarama.org

Gravel photo: AP/Evan Vucci

Kucinich photo: nhpr.org

It's All Fun & Games Until Somebody Puts an Eye Out.

I, apparently, have lost a shitload of Childlike Wonder over the course of my life.

This was confirmed by watching The Last Mimzy with the Offspring the other day. It was a wonderful, magical movie. Any of you who don't agree, please note that I make no claims toward being a good movie or book critic. You want a comprehensive review of something, you'd best check in with Lorraine or Eric or someone. That is not what this post is about anyway. It is about my reaction to the film, in particular, the aforementioned loss of childlike wonder.

I mean, it's no newsflash that I tend toward the cynical, and that sarcasm is actually in my DNA strands, on both sides of the family. I've passed that shit on, too: the Offspring are all about a well timed sarcastic remark. Little smartasses.

So I'm no Pollyanna. Like I need that warped reality in my life.

Even so, I had a decidedly grown-up reaction to the film. And not in a good way. It seriously annoyed the hell out of me that the kids did not go to an adult, namely their parents, for help. I mean it pretty much pissed me off. I wanted to slap the nincompoopery right out of their heads. I couldn't keep my mouth shut about it. I kept making all kinds of sarcastic comments, like "Dude, it's called a seizure, go get your friggin' MOM!" My kids were like, "See, you're like one of the grown ups in books who can't see magic anymore."

Oh.

This sucks, because when reading books of that nature, don't we all still identify with the protagonist? Don't we all still believe in magic, at least for the time we're lost within the covers of the book? Who wants to identify with the parent who can't see the magic? Or worse, the parent who won't even believe the kids?

Nevertheless, while watching The Last Mimzy, I kept bouncing back and forth between "Ooh, cool!" and "OhmyGAWD, will you go get your friggin' Mom before you put out an eye with that thing?!"

I mean, I'm sorry, but you find something washed up on the beach that is obviously behind some seriously supernatural shit, you don't just slide it under your bed and figure that you, of all people in the universe, as a 5 or 10 year old child, have a handle on that shit. Please.

These are the kinds of the kids who will be reaching into bonfires to rescue dud firecrackers in a few years.

Still. Even the knowledge that I am, of course, absolutely right, did not stop me from being disturbed by my strong reaction. So much so, that I later tried to psychoanalyze myself, with the help of a generous glass of Cabernet.

I came to the conclusion that I was basically projecting the Mimzy kids and their safety onto my own Offspring. If my kids had also been saying things like "What the hell is that kid doing sticking her arm in there?! Does she want to lose a friggin' hand?!" I probably would've felt better. I could rest comfortably in the knowledge that my own Offspring, upon finding some crazy supernatural shit on the beach, would come to me and say,

Hey Anyu, come check out this crazy supernatural shit we found washed up on the beach. It looks kind of cool, but it could be dangerous, and if I disappear through a wormhole or something, I want someone to know what happened so they can bring my ass back. And look, I've put on my helmet.

They would say this, because I've done a bang-up job in raising the little hellions, and they are on a bright and successful path to the future, unfettered by the peer pressure of their clueless little friends, or the influence of the media.

So not a Pollyanna here, people.

Parenthood drives us out of the magical realm. It transforms us from adventurer to protector. It shows us danger where we once saw only excitement.

Hey, we rationalize, somebody has to watch out for the little angels' best interest, somebody has to safeguard their future, because they're sure as hell not doing it for themselves. They're too busy atomizing body parts in a magic sphere because a magic toy told them it was OK.

Can grownups really not see magic? Is it just the parent thing that does it, or is it all of us? And does it come back, like when we're grandparents, once the protector role has fallen to the parents who were our children? Actually, is that why aunts and uncles and grandparents are "the cool ones", because they can leave the protecting to the fun-sucking parents, and still see the magic?

I wasn't always a grownup.

When I'm with my friends, or lost in my own book, I'm not a fun-sucker. If my kids could've known me as a kid, we'd have had a blast. We could've snuck down a manhole cover, or climbed out of an elevator between floors, or flown down the steepass hill that was Winding Way Road on a tandem bike with no hands.

It must start with that first, "Hold on tight!" when we reluctantly release the big-girl swing and let her fly out alone, unprotected. The magical realm slips farther away until, by the time she's in another city, riding the Metro alone at night, magic is barely visible at all, beyond the threatening mist that surrounds it.

I wasn't always a grownup. I hope it comes back when I'm old.

Mimzy photo credit: popmatters.com
Grownups Are Obsolete photo credit: John Tsombikos (graffiti artist, Borf)

Wipeout!

Warning: the following post may contain disturbing images of blood and/or pus, taken with a camera that is not my own. Recommended for mature audiences only.

So the other day at work, my cell phone rings.

If my cell rings while I'm at work, it's usually one of three things: 1) a child with a problem, 2) a child asking permission to go somewhere, or 3) an injured child. So, my cell rings. At work.

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Dear Son: um, Anyu? Can you, I mean, maybe not right now, but on your way home? Could you like, bring some Band-aids?

Me: Son, I just bought Band-Aids. They're in the hall closet.

Dear Son: Yeah but, I mean some really big ones.

Me: What happened?!

Dear Son: No, don't worry, I know you're at work, I'll just tell you when you get home. So can you bring the Band-Aids? Like the biggest size?

What?

Oh. My bad. I was going to worry, but now I'll just get back to that spreadsheet.

What goes through their heads? You don't call your mom at work, drop some shit like, "I need some really big Band-aids, but hey, don't worry!" and expect your mom to just be like, "OK, no biggie, now where was I on that spreadsheet?"

Please.

So when you say really big, do you mean really big as in bigger than the Extra Large Flexible Fabric Knee & Elbow Band-aids that I just bought, and are in the hall closet? Really? Bigger than the ginormous gauze pads that are in said closet, too?

Sure. I won't give that a second thought.

Turns out he had a slight accident on his bike. On his way to the football workout. Trying to jump a curb. My first question was, "Is your head ok?? Were you wearing your helmet?" (Hey, I'm a mom, what do you want?)

It is, and he was.

Tore up both knees and hands, with the right knee being a particularly nasty pus-fest. Big old raspberry with some nice deep cuts embedded with sand and dirt. Wore the hair in that spot down to a fine stubble. Coach sprayed it with some sort of antiseptic spray, and Dear Son sucks it up and benches 170. (That's my boy, right there!)

The pain kicked in later. Along with the swelling and stiffness. That night, Tough Guy asked if I could "get him a crutch."

The boy, bless his heart, tried to treat it before I got home with the really big Band-aids. To his credit, he did wash it. ("All these little bits of rocky stuff rinsed out of there. It was pretty cool," he later informed me.) He then put a gauze pad on it.

With no Neosporin.

No ointment of any kind. Yeah. Between that and the tape ripping his new Manly Leg Hair off like a cheap wax job, he was not a happy camper. Luckily, he had some nice ooze going on, so the gauze pad wasn't permanently fused to his mega-berry.

Here's the medical documentation of The Wound, as he calls it.

Post-wipeout

Mom's Doctorin' Skillz

Second night. Note the nice slick coating.

Who needs the local HMO when you've got Mom's Family Practice, with no deductible OR copay?

The above documentation was, of course, done using kids' cameras. Somehow oozing wound photography just isn't the same, without dear Camera.

A Photographic Tribute to My Camera: Around Town

Various shots from around Seattle.

Houseboats



Heart Rocks



Birds at Sunset




The 60s Live On in Fremont




Folk Life Festival



Fountain Fun



Dancers at Folk Life


Joy
(I just loved these guys)



Hell & Damnation



Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence
(Bat-n-Rouge softball game, Dykes v. Drag Queens, Pride kick-0ff)



Our Favorite Drag Queen
(The only one to run the bases in high heels! Go, girl!)



Clouds
(Photo credit: the Male Offspring)



Pike Place Market



Post Alley



Piano Practice
(Summer 05)



Sunset at the Beach

A Photographic Tribute to My Camera: Flora & Fauna

OK, pretty much self explanatory.

The first one is for Sling, inspired by his canine pic.

"Almost!"

Slug

Where's Waldo?

Rhodie Bloom

Bumblebee

Spider

Porch Hounds

Labradogs

A Photographic Tribute to My Camera - Olympic Peninsula

The Olympic Peninsula. Mist, rainforests, miles of grey ocean beaches. Solitude.

These are from different trips over the last 3 years.

Deadwood

Brave Tree
(This is actually on the Oregon coast, south of Cannon Beach. Good call, Hat!)

Above the Beach

Ruby Beach
(I think)

My (much younger) Son and Friend

Rainforest

Oyster Shells

The Eldest Daughter

The Ocean Dwarfs Her

Daughter and Seagull

Hungarian Friend's First Ocean

Sea Grass

A Photographic Tribute to My Camera: Oregon

Summer 2005. My Hungarian landlord's daughter, Viki, came to stay with us for the summer. Her first time on an airplane.

Teen Demon went to track camp in Oregon that year, so we picked her up and made a trip out of it, driving down through Oregon to Crater Lake, back up the coast on the Olympic Peninsula around back home.

This is the Oregon part of the trip, sunny, hot and perfect. The high desert skies were the the bluest I'd ever seen. Pictures don't really do it justice, but plucky dear Camera did his best to capture the essence of that summer trip.

Wildflowers at a Roadside Lake

Reaching for the Sun

Icy River Race

Viki and the Male Offspring (pre-growth spurt)

Riding the Current

Oregon Summer

Lonely Tree



Twilight Mountain View




Crater Lake

Phantom Ship

Blue

Nature's Castle
(The orange rocky formation, on the right is the Pumice Castle.
Click on it to see it -- I love this)

Wind, Mist and Moon

A Photographic Tribute to My Camera: The Big Apple

A photographic tribute in honor of dear Camera.

I'll divide this into separate posts by subject or mood or whatever the hell strikes my fancy. Some of Camera's best work, of course, has people as the subject, and given my paranoia about internet freaks and their nefarious motives, those will, sadly, remain private.

It's most appropriate to start with selected photos from the Big Apple, when Camera first came into my life. We were just getting to know each other then, and were still a bit unsure of each other.

Please join me in reflecting on Camera's life through his good works.

Ah, the shows!
(I saw Wicked. )

Beauty From Stone

Tenement Housing

Central Park

Old World and Skyscrapers

and again

Bustling Metropolis

A Tribute to My Camera

He was loyal, dependable and sleek. My constant good companion, always at the ready. He loved long walks on the beach, sunsets, dogs, and the open road. He saw the best in everyone, and deleted the worst. He could coax a smile from a surly teenager, and make sure fat pants were never, ever in the frame.

He never missed a milestone: birthdays, graduations, recitals, karaoke nights, he was there. He was there when Teen Demon launched herself over a 5'1" high jump bar. He was there when the Male Offspring tied that snotnosed kid up like a pretzel, and slammed him down on the mat in 30 seconds. He was there when the eldest played Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof.

He was there when I saw that UFO off the coast, and even though everyone else shook their heads and called me a crazyass bitch, he believed me.

He was the only one in his class with an ISO option of 50. When I wasn't sure what options to use, he quietly and automatically set things up, and never rubbed it in my face. And quick! A frame a second was nothing to him. He could catch a shot of a fineass man before you could say Who's Your Daddy?

Oh, Camera -- you met your end on a blue metal banister at the community pool, thanks to a rudeass Barbified teenbrat with right-of-way entitlement issues. It was Friday the 13th. Even in your last moment, your selfless devotion saved my hip from a nasty purple bruise. I should've stood my ground for you, Camera, I should've made her go around.

I should've bitchslapped her ass to the cold concrete floor.

I'm sorry, Camera. I will always remember your bright and shiny ways and your can-do attitude. I will miss your cheery demeanor. You live on, in my heart, and in your photographs.

And I caught you then in your moment of glory
Your last dramatic scene against a night sky stage
With a moment so clear that it's as if you're still before me
My once in a lifetime star of an age

So fare thee well my bright star
Last night the tongues of fire circled me around
And this strange season of pain will come to pass
When the healing hands of autumn cool me down

Fare Thee Well, The Indigo Girls

Click. No More.

UPDATE: Sling, owner of a fancy new camera [impatiently brushes tear away], has reminded me that Friday was, in fact, Friday the 13th. Not normally one to go in for superstitions, I am rethinking that shit now.

I'm really sad and upset today. (Warning: Downer Blog Post to follow.)

Yesterday my camera got broken.

I am just sick about it.

I loved my camera. I bought it 2 years ago, right before going to NCORE (National Conference on Race & Ethnicity) in Manhattan for work -- my once in a lifetime trip to NYC. I was so excited! I'd been wanting a camera for ages, but you know, there' was always something more important in the budget. I researched for months. (I am my father's daughter; I never make a major purchase without research overkill.)

I dickered between photographic control (as opposed to auto-everything), or compact size. With my schedule, and the fact that I do not earn a living shooting pics, I decided size was important (hello!) and tried to get the best quality tiny digital available at the time. I thought if I really enjoyed it and got into it, maybe some year a basic SLR camera, who knows.

Anyway, I learned more about cameras and specs than I ever wanted to know -- white balance, ISO settings, apertures, barrel distortion, you name it. I spent hours on dpreview.com. OK, OK, yes, there is a point here -- it's just that I put so much into choosing this camera. I don't buy things for myself all that often. Especially big ticket items. Anyway.


I chose the Canon SD500. At the time, it was the shit among ultra compacts. 7.1 megapixels. Faster than Clint Eastwood in a shootout. Sharp images. Cost me about $450, if I remember right.

Yeah.

Anyway, I loved that camera. It went everywhere with me, fit right in my purse. And my purse is small. Being an ultra compact, it didn't offer a whole lot of photographic control, but I learned everything about that camera, and could work the hell out of its features. It took fantastic pics. Two people I know actually bought this camera for themselves after seeing my pics, and asking about it. My camera rocked. I appreciated the hell out of it.

This is my camera today. (courtesy of my son's camera. -sigh-)

That is not an artistic image on the back, it is my LCD screen.

Cracked.

Broken.

It happened at the annual bellyflop/cannonball contest at our local pool. (No, I was not a participant. Nothing so exciting as that to this tale.) The eldest daughter doesn't often get her athletics on, but she and the male offspring love this contest. She took 3rd place in the adult cannonball competition this year, btw. Whoop whoop!

Anyway, I wanted to take her glasses to the car before she hit the diving board. Because they are expensive. Because I didn't want them to get stepped on, sitting there with her towel and flip-flops. Because I didn't want them to end up broken.

Now, I always, always, ALWAYS keep my camera in its little case. Always. Yesterday, though, I idiotically decided that a quick 50 meters to the car didn't warrant all of that. Fool! I put my camera in my pocket and headed for the stairs. Some blondified teenbrat came flying down the stairs at me, because of course, the world revolves around her, so why would she show a modicum of respect for her elders and let an adult pass first?

I moved to the side -- 1 step -- to let her by.

I stepped into the metal corner of the banister. It didn't hurt. It felt "soft" though.

My camera's LCD screen had taken one for the team, saving me from a nasty bruise.

I was instantly heartbroken. Damn it!!! NO! GodDAMNfuckitallSHITmonsters! Scheisse! Faszféj! Elbasztam! Shit.

It felt like when my Honda CRV got totalled. OK, smaller scale, but both were things that I'd saved for and researched. Things that I loved, that I felt proud of because I'd bought them myself. Things I took care of and appreciated. I didn't WANT a new car. I liked the one I had. I don't want a new camera. I liked this one just fine.

Like I said, I'm just sick about it. The fact that my financial situation is different than it was 2 years ago makes this even more of a goddamnfuckitallshitmonsters type of event.

Oh! And what the fuck, people, I venture into Blog Land this morning, to peek into others' worlds and forget about my camera, and what are the fucking ODDS?! Three of my cyberfriends, the first three I click on, no less, are posting about what? CAMERAS. Photos. WTF? Seriously, what the fuck? Your pics were beautiful, by the way; I'm not so fucking pissy so as not to recognize that, although I am feeling hella bitter and jealous and crybaby about it, but seriously what do you expect? I'm just tripping out because come on, what are the odds?

I'm pretty sure my camera has been reincarnated as Sling's camera. (Sling: he likes it if you give him a pat every now and again, and tell him he did a great job, especially on the sports setting.) Fuck.

Also, I have a grim task ahead of me. I plan to look at my memory card, to see the last pictures taken, especially the ones taken posthumously. Well, I wanted pics of the belly flop contest, and thought it might still actually take pics, even though I wouldn't be able to see them or get to any menu items with no display screen. I had no idea what the flash or lighting was set to. I used the "viewfinder", which I'd never used before. and am pretty sure I got the flash turned off. Anyway, we'll see if anything registered.

I bet my brave little soldier took some hellacious pictures anyway. A last hurrah. We'll see. I plan to post some of my past photos, in honor of my camera's short life.

I'm going to play a dirge and light a candle now.

I should've tripped that self-absorbed little teenage twit. I hope she drops her cell phone AND her iPod in the toilet. I hate her.

Autoflush: When Innovation Isn't Good

So what is the deal with automatic toilets?

Welcome to the world of the Thinking Blogger, y'all.

You all know we've temporarily relocated my department during the sprinkler installation, so as to avoid Asbestos Death Row 10 or 20 years from now. The new building has autoflush toilets. You know, with the little infrared beam that decides when you're sitting and when you're done.

(Side thought: why isn't infrared spelled "infra-red"?)

Call me crazy, but technological innovation did not hit a home run with this little invention. Autoflush in my building needs to be recalibrated. That shit's just not working. Either that or autoflush is fucking with me.

At first, I was cool with the new water closet digs. Check out how the seat curves up at the rear, cradling your ass like an old recliner. Nice. So nice, in fact, that I was testing it out, leaning forward and back a little, appreciating the secure feel of the seat, when

FLLUUUSH!

Autoflush had autosprayed my ass. Literally. Damn it!

Fine. Lesson learned: no leaning around, no testing out the seating arrangements. (Oh please. Like you've never done that.) As long as I keep reasonably still on the porcelain throne, things would be fine.

Wrong.

OK, I go in, grab one of those paper seat covers -- or, as my dad calls them, ass gaskets -- because this is a public toilet after all. Punch out the center and lay said ass gasket down on the seat. Unbuckle the belt, unhook the pants, pull them down, turn around to sit dow--------

FLLUUUSH!

Shit. Now I'm doing the bareassed crouch over this power flushing porcelain vessel, the ol' bladder thinks it's time to let loose the stream, and I can't sit down because the toilet has autosucked my seat cover into its watery depths.

Shit. Practice some Kegels, straighten up, awkwardly turn back around whilst keeping my knees apart so as to keep my pants up off the tiled germfest under my feet, grab another ass gasket, and repeat the process. This time, I back way up, so the autoflusher won't read me as "sitting" already.

It worked! I'm sitting, ass separated from the petri dish of a toilet seat by my properly placed prophylactic paper. Relief. Except ... oh no. This is turning out to be a Number Two occasion as well. OK, not the most convenient time and place, but whatever. Like it's never happened to you.

So, I'm done. As the Airborne Rangers say, "Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door ..." I try to leave (on the count of four), but the autoflush has not kicked in.

I wait.

Nothing.

Some autoflushers have a manual override. In other words, a good old regular flushing handle. Not these. Auto all the way, baby.

I back way up. I wave my hands in front of the reader, and wait again. Nada. The toilet sits, silently automocking my ass with its feculent cargo. I resort to duck walking toward the rear of the stall, straddling the toilet, facing the wall, so my pelvis is blocking the reader.

At this point, two women enter the bathroom, laughing and chatting. Great. There is a knock on my door. "Oh!" The woman suddenly stops chatting with her pal, quickly moving on to the next stall. Great. There is nothing to do but the backward duck walk. My new neighbor can't help but see my rear-facing shoes retreat, unless she's counting ceiling tiles. I'm sure this confirmed her initial suspicion that I am either 1) experimenting with Pissing Like the Boys, or 2) I am packing. Great.

About this time, autoflush kicks in with a vengeance.

Too little, too late, you porcelain bastard.

Praise Be to Ra

It's warm.

It's 11:35 at night, and it is warm. I am sitting on my porch with a cold beer.

I do not have knee socks on, nor am I wrapped in the big purple down blanket. I am not drinking hot tea.

I could get religion again for weather like this. Y'all just don't know. No, seriously, y'all just do not know. I have been so fucking happy the last few days.

Of course, the news stations are warning everyone about the Severe Weather Advisory! that will be in effect until 11pm tomorrow night. It may, you see, get up into the high 80s, or perhaps even (brace yourselves) the low 90s tomorrow. With no humidity and the ever-present Maritime Breeze, it will feel substantially lower than the numbers say, but no matter. This is a Severe Weather Advisory! event.

Many across the city have already commenced the wailing and gnashing of teeth .

I am not worried. I am ecstatic. I am going to pop another bottle of Black Dog Ale tomorrow night, and build that shrine to Ra.


* I have discovered something freaky. Go click on your scroll bar, and move it up and down really fast. See it? The sun's ray's are waving up and down. Optical illusion? I think not. The sun happy as hell because PNWers can finally see AND feel him? Oh yeah. Behold, the Power of Ra, bitches.

Bumper Sticker of the Day

I've been a bit lackadaisical on my bumper sticker sharing. Time to rectify that.

I took the eldest daughter, her friend, and the Labradogs to Green Lake over the weekend. I parked in front of a red Volvo which had Captain Marvel for a hood ornament. Pretty snazzy.

The rear end of the vehicle was emblazoned with political thoughts typical of this area, like this one:

You can see my reflection snapping the shot, dedicated photographer that I am.

They also had this one, aptly listing individuals (and objects) who could better serve in the capacity of Commander in Chief than our current Fearless Chimpazoid.

Not sure if you can read it, I'll translate here, until I get tired of typing:

Ghengis Khan
Slim Whitman
Vlad the Impaler
Bozo the Clown
Ed Guin
A 5-lb bag of Turnips
Al Capone
Jack the Ripper
John F. Kerry
Woody Woodpecker
Some Feta Cheese
Betty Page
Lassie
Ms. Hygenia Meatfork
The Dali Lama
Hugh Hefner
A Large Penguin
Pope Leo IX
Batman
Theda Bara
Jesus H. Christ
Nosferatu
Man-Eating Lion
Peter, Paul, and Mary
Charles Manson
Sasquatch
Marilyn Chambers
Spiro Agnew
Zbigniew Brzezinski
Captain Beefheart
Mrs. O'Leary's Cow
Cthulu
Winnie the Pooh
Colonel Sanders
Oprah Winfrey
Vinyl Siding

Well. The list includes dead guys, make believe characters, and representatives from the animal and vegetable kingdoms. Sounds about right. I mean, hell, Lassie actually could communicate better than Bush.

What's that, girl? Saddam Hussein doesn't have weapons of mass destruction?! What? You say you don't want to send troops to Iraq? The Yellow Cake documents were forgeries? What's that? You mean Valerie Plame's identity should remain top secret, we should have a national health care system, and higher education could be paid for with some form of beneficial service and mentoring programs in our communities? Good work, girl!

I'm surprised Captain Marvel wasn't on the list as well.

Screw You Simon, I Am Too a Winner!

Paula said so. She said I made this blog my own.

I have been nominated for the Thinking Blogger Award, by writer extraordinaire, Tater.

Smartassery and wisecrackery aside -- for the moment -- I feel honored. Tater is one hell of a talented writer. Not blogger -- writer. He is a writer who, fortunately for us, posts his writings on the blogosphere. I usually do not read Tater while at work, or when I only have a few minutes to check in, because his writings pull me in to another place or time more often than not, and sometimes I just have to sit with it for a while.

OK, smartassery back on the table: so, I realize it's not like I won a friggin' Academy Award here, or even American Idol, but hey, in my world, this is pretty damn cool. I was surprised, and not in an "Aw shucks, li'l ol' me?!" Melinda Doolittle way, but really surprised, because I still think of myself as the new kid 'round these here parts. I have my list of blogs I read, and many of them just floor me with their insight and way with phrase. You know, kind of an "I wanna be like Tater/Lynette/Eric when my blog grows up!" kind of deal. So hell yeah, I'm honored. Fuckin' A.

So, part of the deal, is I'm supposed to nominate other people as Thinking Bloggers. I checked out the original Thinking Blogger site, and apparently, one is not to throw this award around willy-nilly, like a pair of Britney Spears' panties. It's not to be conferred lightly , but bestowed with thought and careful consideration. (This, of course, does wonders for my own ego, as I imagine the Thought and Careful Consideration that surely went into my own esteemed nomination. On the other hand, as my dad says, "You know what Thought did ...")

OK, this is where things kind of suck ass, because, new kid that I am, I do not have a huge blogroll, some folks on my roll were already previous winners (Allan, for instance -- yeah, you beat me, I feel you gloating, don't think I don't), AND Red and Tater's nominations so would've been mine. Seriously, look at their lists. Hello! Come on, give me a bone, here guys. Given these truths, I shall also limit my nominating to 3, as Tater did.

Without further ado [drumroll]:

Evilganome -- Sexy tattooed bald gardener. I know, right? You may find photos of flowers interspersed with photos of hot inked guys. Spice of life, and all that. If you go through the archives, you won't come up for air for a good while. His writings, from past love to Grandma's house are lovely and will take you there. He's also funny as hell. When not writing about Grandma or past love.

Redneck Mother -- Homeschooling Texas mom. Check your assumptions at the door folks, you'd be wrong. Smart, sassy, and raising her offspring to be questioners. Check out her post on Universal Healthcare as a Talent Incubator.

Angry Black Bitch -- Brilliant mentor activist dogmom. If you haven't discovered her, read her. If you're put off by the name, and wondering why "golly, some folks just have a chip on their shoulder," get over it, read her, learn something. A Bitch tells it like it is, and cracks my ass up.

They're definitely Thinking Bloggers, please check them out and spread the love. Now y'all 3 lovelies nominate some Thinkers out there as well.

(Oh, and to accept your award, just drag the logo to your desk top, and add it to your site from there, just like a pic. )

Potty-Mouth. Under 17 Not Admitted.

So you all know I had to jump on this bandwagon.

I take this to mean I have a potty mouth. These were what pegged me as being relegated to Santa's bad list:

ass (22x) shit (21x) bitch (16x) fuck (7x) crap (4x) sexy (3x) gun (2x) cunt (1x)

Now, I'm not so sure about the accuracy of this site. So I've only used "fuck" 7x? In this whole blog? Does this include all forms of said word? For instance, does fuckhead count? Fuckall? For fuck's sake? And my ass-count -- does that include assclown? Asshat? What about crazyass, as in what's up with this crazyass rating?

And I don't remember using gun at all. And after my last post, I bet I've used bitch at least 327 times.

And what in Sam's flying fuck is wrong with sexy? Are you telling me sexy is worst than hell? Or damn? They doesn't count at all?

So, if I say that was one sexyass bitch, is that 1 strike, or 3?

I just want to know what I'm working with, here.

Karaoke Kevin Strikes Out

So last Friday night, to celebrate the end of Hell Week at work, some friends and I decide to go out and get our par-tay on. Hell week left me too beat to actually drive into The City, as Seattle proper is called 'round these here parts. Plus, my ass was shonuff celebrating margarita style, so we needed to party hardy locally.

This meant karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant.

I guess I should give some background on the whole Going Out deal. Before returning to the land of fast food & NASCAR, I went out all the damn time. We had community overseas, and someone was always up for fun. You could go out by yourself, and within 5 minutes, you'd hear someone else speaking English, and -bam- automatic connection. Before long, there'd be a group, and multiple languages, and you'd be making the rounds. Plus, the ex and I were still friends at that time, so we each had a free babysitter whenever one or the other of us was feeling all Saturday Night Fever. Or had a hot date.

Here, everybody speaks English. (And English only, bygod. This here's Amer'ca. ) There's no connection. You go up and start talking to someone, they think you're a freak. Or that you want a hook up. Also, my friends are scattered all over. A night out with the girls isn't quite the same when you only have one girl.

I've got one close friend here. One. I met her because her brother was my boyfriend. She stayed with us for a while after an extended trip to Europe -- her reward to herself for finishing her degree. You go, girl. Anyway, I ended up giving her brother the boot, but she stayed on for a few months. This led to a rumor that she'd stolen me away from her own brother with her nefarious bisexual ass. This rumor made it all the way to the brother, my ex in the Middle East, the brother's ex in Jersey, and the brother's friend in Texas. We thought that shit was funny as hell, seeing as how I, apparently, am "nowhere near butch enough" for her. Those subtleties, however, are lost on most straight guys. Besides, everyone knows all gay folks want to fuck anyone of their same gender, right? That's why we can't have that shit in the military. But hey, I guess they had to take their fantasies where they could get them.

Sometimes I still call her My Bitch just for old times sake.

Ooh, but I do digress.

Anyway, My Bitch and I (I promise to think of a better moniker for her later) used to go out in The City my first year or two back in the Land of Dumbfuck Leaders, aka the USofA. We had to compromise when it came to our party establishments, as My Bitch's ass is stuck in the 70's, musically. She also gets annoyed at "straight clubs", because men "don't know how to respect women,". Compromise was in order.

She is all about some 70's soul. It's great music. Love it. But it ain't the only show in town. I'm just sayin'. Anyway, my favorite place to go was Larry's, which was known around these parts as The Hip Hop Club, or The R&B Club. Which are just politically correct ways of saying The Black Club by people who "don't see color". I liked Larry's because it wasn't uptight and the music was good. (If you ignored any lyrics which happened to be misogynistic.) My Bitch maintained that it was all about men "getting all up in your ass", but when E'rbody in the Club's Gettin' Tipsy came on, her ass was the first to step out.

My Bitch, who tends toward the cynical when it comes to American race relations, told me often that Larry's was not long for this city, because "Whenever there's a black club in Seattle, they shut that shit down. Too many black folks in one place at the same time, folks here get nervous. They're going to shut that shit down."

I believe she even used the phrase "Mark my words," with an air of superiority thrown in for good measure. I blew it off. Larry's was doing the business. Seattle is all about diversity (in theory, if not in the flesh). This is a laid back town. Larry's would be fine.

Of course, they shut that shit down about a year later, which did wonders for My Bitch's air of superiority.

Anyway, in the spirit of compromise, we'd hit Larry's sometimes and we'd hit Neighbors sometimes, which was a mixed orientation club tending toward the Techno tunes. I'd had enough of Techno in Hungary to last me a lifetime, but the crowd was fun. We hit a few other places too, in search of a 70's Soul Music Night, and would go out about every couple of weeks or so.

The last year and a half, two years, I've been passing on the party more and more. This has a lot to do with the whole Seasonal Affective Psychosis I'm pretty sure I've developed here, and my ass going from phat to fat in the space of 3 years. And Larry's being shut down. There's that. Anyway, we've kind of turned into first rate Duds.

Which pretty much horrifies me.

Goodgoddamn, but I DO digress!

OK so, back to karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant: we actually had a group, thanks to two women with whom I'm starting a parents' group in our school district. (more about that in another post someday. Yeah, I feel you all holding your collective breath.) Anyway, a foursome -- a veritable crowd for me and My Bitch. The other two ladies and I had been there twice before, after our fledgling group's first meetings. We were so charming that we are already "regulars" for our favorite waitperson, a feisty Brazilian hottie; and the manager -- also a hottie, of the male persuasion -- who keeps us happy by bending the musical selections to our desires. Feisty hooks us up with the right booth, titillating conversation, and fast service, and MixMaster keeps the tunes flowing, much to My Bitch's delight.

Would that MixMaster was not quite so young. Or my ass not quite so fat. Anyway...

Karaoke was interesting. Whole lotta Country going on. But there was one chick who did a few non-country songs. We were liking her. One lady did The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Now I love me some Roberta, y'all, but don't sing that slow shit on karaoke night. At least it wasn't You Light Up My Life. That was actually on the list. About that time, our two compatriots decided to call it a night. There was one petite white girl who did The Humpty Dance. Girl did a great job. She also did Rapper's Delight. You just never know. Her boyfriend (?) did a country number. He was real twangy, now. You just never know. She told us to gear up for Ice Ice Baby, and we decided to order a shot while waiting for that great American classic.

Hey, you takes what you can get. If it's Vanilla Ice or Conway Twitty, my ass is all about some Ice.

Now My Bitch isn't much for drinking. When she does, nursing a Lemon Drop is her thing. But every great once in a while, she'll do a shot. Last Friday it was a Pink Pussy. Which turned out to be sickeningly sweet, and sat neglected on our table. Now, from I what I understand, it's not like My Bitch to neglect a Pink Pussy, or any persuasion thereof, but I guess the shot is nothing like its namesake. I went for a Blow Job.

We're still talking shots here, people.

As many of you may know, you don't just pick up a Blow Job like any old shot. That wouldn't be in the spirit of the drink. You have to go down on it. Of course you do. My Bitch was making all kinds of noise about how big and heavy the shot glass was, and how maybe she's safer on the Pink side of the fence, when I knocked it back, hands free. My Bitch was suitably impressed and was about to take notes, when Kevin suddenly appeared at our booth.

I mean, really, the shot glass hadn't been back on the table a full minute. Show some restraint, man.

First time a guy's flirted in 20 or 30 lbs -- gee, gals, I guess a good blow job really does cancel out the poundage! Yippee! Fuckers.

Kevin was drunk. That was his first mistake. Hook-up tip: if you're slurring your words, it's not attractive. Kevin also veiled his baldness with a Kangolesque hat that looks sexyhot on some people, but looked like my Grandpa's on him. That was his second mistake, trying to hide the bald with a hat.

In fact, let's stop and talk about bald, because it needs to said:

Men --especially straight men: bald is sexy. It's true. We like it. If you're upset over that receding hairline or that donut ring, shave the shit off. Sex-say. You will look younger and hotter if you just shave the shit off and call it a day. A field of lonely hairs waving over your dome is not fooling us. We can see your scalp. Patrick Stewart? Sexy. Sexier than a guy 20 years younger who thinks he's fooling me with his lonely hairs or sloppy donut ring. A combover, of course is a definite no-go. You can just stop reading if you think a combover is a viable option for thinning hair. If my man had a combover, I'd lop that shit off while he slept. Growing it long in the back and making a ponytail out of it? Well, I won't say it can't work, but if you choose this option, make sure you can carry that shit off. You'd best be one sexy motherfucker to go with the balding ponytail option. The hat? This is the male version of wearing falsies. Someday that shit is going to come to light. You're not fooling anyone, honey, and you may well piss a woman off with that little ruse. Now a hat can be hot, and I'm not saying you can't do the hat AND the bald. Just don't wear the hat specifically to hide the bald. It does not work.

OK. Moving on. So, Kevin:

"Hello Ladies ... may I interest you in some conversation?"

Blank stares.

Kevin would not be dissuaded. Now I'm sorry, but when two women hesitate, look at each other, and come back with, "Um, we're actually leaving before too long, but thanks," they're really not that into you. I won't even go into how many times he asked if he could sit down. Again, guys: if the answer is not a definitive YES, assume that means NO. I decided, fine, you want to push yourself on us, let's have some fun. I'm fucking with you, Kev, and not in a good way.

I asked, "So, Kevin, what brings you over to our table?" Knowing full well it was the now-empty shot glass with whipped cream lingering on the rim. Kevin stammered and stared and finally came back with some lameass shit about true conversation and connections. Right.

"So, ladies ... what's your story? I'm a bit of a philosopher. Why are you here? Ah you're friends. Of course. The question should be, 'Why are we friends?' (ha ha ha) Are you married? Out with the girls? May I sit down?"

We did not scoot over.

We gave fake names. I was Shania, in honor of the karaoke pouring through the speakers. Kevin didn't make the connection. My Bitch was Jasmine, which apparently is some sort of street name she'd had back in the day. I believe it was actually "Sweet Jasmine", but Kevin didn't need any encouragement.

We asked Kevin about his philosophy. His philosophy was "true connections" and "real people". Right. Like I've never heard that before. At least be original, dude. I'm surprised he didn't whip out the always-impressive I Like Walks on the Beach deal. He did, however, drop the fact that he takes care of his sick father, and that he's pretty much solvent, as he's got some sort of business selling windbreakers, which allows him to pursue his passions. Including philosophy.

I told Kevin that we'd actually met through My Bitch's brother, and she caught on and chimed in that she had stolen me away from him. Kevin was looking a bit uncertain at this point. I let him know that My Bitch tended to get pretty jealous, so ...

Kevin blinked. He responded smartly with, "She does? Tha's OK ... I'm drunk too!"

Me: "No. JEAL-OUS, not drunk. I said jealous."

Kevin blinked some more. He raised himself half way out of his chair, rubbed his face, eyes darting nervously around the room. Good, I thought. That freaked him out -- he's so out of here. I underestimated the power of testosterone. (Fool!) Kevin sat back down. "I like it!" he confessed, breathlessly. "I've got to hear about this!"

Typical. I am out of practice. When has the possibility of lesbians ever freaked a guy out enough to get rid of him? What am I, a rookie?

Kevin eyed us with new interest and respect. Whatever. Like that whole "I'm so down with lesbians" bit is any kind of original.

"Do you ladies like Faith Hill? Tim McGraw?" he asked, whipping out his cell phone.

"Um... NO," in stereo.

"Oh." he shrugged, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Then there's no point in it..."

We didn't take the bait. Kevin held out for about 10 seconds. "Oh, I just have to show you this ... I'm not trying to intrude, but when you ladies see ..." he flips open the phone and proudly reveals a picture of some chick's back on a stage with a bunch of lights. "That's Faith Hill!" He reverently confides.

"Oh. Mm-hmm." (again with the stereophonics)

At this point, Kevin gets a bit emotional. His barefaced desperation is clutching at our sleeves. "No, ladies ... I met her. Faith Hill. I was on stage with her. I gave her my windbreaker. We were all together -- everyone -- this was after 2001, after 9/11." Kevin shuts his eyes tightly and takes a moment. "9/11, ladies ... it was ... we were all there," Well shit. Now he's whipped out 9/11 on our asses. What is he, George Bush? Fuck. "To this day, she still has my windbreaker. I gave it to her."

My Bitch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Mainly, "This motherfucker is just too damn pathetic to mess with. Let's blow this pop stand." I told Kevin I needed to get home to my kids. I was tempted to tell him I had 9 kids, but this shit wasn't even entertaining. Plus, that probably wouldn't have fazed him.

Kevin was just on this side of tears. Goddamn. "But ... I'm real! I'm true! I showed this to you," waving the phone. Yeah. About that...

We were out of there. On the way out, I told Li'l Humpty that we were sorry to be missing her rendition of Ice Ice Baby after all.

She understood.

Paris Didn't Have Dubya On Her Side

Bush Spares Libby 30-Month Jail Term

WTF, people? I mean seriously -- What the Fuck?!

To quote my cyber buddy Sling, "Even Martha Stewart did her time like a soldier,". Hell, even Paris had to go back, tears and mystery illness notwithstanding.

And conservatives are happy about it! What is the matter with them? Don't they realize this makes their boy look like even more of an ass?

I have nothing else to say.