Dark Overlord (in training).

Fleetwood Mac's "You Can Go Your Own Way."

2010-05-21T06:01:00.007-04:00

Interpretation from:

http://www.fleetwoodmac.net/penguin/interpretations/g/goyourownway.htm

The ultimate break-up song. The ultimate pop song. "Go Your Own Way" has such a passionate, furious driving beat that takes you to such a climactic explosive high, only to bring you down with the realization that it's really about the heartache of ending a relationship with someone you love. This song perfectly captures these feelings of hurt and anger.

"Go Your Own Way" was written by Lindsey Buckingham during the Rumours sessions. Lindsey has said he usually does not write the lyrics to his songs first, but rather initially has the music track in place prior to adding the lyrics. Lindsey's passionate guitar playing is what brings his feelings into his songs, while the addition of the lyrics creates a delicate balance between this guitar playing and putting his feelings into words. "Go Your Own Way" is a truthful song with intense emotions of love and fury that originate from the heart.

The song reflects the feelings he had revolving around the ending of his relationship with fellow band member and romantic partner at the time, Stevie Nicks. The music and lyrics show a man plagued by anger, confusion, and disbelief. Through Lindsey's eyes, he paints quite a different picture of what breaking-up feels like than what Stevie has portrayed about the same relationship in her songs at this time (see the mysterious "Dreams" and the haunting "Silver Springs.")

"Loving you, isn't the right thing to do, how can I ever change things that I feel." Lindsey is trying to convince himself that his love for Stevie is not good for him. By doing this, he will feel comfortable with the break-up, although, in his heart, he does not entirely believe this, saying he can never change the fact that he still loves her.

"If I could, maybe I'd give you my world. How can I, when you won't take it from me." Lindsey would give anything to Stevie - his heart, his soul, in essence, his "world" - if only she would stay. But she doesn't and he acknowledges this. "Maybe" is the key word here. Lindsey is offering her his world, but not all of it. He is still saving something for himself, possibly as a way to keep control over the relationship or to keep his self-respect. Stevie wants her independence though, and for reasons best know to her, she leaves. Lindsey does not understand why Stevie does not want to be part of his world.

Stevie probably did not want to hurt or necessarily leave Lindsey, but she went her own way for reasons best known to her and that he may not have understood. The consequence of her leaving left Lindsey very hurt and confused and he lashed out at her in this song. In between the verses of anger and betrayal are ones of questioning and pain. Although the lyrics in the song are mostly acrimonious, for Lindsey, they were truthful. It is ironic that such a bitter song is really and truly a love song, shouting out final pleas for the woman he loves.

Written by lindsey buckingham.

Loving you
Isnt the right thing to do
How can I ever change things
That I feel

If I could
Maybe Id give you my world
How can i
When you wont take it from me

You can go your own way
Go your own way
You an call it
Another lonely day
You can go your own way
Go your own way

Tell me why
Everything turned around
Packing up
Shacking up is all you wanna do

If I could
Baby Id give you my world
Open up
Everythings waiting for you

You can go your own way
Go your own way
You an call it
Another lonely day
You can go your own way
Go your own way

Quote of the Week

2010-04-18T07:38:00.000-04:00

"Fuck you and your snowflake ringtone."
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Joke of the Week

2010-04-17T15:44:00.001-04:00

Lori attended a concert. She was not allowed to take pictures of the band itself, but really wanted shots of the band's members anyway.

Happy Birthday, Lori.
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Word of the Week

2010-04-15T15:59:00.000-04:00

Word of the Week: Testosteroni.

Pronoun: (1) when a guy gets far too full of masculine energy. His voice lower several octaves. He may punch something. If straight, this is the time when the man is most likely to knock his girlfriend up. If gay, this is most likely the time when the closest man to him is about to have a sore bum. Often accompanies excessive drinking as an after-effect.

Use: "That guy right there is getting really testosteroni. He looks like he's about to punch that other guy talking to his girlfriend."

Noun: (2) a proposed flavor of Rice-a-Roni, testosteroni would have (appropriately) been the new San Francisco treat.

Use: "Mom, can we have testosteroni for dinner tonight? I'm feeling frisky."
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Two guys, too hard.

2010-04-14T23:59:00.001-04:00

You know, sometimes guys try too hard. This is known as a double turn-down. Or a "no times two." I'm not sure what the eventual outcome of this is supposed to be, but I'm thinking it is intended to be one of us as the creme in a reverse Oreo filling. A big no.

But at least they bought me a shot. Which I made very clear meant nothing. Nothing at all.

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Non-Interests

2010-04-11T18:13:00.011-04:00

My interests swing wildly. For instance, at the moment, I enjoy psychology quite a bit - especially motivation, needs, and personality. A year or so ago, I had a deep interest in cultural sociology (which I still do). I like writing about disasters, and their effect on culture at large. If there's a disaster, I'm curious about it.

I also have an interest in politics, but that swings quite a bit. Right now, I'm curious about what's going to happen in November, but I'm also sick of all the argumentation as a result of the health care debate. Blech.

I like video games one minute; the next I enjoy playing cards. In the video game realm, I like playing strategy and role playing games, like Sim City or Civilization or Command and Conquer. But then I also like playing Scrabble, Risk, or poker. Actually, poker is something I always enjoy playing, because I'm not that bad at it. Considering I suck at math, it's a miracle I'm any good at poker.

I also like certain types of music, then I can't stand hearing a song or music for awhile. There was a period when you couldn't get me to turn the radio down, but then all of a sudden, I'd be tired of a mix and that would be it for awhile. Now I don't have a radio in my car, or a CD player, and I've been listening to the same stuff on my Blackberry for nearly a year (because I haven't gotten new music yet). Either I'm getting some new stuff on the BBerry and a radio soon, or I might shut the music down.

One moment I don't want to travel, and the next minute you can't keep me in one city. One minute I hate going out, and then the next I'm out every day of the week. One minute this; the next minute that. It's not that I'm ADD. I just enjoy a lot of things. Just roll with it.

There are a few things that I don't enjoy, though. Unfortunately, I can't say what most of them are, because they are so culturally popular that admitting I don't like them is unspeakable. People literally gasp and go "but how can you not like (insert popular thing here)?!?"

Here's a funny example, though, to give you an idea of what types of things these are: classical music. For the most part, I don't have an ear for it. Now, I live with a string player, went out with a couple of them, and so have hung out with many string players as a result. I've been to parties where its nothing but string players. They are awesome people, and really fun to hang with! They really know how to chill - and party. But they REALLLLLLY love classical music, and they love to talk about it at length, and they get a very blissful look on their face such as how one might get when practicing buddhist meditation. Very left brain. Orgasmic. Masturbatory, even. This is to be expected - they have a deep, abiding love for their craft. And it's fun to witness.

But when they turn to me and start talking to me about it, I can only try to bullshit my way through the conversation. I mostly listen, but eventually the question would be posed to me of "What instrument do you play?" It was always funny, because the assumption was that everyone played an instrument at a party, or because I was hanging out with a string player at the time, I must be a musician too. All I could respond with was "well, none at the moment, but I used to play the french horn!" The look on their face was kinda funny, like it didn't compute that I didn't play an instrument. Even more pathetic was that I had to reach back to my french horn experience from middle school to lessen the tension from the situation. But it was all I had, and if you could have seen the deflated look on their face, you'd understand. It was like someone had told them "You won a million dollars in the lottery.." and then the next minute said "...in Papua New Guinea dollars, so the exchange rate means you've only won 10.45$". Very sad.

Honestly, I actually don't remember a damn thing about the french horn, except it was huge and heavy (I was only 5'4" at the time), and I wasn't very good at it because I really wanted to play the piano. I thought the thing was gross, too; it would fill up with spit and I'd have to empty it - how disgusting is that? Nothing more disgusting than several day old spit. Also disheartening: I only ever made first chair once, because I barely knew how to read sheet music. And the one time that happened was because the other french horn player, Natasha, had the flu so she couldn't compete that week. You see, mostly, during practice and even concerts, I would just get a rough idea of what keys to push to keep from getting in trouble, but the truth is, when it was go time, I was just blowing in the thing as meekly as possible and hoping no one would notice I sucked. The one week when I was first chair, "Ode to Joy" sounded something like "Ode to Jesus Christ that french horn player must be tone deaf because he sounds like a bag of cats being slammed against the wall." I was never first chair again - even if Natasha was sick.

Fast forward to recent times. Unfortunately, much like in middle school, it soon became obvious to whatever string player or musician asking me about "my instrument" that I didn't know anything about the french horn. Further, when they would quiz me about my interest in classical music, I clearly knew even less. I sounded like a doofus. I knew it. They knew it. We all knew it. The wise ones just nodded their heads, and would say "Ahhhh." And that would be it (thankfully). ed

From here, though, instead of letting me off the hook, some seem to really see an opportunity to school me about classical music, and started to ask what I have heard and enjoyed. They even start to make a list of composers I should listen to, concerts I should attend, and how I should listen to the music to enjoy it better. It's very nice that they take the time; I think it's commendable they want to bring more people to enjoy their craft.

But I'm probably not the one they should target. I love to listen to them talk about the music, but I'm not sure I will ever turn into a classical lover no matter how hard they try. Other than Bernstein and a few new music compositions, traditional composition classical music just doesn't seem to hit my buttons. So I listen to them talk about their favorite pieces, and then as they push me a bit more to gauge my interest, I admit that instead of classical music, I mostly have an ear for pop and electronic music.

Big mistake. It's almost as if I shot their grandmother and then stepped on a newborn puppy. "Electronic music? That's not real music, just a bunch of noise spliced together. You just haven't heard the right music. Have you heard (insert composer here)? How about (insert composer here)? You have? How can you not like it? You don't know what you're talking about."

Nevermind that I found the dismissal of techno a bit offensive (I don't mind the dismissal of pop, as even I think that is useless at certain times). But at this point, I sometimes became very afraid, because the look on their face was similar to what I imagine a dingo would look like if it came across a newborn baby in the wildnerness: anxious and about to take a bite. As if the dismissal of their favorite thing - classical music - was not only an affront to them, but evidence of my failure as a human being in a sophisticated society. Like, when I'm alone at home, all I do is suck on push pops, play with the big Duplo Lego sets they give to toddlers and the slow kids, and sniff glue.

So I would try and switch the subject to something else, and that would often defuse what was otherwise a very uncomfortable situation. These die-hard's would slowly but surely come to realize that I was a lost cause for a classical education. After about a minute or two, their subtle contempt for me became obvious, as some would leave me sitting there and seek out another musician to chat with. I'd talk about art, or computers, or current events, or even just the weather, but it was pretty much a done deal. Without music to discuss, we both just sat there and stared at each other - kind of like a one-night-stand you just finished but immediately regret. Whether at a party, or at dinner, or at the bar, whomever I was chatting with would find the nearest musician, latch on for dear life, and slowly press the mental "ignore" button on me. I would stand there as a sudden third wheel to a conversation about recitals, conductors, or movements. Thank goodness musicians are heavy drinkers. I didn't mind the "ignore" button at this point. I'd just get another cocktail, and drink myself silly listen as they wiled away the night chatting about their musicians craft. It could actually be quite fun. Occasionally, I'd sip my rum and diet coke and go "uh huh" and "oh that sounds interesting" and then *hiccup*. Very fun.

But, occasionally, beyond the die-hards, there would be one or two who such take a special interest in me as the "uninitiated" that there would be an issue. My french horn story (complete with spit draining) wouldn't sadden them enough. Their contempt for electronic music wouldn't disgust them. As a lowly glue-sniffer they had stumbled upon, to some, an opportunity had presented itself to enlighten and bring me to a higher state of consciousness. No longer was I just someone with which they had little in common with, but I was also a nut to be cracked. I must be turned. I must become one with the Borg.

For instance, I had one get very aghast with me. I wasn't sure what he was up to, but he took me aside one evening and tried to really "get to know me." In reality, he had heard through the grapevine I didn't have much of an ear for classical music, and that it still hadn't changed in all the exposure to classical music I'd had recently. He just couldn't wrap his head around that. So he tried taking it upon himself to pique my interest about classical music in a conversation, which soon turned into a debate. I don't know if he really knew his audience though, because there came a point when he mistook my enjoyment of the conversation with an enthusiasm for classical music, and then offered to give me some "homework" to explore after he was gone.

Stop. Rewind. Review. Yes, homework. He really did intend to give me an actual education in classical music.

"Oh, I don't really need anymore homework, but thanks," I said. "I don't really like classical music that much." The look on his face at that point was a cross between someone who had sucked on a lemon and been punched in the gut all in the same time. I politely declined a few more times, even as he persisted that I should be open minded and let him teach me. The conversation continued, with such persistence that I started to become uncomfortable that he had been enlisted to force me into some kind of Nazi music re-education camp in order to better fit in with my roommates and the group I was sometimes running with at the time. (Little did I know this was partially true, but that's a story for another time).

Next, he tried to relate classical music to me and my interests. By taking a sudden interest in art and design (which I happen to have a passing interest in), and asking me to riff a bit about about that, I think he thought that he might open me up a bit through the excitement of mutual teaching. He pretended not to understand the concepts I would talk about, and ask me to elaborate and riff a bit about the principles and elements of art. But I didn't take the bait; if he didn't seem to understand a concept, I just let it go. Who am I to teach? If he wants a lesson, go take an art class. If he wants a short conversation, sure. But as he tried to link the tenets of classical music to the principles of design, and make very tenuous statements regarding the universality of art and music, is when I realized that he was just feigning interest in design so he could return the favor and school me in classical music. This was a persistent sucker.

Though I admired his persistence, no one should pretend to like something and sit through lessons on it when they aren't truly interested. That's the very root of resentment. So I asked him if he was truly interested in learning about design as much as teaching me about classical music. Of course, the initial answer was "yes, everyone should have a cosmopolitan interest in a variety of subjects," or some such answer. I think he even threw in the term "renaissance man" for good measure. That was cute. So I made him an offer.

With a straight face I proclaimed, "I'll gladly listen to your advice on music if you'd be willing to sit through a brief lecture on the significance of the Golden Mean to ancient Greek architecture and how it remains one of the underlying influences in design today; should only take about 45 minutes, and I have some books to share with you, and then we could discuss the principles and elements you seem interested in."

Boy, wouldn't ya know, he squirmed a bit. He said "45 minutes?"

"At least. That's if I don't use diagrams," I replied. "But I'm sure you'll find it just as fascinating as you do classical music."

"I don't think a person can get into art that deep. If you really understood music, you'd know what i mean. Music is different. Music is much deeper."

"If you really understood art, you'd know what I mean. But it's not your thing, just like classical music isn't mine. So no harm, no foul. Wanna play Wii instead?"

So, although I appreciated the sentiment, I finally made enough of a point to declin the cultural exchange (with homework!). But it was like I had shot him in the heart. He then trashed art; then trashed the rules and elements of design. "Arbitrary and capricious; music is much more difficult. You don't know how much work goes into putting a piece together and performing it. You shouldn't criticize something you don't understand."

"But I wasn't criticizing anything. If someone asks me what I think, I admit I don't have an ear for classical music. But people ask what I think, as an outsider, anyway," I said. Which I never understood why they asked what I thought, as an outsider. Often I would hear "well, I want to know what the common listener thinks of my music." So I would say something, offend them, and then walk away. Go figure; quit asking. LOL.

"Well, then, no matter what they ask, you should keep your opinion to yourself," was our persistent friend's retort.

So, obviously, we weren't going to be playing Wii. He was offended to the point of disliking me. There after, to him and many of the musicians, I was forever branded a non-classical loving glue-sniffing peon. Oh well. :) I wonder if this is how it feels when you're a member of a Woman's Book Club or something and you don't like "The Notebook." Blah.

The plus side of all this was that word got out that I truly meant it when I said that I didn't like classical music, so people did quit asking my opinion on things or trying to teach me. The negative side was that when I was introduced by a string-playing friend or musician, the full introduction was often "This is Bolton; he doesn't play an instrument; yeah, he's that guy." I kind of felt like I had a scarlet letter branded on my ass or something. At its worst, I actually pretended I was almost interested in taking up the french horn again. Almost.

So, as you can see, I believe some interests are culturally sacred. Classical music seems to be one of them. In addition to my experience as a friend to musicians, I've noticed other signs that classical music is a sacred cow. I've noticed that when someone admits that they are a classical lover, no one else in the room will admit they aren't even when asked. I've also noticed that, even beyond musicians, the common folk are expected to have a reverence for classical music even if we don't like it - especially if someone in the room does. I'm not sure what that's about, other than perhaps the idea that classical music represents a seemingly rarefied interest that also signifies intelligence and sophistication that we should all aspire to. That's probably very intimidating for some people, but I am probably a little too dense to know that I'm supposed to be intimidated. I'm not very good at picking up on social cues like that. Oops.

So it is this way with many things. I'm sure you can name a few things. For instance, old people. Although I don't have a problem with them, quite a few people out there don't like old people. Though you may not hear them say anything about it, they just aren't fans of the geriatric set. Or warm weather. More than a few people really aren't into warm weather, but if you heard them admit to that, they would be tarred and feathered socially by a group of people who you would otherwise think were fanatic Mayan sun worshippers. Again, I'm not one for scorching hot weather, but I'm not included in that set, either.

So, the other things I don't have an interest in, I mostly keep to myself just to make things easier. But you'd be surprised at what they are. In fact, I'd dare you to take a guess, oh faithful-but-invisible readers. I'd like to see what you think my interests are and are not. Not that you will. :) You're not really there.

In closing, for the most part, my non-interests are actually pretty rare. Introduce me to a new thing, put me in front of the materials for it, and I usually can take to it pretty fast. I like trying new things, and I actually do have a wide range of interests as a result. And if it's something that can keep my short attention span? Bonus! But regardless, I promise that if I don't like it, I won't tell you. I just won't do it anymore, as long as you promise not to make me. Let me toddle off in the corner and drink your cocktails while you guys riff for hours about whatever your shared interest is. I promise I find it fascinating, even if I'm not involved. And if I don't find it fascinating, I'll have another cocktail. *hiccup*

But, please, whatever you do, don't assign me homework on whatever that non-interest happens to be. If you want a surefire way to make me show even less interest in a topic, that probably would be it. Besides, you'd be surprised how quickly I can whip up a lecture on the Greek Golden Mean - and you don't want to sit through that. Trust me.

-J

p.s. After reading the post, I realized that some of you might wonder "why" I would continue to hang out with string players and other types of musicians. They are actually quite awesome people to party with as I mentioned before; a real hoot. Big drinkers - like beer bongs and jello shot types. But, just to be clear, I happened to go out with a string player for a bit, and this is why I made the initial attempt. After that, I became friends with many, and there we were. Still, since they know how to party, I think they are awesome.

Strive On; Take Risks; Keep Trying.

2010-04-03T00:31:00.001-04:00

"The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Good night.

Peanut Butter Eggs n' such

2010-04-01T23:46:00.000-04:00

Well, Easter is upon us. That means baby Jesus - who died for our sins so we could have awesome gifts like a new MacBook air or argyle socks - has risen...so we can hunt for colored eggs and overindulge in rabbit shaped chocolates. I've never understood the link between bunnies, the resurrected Jesus, and Easter. I think it has something to do with rebirth, and the fact that rabbit ovaries (?) were long used to detect pregnancy in women. But how they would know that in biblical times, I'll never know. But if they knew how to build a pyramid and manage a complex caste/slave system to build it, I can't really put this one past them.

One thing is certain though - when Jesus is risen again, we can be thankful for one of his greatest blessings: Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs.

You may not have known this about me (probably because no one is actually reading this), but I'm something of a PB eggs connoisseur. It's one of my quirks, along with a fanatic love of NFL football and playoff baseball, and the ability to recite the french alphabet from memory - though without remembering anything else from their language. Kind of odd, somewhat useless, but interesting conversation topics nonetheless.

About the PB Eggs, though, there is a philosophy to be learned. About 48 weeks out of the year, if you want peanut butter and chocolate goodness, you're stuck with the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Now, these are delicious, but not quite as good as the eggs. I'm not sure, but I feel like the peanut butter has more of a sand-like texture to it, and the chocolate isn't as soft and smooth. Plus, the shape of it is problematic: the cog like shape of the cup sometimes causes the cup to get caught in the roof of one's mouth. In general, the Cup is a fine substitute - like Skyy vodka when you really want Ketel One, or Internet porn previews when you're really in the mood for the whole movie.

The connoisseur knows the difference between the cup and the egg, however. He knows that the egg peanut butter has a creamier texture and richer taste. He also knows that the chocolate is more apt to melt on the tongue, first giving you a chocolate burst on the palate, and then a peanut butter flavor when the chocolate dissipates from under it. Further, he knows he can place the whole egg in his mouth because it molds well to the concave shape of the roof, and then smoosh it for one big burst of PB and C fun - or take small bites to savor it.

But there is the learned behavior of the egg, too. The connoisseur knows when the Peanut Butter Egg time of year is approaching. Not because of Jesus or anything, but because he notices egg package sized spaces being cleared at the supermarket. About that time of year, the mouth waters - and you start to twitch a bit. You even get tempted to buy a PB Cup - but you know the Egg is coming soon, so you wait.

Then there is the exotic egg types to enjoy. For instance, just the other day, I found out there was such a thing as a white chocolate egg. I know! Me, a PB Egg lover since I was a kid, didn't know that. I just thought it was a different package color. I tried one tonight, just to see what it was like. I'm not a fan of the white chocolate - but I have to admit, it was good!

Then there are the different sizes. There are the jumbo's - which I have always been a fan of. One downing of those suckers, and your PB pleasure centers could just blow out, with you left drooling in your own juices holding yourself up against a wall. Nevermind the two packs and the six packs. Enjoy at your own peril!

Finally, there is the rare but delicious dark chocolate egg. I have only had these a couple times. I found one (shockingly) at Halloween, and then another a few Easter's ago back in Michigan. I cannot find one in my neighborhood now. They have either sold out of them completely, or (worse) they don't make them anymore. Needless to say, along with praying for the yearly resurrection of Jeebus, I'm making requests of heaven that that not be the case.

So, I hope I've inspired you to go out and enjoy a PB Egg today. Buy one for yourself - buy one for a friend. Spread the joy. Explore the wonder that is the Peanut Butter Egg phenomenon. If you have questions, you readers (who don't exist) know how to reach me. I'm always happy to help with PB Egg questions - and info on the NFL draft, if you have those by chance.

So, on this Easter season, as Jesus rises, some of us will eat our ham dinners and rejoice. As you sink your teeth into a PB egg, be thankful we live in a world where such awesomeness is possible. Draw your friends and family a little closer around that Egg, and embrace.

Oh, and be thankful you're not eating marshmallow peeps, because those things are disgusting. Its like eating a small sugary mattress, covered in coarse sprinkles. I'd rather eat a dirt covered hairball. Blech.

Happy Easter.

- J
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On cooking

2010-03-30T20:59:00.009-04:00

Of the four things I wanted to write about this evening, I felt that the subject of cooking was probably the least likely to offend anyone or require too much effort. The four original subjects were "family," "music," and "nighttime." I think "nighttime" might be my next entry; it seems to be the next subject least likely to frustrate me.

Tonight, I'm cooking. Well, at least, my version of cooking. I'm opening up a bag of shrimp linguine from Giant Eagle and "assembling" it for the microwave and, eventually, my tummy. This isn't really cooking, of course - but maybe this is what cooking can be considered in the new millenium.

It's a far cry from Back to the Future II, when Marty McFly's family simply took a tiny little dehydrated pizza and put it in a Black and Decker food hydrator and had a full large pizza in less than 5 seconds. WITH half the pizza cheese and the other half pepperoni, thank you very much. Where is that future, I ask you? Where is a future where I don't have to assemble food - I can just add a water molecule and get some mushroom and onion pizza? What kind of world do we live in?

So my exclamation for such a future lies in the fact that I don't really know how to cook. This is something my family never really taught me. I remember asking my mother once if we had any family recipes, and she said "no." I pushed her on the subject, and she said "swiss steak" or some such thing. The funny thing is that my mom knows how to cook all kinds of things (she doesn't do it all the time). She says she learned it from Home Economics when she was a kid. I remember Home Ec (everyone was required to take it at my junior high - even the boys. I hated Home Ec). I remember sewing a pillow with the letter "J," was taught how to bake a cake out of a box, and was stabbed first with a long needle and then with a pencil by the crazy girl who sat at my table who didn't like the way my "J" pillow looked (still have the scar from that nutjob.) That was it. All skills that, of course, I don't use today. No one taught us how to prepare a full ham dinner with desserts and gravies and sides in that class - but she knows all the steps to making such a meal. My Home Ec experience and hers could not have been more different. So I feel Home Ec is not where she learned all this. I feel she is withholding.

Plus, I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother used to make all kinds of good stuff at the holidays. Granted, again, none of it was necessarily made from "scratch" but it was pretty close. Tasty, too. Like Ambrosia, for instance. I don't know what Ambrosia is - and I don't like it. I kind of feel like its the same stuff they use to smother fires out with. But she knew how to make that stuff, and people ate it and liked it. Where did she learn this? I also remember one of my aunt's making popcorn balls. I remember asking how they made them, and was told "Ask your mom; she's made them before." Honestly, I don't ever recall her making them. Maybe she hates them - but apparently she knows how to do it.

My family was really big on fast-food and packaged stuff, and didn't pay too much attention to nutrition. I'm more conscientious about those things (to a degree). So I've mostly been on my own in the cooking realm, figuring things out, since I was about 10 or 11. I've managed okay, but...lol...it's been hit-or-miss.

Hit: I learned how to make really good and healthy flatbread pizza.

Miss: Likely gave myself food poisoning thawing and then rethawing a chicken. Didn't know that was possible. Still am not completely sure that it was the chicken - although the nauseating effect of the leftovers lead me to believe it was.

Hit: I learned how to make turkey meatloaf. It's pretty good. (I love meatloaf for some reason - my mom makes a good one, but she says she doesn't have a recipe she follows.) I put it together with some vegetables and a baked potato, and it's a pretty tasty meal that is packed with protein but still light.

Miss: The first time I made turkey meatloaf, it was too runny and overflowed and set our oven on fire. I had to call the fire department. Picture it: 13 or 14 year old me, surrounded by 5 or 6 firemen, all of them laughing at my sad ass pan of blackened meatloaf. I wouldn't have called them, but there were a few flashes of fire and I thought it was the safe thing to do. Note to me: check fire extinguisher.

Hit: I make amazing omelettes - you name the filling, I can make you an out of this world omelette. I don't know where I picked up this little skill, as it doesn't come from my family. I recall making one when I was, like, 16 or 17 and thinking I happened to be good at it. Then I started to fiddle with it more just out of fun. In all honesty, I think the motivation came from deciding that I wanted some kind of "breakfast" skill to serve guests who happened to stay over. Seemed like a nice thing to do. But before you start branding me a player, I haven't trotted that skill out an awful lot. Very few have gotten an omelette. lol.

Miss: I set my hair on fire cooking pancakes once. No, really. I was like 10 or 11, or something like that. I'm not sure it was so much my cooking skills, as much as a faulty pilot, but never put your face too close to a gas burner when checking the flame. The crappy thing is that I like pancakes, but I don't make them anymore because of this. In general, I don't eat breakfast food (other than cereal), but my favorite one is pancakes. I'll order them when I happen to end up at an Eat N' Park or Denny's. But just a short stack - because I can't help but laugh and shudder at the thought of a patch of my bangs going missing just to make some. After the short stack, I'm usually set on pancakes (and memories) for awhile.

Hit: I make amazing oatmeal walnut chocolate chip cookies. You can really only eat just one (maybe two) of them, but one is all you need 'cuz they are pretty awesome.

Miss: So, I like chocolate. The darker the better. I dig a chocolate chunk cookie, a dark chocolate brownie, or a small piece of dense chocolate cheesecake - every once in awhile. But I guess my favorite is a piece of thick, dense chocolate cake. I guess that would be a called a torte? I'm not sure. Anyway, I think I was 15 or 16, and it was my birthday so I thought I would make a cake and see how it turned out. I thought it would be cool to try making it from scratch, instead of the fluffy kind of cake from the Betty Crocker box. I don't know exactly what went wrong, but I think I made the mistake of using Baking Soda instead of Baking Powder. Needless to say, the cake was not a success. Kind of like licking a chocolaty shag rug or something, as I recall. Gross.

So, that's a brief history of my cooking experiences. Before you think I am some kind of spaz, I'd like you to note that most of these experiences were when I was pretty young, and you have to give me credit for keeping at it. I guess I wasn't really one to be discouraged by a little fire and smoke. And I can say that I've gotten better the last few years, and most of what I make turns out pretty good actually. I haven't made myself sick in a very long time, and I've never made anyone else sick. I haven't set anything on fire in a long time. Of course, I still would like a few solid recipes to whip out if I needed to, other than my omelette. ;) But you gotta pick your battles, I guess. Maybe someday I'll learn. lol.

So cooking probably isn't my thing for now, but I'm much better at other things. And if I'm good at those things, I can always use the proceeds or time created as a byproduct to just buy meals and desserts, which can always be just as impressive (and tasty) for myself or others. But, in the meantime, other than allowing someone more experienced, knowledgable, and less accident prone to handle the cooking (i.e., a chef at a restaurant), perhaps the Giant Eagle bag of linguine is the safest thing for me.

Okay, post done. Doesn't make sense. But it's something. Later.

- J

Okay

2010-03-30T03:35:00.014-04:00

First post back:

In a fight between Pluto and Goofy, who do you think would win? And, also, what the fuck is Goofy? Is he a dog? A bear? A cow? And what's up with the suspenders and wading pants?

This is my first post back. Enjoy.

- J

This is what happens...

2010-03-07T12:37:00.000-05:00

when you hire strippers to name your products for you.
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SUGAR: Another Review Withheld

2010-03-05T02:26:00.003-05:00

Okay, so I can't review SUGAR now either. I honestly went to the party with a very open mind, hoping for the best. You see, it's Spring Break weekend for me - and I made the SUGAR opening the "opening salvo" of what is sure to be a messy and fun week and a half. And, because so many people who I like and care for are involved in it (like HEAT), I'm forced to reserve judgment. I think it's going to take a little more time to get things going at SUGAR.

So, without going into details, let's say that - for now - I'm still searching for that place where all us homo's can go to play and have a good time. As of right now, it is most definitely a competition, and there is room for just about any of these dance nights and venues to sweep in and pick up an entire demographic of gay clubgoer's. It's also possible for a new venue/night to swoop in and knock all of them out, and pick up the crowds. Summer is coming folks. Things are going to warm up, and if some of these clubs don't get their act together, they are going to be missing out on huge gay dollars. I mean, we drink, we don't have kids to pay for daycare for, and we love spending money. HELLO! KNOCK KNOCK!? That's OPPORTUNITY you're hearing - would you PLEASE ANSWER ALREADY!? We have a bag of money we'd like to give you, and we just want to dance and make out with your pool boy!!

Okay, so I'm going to peace out and leave the state of Pennsylvania. The next time you hear from this blog, it may be my travelogue of Ohio Turnpike Rest Area's again, or possibly some of the clubs up in Detroit (home of house music!). I might actually venture out to the Nectarine, and relive a few of my glory days.

To those involved in SUGAR tonight - I want to leave you with this: I loved the music, and I mean - I absolutely loved it. I also loved the WHIM space. So those are some positives. Next week, after I get back from Michigan, and it's time to bring the party back to Pittsburgh, I'll visit both of the new clubs and see if things improve. :) I'll report back then.

Later!

Intrigue!

2010-03-05T01:11:00.001-05:00

Ahhh - we have a Ryan Skyy sighting folks! Tsk tsk. Could there be a little competition brewing?
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Dance floor at 25%

2010-03-05T00:29:00.001-05:00

Well, couple more bumps - but the music is great!
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Ok, were here...

2010-03-05T00:18:00.001-05:00

We've had a bump already. Let's see how the rest of the thing looks.
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Tonight: Blogging Live from SUGAR

2010-03-04T08:53:00.001-05:00

If you're not going to be at the opening of SUGAR tonight, you can still be part of the fun. I'll be blogging live from the opening, so you can follow along. Tune in to my blog at 11:00pm for coverage, oh yea few and non-existent readers. :)

See ya then!

J
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Candidate for Yuppy Douchebag of the Year.

2010-03-02T17:26:00.000-05:00

So, apparently this guy isn't even trying to hide his contempt for hydrant laws with his giant boxy penis-mobile. 'Nuff said.
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Word of the Day

2010-03-01T15:09:00.001-05:00

"Habitudes." It's not a word that I know of, but by golly, I read it today. Anyone have any ideas what it could mean?
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Winter Olympics 2010: Fare Thee Well

2010-02-28T22:21:00.002-05:00

I have to say folks: I really enjoyed the Winter Olympics this year. The ski jumping was fun. I loved the figure skating. Kim Yu-Na was amazing! I don't know a darn thing about figure skating (and I'm gay, mind you) and even I could tell that it was a once in a lifetime performance.

I missed hockey which, frankly, was a shame. I like hockey. BUT I tackled cleaning my living room tonight, so I missed it. Darn.

The Winter Olympics this year was a comforting thing to watch as I went to bed; there were so many great events. I could study, and just put it on in the background for some rare, high-quality late night television. I can't wait for the Summer Olympics, because I have a lot of memories from childhood of warm, sticky evenings spent watching swimming or some such event with my dad or mom. The windows would be open, and we'd let the breeze fly through to cool us. And we'd lazily watch.

So, here the Winter Olympics are ending. And Canada, unlike China (at the last summer games), are going for the fun and comedy factor to close it out. And that's good, because I was sad with the quiet, somber "Olympic lights" show they did. Instead, they have a Broadway-type show going on, complete with inflatable beavers, William Shatner, Catherine O'Hara, and Michael Buble. Yes, folks, that's our Canada. God love 'em.

What would the world be like without Canada? It would be a boring, quiet, not-so-funny planet. Being a Michigander, I can say that more than a little of Canada's culture rubs off on us, and vice versa - and I appreciate how it has enriched me so. And so, ladies and gentlemen, let's give it up:

The 2010 Winter Olympics, hosted by Vancouver and the great nation of Canada. "The Maple Leaf forever!" Congratulations, and great job!

(Now, it's time for a Labatt, eh?!)

The Health Care Summit

2010-02-25T12:30:00.003-05:00

So, I skipped Pilates today (SHOCK! I love Pilates) to stick around at home and watch the health care summit (and recover from an evening of revelry at 5801). In my effort to sober up this morning, and after turning on my computer to see what was going on with the outside world, I realized that the summit had already started - which bothered me because I really wanted to watch it today.

Tuning in a little late, I see that we're in the middle of the meat of the debate. I watched for awhile as the politico's took time talking about state's rights/federal power.

It's not supposed to be about scoring political points, but everything is really about that in life. I watched John McCain attempt to scorn the president (like some kind of granddad yelling at a neighborkid for peeing on his lawn) over bipartisanship and a lack of televised coverage on C-Span sooner. While the coverage cameras are on him. Doofus. So the president was almost forced to take his score on McCain saying "I won the election, if you want to fight that battle again, you're allowed, but exactly HOW do you want to work this bill out is what we're talking about right now." McCain says "Mr. President, I'm reminded I lost that election everyday."

Wow, McCain, really? You mean you think about the fact that you sucked as a candidate and now all you and your party do is play spoiler because you're envious and pissed off? No. You don't say.

You know, sometimes, I think John McCain really wasn't anything but a career politician who made NOT being a career politician and a "straight-talker" his mantra. The problem? Instead of throwing partisan bombs, he throws "bi-partisan" bombs that are used in a partisan Republican cause. Yeah, that's straight-talk.

And now Eric Cantor is on, from Ohio. There is something about this guy that is just weasily. I'm not sure what. Maybe it's the fact that he has gay hair. It's got a really high ridge on the front, and you could always surf on it. Definitely gay hair. Yeah.

That and the gay purple tie, and his little "political aide" (i.e., bottom slave) who has a matching tie, the same hair, and the same glasses, right behind him. Uber gay.

I'm Just Sayin': Carl Frederickson and Joe Paterno

2010-02-25T12:23:00.002-05:00

So, I was looking at a picture of Joe Paterno today, as I sometimes do. lol. Don't ask why. I just think he's a funny looking guy. He reminds me of someone's granddad who walks around the house, paper in hand, in his t-shirt, asking his wife Essy "did the kids call? They never call."

It struck me that he looks an awful lot like the guy from "Up," the movie from Disney Pixar - Carl Frederickson. If you guys haven't seen up, you're really missing out. That's a great movie.

Now, I'm not the first person to think this, so I'm just going to post the other person's side by side picture. You'll see the link in the picture if you want to read his post. But here we go for my faithful but non-existent readers, I'll repost it.

Candidate for Gayest Moment Ever: My friend Carl...

2010-02-24T22:03:00.001-05:00

was sewing at the gay bar tonight.
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From Pegasus to SUGAR: An Evolution of Gay Dance in Pittsburgh?

2010-02-20T20:51:00.006-05:00

So, the gay nightlife in Pittsburgh is heating up just as the snow is melting. And thank god for both! I'm sick of digging my car out of the random icebergs that seem to form around it. I'm sick of using a garbage can to claim the parking spaces I dig out. Or how about the bitch session I got into with my 72-year-old neighbor who watched me dig out a parking space and then tried to move my garbage can and sneak her car in? Someone really got an earful that night!

(Okay, so it was me who got the earful, but I swear, I've never seen an old woman threaten to kick my ass before!)

I'm really still fuming over the fact that out of the two gray Ford Contours on my street, I dug out and nearly unburied the wrong one before realizing it wasn't mine. Ah, Pittsburgh winters - aren't they the best? It's almost enough to make a person long for a winter in a state that knows how to handle massive snowfalls and deadly ice, such as Michigan.

Clearly, since I'm longing for Michigan, I must be losing my mind. This may be due to the fact that I have been mostly snowed in and, like most Pittsburghers, have horrible cabin fever. Even now, with the snow melting a bit, I must leave sparingly because I may lose my parking spot. Of course, I could probably just steal another person's space, but now it's just the principle of the thing. I know that old lady is plotting to snatch my space. She glares at me when I walk to my car sometimes and, if you're quiet enough, you can hear faint yells of "bitch ass punk" carried on the cold breeze from her darkened porch.

Okay, so the cabin fever is clearly out of hand. I'm plotting against "Ethel" next door, and that can't end well for either of us. This clearly cannot continue. Soon, the ice must melt, and it will be time to party!

But where? That's my next predicament.

Pittsburgh has long been tagged as a "bar town" - the city of "a shot and a beer." In terms of the gay scene, it is no different. Across the wild homorific landscape here, you find a ton of great gay bars. Of course, I have my favorite gay bars here, which are mostly dependent on the day of the week and the crowd of people who come out. And, like all good homos, I do have one gay bar that I love more than any other. At all of these places, I have a great time. I see friends out, and drink some beers, and chat the night away. But the bar is always more about seeing people and being seen - interaction for the purpose of romantic sorting and gay social stratification. I like to call your standard gay bar an "S&M" bar - meaning "Stand and Model." In Pittsburgh, there are a ton of great places to do the "S&M" thing, and they are all really fun.

But, among all the gay establishments, one now notes the absence of an iconic gay dance venue. A place that is truly the "IT" place to be for dancing. There is clearly one (with a strong contender for second place) among the bars, but this not not the case for the dance scene. As a result, I've felt strongly that the market is demanding a breakthrough and iconic gay dance venue or event in here Pittsburgh.

I mean, don't get me wrong: I love being seen, and I especially love seeing some of you sexy beasts. But dancing is at the heart of what it means to be a gay man. Dancing, like fashion and humor, are expressions of our outrageous personalities, our need to rebel against convention, and our need to release from societal pressure with a healthy dose of clean (or dirty) fun.

Gay people were dancing at the Stonewall when it was raided. They were dancing when the party ended at Studio 54. They were there there during the Club Kid days at NYC when James St. James and Michael Alig were big (Party Monster, anyone?), and throughout the circuit movement created by Jeffrey Sanker which lasts well into today. And, frankly, I've always felt that until you rocked it out at "Splash" in New York City, "Gypsy" in Las Vegas, the old "Factory" in LA, or "Berlin" in Chicago, and then picked yourself up off the floor to go to an afterhours, you couldn't really call yourself an authentic gay man.

Even back home in Michigan (which, by the way, knows how to clear snow and ice so an iceberg doesn't form around Mr. Jason's car), dance clubs were the big thing as opposed to bars. You could find them in Grand Rapids, to Lansing, and all the way to Detroit (the birthplace of house music). Even in my tiny little hometown of Podunk, Michigan, we had a gay dance club. I mean, you could still drink at them, but nearly everyone was there to dance. Amazing but true!

My favorite dance venue was all the way across the state, though: it was called "The Nectarine." Nectarine had a variety of dance nights catering to different populations of people. These included an "Asian Invasion" night (no joke), an Alternative and Punk night, a college night, and so forth. But it's BIGGEST nights were two gay nights it hosted on Tuesdays and Saturdays. It featured the hottest remixes of pop and house dance tracks from DJ Roger and downstairs there was even a tiny little funk and house dance floor, which I was a regular fixture in. The club wasn't much to look at, but as an occasional visitor to Roger's booth high above the dance floor, one could see that it was always packed and people were always having a great time. So, from tender age of 18, most of Mr. Jason's formative years were spent between the upstairs and downstairs of The Nectarine until 2:00 AM, followed by someone hosting a shady afterhours party in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti or Detroit, and (starting at age 21) recovering the next day until noon.

But going back even further, the very first gay dance club I ever went to was (surprise, surprise) "Pegasus!" Once upon a time, I visited a friend in Pittsburgh at an even younger age, and managed to get myself snuck into the dance venue. Of course, I was nowhere near legal and the person who got me in could have ended up in real trouble if I was caught. So I was given strict instructions to stay behind the fence, where the young underagers were allowed to dance and roam free, as we were gazed upon by the over 21 crowd like some kind of wild animals. And wild we were. I saw sweaty gay men dance in tune to the rhythm of heavy pop beats, with smiles on their faces, exerting their bodies alternating between frenzies and slow movements. Some danced with other gay men, holding and touching; others, like me, danced alone. Though that night inside the dance cage was clearly forgettable for everyone else, it was the first time I danced at a gay club - and I fell in love.

So, fast forward to today. It just so happens that lil' old small-town (yeah, right) me is back in Pittsburgh! But Pegasus has recently left us, and a giant hole has opened in the heart of gaydom where that venerable dance club used to be. Yeah, Pegasus was many considered by many to be a shitbox (undeservingly, I might add), but it was our (my) shitbox. There certainly was room for improvement even while Pegasus was open and, frankly, even then there was room for a competitor to open something truly spectacular and pick the old girl off. But that never happened, and Pegasus was the closest thing to an "IT" dance place there was.

And since it closed, gay dance in Pittsburgh just hasn't been the same without it. Promoters and club owners have made a very valiant and honest attempt to fill the void with something even better than before. Words such as "Las Vegas-style" dance venue have been batted around; elite status; bottle service; hot dance; go-go! Like so much porn, we read these words and hope for the gay dance money shot - but nothing has quite "popped the proverbial cork" YET. I stress the word yet, because many of these efforts are still underway and there are a lot of hopeful prospects.

But I recently had heard that something big was opening up in Pittsburgh in terms of a gay dance venue. Supposedly, the new event is called "SUGAR," but beyond finding out the name of the event, I didn't explore too much. I think I was buzzed when I heard about it. But I also remember thinking that it couldn't be too serious, simply because of the timing. "Heat" and "Blowpop" really were on an all out blitz with advertising and promotion, and seemed to be eating up a lot of the attention. It almost felt as if someone would be crazy to try to do another gay dance night in such a competitive climate. In my rum and diet-coke induced avarice, I think I dismissed it as a rumor.

Anyway, at some point over the next few days, I must have sobered up enough to remember SUGAR when I saw a link to it on someone's Facebook. I clicked over, then found a website, but again half figured it would be another "unpopped cork". The site promised all the same things we've heard recently from the other attempts at gay dance in Pittsburgh: elite, gay, dance, hot, VIP, and so forth. But I have to admit, it didn't look half-bad! I especially enjoyed the club mixed rendition of "Sugar" by the classic Motown group "The Archies". It was a happy-house mix, clearly inspired by pop - and as we all know, I'm a whore for anything (or anyone) invoking pop. So my interest was piqued, if only for the catchy tune up front, but I remained skeptical and unconvinced it would be worthy of further attention.

Then my friend Michael (quite possibly the new Don Giovanni of Pittsburgh's gay club scene) started promoting SUGAR on Facebook. Mike is an interesting fella, if you ever get the chance to know him. He actually has over 1000 friends on Facebook, and I believe he actually might be real friends with all of them - as opposed to me, who has people on his Facebook who I'm not sure I even know or have met (see my earlier posts about this). It's not that I'm anti-social or anything. I just think Mike has a longer attention span to manage all those people than I have.

But in the relatively short time I've interacted with him, while he's always been a thoroughly outgoing and friendly person, he's also never been one to pull punches about what he thought. Hell, he's even called me a bitch to my face a couple times. And he's right - I kind of am! But he always said it in the friendliest way possible, which was kind of him. So all that coupled with the fact that Mike, in some ways, reminds me of the experienced (read: old) "Club Kid Jason" propelled me to investigate a little further. With my interest level now somewhere between piqued and intellectually curious, I shot over an email to the SUGAR Website to see if they would be willing to answer a few questions.

Now, before everyone thinks I did this as a public service to all of you (non-existent) readers, I want to be clear: I did this out of my own purely self serving interest. As you all know, I'm clearly in love with myself (and only myself). I explore and write about things because I want to, and I happen to take (drag) all of you along with me on my merry (hellbent) way. In this case, I explore because I'm cheap and stingy with my time. With all the new venues and gay dance nights debuting recently and in the near future, I thought maybe it was worth finding out a little more before I just start planning my party nights and dropping my almighty and fabulous gay dollar on them. So, it's really a matter of saving me time and money; you just happen to save time and money as a byproduct.

And if I want to save even more of my (our) time and money, it's better to just get our (my) questions answered directly. It's one thing to speak to the public through a press release and ads in a gay rag, but a completely different beast to answer questions directly from the homo's mouth. After all, us gay men naturally know when we are being bullshitted - just ask any homo who's ever caught his boyfriend in bed with the neighbor guy and heard "I fell on the ice outside and he was just cracking my back" when put on the spot. I can personally vouch that bullshit never works. I've tried it.

Anyway, I digress. I honestly didn't expect a reply back but, by golly, what do you know? THEY REPLIED! Not only were they happy to answer questions, but they took the time to write out thoughtful responses. And since I always appreciate thoughtfulness, I've decided to reward them by pretty much just cutting and pasting their responses directly to another post within my blog.

As I close this prelude out, I feel I must say this: I know I'm not the only one who remembers the fun times spent dancing the night away, whether it be at Pegasus or some of the other venues we've all been to over time or in other places. I think there is something cathartic about letting it all out on a dance floor, or even just standing there lightly bobbing while you connect to a song you really love, and I think many of us miss that. I know Pegasus is still open and only moved, and there is still the afterhours place, and there's the new place that opened - and each of them do their own little niche really well. But none of these environments (so far) have felt quite "right," like they aren't the total package (yet).

At this moment, I think many of us feel there is no place for us to get wild, go crazy, and work off all the energy, care, and frustrations we experience in our own special, fabulous, (and somewhat edgy) ways. I also think that many of us feel like there is no grand dance venue or big dance night where we can go and connect with other gay men in a completely comfortable and welcoming atmosphere; where we can hold hands, touch, and kiss while we dance. And, of course, I always feel there is NEVER ENOUGH DANCE, HOUSE, AND POP! Bring on the Gaga, and let the chips fall where they may!

So, whether it's "SUGAR" or someone else, this is the word on the subject as far as I'm concerned:

I don't care WHO does it.

I don't care HOW it gets done.

But will someone, for God's sake, please make a big happy place for us homos to play already?

We're getting frustrated out here! Like all dogs who have been cooped up in the house for too long, all we want is a trip to the playground and a little pat on the tail. But if you don't let us out soon, the consequence is clear: we're going to start dragging our butts across the floor, chewing up your socks and underwear, and humping anything that moves.

*Ahem*. Well, okay - some of us are already doing these things, but I think you get my point.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I see a certain 72-year-old woman edging towards my garbage can. I think she's been making plans to hide the sucker from me. I already found a dent in it, probably from that giant beastmobile she calls a Cadillac. Clearly, Ethel and I are going to have to have some words now.

And if anyone wants to reach me, I'll be at Shadyside Hospital ER within the hour.

The "SUGAR" Q&A. Enjoy!

The SUGAR Q&A: Sugar Sweet? We'll Find Out Soon Enough!

2010-02-20T17:52:00.011-05:00

Here's the Q&A with the persons behind SUGAR. Enjoy!

JASON: So, is SUGAR a party night at a straight club, or a gay club? And just who owns the club? And what is their relationship to the gay community?

SUGAR: SUGAR takes place Thursday evenings at WHIM at Station Square, which is not a gay club in a traditional sense. The owner has held several events with the boys of G2H2 to rave reviews from those who have attended. The purpose of SUGAR is to open a world class nightclub and give the gay community a place to dance the night away.

JASON: Who are the promoters of SUGAR? Who’s idea was it, and how long has it been in the works?

SUGAR: The people promoting are Ron DeMino of G2H2, and Ken Huntly of AK Productions. The idea came about through various discussions between various parties of finding a way to give the gay community in Pittsburgh a top notch facility to dance and party that we felt had been missing for some time. SUGAR has been in discussion for several months.

JASON: What is the experience of the promoters in doing this type of event?

SUGAR: Both Ron and Ken have extensive experience in club, event and party planning which has been invaluable in putting SUGAR together.

JASON: Are there any LGBT persons on staff?

SUGAR: There will be several LGBT persons on staff during SUGAR in addition to Ron and Ken being present, who are both members of the community.

JASON: What will be the theme of the evening? What are the club influences?

SUGAR: There is no set theme for SUGAR and we hope the influences continue to evolve over time with whats happening globally both in terms of music and gay events. For the first time, we hope to truly bring a big city club experience to Pittsburgh. That's not just limited to those of NYC and LA, but the hottest international clubs and musical experiences as well.

JASON: What style of music will be playing and who will be the featured DJ's?

SUGAR: Again, we hope to bring not only the hottest club songs currently being heard, but those from renowned DJ's around the world. Our goal is give the gay community a musical and club experience never seen or heard before in a gay Pittsburgh venue.

JASON: Who should attend a night at SUGAR?

SUGAR: We want anyone who loves big city clubs, the hottest dance tracks, and a world class club that welcomes all gay and gay-friendly people! That can be anyone from 18 to 80. The only requirement is the desire to socialize, dance, and have an open mind.

JASON: Speaking of age, if you’re allowing 18 and up, how are you handling the alcohol situation?

SUGAR: We will mark or provide a drinking bracelet to our over 21 patrons. In addition, the club employs a highly trained and professional bar and security staff that will be responsible for maintaining the rules of the club and the letter of the law.

JASON: What can people expect on the opening evening? What will the club look like? Anything special or surprise guests?

SUGAR: We want our March 4 premier to be about several things. A world class venue the likes of which Pittsburgh's gay community has never had before, experiencing the hottest club music from all corners of the world that will set SUGAR apart from the competition, and bringing all ages of our community together for a party night that will rival any other in the city - straight or gay. We want SUGAR to be about the experience. And while we have ideas in the works for some top notch parties and performances, we prefer to let SUGAR speak for itself without the distraction of a lot of bells and whistles that can take away from what is truly magical about the club experience we are aiming to provide.

JASON: Can you describe your VIP services?

SUGAR: Details are being worked out for event specific VIP service. For our March 4 premier, there will be no specific area for "VIP" or - as we like call it - "SIP," which stands for "Sweetly Important People." We think the club and the night will make everyone feel like they are SIP's and we want everyone to enjoy themselves as such.

JASON: Finally, there are special issues with having such an event in Southside. How is parking being handled?

SUGAR: We have been granted discounted parking of $3 in the secured lot directly adjacent to SUGAR's location at WHIM.

JASON: Also, I believe this will be the first regular gay-specific party or club sponsored in South Side, with the exception of the G2H2 event. The area is known for being a party-hearty area, primarily catering to straight crowds. Can gay patrons expect a welcoming atmosphere in the South Side?

SUGAR: I think G2H2 is a perfect example of how far we have come, specifically in places like the South Side. We do not expect or anticipate any issues with having SUGAR at Station Square, but are happy to report the the staff and security are professional and well trained and will do everything to make sure SUGAR patrons have an unparalleled experience on Thursday nights.

We hope you'll come out and join us March 4. We are really trying to provide something that we feel is missing in Pittsburgh and hope the community comes out to celebrate and participate in that.

JASON: Thanks for answering my questions, SUGAR. I'm certain everyone is looking forward to seeing what you guys have put together for the LGBT community and their friends here in the 'Burgh. I hope it's a smashing success! In the meantime, with all this SUGAR talk, I suddenly have a huge hankering for a giant grape flavored Pixy Stick and some Kool Aid! Off to Rite Aid I go!

SUGAR at WHIM Station Square
http://www.sugarpittsburgh.com.
Premiers March 4th, 2010. Doors open at 9pm. 18 and up are welcome, but must be 21 and up to drink. Cover is $7 at the door, or $5 with the special SUGARCube Promo Program (see website for details).
WHIM is located at
7 East Carson Street
Pittsburgh, PA 15219
Ph: 412.281.9888 for WHIM
Ph: 412.915.5073 for WHIM Bottle Service.
For questions specifically about the SUGAR event, consider using the Contact Page on the SUGAR website.

This model isn't even trying

2010-02-17T13:12:00.001-05:00

Wow. I mean, even Kate Moss knew to cover up her little habit. Geez!
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These balloons are a choking hazard.

2010-02-14T17:49:00.000-05:00

The Red Tyranny continues, but I think I could get an injury lawsuit out of it.

Down with love. Reform Valentine's Day. In the meantime, anyone got a number for a good attorney?
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"Hey man, John Mayer wants to explain himself to us. Do you have any earplugs man?"

2010-02-12T23:08:00.002-05:00

The trainwreck that is the tediously immature John Mayer continues. Apparently, somewhere along the way, he forgot that people come to his concerts to hear him play guitar and sing, not squawk like a chicken and apologize. I'm hoping this isn't the beginning of some kind of "apology" tour, like Hillary Clinton's listening tour when she ran for Senate in 2000. You know, where Mayer opens up the "depths of his soul" (about 2", by the way) and explains himself to his screaming masses. Of course, the carnage would be more than any venue could handle, as people tear their ears off and claw at the doors trying to escape until their fingers bled. Even Hillary Clinton didn't have that effect - even in her worst pant suit.

So, without further ado, I subject you to yet another round of Mayervision, in full stereo sound. If he weren't so young, dumb, and full of...pizazz, I probably wouldn't post this. And I'm not sure Jen didn't get the better end of the deal in this breakup, if this is what she had to put up with during "the romantic moments." Anyway, Enjoy! Please direct hate email and the shipping of dead fish to Boltco Headquarters; feel free to Google for the address.

A Good List of Personality Traits

2010-02-12T06:13:00.002-05:00

Pretty interesting - I like this list. It has an old fashioned bent to it. Which traits do you think are your strong points?

Personality Traits at Yahoo! Shine.

SECOND Quote of the Week!

2010-02-11T02:52:00.004-05:00

From the same film, "I Hate Valentine's Day."

John Corbett wants to be with Nia Vardalos, despite ending their relationship after 5 dates and keeping it casual. He has now gotten done with an evening with a toolbag friend and a couple bimbos, and is heading into his apartment - thinking about Nia and wanting to call her. A proud, black woman walking her dog passes by, seeing him playing with his phone with a thoughtful look on his face. Stoically, she engages him while walking.

---Begin Scene---

PBW (Proud Black Woman): "Make that booty call."

John Corbett: "No, honey, my bowels are complicated. Life is simple. Call her."

---END SCENE---

How true.

By the way, I think Nia Vardalos is going for a very John Waters feel in her films. But from an independent film, rom/com perspective.

Quote(s) of the Week

2010-02-11T01:49:00.007-05:00

From Nia Vardalos and John Corbett's "I Hate Valentine's Day." John Corbett (who is really always Aidan from "Sex and the City," but who's counting) has just been dumped by his flight attendant girlfriend after bringing her flowers and catching her in bed with someone else. Nia is boosting his self-esteem, telling him he's going to meet someone new instead.

---BEGIN SCENE---

John Corbett: "No, I'm off relationships."

Nia: "Fantastic! You'll be so much happier."

John Corbett: "Oh, okay. You're not gonna say that thing that women always say, which is that I haven't found the right one yet."

Nia: "No. I don't believe there's just one person."

John Corbett: "What?"

Nia: "I don't believe people are meant to be in relationships."

John Corbett: "What!?"

Nia: "Yeah, we should just have fun, and when the romance is gone - move on."

John Corbett: "Well, how long does that last?"

Nia: "Five dates, to be exact."

John Corbett: "That is exact."

Nia: "Five dates happens to be the perfect amount of time to achieve maximum fun with no pain. No expectation equals no disappointment. It's just fun, and there are no rules."

John Corbett: "No rules?"

Nia: "No rules. And you know what? In relationships, that's all there are. You know, one person wants more, the other person wants less, and then they act out, cheat, come back, stay out of guilt. Oops, now someone's pregnant! All of a sudden you're married and you hate each other. Dating is just so much more romantic."

John Corbett: "So you love romance, but not relationships?"

Nia: "Well, what's to love about something that only brings unhappiness?"

John Corbett (and here's where I used to really feel his confusion, by the way - kind of like a dog staring at you with a shiny object): "It's just - it's not natural."

Nia (deftly, with a response that couldn't have come better from my own mouth): "Do you know any happy couples?"

John Corbett: "All the time? No, but.."

Nia, spoken with righteous indignation and a little bit of a smirk: "I am happy all the time." And walks away.

CUT TO SCENE: John Corbett is walking with his douchebag, tool friend along the Hudson River, chatting about Nia's schooling on relationships and romance.

Toolbag Friend: "Oh, that's hot! Is she hot?! Ah, it doesn't matter. Her attitude is hot. She could have three eyes and two butts and a tooth, and I'd do her."

---END---

Nia Vardalos, you are my Goddess! Watch the trailer, for an especially hilarious moment when puppy dog stupid Aidan...er...John Corbett makes his first attempt to ask out freespirit Nia. It involves her pinching his face to make a very good point about the perception that not being available for relationships does not make one easy.

I just can't resist...John Mayer.

2010-02-10T22:19:00.011-05:00

First off, I apologize for my absence. I'm working on a blog post about snowmaggedon as we speak. But suffice it to say that I've had 3 days off work, will have a half day tomorrow, and I mostly sat on my ass and caught up on stuff.

Now, on to bigger fish to fry. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you John Mayer - douchebag supreme.

I'm going to skip over the fact that he used the "n" word in the interview, talking about how he may or may not be "street" enough to have a "hood pass." You know, because he's a pale-white mainstream babyfaced male rocker, and you know how the brothas love them.

I'm going to skip over the fact that, in one interview, he manages to make himself some kind of sexual god because he bagged Jessica Simpson - the sexual leavings of Nick Lachey and Tony Romo. Don't get me wrong, Jess is pretty, but she lost me at "Chicken of the Sea." She doesn't exactly strike me as a hard lay to land.

I'm also going to skip over the fact that he clearly has an addiction to porn, saying that he sees over 300 vaginas before he finds one to pop one off to - and THEN chooses to fantasize about past relationships because current vaginas and girlfriends don't satisfy him. Talk about a waste of time.

I'm also not going to talk about how, in the same interview, he then casts himself as soulful and intellectualizing, taking the time to brag about how much he loves talking all night with a girl only to have her experience an epiphany about him, saying "boy, I never thought I was going to like you so much."

No, I'm not going to talk about all these affronts to the sensibility.

Instead, I'm going to share this snippet with you, and then send a link over if you are a glutton for punishment and want to take a closer look. It's John Mayer talking about Jennifer Aniston - she of the "Friendly Following." America's new sweetheart (after Meg Ryan went crazy with the lip injections). She, of the interminably bad taste in men (John Mayer, Brad Pitt, Vince Vaughn), who braves on.

From John's stupid mouth:

"PLAYBOY: You’ve rarely talked about Aniston. She has rarely talked about you.

MAYER: We just have a regard for each other’s feelings that is pretty intense. It’s been a deep relationship, and it’s no longer taking place at all. Have you ever loved somebody, loved her completely, but had to end the relationship for life reasons?

PLAYBOY: Did you send Aniston a copy of the CD after it was done?

MAYER: No.

PLAYBOY: Maybe she’ll download it from BitTorrent.

MAYER: If Jennifer Aniston knows how to use BitTorrent I’ll eat my fucking shoe. One of the most significant differences between us was that I was tweeting. There was a rumor that I had been dumped because I was tweeting too much. That wasn’t it, but that was a big difference. The brunt of her success came before TMZ and Twitter. I think she’s still hoping it goes back to 1998. She saw my involvement in technology as courting distraction. And I always said, “These are the new rules.”

PLAYBOY: You mean the rules of celebrity have changed since Friends made her a star?

MAYER: I said, “Tom Cruise put on a fat suit.” That pretty much sums up the past decade: Tom Cruise with a comb-over, dancing to Flo Rida in Tropic Thunder. And the world went, “Welcome back, Tom Cruise.”

PLAYBOY: What’s the moral there?

MAYER: You have to show that you don’t take yourself seriously. Once you do that, people will say you’re cool: “You know what? I gotta say I never liked him until he made fun of himself, and now I like him.”

PLAYBOY: If you didn’t know you, would you think you’re a douche bag?

MAYER: It depends on what I picked up. My two biggest hits are “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and “Daughters.” If you think those songs are pandering, then you’ll think I’m a douche bag. It’s like I come on very strong. I am a very…I’m just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can’t handle very, then I’m a douche bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That’s why black people love me."

Here's the link: Playboy Interview.

Just after that, he makes his little mistake regarding the "n" word that got him into trouble. But as you can see, he was really on a roll before that. Maybe his riff on life was like an ice cream sundae (no pun intended). He just kept piling on scoop after scoop of bullshit, and then added on some yummy word toppings. He added some nuts (misogyny), strawberry syrup (false angst), caramel sauce (ageism), and then whipped cream (pervy jerk off talk). And then, sensing that his pile of true verbal diarrhea fashioned as pop culture creaminess was not quite complete, had to top it off with a racial slur. I mean, when all you can do is talk and talk, saying dumber and dumber things to get attention, what else could you do? Talk about puppies?

I guess the interview speaks for itself, but I want to say one thing before I let you stab your own eyes out reading it. If John Mayer sees the world as those who KNOW how to use BitTorrent and Twitter, and those who do not, he's in for a surprise. If he also sees the world as those who cater to the new TMZ/Perez Hilton/celebutante culture, and those who do not, he's in for a BIG surprise. And if the reason he dumped Jennifer Aniston was because her success came at a time when modes of media were more direct and mainstream, and less viral, then he's in for an even BIGGER surprise.

The surprise, you ask? Well, he thinks these are "The New Rules" for living in today's age. He thinks Aniston desperately wants to go back to 1998, to relive some level of fame or success that she had at the supposed height of her career. And while that's just so arrogant and assumptive on his part, it's also telling more about him than Aniston. It says that he doesn't define himself as a person, but instead defines himself how enshrined in today's "celeb-retardation" and "hyperactivity/frenzy" he can make himself. He's confusing "The New Rules" for achieving fame - which are really just rules for gaining attention while participating in self-indulgence all without taking real personal risk - as opposed to rules for living an authentic life.

The surprise is this: for someone who wants love and a relationship and a "vagina to pitch a tent under" (shudder), he doesn't have the personality for it. And he doesn't even realize it. When someone makes a decision to end a relationship because the substantive quality of their fame is pre-Twitter, that signifies a pure immaturity and mistaken lifestyle that may be too much for him to overcome or for anyone with an intellect to stand. What's sadder? I think he thinks all his bullshit is really smart, but the truth is - it's no different than a child coming up with reasons why the spilt milk isn't his fault. No perspective.

I don't know about you, but the guy is clearly pretty much only good for a lay. He's hot, has nice tattoos, and I'm sure he probably has some really great moves in bed he's perfected (he seems like the type who would do that). He practically SCREAMS "himbo!"

But as far as more? Even I would dump him after the first few go around's. Of course, I might snag a couple nice vacations and some cool swag first. Maybe get him to buy me a nice car, maybe a condo. But dump him I definitely would, probably just as Aniston did. It's nice she tried to teach him a few of the lessons she's learned in life, but clearly he needs a lesson in humility that neither of us would have the patience to teach. But damn, he's pretty to look at - so why not enjoy, eh Jen?

Anyway, to close this out, here's a picture of Mayer showing that it's entirely possible that I will get my chance to dump him. If this doesn't belie some type of homosexuality, I don't know what does. Enjoy!

Saints Win!

2010-02-07T21:45:00.001-05:00

Yay! Saints win!!
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Things that make you go "Hmmm..."

2010-02-05T00:09:00.006-05:00

In a hypothetical fight between aluminum foil and plastic wrap, which do you think would win? I personally am an aluminum foil man for a variety of reasons. If you don't mind, I think I'll share with you just a collection of the myriad of reasons why.

First, it's easy to mould to the opening of whatever container I am missing a lid for (hence why Ziplock disposable containers don't have a dog in this fight). Plus, it holds it's shape really well. If you have an oddly shaped food, such as a 20 pound turkey or cake shaped like the Empire State Building, you can sculpt a custom shaped protective shell which shall protect against bacteria and viruses of all types. And accidental roommate food incursions, such as an errant drumstick which attempts to roll off a plate and into your jello mold, will be repelled back instantly.

In addition, it's useful for cooking things - such as wrapping corn when baking it in the oven, or lining a cookie sheet when making french fries. Or covering a lovely mulligatawny casserole. And it doesn't even get HOT when you cook with it. 'Tis truly the DEVIL'S magic at work there! 'Tis!

Plus, it's really cool to make hats and other awesome men's wear with. I once made a whole suit-of-armor - complete with viking hat and battle axe - from Reynold's Wrap. Um, like, when I was a kid, not recently. Yeah. That's right! When I was a kid. And no pillow fort was involved.

But it does have its drawbacks. I'm not sure why, but while it does hold its shape, it doesn't stiffen up enough to remain in place. When you cover a bowl or plate, and put it in the fridge, it looks like the foil is securely in place. Yet, if you put something next to it that even grazes the foil, it flies off - with the food covered wet and sticky side plastered to the floor. Very annoying.

Plus, there is something about touching aluminum foil. It's light, but it's metal. It crumbles in your hand. And the noise it makes when you play with it - it kind of sounds like a rapier being waved around in the wind. It produces the same shivers that fingernails on a chalkboard does. And have you ever accidentally missed a piece of foil in some food and taken a little nibble?!? YIKES!

Oh, and for your Al Gore types out there: apparently, aluminum foil is recyclable! I mean, I already use the foil from baking my fries to cover them up in the fridge, but this is beyond that. You can actually take discarded foil and make it into other stuff! Wow! I didn't know that, as I have been throwing it away - and probably poisoning a lake or something in the process, or strangling some kind of fish. Wait, that's not right. Can a carp get tangled up in a discarded viking hat made up of foil wrap? Or is that those plastic six-pack rings? I dunno. I'm not a tree hugger.

Plastic wrap has its proponents, I'm sure. I'm all for the fact that it clings to the outside of a container, creating a nearly unbreakable hermetic static seal preventing air from entering and liquids, foods, and mushes of all kinds from escaping. This means that when I put something NEXT to the plastic covered bowl, the wrap doesn't fly off. I also think plastic wrap does a better job of preventing smells from escaping, especially helpful around shrimp taco night.

But here's where it loses me. For one thing, once plastic wrap gets caught up in itself, it's a lost cause. We've all been there. We're trying to rip off one decent sized piece of wrap, and we pull against that damn serrated edge on the box and it does nothing. Well, nothing except bunch up the wrap and give us a nice deep cut on our finger. So we just end up ripping the damn stuff in no particular shape or size, usually coming up just a bit short of what we need. So we have to go through the whole thing again, complete with re-bunching and re-cutting.

And, apparently, plastic wrap isn't recyclable. Again, not that I care, but because its a petroleum based product, it is not easily broken down. Then again, come to think of it, is it really wise to be covering your food in a product made from the same chemical base as gasoline? Hmm...

So, that's why if I had to choose who to put my money on in a kitchen product battle royale, I'd put it on aluminum foil. "It's the easy way to save money while keeping your kitchen clean," per the Reynold's Wrap company. It's great for making Viking hats AND corn-on-the-cob!

Obama uses aluminum foil; his daughter Sasha was born on a bed of it and she's probably going to be a doctor or president or castmember on Jersey Shore or something. Air Force One is made of aluminum foil, and look how that plane kicked ass in the Harrison Ford movie.

Aluminum foil is also the way of the future and way to salvation. God wants you to use aluminum foil. Aluminum foil is the way all god fearing American's should live, if they plan on going to heaven. Like I've always said, it's all about the God, the Gays, the Guns, and the aluminum foil.

(I've always said that. You can look it up. Go ahead. No, Sarah Palin didn't say it. Shut up!)

And, not to sway you or anything, but Al Qaida probably uses plastic wrap. And we're living in an Code Orange era, people. We're talking terrorism! Right now, Osama Bin Laden is in a cave somewhere performing some perverse masturbatory ritual on himself with plastic wrap. Probably something involving asphyxiation and tying his beard in a knot! Yep, that's right. Terrorism, folks. You're inviting terrorism into our country and into our homes if you use plastic wrap. For God's sake, think of the children.

In closing, I think we all know what I'm really trying to say here. And if you're not sure, then I can't tell you. But I like to think I've given you a little something to think about today. And that what I've imparted to you has improved you as a human being, and added to your being in an organic and holistic manner.

If you come away with nothing else today, remember this: Vote Yes on Tuesday for Aluminum Foil, and No on Plastic Wrap. And, as usual, ignore the third party running for office - wax paper. No one knows what the hell that shit is for.

Where was I going with this? I think I need a nap. I think I blew a gasket after hour 20 studying for an exam. G'night.

*Note: This blog is copyright property of Boltco, now a wholly owned subsidiary of Reynolds Consumer Products.*

Valentine's Day: The Red Tyranny

2010-02-02T23:50:00.001-05:00

As Valentine's Day approaches, I'd like to share a few "romantic" thoughts with you. These thoughts mostly center around the notion that Valentine's Day is a misguided, and somewhat disturbing holiday that, for one day, bifurcates American society in a way no other does. The "holiday" cuts it in half, between those who HAVE someone to celebrate it, and those who don't. But if we look a little more closely, love isn't what it used to be, or is Valentine's Day. And at least one - the day of love or the concept - will change.

Those who have someone on Valentine's Day indulge in a bunch of crazy love-centered behavior. For one thing, they begin by purchasing excessive amounts of crap and showering it on their "loved one." Here's an example of just how ridiculous it has become:

After showering some of the overflowing crap you see above on their "sweetie," they then make plans with them that - 364 days out of the year - they wouldn't think to do. This may include a fancy, expensive dinner, or a nice play. Perhaps a day trip somewhere. All very sweet ideas. All shallow ways of paying tribute to a relationship and feels most neglect otherwise. Finally, at the end of the evening, these people bump uglies. On this evening, each is expected to put on their best moves - a reminder of a time when they may have actually found each other attractive and interesting.

During such dinners and shows, the "rest of us" are forced to sit and listen to such baby talk as "who's my sexy baby waby." Or serious talk like "darling, I have loved you since the moment I met you." Or, for those who aren't talkers, the simple stand-by: "I love you." That phrase, on a broken record. Multiplied by hundreds of coupled people throughout the day, this phrase is overheard by the "rest of us."

In addition, we're forced to hear about your Valentine's Day plans. "Oh, Jim is taking me somewhere special tonight and we have something amazing planned," the love-struck person says. "Oh, and look at all these balloons and flowers I got! Isn't he the best," they say. Oh, yeah, they are so wonderful. By the way, can you move your goddamn balloons - I'm trying to work here.

I used to think that the person might actually notice that they are speaking to someone who doesn't have a boyfriend or girlfriend, but on further inspection, I realize that one of two things happens. Either it doesn't hit them that they are bragging to someone who is, on Valentine's day, alone and they continue to brag and brag and brag. And then, after dropping a big pink love bomb on the person, they just go about their merry way, hearts in their eyes, cupid wings taking them to a delusional place filled with amore. Or they do realize their bragging, and suddenly you hear "Oh, but it's not that big of a deal, I'm sure you'll meet someone soon." And then, awkwardly, they walk away - leaving you wondering WHY you suddenly feel horrible about your life and wanting to cut yourself.

We all know why we feel horrible about ourselves on Valentine's Day, the "rest of us." It's because, on this day, we are segregated. First, we feel awkward because the only way to celebrate is if you have someone to celebrate with. Then, we are made to feel awkward by horrible people who actually enjoy rubbing the day in our faces - the husbands and wives, the girlfriends and boyfriends, the partners. Sometimes it happens because our ears are raped as we listen to the endless bragging about their "honey and our special plans tonight." Sometimes it happens because we can't get around all the damn Valentine's Day paraphernalia. And not metaphorically, either; you can't tell me that someone isn't going to trip over that crap in those pictures above. It's just gobbed on everywhere and it's not there normally, so we know that, on this day, something is different.

And since we don't get any of the crap, we know that not only is the day different, but that "the rest of us" are too. For some reason, on this day, those of us that are alone feel "dirty" and "marked" while we are forced to watch others who are partnered participate in something that looks remarkably shallow. And we're expected to participate as well - not just as observers, but as worshipers. Even though we don't have a relationship and aren't in love, we are expected to idolize the "state of love" and defer on Valentine's Day to those who do. We are expected to fawn over your gifts and plans, and display jealousy over your relationship. Our suffering must be on display. "Aw shucks, Suzy, I wish I was as pretty/smart/outgoing/easy as you are so I had a boyfriend/girlfriend." And if we don't, we're not only one of the "rest of us," but we're then marked as actually being envious and bitter and...(wait for it)...

Sad!

This is the Red Tyranny at work: either we must strive to be with someone/anyone, or on Valentine's Day, we suffer - and if we don't fawn and suffer, we run the risk of being painted bitter and sad. And for all this hassle, we're not even getting chocolates or sex?!?

Barf. But not for the reasons you may think.

At one point or another, all of us have spent or will spend Valentine's Day alone. And I think it's important to remember that, truthfully, that is the natural state of things for the majority of people out there - to be alone on Valentine's Day. We're not born joined at the hip (some of us). For many years, we sleep alone. As we grow up, we still spend a good chunk of time non-partnered. Arranged marriages are a bit faux pas, so there is no guarantee that we'll ever find someone. And dating is becoming more complicated because of social networking and the Internet. I would also argue that dating and love relationships are becoming increasingly passe, because of the fast-pace of communication and the increasing narcissism of each succeeding generations. Love is becoming disposable and, perhaps, soon unnecessary. It's becoming a fad, soon to be quickly discarded like an old pair of Uggs or anything made by A&F in our fast-paced society

One might say that, in the face of this, Valentine's Day becomes more important. I say the opposite. I think it's important to treat Valentine's Day a little more like any other day. Why? Because it's easy for Valentine's Day to simply remind us that we are not alone and that someone loves us. In the cold, consumerist, sex-and-image driven society we live in, that's the fast and easy way to pay homage to relationships and love. That's the cheap emotional cue of the "holiday" - the thing that American Greetings and Whitman's Candy wants you to buy into. No real thought. No real investment. Introspection takes place quickly in a tacky greeting card overwrought with flowers and birds and pink on the cover - all for 3.99. No irony there that, after a few weeks, it gets thrown away by most. And let's not forget - flowers die and chocolates make us fat.

Instead, it's much harder to use Valentine's Day to remind us that some of us of where we came from, and how that compares to being in a relationship or love. To step back, by yourself, and remember what being "alone" is like and that it is natural state of things. In this remembrance of the "State of Alone," we can then have perspective on what it's like to be "with someone." The comparison should allow one to see how much they have changed as people, to accommodate that other special person in their life. It should allow them to see and value how much of an investment they have made in another person, and which has been made in them. After all, relationships and love require investments of time and psychic energy. That love is also a "verb," as well as a "noun" - relationships can be hard work. Only after this personal introspection can someone sit down with their loved one and decide what type of celebration best reflects their love. It may indeed be a grand supper and tons of balloons, but I'd bet that it's closer to a quiet supper and a gentle kiss and hug, with a decision to ensure that more days other than Valentine's Day include small reminders and displays of affection and love.

So on Valentine's Day, it shouldn't be about celebrating love in some grandiose manner, but about preparing to recommit yourselves to celebrating that love year round. First, by meditating alone, and then with your loved ones in ways that aren't stereotyped for the day and instead have real meaning to each other. And instead of squeezing a whole year's worth of love into one huge display on one day (and failing and annoying the "rest of us" in the process), one can spread it out a bit more and express it a little more substantively and sanely (and less annoyingly).

In closing, I am against a perverted, shallow, consumerist "holiday," and the segregation and bullying of those who can't or don't participate in a giant, lovely delusion. But I am not anti-Valentine's Day. But I think the day, as it currently stands, is bad for relationships, bad for love, and not particularly good for anything or anyone else (unless you're a candy or greeting card corporation). I think it has to change, or else it runs the risk of becoming like most other things Generation X, Y and Me grow tired of: discarded and forgotten. That's what happens when a tradition becomes a fad. However, this particular fad may have more of a repercussion when discarded: love (that closely related concept) risks becoming discarded as well. Love, already an endangered idea in an impatient, sex-driven culture, is already on the run. The fading and eventual loss of Valentine's Day may just be the final nail in the coffin.

So, I want to be clear here: while I am not anti-Valentines Day, I am now largely anti-love. I don't know that it has a place in my life at the moment. My desire for it is pretty low, and I feel as if I might be able to do without it. I think it would be a horrible distraction to a lot of other things I want to do with my life. Also, while I find a lot of men attractive and interesting, I don't see a lot of romance and passion from them - so why bother? If I'm already not that excitable, that is going to make it so much harder. And, by the way, I lied just a moment ago: I don't find a lot of men attractive or interesting. I'm actually quite unimpressed with most of them. But I felt like I had to throw a bone there before some people (like anyone reads this blog) get upset.

Yes, I know I'm no prize catch, but I'm pretty content with me. I guess you could say I'm beginning a new love affair with myself. So love is pretty much out of the question for me, because I feel like I'd have to break up with myself. And I know me: it would be a messy and dramatic breakup.

But I think do think love is good for others, and therefore I'd hate to see it go. It makes the rest of the people in this world considerably more tolerable - they seem to smile more, relax, and have more fun when they know someone is there for them. And if they need that to make themselves less annoying to me, I'm good with that, even if I choose not to participate.

So I think changing Valentine's Day into something more substantive will help revive love's appeal to new generations. So I raise a flag and draw a line for a fight that is not my own. For the lovers out there, and those of us who tolerate them, I say this:

"Save Valentine's Day - End the Red Tyranny."

As for me, I choose to remain single and free. I defy any man to attempt to claim me, because he will fail. My heart is unwinnable, because it already belongs to me. I am the only person I want. And on this Valentine's Day, I will meditate on how lucky I am to be alone, and then I will think about the wonderful relationship I have with myself. After that, I will take myself out for a nice meal, maybe buy myself a nice gift and give it to myself at dinner. Then I'll go out and buy myself a few drinks. Afterwards, I will take myself back for some hot, lustful, drunk sex - possibly with myself, but I won't rule out getting a little kinky and bringing another person in for Valentine's Day.

But, as soon as I'm finished, he's out of there. And he's not spending the night. Period.

"Heat" and "Blowpop:" No Review...Yet.

2010-01-31T18:08:00.007-05:00

I know I promised a review about "Heat" and "Blowpop." I had one all written just on "Heat," but I felt like I should wait until I attended a "Blowpop" party hosted at the club. It seemed as if a lot of the buzz around "Heat" was intertwined with the Ry N Sky "Blowpop" promotion, almost like one big package, so I thought that would be appropriate. I can report that I went to the soft-opening on New Years Eve. I also went to the packed grand opening on Friday. And I did go to the "Blowpop" party on Saturday. But...

I'm still going to hold off on a review for a little while longer. Not that anyone cares what I think in the first place, of course - or reads this blog. :) But the club and party seem like they might need more time to develop and promote to reach their full potential. Totally understandable, right? And I really hope they do reach that point - because gay Pittsburgh really does seem like it wants and needs a fun, lively, upscale place to dance.

So, until then, I offer this:

I like to think of myself as the kid hamming it up next to Sinatra, and that's the rest of us 'Burgh homos just a singin'! Enjoy!

Combined: I'm Just Sayin', with Shameless and Wanton Naked Picture

2010-01-30T19:33:00.005-05:00

Okay, so I think Nick Jonas is cute - but he's total jailbait and therefore I have no interest. So the shameless naked picture is not of him, and if you thought it was, shame on you - and stay away from playgrounds.

Instead, the shameless picture is of Pittsburgh Penguins hockey player Sidney Crosby - who definitely is NOT underage. He's quite within bounds, and if any of you happen to have his home address, I'd love to send him an FTD cookie basket to say "hullo."

But, while looking at Sidney, I couldn't help but notice some similarities between him and Nick. Take a look.

Do you see it? Or am I just dreaming a confusing and sick dream? I hope the former, because I am a complete law-abiding citizen and I would never do anything so untoward.

Going to "Heat" with "Blowpop" tonight - expect review tomorrow.

2010-01-30T19:29:00.002-05:00

So, I had a blog post all ready to go on "Heat" but I've held it in "save mode" until I go to "Blowpop" tonight. I want to get the full picture of what's going on with this dual relationship down on Pittsburgh's Strip.

Expect a post tomorrow.

My friend has something pointy and stiff on his head

2010-01-28T23:41:00.001-05:00

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The Rules Before The Relationship

2010-01-27T04:10:00.013-05:00

Around this time of year, people really start acting a fool when it comes to guys, dating, and relationships. The spectre of Valentine’s Day, I suppose. Personally, my drive toward any of the three is at an all-time low – and I feel released from their pursuit. I couldn’t tell you where this psychic release came from. It could be the resolution of some long-standing family issues; or that I have a lot of interesting things going on in my life that are keeping my attention. It’s also possible that nothing jumps out at me as either terribly impressive or a good fit for me, in terms of dating or men. My sex drive has even waned a bit – just a bit – as a result. I just don’t see a point in pursuing it if it’s going to be mediocre or ordinary. Whatever the circumstances which have brought me to this state of mind, I feel as if I’ve transcended to the point where I’m pleased to leave it all behind.

At this moment, I’d rather focus on work and school, spending time with friends, and doing those unique things I enjoy on an individual basis. I have a number of intellectual, spiritual, and physical pursuits I have re-embraced. I certainly enjoy the freedom of using time as I see fit or spending money with little thought to the needs of others. Indeed, I’ve even been known to waste a little of both time and money on myself lately. One may call this self-centered, but I’d rather look at it like this: “making a long term commitment of time, energy, and funds in someone I feel a total rapport and love for - me.” It feels wonderful to just focus on what I really want for a change. I don’t want to end this commitment anytime soon, and I feel very happy about that. It’s quite a blissful state of being.

In all this, a new perspective has occurred to me that I thought I would share. In my bliss and transcendence, an odd kind of societal separation has allowed me to look at what I believe the normative view on guys, dating, and relationships is – and tease out some good and bad practices from that. Some of these views I have held for awhile, while others just recently occurred to me; all came together just recently. I standardized and cutely named them “The Rules Before The Relationship.” Of course, I’m no expert on love, dating, or sex – these are just observations and musings. If you’re not completely annoyed with me yet, I invite you to read on.

"The Rules Before The Relationship."

1. Don’t be needy or desperate.

Human beings just don’t respond well to stifling need or desperation. It signals the introduction of added stress to our own lives when someone we’re involved with can’t take care of either, and human nature is to conserve energy and reduce stress. So we don’t like either, and have a tendency to keep such people away. Plus, it's not a very attractive quality; we appreciate strength most of the time and weakness only when necessary. We often know we are being needy and acting desperate with someone, because find ourselves trying too hard. We make one too many phone calls or text messages. We even have a few moments where we think we should stop, but we're so caught up in fulfilling our emotional pit we keep going. But a lot of us then rationalize our overwhelming behavior, thinking that if the person wanted us to stop they would tell us.

So, STOP. Never get to the point where someone has to tell you to stop an otherwise positive behavior because you're overdoing it. If you get that feeling you're overdoing it, that's the moment you need to put the phone down and give it a rest for awhile.

Word of warning, though: there exist those who disguise need or desperation by being “too nice,” “too understanding,” and “too eager.” These "sensitive" guys cry foul when they are quickly ditched or taken advantage of. But to those people: quit playing the martyr role and get real about your neediness and desperation, too. In this case, it leads to the "need to please" - which also stinks of a lack of self-respect. It is entirely possible to be strong and sensitive at the same time, but this is not the path to do so.

To combat this, don’t sacrifice your needs and wants for another person’s until you’re in a committed relationship. If your lives don’t match up – or they aren’t willing to compromise without pushing, cajoling, or a fight – drop it. Whatever the cause, their lack of compatibility or flexibility doesn’t allow for more than a passing fancy. In addition, consider spending time figuring out where your need and desperation come from and resolving that, or the issues may play major parts in your relationships throughout your life.

2. Listen to what he is telling you directly.

If he is telling you something serious about his philosophy on life, the future, or relationships, it means he took the time to think and concretize it to the point of being able to verbalize it to you. And for men, this is something rare. Whether he actually lives that way or just talks a good game, it probably represents what he idealizes and what he wishes his life were about.

Can you flow with what he’s saying? If not, don’t change or compromise, or convince yourself he can be changed – because that requires a shift in core values and personality that will likely never hold and lead to frustration. However, if you have flow with him…

3. …then do your homework.

What are the red flags? What are the issues of friction that pop up? Are there things about the person you just can’t compromise on or accept? People usually put their best face forward at the beginning without knowing it. So listen closely for the little things they say or the slips of the tongue, watch how they present themselves in public, and observe how they behave with their friends. There are hints to be gathered throughout these “social testing” situations. Take them seriously.

4. Stay in the moment and limit preconceptions.

Be unabashedly you, so the person can get a feel for you. In return, enjoy learning about the person in front of you in the here and now, doing whatever activities you both enjoy. Take pleasure in whatever the extent of your interactions, whether they comprise your first meeting or first anniversary together.

5. Severely restrict asking where the relationship is going; instead, take your cues from the signals you receive.

If there is something new you want in the relationship – a kiss, sex, date exclusively, and so on – look for cues. If notice positive ones, send out some artful and reserved cues of your own. If they are well received, then go for the next step. Only ask where the relationship is going if you're ready to commit to something long-term and monogamous, and you strongly suspect they are as well.

Also, severely limit expectations and thoughts for the far-off future, especially early on. Instead, reserve that for after the rare occasion you both agree to enter a long-term monogamous relationship, then have to decide on buying a house, having kids, and joint funeral plots. But not before. It’s a waste of time, puts pressure on the relationship to leave up to expectations, and makes the relationship a huge downer if the future plans don’t materialize – as they often don’t.

6. Certainly don’t dwell on the past.

Life’s past wrongs and relationships do leave marks, but informing a person about bad life circumstances and patterns from old relationships won’t prevent the same things from happening again. And depending on the other person or the relationship, it could just make you a target for the same or similar patterns to repeat. So keep the past to yourself unless it becomes necessary or proper to share it. The rule here? Have fun instead!

7. If you can’t prevent yourself from dwelling on the past, work on whatever issues are preventing you from doing so before looking for new dating relationships.

New relationships, if they go wrong, can create new mental wounds – or exacerbate old ones you don’t allow to heal first. These multiple open wounds can come together to complicate other areas of your life besides dating, with unwanted results – including negative personality shifts, unwanted social phobias, depression, anxiety, and substance abuse and other addictions. Perhaps most importantly, these issues can unknowingly influence your attitudes about dating and relationships, helping to establish negative patterns and alter existing and good ones for the worse. Work on your issues before moving on to someone else, for your own sake and theirs.

8. Create an honest, understanding, and respectful atmosphere from the start.

If you get the feeling they aren’t into it anymore, let them know that if it’s not working out for them, you’re approachable and they can just say so. State clearly that you won’t freak out or do anything rash. If they decide they want to move on, let them go without a fuss. Do not break into their house and their clothes out a window of any sort, and do not send 16 pizzas to their house on a lonely Saturday night.

On the flipside, don’t beg them to reconsider. Never say “I’ll do anything,” and don’t offer to change. Why? See rule number 1. The relationship is over. All your neediness will do is push a relationship coming to an inevitable close towards a more uncomfortable end, and possibly tarnishing your public reputation and self-image to boot. Remember: this person has friends, and they could start talking about YOU. Chances are, they already were before the relationship ended and it will only intensify for a short period. Don't give them fodder.

9. On the same note, be willing to tell the person it’s not working out or you’re not interested, regardless of how they may react. Hopefully, they will be classy about the situation and respond positively and respectfully, and you can maintain whatever type of relationship you both agree is best.

If not, and things turn negative or creepy, end it quickly and respectfully – and then don’t look back. Their anger may be inflamed, and if they are not in control of their behavior and actions, can lead to cover, overt, or indirect retaliation that you don’t need in your life. A quick and firm ending without drama on your part will help reduce this. If all goes well, none of your clothes will be thrown out a window and you will receive no falsely ordered pizzas on a Saturday evening. Or, at least, much less of both than normal.

10. Whatever you do, don't ask or answer the "what's wrong with me/him" question.

This rule is, perhaps, the most important rule of all. Occasionally, you may come across someone who wants to do a post-mortem on the relationship, date, or what have you. It's not enough that it's over; he has to know "Why? What's wrong with me?" He believes that he is the cause. Furthermore, he won't stop hounding you until you tell him, and he promises he won't be upset.

That's a lie. He will be upset, and your answer will extend his bad feelings by several years, and increase his blood pressure by several points. It will also make it more likely that the response he requested will be twisted into this malicious retelling to all his friend, "and out of the blue, he called me (insert characteristic here)." And your clothes will end up out a window, and you will still end up with pizzas - random ones delivered to your door for several years perhaps.

So practice this response, and then say it firmly: "I don't think anything good can come of that, and I don't think I'm the person who should point out your flaws. That's really something you should ask of your friends and family. And please don't ask me again, or I'll have to leave." And if he asks again, don't play into it - leave.

The person asking already has a good idea of his flaws, and doesn't need you to tell them. He likely has issues with self-acceptance, and is just going to use your break-up coupled with your criticism as outside evidence that he is "not being good enough". For some, this might spur positive change, but for many it makes the person feel marginalized and unacceptable - even if the "flaw" is just a matter of personal taste on your part.

If you find yourself on the receiving end of this treatment, end it quickly. If you are the one giving it, cut yourself (and him) a break. The last thing you need to hear from someone who just broke up with you is the answer to "what's wrong with me?" Besides, you likely know your own flaws. Asking these questions to which you are not prepared for the answers are just going to make you feel worse about yourself - and that goes to the heart of the real problem: your self-esteem. So, be kind to yourself, and don't ask.

11. Finally, if you have difficulty maintaining a friendship or gracious acquaintanceship, begin to change or lessen your interactions with that person until you are able.

Be willing to eliminate direct interaction altogether. In addition, consider discarding items that remind you of him in order to move past the situation – this may includes phone numbers, articles of clothing, pictures, and the like. If the person is a friend on a social networking site like Facebook or MySpace, consider “de-friending” to prevent yourself from sending or receiving a constant flow of information about each other’s life – and new relationships. These may not be necessary, but if you are having difficulty ending the association, it may be necessary.

Whatever you do, if you are experiencing difficulty moving past the relationship, do not contact the person. Instead, take some time – alone – to review the relationship, develop your own understanding, and put it into perspective for the future. After awhile, you should be able to move on.

---END RULES---

No matter what happens in life, you’ll always have yourself. No one will ever understand you or know your needs as well as you do for yourself – no matter how romantic humanity’s poets have gotten about love’s ability to create “mind-reading” and “soul-sharing.” Simply put, because we are all unique individuals, what we experience in life and how our minds perceive those events are just as individual. And without some way to directly view the content's of one's mind, these thoughts are unknowable.

Further, anything even approaching that level of deep communication and interdependency takes a lot of hard work. The majority of guys, dating, and relationships we’ll experience in our lives simply cannot be worth that level of energy or frustration we might invest. And, though difficult for some to accept, for the vast majority of us no man will ever rise to that level.

Of course, we would be exhausted if we invested fully in all the guys we found attractive in our lifetimes. But most of us will never find out anyway, as we aren’t ready or willing to invest that kind of energy and hard work in dating or relationships, and we may never be. What’s more, we have to start knowing that about ourselves so as to reduce the negative impact of romantic waywardness on ourselves and others.

I firmly believe a more balanced and pragmatic approach to dating and men could help everyone, and that is why I have offered “The Rules Before The Relationship” that you see above. These are not the rules that I have necessarily followed, nor are they the ones I ascribe to. But they are essentially just "good ideas" that from my perspective outside the dating game seem overlooked, ignored, or forgotten. In some cases, because we're often caught up in the drama of our social world without thinking about our behavior, perhaps these are ideas that some of us never come to realize. In essence, they just seem like good “rules of the road” worth sharing.

In closing, and in the spirit of these rules, I implore you: keep it cool and keep it rational. Keep your eyes open and keep two feet on the ground. And, above all else, be willing to be let go and be alone. Alone is how you came in this world and quite possibly how you will go out. Besides, a poor relationship with someone you aren’t compatible with is no substitute for integrity, inner peace, and tranquility with yourself. On face validity, that is an idea we should all be able to accept and appreciate.

Gay date event 3

2010-01-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

Krystal's parking fail. She parked next to a Cadillac, so you know the 85 year old man next to her will smack her door. Parking fail = door dent.
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Gay date event number two.

2010-01-23T20:30:00.001-05:00

Does Krystal look over 18? No? Because I don't. I got carded for seeing "Up In The Air," and she didn't. At the movies. Really.
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Krystal and I on our gay date.

2010-01-23T20:24:00.001-05:00

So, our date begins with a trek to the AMC Loew's theatre, parked a mile away. It's Saturday, and we need our exercise anyway.
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My friend Derek says...

2010-01-23T15:22:00.003-05:00

I have to post pictures of hot guys on my blog to get anyone to read it. So, here ya go:

I think he's hot. Anyone reading yet? Hellooo? Fudge.

Okay, I'm just sayin'...

2010-01-22T00:30:00.005-05:00

Anyone notice that Clay Aiken could be Barry Manilow's love child?

I'm just sayin'.

Word of the Day: Elucidating

2010-01-21T23:23:00.001-05:00

Word of the Day: Elucidating. To clarify: make clear and (more) comprehensible; "clarify the mystery surrounding her death". "I'm elucidating the reasons why Jay Leno is a douchebag." - David Letterman.

This guy...

2010-01-21T15:23:00.001-05:00

...had his pants pulled up so high, that..(finish this sentence).
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Great Moments in the History of Duh

2010-01-21T14:51:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting here with my friend Krystal, who just elucidated all of the Petersen Events Center with her wisdom. To wit, she said:

"Gay men are so petty. They are even worse than girls."

A duhhhhhh.

This has been a "Great Moment in the History of Duh."

When do YOU hit your "X"?

2010-01-20T11:42:00.017-05:00

Facebook is both a blessing and a curse. I must admit that ever since my ex-boyfriend "Sluggo" and his friends shamed me into joining, my social life and social circle has been easier to manage. But the online world holds special challenges for a social doofus such as myself. And, speaking of how I don't know what to say or do sometimes, here is where Facebook becomes a curse. What do you do when there are people on your Facebook and you aren't sure you know then personally? Lately, people have been pointing to Facebook to show their face pictures and other information so I can get a better look at them. In order for me to get a better look, I have to add them as friends. Of course, I don't immediately drop them as friends, because that would be rude - right? Or is it expected that I'll look, and then de-friend them immediately? Someone have the rulebook on this one?

Then there are those people who add you as friends once you have enough of THEIR friends as your friends. Hard to follow? Let me help. Let's say that some random clicks on my profile from one of their friend's pages. It shows that I'm friends with, say, 30 of his friends. That person says "Oh, wonder why I'm not friends with him in real life?" So, instead of waiting to meet me in real life, he becomes friends with me on Facebook first. Me, seeing that he has 30 friends in common? How can I say no? What if he bad mouths me? And what if I do meet him after saying no? Our entire basis for a real life friendship is ruined.

Side note: this person may actually never meet me or become friends with me in real life, by the way. Our entire interaction in the course of human existence may be limited to the online world, his friend request, and me saying "yes" or "no." After that, I doubt I'll hear from him again. I mean, what IS that??!?

In addition, there are people that I meet through the course of going out. Apparently, I either meet them and add them via Facebook Mobile while I'm standing in front of them, or search them later when I get home. Now, I'm not saying that I've been inebriated while I've added some of these people - but if there was a list of possibilities, that selection might have statistical significance. In some cases, I'm just forgetful and (as mentioned before) a social retard. So, a few weeks later, I'm getting Facebook Newsfeed from some person, and I'm laughing and thinking "wow, this guy is funny!" And then it hits me: "Who the hell is that?"

In all situations, it's even worse when you look at the pictures and think: "he looks vaguely familiar." Looking through someone's Facebook pictures when you don't really know them is not a good reintroduction. You seem someone holding a baby and smiling one minute, and the next you see them puking in a trashcan wearing a silk teddy. (And, btw, some of ya'll really shouldn't allow these pictures on your Facebook. There is a de-link option, and you should use it. Heart.)

So I look through his shared friends list, and we have some friends in common, but they are scattered from all corners of my social circle. It's even worse when we have only one friend in common. It's absolute death when we have none. Because then I can't place WHERE I may have met him. Was it the bar? Was it school? Was it a class? Was it on a certain gay man's site that shall remain nameless? What the heck was it?!? And what do I DO?

Now you're saying "why don't you just message them and ask?" Well, I'll tell you why. Ever send a text to a number in your phone and you don't know who it is? Ever get into a bitch session for 0.10 a text? I have. While some people are very cool about reminding you where you met, and others will admit that they don't remember themselves, there are a select few that treat this as if you are showering hot acid on their heart and they are innocent bunny rabbits of love who are horribly hurt and demeaned. But then the bunny rabbits of love turn into psycho firebunnies of death, with sharp pointy teeth of metaphorical weapons.

"LOL I can't believe you don't remember who I am!," he or she says.

"I'm sorry, it's been awhile since we (texted, messaged, IM'd). Can you remind me?" I say.

"OMG you're such a fucking loser. Don't you remember? We chatted for like an hour!"

"Can you give me more to go on? Do you have a picture maybe? I'm good with pictures."

"I'm not giving you a picture if you can't even remember who I am. Fuck off."

This is an amalgamation of all the text and IM conversations of this type that I have had ever since "technology has brought us all closer together." It happens more often than you'd think.

I guess, in such situations, you really find out how people are...even when you don't know them. So, I am somewhat thankful. After such a glowing conversation, I usually delete their contact info. Sometimes, if their tirade is bad enough, I'll keep it and just add a little note: "firebunny of death." So that if I run into them again through reintroduction, and I go to add their info and find them again, I can quickly distance myself before a giant tooth of biting metaphor attacks again.

But Facebook? Should I send an email and ask "Who the hell are you and why are we friends?" I don't know if I can do that. This person has access to my pictures and information and social circle. What if he starts to bad mouth me to all my friends and relatives on my page - or his? I could get tagged as a "social forgetter." He could start a "Social Forgetter" group page and I could be featured in it! Other people I forget could join! If it becomes popular, my friends would feel pressure to join!! If it got big enough, he could create a fan page and then go global with his tirade. And then my future interactions with people linked to other friends or social circles could then go something like:

"Hi, I'm Jason. Pleased to meet you. "

Hisses, "Ooooh, yeah. You're the social forgetter. I heard about you. I gotta go."

I mean, cripes, I'd be shot down before I even started! Future socialization would be endangered, and I'm already a social doofus. This would make my life exponentially more difficult, And then what if a prospective employer saw all this?!? I could be turned away for interviews; in the aliases portion of the employment application, I'd have to put "social forgetter." I'd end up being forced to work at McDonald's. Or worse - Arby's! And what then, I ask you?!? what then!?! And what about the CHILDREN?!?

But I digress. I guess what I'm trying to say is, well - what is the right thing to do? Do you think an email is warranted? Maybe this person and I did have an awesome conversation and I really wanted to connect with them, but one or both of us got busy and it fell by the wayside. By deleting him from my friend list, I doubt I'll ever have a chance to recall our sparkling conversation or the person I had it with. They would be consigned to Internet limbo - just bits and bytes left over on a Facebook server somewhere. No face, no name. Just 1's and 0's.

If I hit that "X" next to the person's name in my Facebook list, isn't that pretty final? If I should ever happen to re-meet that person again, and it goes without incident, I could re-add them - but that happens so rarely it would seem. So, should I hit that "X" button? And do I just stop at random strangers? How about ex-boyfriends? Frenemies? Friends of ex-boyfriends and frenemies? Where does it end? And will there be blowback?

Well, on that last question, I want to make one point clear. Yes, there may be blowback. I've heard from people that "dropping" someone as a friend doesn't mean they find out or are notified. Bullshit. Some people - crazy people - notice. They lord over their friend list and keep track of that count. When it goes down, they become like Nancy Drew, tracking down clues until they figure out who deserted them because they weren't "cool enough."

In addition, some people get in touch with you when you randomly drop them as friends - these are crazier people. I had a dude get hold of me on IM the same evening I dropped him as a Facebook friend. It started innocent enough, with "hey I can't see your pictures on Facebook anymore." It ended with something like "LOL. What, you think you're special? Goodluck, asshole." I'm not even sure what "special" meant to him, but I'm assuming that it involved a helmet or a lot of calming medications.

The absolute worst experience I had was when I was at the bar. I saw this person standing there, giving me these smoldering eyes and a smile. I thought he was flirting with me. He seemed pretty nice on the surface, talking to all his friends. So, I started giving him a few glances back here and there, and then smiled at him a couple times. His friends leave him, and he walks over. He says, "You don't remember me, do you?" To which I respond, "No, sorry. Have we met before?"

"Not really, but we talked online and you were my friend on Facebook - until you dropped me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must not have recognized you. What's your name?"

"My name? Something you'll never know now. Bye."

Yes, folks. Fire. Bunny. Of. Death.

So, perils await the use of that "X" button in the Facebook friend list - both online and in the real world. But, considering the possible "firebunny of death/social destruction/for the children" scenarios, maybe dropping someone you are unsure you know is for the best. There may have been a reason you didn't keep in touch. A social twinge that the person wasn't quite right. A premonition of future drama and hassle. Or maybe they were just unattractive human beings from the get go.

I'd sure like to know how others deal with such situations, though. That kind of information would be very handy to a social doofus such as myself. Oooh! Or someone should come out with a "Dummy Book!" "How to Deal with Awkward Online Social Situations on Facebook, AIM, and email." It could feature a special section on texting etiquette! Emily Post or Martha Stewart could write it! Now that's a book I would, and I'm sure others would too. I would even feature it on my blog (which no one reads).

And even if it didn't help solve my Facebook problems, maybe Martha could add a gardening section: "Homemade Remedies for Getting Rid of Firerabbits." Yeah. That would be awesome.

If I Were the President...

2010-01-20T00:40:00.002-05:00

I won't go into too much of an autopsy on what happened tonight. That the liberal state of Massachusetts just sent a conservative, Tea Party state senator to Ted Kennedy's seat in the U.S. Senate says an awful lot about the amount of political power Barack Obama has at the moment. Head over to RealClearPolitics for a rundown of the coming tearing-to-shreds which the president is about to endure, which may continue until November 3rd, 2010.

But if I were the president, I would make a couple of quick adjustments and start to gird myself for the coming fight. There is a reason why presidents and Congresses don't like to have serious issues to fight on (like health care) during an election year. For both sides, hot button issues are framing issues and wedge issues to be used against incumbent parties holding power. But health care is quickly looking like a solid wedge issue breaking in the Republicans favor, meaning that even in open seats and challenging seats, Democrats might have a hard time. Only those Dems that transcend party status (i.e., Jerry Brown of California) might find success in 2010.

Adjustment 1: pass health care of any kind, immediately. Threaten, cajole, negotiate. Get as much as you can, but whatever you do, hurry up. Either do it before Senator-elect Scott Brown of Massachusetts takes office or have the House pass the Senate version. If this is the last use of positional power you express as president, make it this.

Why? Because if you don't, not only are you a loser in the Bay State, but then you get made out to be a loser on your political agenda. The last year will have little except unpopular policies to run on, and your signature issue can't even be spun by your party pollsters in your favor. Literally, you'll have no record to run on. And, while that may seem fine in an okay economic environment, people without jobs expect results. And there are a lot of people without jobs out there.

Adjustment 2: after health care, start working with Republicans. You might not get much this year, but it can lessen the damage of 2010. The fact is that the partisan attitude, by both Democrats and Republicans, is poisonous. Continuing it and believing that 2008 was a mandate for strong Democratic rule was a misstep. At this moment, people are crying out for bipartisanship - even if only for a few months between the ever growing media-driven election cycles.

Start working with moderate Republicans on a regular basis, and pick your issues with conservatives. Make a show of listening to all sides. And then hope that people start to notice before 2012.

Finally, Adjustment 3: do not isolate Barack Obama. Lately, it would seem the president has become a little G.W. Bush in his belief that he was chosen by the people (not god) to lead. And that his mandate to lead alone provides him enough credibility to simply push things through without explanation or listening. Barack Obama has to be a leader by consensus, and not by force. People elected a person thinking he would unify, and guide, and lead. Instead, they have found a largely hands-off president, unsure of when to directly intervene and allowing big political decisions to be made by his hired hands. President Obama is a smooth guy, and trusting his instincts and intellect in this situation might be wise. Take it easy and keep things smooth. That's the way forward. Stay front and center, and bring people together. That's what people elected in 2008. As cliche as it sounds, people still want a "uniter, and not a divider."

Quote of the Week

2010-01-19T14:30:00.003-05:00

From Facebook and my ever sexy friend Colin G....a Quote of the Week.

Jason's Status Headline today: "All it takes is me even THINKING about taking the bus for one to just roll right by my front door, leaving me behind."

Colin's Response? "The same as it is with men."

Thanks, Colin, for that uplifting and heart-warming response. And, folks, this is from a guy WITH a boyfriend. Yikes! :)

Massachusetts

2010-01-19T13:56:00.002-05:00

Just a reminder to all that the special election to fill the seat vacated by Senator Edward M. Kennedy is today. This is a very important election, as it will be both an early indicator of what 2010 will look like for the Democrats, and whether or not the next year will be productive at all in terms of legislative production. If the Repubs get 41 votes, you can be sure that production will either slow way down because Dems will refuse to compromise, or speed up because they realize they can't work any other way.

Check out RealClearPolitics for all the latest info and metrics.

Back to work for me.

A Poignant Retelling and Reposting on the Death of Freddie Mercury

2010-01-18T21:00:00.009-05:00

I was watching "Family Guy" tonight, when a conversation between Brian and Peter referenced Freddie Mercury. To be perfectly frank, I didn't know a whole lot about Mr. Mercury, except that he was the lead singer of Queen with a pretty powerful (falsetto?) voice. I did vaguely know that he was exceptionally flamboyant, supposedly gay, and one of the prophets of Glam Rock in the 70's and 80's along with Bowie and the like. Just from what I remember of him and what he looks like, it is obvious that singers today such as Lady Gaga and (obviously) Adam Lambert draw many musical and fashion cues from Mercury.

So, as happens quite often when I hear a pop culture reference, I took to the Internet to do a little itch-scratching (what I call it when I just NEED to know something right now, but it really wouldn't kill me to wait). I ended up in a bit of a Wikipedia loop (that neverending cycle where you click links in a Wiki page to related branch subjects). Of course, I learned all about the controversial life (and death) of Freddie Mercury.

Returning to Google, though, I also found this - a rare retelling of his last moments. It's poignant, and clearly true - the editing is too poor for a cut-and-paste from a book, and too much like a spoken history to be false. It was posted to Freddie Mercury's Find-A-Death page by Anita, who I think was Brian May's wife or some such. This probably is just someone's pseudonym, and the story was (I suspect) found somewhere and reposted from Jim Hutton, his partner of many years who passed away just recently. Normally, I should just point a link to Find-A-Death, but I feel like that site is just a little too morbid to start linking to. If I do more often, I'll start pointing links. But for now, I'll just repost and link below.

This will be a story sounding either like it's "foreign-or-fiction" for many reading this. The period of the late 80's and early 90's that this retells is a time of fear and shame surrounding AIDS for those afflicted with it and those who loved them. It was also a time of uncertainty about how famous people - like countless others throughout the world - should handle what would eventually become an obvious and public battle with the deadly disease. AIDS physical toll on the human body during this period were obvious, causing physical wasting, Kaposi's Sarcoma (a type of cancer), and numerous other ailments with visual manifestations. For many during this period, it was a choice of hiding at home and waiting to die, or being forced "out" as the disease turned one into a shell of their former selves. Regardless of how one chose to confront the disease - whether publicly or privately - a day of reckoning for a person with the disease and those around them always came.

In addition, this was a time when being gay was closely associated with having AIDS (not HIV). In the early days, AIDS was known as Gay Related Immune Disease, or GRID. Another early moniker was Gay Cancer, likely a result of the K.S. lesions which would become associated with AIDS. The fact that the gay male community was the hardest hit by the disease did link AIDS, HIV and gay as nearly synonymous terms in perpetuity. And, as horrible a wake-up call as AIDS was, it turned the LGBT communities push for justice, liberation, and equal protection from one of quiet desperation to an increasingly vocal fight for its very existence. No longer was it good enough to just stay in the closet. To do so meant allowing powerful groups to marginalize the gay community and allow AIDS to be branded as a punishment, rather than a disease which cared nothing for which demographic group it infected. To do so meant that taxpayer dollars for research and treatment could also be branded as a "condoning" of a sinful lifestyle that, in turn, will be solved by allowing AIDS to run its course. To do so, even if you yourself did not have the disease, meant that you allowed it to be turned into a wedge issue - a way to brand people like yourself as immoral and worthy of death. And, unless one was uninfected and chose to remain perfectly abstinent during this period, there could be no guarantee that you would not become infected - so to do so meant to run the risk of allowing yourself to be condemned later as well.

As a result of this convergence between AIDS, HIV, and a new political and cultural push by the LGBT community, there was also a more communal push among friends and loved ones within the community on a smaller level to care for those dying. This was necessary, as the alternative for those with family who were unwilling or unable to help was Hospice care, an unceremonious death in a hospital, or worse. Groups of friends took on the characteristics of families, as a loved one began to fade and eventually pass on. Friends would stay with friends as they lay sick and dying in their beds, while a lover was away at work or rested for a few hours. Lovers would devote most of their time to feeding, caring for, and easing the pain of their partners - all while being sick themselves. Often, it was the one who was less sick at that moment who would be charged with caring for the other. Traditional family links were often torn asunder, with some unable to get past the stigma of homosexuality and AIDS to attend to their sibling or child's last moments, while friends stepped into the role of sister/brother, mother/father, and, finally, family member of record.

This reshuffling of the roles of friends with family was necessary in many cases, and the small communities centered around caretaking at the time (and shown in the retelling of Garden Lodge at Mercury's death) were not uncommon - and not just for the pragmatic reasons surrounding shame of homosexuality and AIDS. In times of pain and tragedy, human beings take solace in social circles. It helped stave off the fear and uncertainty of what will happen once a loved one is gone; it helped them forget that they were just one more person gone that made them closer to being the last one left standing. Though many of the things they told each other during the time just before, during, and after a death - jokes they made, cliches they used, decisions they took - were either delusions or outright falsehoods, they helped ease the pain of the passing until the next person became ill and they had to do it all over again. Indeed, sometimes death isn't about the person dying, but more about how we find a way to get through it ourselves.

I don't plan on commenting on the story at the end, as it stands well enough on its own. And, of course, times have changed considerably. Instead of talking about AIDS, we talk about other issues now facing our community which I will not get into at the moment. AIDS, while still present, has become a relic of another time. And, like all relics, the lessons it can teach slowly loses a dimension of its power: the one it can muster from the context of its time.

I will say this, though: while the story is a bit sad, and clearly of another surreal time, it is also uplifting. It does tell of a time when the party was coming to an end. Seriousness mixed with a freedom that comes with having nothing to lose was setting in, and "the Tribe" which formed the bonds of today's popular gay culture was just forming for the coming fight. But, to each generation of gay men more and more removed from that period, I implore that its a time worth learning about - if only for the stories you can keep close to your heart. Stories of friends who became families; of romantic and loving partnerships strengthened through adversity. Stories of living, loving, laughing, fighting, and dying as people coped - like Mr. Hubbard's story on Mr. Mercury. Where the coming fight for survival then forged the early bonds of a gay subculture, these stories color who we are today. They helped make us the funny, sardonic, exuberant, passionate, stubborn group we are today - even if we today don't know where these qualities came from.

Beyond our mechanisms and ability to cope, we can see more from those times. The stories show what we, as gay men, were then capable of an uncommon power. When abandoned, we banded together. When facing our own mortality, we were brave. As gay men, when we steadfastly cared for our chosen family or partner at their weakest is when our real strength and integrity shined through. At that moment, whether we were the ones dying or the ones living, is when love and determination informed our every move. It gave us the strength to lift a broken body, the strength to let one go, and then the ability to move forward. At that moment, and in that time, strength, tenderness, and compassion gave us power.

But love led the way.

I wonder if it still can. Anyway, onto the story, from Anita:

"We swept to Wembley in the back of one of a fleet of black limousines. I was on my way to see Queen perform live on stage for the very first time. We arrived at Wembley with about an hour to spare. The special enclosure was awash with the country's greatest rock performers. I was agog.

Freddie went to get ready. Queen would be appearing after David Bowie, who was on stage now. When David Bowie came off and headed into his own trailer, Freddie whisked after him, taking me with him. David was strange. He was sitting in front of an electric fan, trying to dry his hair.

"It's about the only fan you've got David, isn't it?" quipped Freddie. They laughed. Then Freddie said: "This is Jim. I believe you've already met."
David glanced up at me and looked blank: "No, I don't know him at all."
"Well who did your hair the other night?" I said, but I don't think it registered. Very strange.

When it was time for Queen to go on, I walked with Freddie to the stage and, watching from the wings, witnessed the most magical 20 minutes of my life. At last I had seen the real Freddie Mercury at work, whipping 70,000 people into a frenzy. He gave everything to his performance; nothing else mattered to him. When he came off, he rushed to his trailer and I tottered behind like a puppy. His first words were: "Thank God that's over!"

Joe ripped his wet clothes from him and dressed him. Adrenalin still overflowing, Freddie knocked back a large vodka to calm himself. Then his face lit up. The expression said: "Yes, we've done it!"

As we stepped out of the caravan we met a grinning Elton John. "You bastards!" he said to Freddie. "You stole the show!" Everyone backstage was converging on Freddie, Brian, Roger and John. Organiser Bob Geldof said later: "Queen were simply the best band of the day."

When we fell into bed that night, Freddie cuddled up and whispered: "Did you enjoy it?"
"What do you think?" I answered, hugging him tight. "It's the first time I've ever been to a concert."
"You're joking!" he said.
"No," I added. He was dumbfounded. I fell asleep knowing that for the first time I'd actually seen the real star Freddie Mercury doing what he did best - wowing the world.

The next morning Live Aid seemed an age away to Freddie, but not to me. When I got to the Savoy on Monday morning it was still bursting out of my ears.

I was soon back in the old routine. Every two weeks I would fly to Munich and be met at the airport. The first time after Live Aid I flew to Munich to join Freddie and was whisked direct to the Musicland studio, to watch him working on material for Queen's new album, A Kind Of Magic. In the studio Freddie had a one-track mind - work, work and more work. I watched him through the glass, but he rarely glanced my way because he was so totally absorbed. He chain-smoked or, rather, chain-lit Silk Cuts, and to boost his energy and adrenalin he slipped down slugs of vodka.

Freddie's drive amazed me. He had to keep on the go; it was part of his life blood. When he wasn't singing he'd bounce into the control room and sit behind the banks of sliders to tweak the playback mixes himself. He was always in total control.

By those happy days, the relationship between Freddie and me had deepened. I came to miss him when we were apart; I became upset. And Freddie felt the same way about me. then one weekend in London he started talking about living our lives together.

"If I asked you to come and live with me in Munich, would you?" he asked. I'd never even considered moving in with Freddie until that moment.
"Yes, I will," I said, adding, "on one condition. If I move to Germany I must have a job." I had financial commitments in Britain, and wasn't prepared to throw in my job at the Savoy to scour Munich for a job as a hairdresser who couldn't even speak German. My independence was important to me, and I wasn't prepared simply to live out of Freddie's pocket.

Freddie let the matter drop. then, 15 minutes later, he said: "And if I decide to leave Munich and come back to London?"
"Then I would consider what I wanted to do," I answered.

In the end, there wasn't much time for consideration. Over a period of weeks Freddie took to phoning most nights at three or four in the morning. Eventually my landlady got so fed up with it she gave me two weeks notice. Freddie's persistence had made me homeless. When Freddie came back to London I told him I was being evicted.

"I'm being kicked out because of your late-night calls," I said.
"Well, don't worry about it," he said calmly. "Move into Garden Lodge. There's no one there - it's empty." So I did.

I spent my first night in the large master bedroom alone, with Oscar snuggling up on top of the massive bed. I hung up a few shirts and my suit for work, but otherwise I didn't unpack as I didn't know where to put my things. Freddie returned to Britain for good the following weekend. and immediately dragged me off to bed. He said he had missed me terribly; I knew he meant it. After he had picked out wardrobes for me to use in the dressing area, he cleared all his things from one of his drawers.
"That's for your little bits and pieces."

So that's how I came to move in with him. We lived together for the next six years like man and wife.

When Freddie and I were in private he could be particularly romantic. We never once broached the subject of how long we'd be together. We just accepted that we were and would be. Occasionally he'd ask me what I wanted out of life. "Contentment and to be loved," I'd reply. It seemed like I'd found both in Freddie.

Another thing he'd often tell me, right up until the night he died, was: "I love you." And it was never an "I love you" which just rolled off the tongue; he always meant it.

I didn't find it so easy to show emotion. I'd lived on the London gay scene for many years and had come to realise you can get hurt very easily when relationships end. Each finished relationship builds up a new barrier and they become difficult to break down. But, in time, Freddie tore them all down.

I think we both shared a fear of the same thing - loneliness. You can have all the friends in the world around you, yet still feel agonisingly lonely, as Freddie said time and again. We were both acutely aware that many of our gay friends were haunted by the prospect of living out their lives alone, unwanted and unloved.

Friday, July 11 and Saturday July 12 were milestones in Queen's career - two sell-out concerts at Wembley Stadium as part of their Magic! European Tour. It was the band's first time back on the massive stage since their show-stealing Live Aid set a year earlier, and over the two nights 150,000 people would see them.

Freddie had recurring problems with nodules on his vocal cords, the price he paid for being a singer. That meant he toured with a small machine, a steam inhaler in which he firmly believed. He also sucked Strepsils throat lozenges all the time. On the first night of Wembley Freddie had some throat problems, but dismissed them as not drastic enough to stop the show. As always, I watched from all over Wembley on both nights.

The after-show party on Saturday was held at the Roof Gardens Club in Kensington and, because the press would be there, Freddie wanted Mary Austin, the company secretary of Freddie's private business, Goose Productions, which managed all his personal affairs, on his arm. It was a rare deceit that he was not in love with me and he apologised for it.
"It's got to be this way because of the press," he said.
I understood, and followed a few paces behind them.

A few weeks later, I read a feature about Freddie in the Daily Express. It reported Freddie's response to Mary's desire to have a baby by him: he would sooner have another cat. The feature also reported that Freddie was unattached.

Freddie felt that keeping to this line made things simpler for the two of us, and he was right. However, he did say in the article: "For the first time I've found a contentment within myself." He told me he was referring to our relationship.

Freddie felt Mary had long since become a public part of his life in the papers and knew she could deal with it easily enough. But he always tried to shield me from the press. He looked on fame as a double-edged sword.

After work on Friday, August 1, I flew to Barcelona to join Freddie on tour. He told me he'd been interviewed by Spanish television and declared cheekily that the main reason he was in Spain was in the hope of meeting their great opera diva, Montserrat Caballe. After the Barcelona concert we all went out to a fabulous fish restaurant. At one point I asked Roger Taylor how the tour was going.

"Well, Freddie's different this year," he said. "What have you done to him?"

He told me Freddie was a decidedly changed man. He'd stopped trawling the gay venues while the others went back to their hotel, and he'd stopped burning the candle at both ends. Roger's comment spoke volumes. I took it as a reassuring nod of approval which was very much appreciated. Coming from one of Freddie's closest friends, and one of the band, I saw it as a vote of confidence in our affair.

When the tour was over, we went on holiday to Japan. On our return, when we had cleared customs, we were ambushed from a Fleet Street reporter and photographer gleefully throwing into Freddie's face and Aids-scare story. Under the headline "Queen Star Freddie In Aids Shock" the News Of The World had alleged that Freddie had been "secretly tested for Aids" by a Harley Street clinic under his real name Freddie Bulsara. The results had shown conclusively, according to a bogus spokesman for Freddie, that he did not have the "killer disease". The tasteless story was a flyer - rubbish from start to finish. It even closed by claiming that Freddie and Mary were living together in Garden Lodge.

Freddie flipped. Why had no one from the Queen office in London raised the alarm and alerted him to the story?
"Do I look like I'm dying from Aids?" Freddie told the reporter. He said he had no idea what anyone had been saying and was clearly annoyed at what he called "such rubbish".
"It makes me feel sick," he said. "Now go away and leave me alone."
"Do I Look Like I'm Dying From Aids? Fumes Freddie," screamed the headline from the Sun on the next day. He was furious.

He said he hadn't been tested, as the papers had suggested, but the story did make him very edgy. He was clearly on his guard and for the next few days he seemed preoccupied with the story. Usually Freddie ignored any press speculation, but this time the press seemed to have struck a nerve. I guess that he had doubts about his own health, as before we met he'd done more than his fair share of living the fast-lane life of a successful rock star; all sex, drugs and rock and roll, with a string of one-night stand strangers.

The day the Sun ran the story I went back to work at the Savoy, to my humdrum routine at the barber's shop. The day didn't go well. I learned, to my horror, that the concession had been sold. I met the new owner, but wasn't very impressed with him and was even less so when he appointed his brash little brother as manager. Life at the Savoy began to get rocky. The new management tried to change the business from an old-fashioned gentlemen's barber shop into a trendy cut and blow-dry place. My life at work was fast becoming unbearable, but at least I had Freddie and Garden Lodge to come home to.

For Christmas that year, Queen had agreed to release an album of live versions of many of their hits, called Live Magic. They had also agreed to take the best part of a year off to give them each a chance to recharge their batteries as well as pursue solo projects. With so much time suddenly on his hands I thought Freddie would want to go clubbing, but quite the opposite happened. Like me, he became a stay-at-home. We began to lead a very quiet life together at Garden Lodge. Most Saturday evenings Phoebe and Joe went out and left the two of us cuddled up on the sofa watching television. Some nights we'd even be in bed by 10pm, though that never meant Freddie got up any earlier the following morning.

At the end of February, Freddie flew to Barcelona with Phoebe and record producer Mike Moran to meet Montserrat Caballe for the first time - when Freddie had made his remark on Spanish television she'd been watching and had arranged to meet him. The two great singers met in a private dining room at the Ritz Hotel. Freddie said he'd had absolutely no idea what to expect except that Montserrat was prone to tantrums. She turned up late, and Freddie introduced himself by handing her a cassette and spluttering: "Here, I've got this for you to listen to." On the tape was Exercises in Free Love, a song he'd written with Mike Moran. Montserrat liked the demo tracks and said she would be happy to work on an album with Freddie. He came home on cloud nine.

A week later Freddie and I were off to Covent Garden to hear a recital by Montsy, as Freddie called her. At the end of the performance, for an encore, she came on accompanied by Mike Moran. She announced she was going to sing a song "written by two great new friends of mine," adding, "and I believe the other is in the audience tonight".

Freddie was really surprised. His hands shot up to his eyes and he started laughing, with an expression of total astonishment on his face. The spotlights swung on Freddie, his face cupped in his hands, and the audience rose to their feet clapping wildly. So Freddie stood up and acknowledged the applause, and sank back into his chair. He listened transfixed as Montsy performed Exercises in Free Love.

Later that week, when Montsy arrived in the studio to work with Freddie, things didn't go quite the way she expected. She thought that to record with Freddie she only had to fly in, sing a few songs from sheet music and leave, but she hadn't reckoned on Freddie's unique way of working. He hadn't written out any of the music for her in advance. Instead he was going to ask her to try something, then keep reworking it until they found the exact effect he was after.

He told her: "Puccini and all these other composers are dead. I'm alive dear."

With that, she accepted his odd way of recording. He proved a hard taskmaster. Later she admitted that in those sessions Freddie got more out of her voice than she knew she was capable of.

Before Easter I went home to Ireland to visit my family. I'm sure my family suspected I was gay, although I'd never said anything and I never mentioned I was Freddie's lover. I stayed with my mum, who didn't have a phone, so it meant I had to walk four miles to the nearest phone-box to ring Freddie. The day before I was due to fly back I rang Freddie at home. He asked when I'd be back, and there was an urgency in his voice which made me suspect something was wrong.
"The doctors have just taken a big lump out of me," he replied. I asked him to tell me more, but he said he couldn't over the phone; he'd tell me when I got home.
"Well, don't worry," I said. "I'll be home tomorrow." My immediate reaction was that Freddie was exaggerating a little. If he was feeling low, he had a habit of wounding dramatic over the phone to win extra attention from me.

Next day, when I got back to Garden Lodge, Freddie was in our bedroom. As I lay in bed with my arm around him, Freddie cuddled up close and told me what he couldn't tell me the previous day.

He pointed to a tiny mark on his shoulder, no bigger than a thumbnail and with two tiny stitches in it. The doctors had taken a piece of his flesh for testing and the results had just come back. He had Aids.
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. I couldn't believe it: the doctors had to be wrong.
"Who did this test?" I asked. "Come on, we'll go to somebody else." We had to get a second opinion.
"no," said Freddie. "These guys are the best available."
"If you want to leave me I'll understand," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"If you want to leave me and move out of Garden Lodge I won't stop you; I'll understand," he said.
"But I love you," I said. "I'm not going to walk out on you now or ever. Let's not talk about it any more."
Freddie looked up at me and we hugged very tightly. The consequences of what he'd just told me never really sank in. It was something I was never prepared for, nor had any idea how to deal with. Instead I tried to put it out of my mind as much as possible.
In many ways I was still hoping for a miracle: a mis-diagnosis. Apart from ensuring our sex was safe from then on, I wasn't worried about my own health for a moment. Freddie suggested several times that I had and Aids test myself, but I wouldn't, nor would I give him a reason for my decision.

The truth was that I couldn't see what good my having a test could do. If I was HIV positive, I thought there was a real possibility that Freddie might suffer some kind of guilt as in all probability he'd have given it to me. If the test proved negative and I was in the clear, I felt that it would be equally unfair on Freddie, like saying, "Yah boo, sucks. I'm all right jack!" The only thing that mattered was looking after Freddie and trying to keep him healthy.

That was the last time we referred directly to his illness and from that moment, if anything came up on television to do with Aids, we would turn over to another channel or switch the set off. It's not that he was unsympathetic to others with the illness; he simply didn't like being reminded of his own fate.

On May 4, Freddie was devastated by another story about him in the Sun. And so was I. His old friend, Paul Prenter had stitched him up. Aids Kills Freddie's Two Lovers, it declared, and the story was run across three pages. Tony Bastin, from Brighton, and John Murphy, an airline steward, had died from the disease in 1986. And Prenter claimed that Freddie had called him late one night and poured out his fears about Aids.

The feature also named me as his lover. My immediate thoughts were of what my family back home in Ireland would make of it. I was due back for a visit, and if word was out that I was the lover of someone so famous they would certainly be disappointed to hear it third-hand from the press. It was something I'd have preferred to tell them in my own time.

We later learned that Prenter had been paid about £32,000 by the paper for his story. Freddie never spoke to him again. For the next few days there was more in the Sun, and at each episode of Prenter's story Freddie became angrier. Prenter sold the paper several photographs of Freddie with various lovers and these were thrown over two pages under the heading All The Queen's Men.

A few times after the Sun sell-out, Prenter rang Garden Lodge, but Freddie wouldn't speak to him. Prenter tried to excuse his appalling behaviour by saying that the press had been hounding him for so many weeks he'd finally cracked under the pressure. Freddie didn't want to know Prenter's excuses; he felt unforgivably let down. The saddest thing about the Prenter episode was that it crushed Freddie's ability to trust others, except for a select few. He made no new friends after that.

I often felt sorry for Freddie. For all he had - the money and the success - he couldn't walk down a street or go shopping without being stared at, a pet hate of his.

Feeling bruised by Prenter and the Sun., Freddie decided that he needed to get well away from them both and we flew to Ibiza for a weeks holiday. At the end of the trip Freddie and Montserrat Caballe made a surprise appearance at the Ibiza '92 festival to celebrate Spain's staging of the Olympics five years later. The night was wonderfully decadent, held at the lavish Ku Club in San Antonio in front of an elite audience of about 500 people. When Freddie and Montserrat sang Barcelona in public for the very first time, you could feel the pride the song was instilling in them all. Some even shed a few tears.

Back in London, I was beginning to discover I did not have much job security at the Savoy. Things at the barber's shop were coming to a head. I'd started telling some of my regular clients that there was a chance I would be leaving, although I had no idea where I'd go next. By mid-July I'd had enough. When I'd done my last trim of the day I phoned the owner of the shop and asked to see him, but he was too busy. "Fine," I told him. "As of 4.30 this afternoon, I'm finished." He didn't ask me why, but asked whether I could work a month's notice. I said I wouldn't.

I rang Freddie at Garden Lodge to tell him what had happened. "All right, dear" Freddie said calmly. !you start working tomorrow for me in the garden. We'll work your wages out when you get home."

When I got back to Garden Lodge, Freddie was waiting for me. "Give us a cuddle," he said. "Well done! I'm glad you're not going to work there any more." Then we talked about me taking over from the part-time gardeners. I told him I'd work as his gardener on one condition - that no one, not even he, could interfere in what I was doing or the way I worked. It was agreed. Not only that, I even got a wage increase; he put me on £600 a month after tax.

Freddie's condition was soon showing physically. A few large red marks appeared on the back of his hand and on his left cheek. These were Kaposi's Sarcoma. He got the first marks neutralised by special laser treatment, and they faded slowly. But the treatment left slight blemishes, so he wore make-up to cover them up.

It wasn't until the autumn of 1988 on a particularly dank day, that I met for the first time Freddie's parents, Bomi and Jer Bulsara. They came to Garden Lodge to have dinner with their son. I noted a strong physical resemblance to his mother, a little lady with dark, greying hair and a lovely smile.

At the time, the mews and the garden were still a mass of foundation trenches and mounds of earth. I was in the garden and Freddie brought his mum and dad out with him when he brought me a cup of coffee. He had not told them about our affair.

"If they ask you where you sleep, tell them in the Pink Room!" he said.

A few minutes later, as he showed them around the mews, I overheard them asking who I was.

"He's my gardener," Freddie said.

"Where does he live?" they asked.

"He lives here, of course," he replied.

I didn't get to speak to Freddie's parents that day, but I met them many times after that and we always got on well. I would drive Freddie over to their small terraced house in Feltham, Middlesex, to visit them. We'd both sit down with them for tea in the kitchen.

Mrs Bulsara always got the tea at her own pace - she never rushed around. She was very independent and still drove herself everywhere in her little car. the Bulsara home was very homely. Freddie had lived there since the family first came to Britain. (They were originally from Africa, and moved first to India before settling here in 1964.) I don't think they kept a bedroom for him there, nor did they have any photographs of Freddie on display. Freddie had once offered to buy them a bigger house, but they said no. They were clearly very content with what they had.

Freddie's dad was very proud of his garden. One day he took me out to look at it. He had a fabulously shaped eucalyptus tree and many beautiful old roses. When we reached the roses he said, with a hint of regret in his voice, that he was sorry the roses were reaching the end of their natural life. I wondered whether he was telling me he knew that Freddie was reaching the end of his life.

I can't remember Freddie telling his parents that he was ill, but as time went on it was difficult to disguise from them the fact that something was terribly wrong. Freddie's physical appearance was beginning to change and he looked thinner on each visit. Freddie's mum knew he was very ill. I have a feeling Freddie did eventually tell them the truth, but he did not do so in front of any of us.

Freddie went to see his mum every Thursday afternoon for tea, and he rarely came away empty-handed. His mum made wonderful cheese biscuits and packed them into a little lunch-box for him. In fact, in one of the last photographs the newspapers published of Freddie he was outside Garden Lodge with a box of his mum's cheese biscuits under his arm.

On Joe Fannelli's birthday in 1990, he told everyone in Garden Lodge that he had some bad news. He, too, was not well.

"You mean you're HIV?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I've actually got full-blown Aids."

What can you say? I'm sorry? Nothing of any use came into my mind. It would be another blow to contend with in Garden Lodge. We were all worried about what the press would make of it if they discovered that Joe was also ill. We had visions of the sick headlines and guessed our house would be dubbed "Aids Lodge". It all made us more determined than ever to pull together and stay optimistic.

Despite putting a brave face on things for everyone else's benefit at Garden Lodge, privately I began to get very anxious about my own health. I thought I could be HIV positive as well. The more I reluctantly thought about it, the more it seemed likely. So I decided to have and Aids test but to tell no one. I did it in total secrecy under a pseudonym. On the excuse of going to see a friend, I slipped out of Garden Lodge for a day and traveled to Brighton.

Before the doctor would agree to take a blood sample for testing I had to undergo special counseling. The full implications of proving positive were explained to me compassionately. I told them I realised all the cons and wanted to proceed.

That night back at Garden Lodge I found it impossible to sleep. I had told the hospital that I could handle the news if it was going to be bad. But I wasn't so sure in my own mind that I really could. What would I do?

A few days later I rang for the results.

"I'm very sorry, you're positive," said the doctor. But I didn't have full-blown Aids. I was dazed. I didn't tell Freddie. He had enough to cope with; my news could only upset him. I buried myself in work in the garden and workshop and put thoughts of my own future out of my mind. But the thought of it kept coming back to me each night as I struggled to sleep and stop my mind from racing.

Freddie's health continued to deteriorate. He was thin and found it difficult to sleep, so I decided it was better for him if I moved to my own room permanently. Some nights I would still sleep with him, but usually I just lay next to him on top of the bedclothes. He'd snuggle up next to me for comfort. Freddie nicknamed my new bedroom the Ice Box as I slept with the window wide open, even in the middle of winter.

The move also marked the point from which almost all normal sexual relations ended between us. It was clear that sex was no longer a pleasure for him but an exhausting ordeal instead. So we settled for the next best thing: gentle kissing and heart-felt cuddles. Those cuddling sessions would be as rewarding in their way as any sex we ever had.

Freddie's 45th birthday, on September 5, 1991, was perhaps the quietest of his life. He was very aware that he wasn't on top form and that he could no longer disguise the fact that he was coming to the end of his life. He didn't want a huge bash for his friends because he didn't want them to see how sad he looked. The only thing he wanted from anyone for his last birthday was privacy.

In October the band released their single The Show Must Go On, with the B-side Keep Yourself Alive. As Freddie expected, the press weren't slow to report its questioning, haunting lyrics. They speculated on possible hidden meanings in lyrics like "What are we living for? and "I'll soon be turning round the corner now" at a time when he looked so frail. To me, the most autobiographical line was: "My make-up may be flaking but my smile still stays on." That was true. No matter how ill Freddie felt, he never grumbled to anyone or sought sympathy of any kind. It was his battle, no one else's, and he always wore a brave face against the ever-increasing odds against him.

The last video Freddie made was for the single These Are The Days Of Our Lives. (It was released, shortly after his death, on the flip-side of Bohemian Rhapsody.) It seemed a very apt swansong. When Freddie was making the video he looked worse than I had ever seen him. Now the thick make-up he used to disguise the markings on his face only seemed to highlight his gaunt features. The security at the studio was very tight and only the essential technicians were there.

We spent a last holiday in Switzerland, when I finally came to accept that Freddie wasn't going to live much longer. We were in the last few days before the end. One day Freddie and I were watching an old Thirties' movie. The heroine asked her partner: "Will we spend the rest of our lives together?" Freddie looked at me and asked the same thing.

Coming back from Switzerland, Freddie was in good spirits. We'd arranged for him to be sped through customs. In his final few weeks he'd refer to it proudly. "Even Liz Taylor doesn't get away with that, dear!" he'd say.

Of course, Freddie was given special permission to avid the queues at customs and passport control because he was so ill. He tired easily and looked terrible, and it would have been cruel to allow him to attract the attentions of the crowd. None of us were allowed to accompany Freddie and for a while he was split from the rest of us, dependent on total strangers for the first time in years. We tried protesting, but it was no use. We still had to go through immigration like everyone else while poor frail Freddie was left in the Customs Hall to wait for us.

Back at Garden Lodge, Freddie set out on the last three weeks of his life. He remained in good spirits, though he took to his bed for long parts of the day. He didn't once talk about work. Some days he'd get up in the morning and come down in his dressing gown for a cup of tea before returning to his room for the rest of the day. And I'd take him a cup of tea, along with his beloved cats for company.

We kept ourselves sane by doing jobs around the house and still pretending that everything was normal. I got round to putting fairly lights in the second magnolia tree by the corner of the house, but who cared so long as it made Freddie a little happier. I waited until Freddie and I were along in the bedroom before showing him the lights.

"You haven't passed any remark about the tree," I said.

He walked to the window and his face lit up when he saw the tree twinkling.

"Oh, you've done it," he said and hugged me.

Before, he would have responded differently, perhaps snapping sarcastically:

"Why has it taken you so long?" But now he no longer had the strength.

I found solace in working in the garden. I lived for the enjoyment he could get from looking at me and the garden from his window. Right up to the very last day I worked on the garden. Even on the Sunday he died, I mowed the lawn.

I abandoned a planned trip to Ireland as time was so clearly running out for Freddie. In the second week Freddie came off most of his medication except painkillers. It was a decision he took against the advice of his doctors.

Much of the time Freddie slept or watched television. Joe or Phoebe stayed with him through the day, relieved for short breaks by Mary or his old friend Dave Clark. Dave came every day, and we appreciated his help immensely.

Although I was busy working in the garden where he could see me, Freddie needed to hear from me more and more that I loved him. So I got into the habit of flying upstairs and quickly sticking my head around the door.

"Hey," I'd say, "I love you!"

Then I'd run back down to get on with the gardening. I knew it made him feel good for a few minutes at least. Sometimes when I got downstairs again I'd look up at his window and he'd be there waiting for me to emerge outside; then he'd blow me a kiss.

I spent the evenings alone with Freddie. We would talk or watch television, or I would doze alongside him. He'd rest his frail head in the cradle of my arm and I'd gently massage his scalp.

Joe, Phoebe and I also started taking turns to stay with Freddie through the night, usually lying awake next to him on constant stand-by. We had an intercom system installed so we could summon one another, and pagers so we could be reached instantly. We wanted to be with him at the end.

In the last 10 days before Freddie died, the press set up camp outside Garden Lodge. In the early morning one or two would arrive, followed by more as the day went on. After an hour or so there'd be six or seven dozen. Freddie was obviously aware that the press were waiting outside, since you could often hear them from the bedroom. But he never knew to what extent they were there. He thought that at any one time there were no more than a handful and none of us ever corrected him. It wouldn't have helped.

Contrary to some newspaper reports at the time, Freddie's bedroom never became a "mini-hospital". He had a drip-stand at his right-hand side, in case he needed a blood transfusion, but everything else in the room was exactly as it had always been. In the last few days Freddie stopped eating solid foods; he just ate fruit and drank fruit juices.

Mary could say some clumsy things, but perhaps she said them without thinking. One day she suggested that we should ask Freddie to take off the wedding ring that I'd given to him, as when her mother had died her fingers had swollen badly.

"The ring stays on, Mary," I said.

Later, when I was alone with Freddie, I mentioned the idea of slipping the ring off in case his finger should swell up.

"No, he said. "I'm keeping it on." It never came off; he was even cremated with it on.

The morning of Thursday, November 21, was a very sad day for me. It was the last time Freddie appeared at his bedroom window calling "cooee", and I knew that the end was very near.

That night I took special care of him. He dozed and I lay next to him on top of the bed. He only had to elbow me gently and I'd be awake if he wanted anything.

When dawn broke I was already wide awake, quietly watching television. Freddie was still asleep, cuddled inside my arm and holding on to my hand. Every so often he'd softly squeeze it. "Do you love me?" he'd asked when he woke. More than ever he wanted to hear how much he was treasured. "Yes, I love you," I whispered and kissed him on the forehead.

At about 6.30 Freddie needed to go to the loo and I walked alongside to steady him. He sat down to have a pee and I leaned against his shoulder to support him. "You're in the way!" he grumbled, and elbowed me painfully.

"If I move away from here you're going to fall over," I insisted, I got him back to bed where he sat quietly. The rest of that morning he seemed alert and well aware of what was going on. A meeting with his management triggered a flurry of activity to do with Freddie's statement to the press that he was suffering from Aids. I've always been doubtful that Freddie made that statement of his own accord. He'd kept it all quiet for so long it seemed odd that he'd suddenly want to start confessing things as if he had something to be ashamed of. I'm sure he felt his fate should not become a matter for public debate. It was only a matter for him and his immediate friends. And I'm sure he didn't want to risk Joe and me being subjected to the publicity. I did not even know that Freddie was going to issue a statement. But I do know that Freddie specifically requested that the statement was released worldwide to prevent the British gutter press from having a scoop to themselves. It was Freddie's way of saying to those so eagerly awaiting his death: "Fuck the lot of you!"

Freddie dozed through much of the next day, and in the evening I went up to see him. We were lying together on the bed when he asked me what time it was.

"It's eight o'clock," I said.

"Soon the whole world will know," he sighed looking at me with sad, brown eyes. This was the first indication I had that something was going on.

When Freddie nodded off I went downstairs and mentioned what he'd said to Joe. He confirmed that a statement explaining his condition had been prepared. It was due to be released at midnight.

I wasn't supposed to be keeping watch over Freddie through Saturday night - Joe was. But he'd gone out to the gym, then out for a drink, and didn't reappear. I was with Freddie in his room at around 10pm when he got terribly agitated. He kept asking me where Joe had got to.

"Why, what's the problem?" I asked.

"Well, I have to take my medicine."

"Oh, that's not a problem," I answered. "I can give you the pills you want. Which ones are they?" He knew exactly which three or four pills he needed - the painkillers. He had been taking AZT, but had abandoned it along with the rest.

Freddie and I chatted away all night. I don't remember what we wittered to each other about, even when Freddie was well. It was all happy inconsequential stuff. We didn't watch television any more. We just lay on the bed cuddling until he dozed off. And sometimes so did I.

Occasionally he gave me a quick jab in the ribs to stop me snoring, or a harder one if he needed something. Then he asked me to prepare some fruit for him in the kitchen. I sliced some mango and added a little sorbet to help fight his chronic dehydration.

We drifted asleep again. When Freddie next woke me it was about three and he seemed incapable of explaining himself. He couldn't talk properly and kept pointing to his mouth frowning. Something was terribly wrong. I tried to work out what he wanted, but couldn't. About half an hour later Joe came back home and saw I was having problems. As soon as Freddie spotted Joe, he pointed to his mouth.

Joe leaned over Freddie and opened his mouth. A piece of mango had lodged at the back of his throat which he could neither swallow nor bring back up. Joe prised Freddie's jaw open wide and flicked out the offending piece of fruit with his finger. Freddie didn't say anything. Joe and I were fully aware that a healthy Freddie would have been furious with me for not understanding. He sipped some juice, then went back to sleep.

Freddie woke up again at six in the morning and uttered what were to be his last two words: "Pee, Pee" He wanted to be helped to the loo. he looked terribly weak and I had to carry him. As I lowered him back on to the bed I heard a deafening crack. It sounded like one of Freddie's bones breaking, cracking like the branch of a tree. He screamed out in pain and went into a convulsion.

I yelled for Joe. I needed him to pin Freddie to the bed to stop him injuring himself. Over the years, Joe had seen Freddie have one anxiety attack after another and he knew just how to handle him - by pinning him down until the anxiety had passed. He said: "Freddie, calm down." Then Freddie's hand shot up and went straight for Joe's throat. He was like a drowning man clutching for air.

Joe freed himself from Freddie's grip and eventually he calmed him down. Then, exhausted by the strain, Freddie promptly fell asleep. We phoned Dr Atkinson, and he came over and gave Freddie an injection of morphine to help him through the day. Joe later told me Freddie was allergic to morphine, but it was now so late in the day it didn't seem to matter.

Mary came by later in the morning and we all stood around in the kitchen, waiting to hear Dr Atkinson's prognosis. He said: "Freddie will probably last until Thursday."

Joe and I looked at each other. We both knew that there was no way Freddie could last that long.

Mary left shortly after that. The rest of that day Freddie nodded in and out of sleep. I felt the need to get well away from Garden Lodge, so that afternoon I took myself off to Holland Park where I moped around for an hour.

By the time I got back, Freddie was as ill as I'd ever seen him. He seemed to know what was going on around him, but couldn't respond to any of it; he could hear, but couldn't move his eyes to acknowledge he'd heard. He just stared straight ahead, eyes glazed.

Dr Atkinson stayed at the house all afternoon and left just after 6.30pm. I thanked him for having stayed so long, saw him out, and then went straight back to be with Freddie. Freddie made clear he wanted to go to the loo. After the terrible convulsions which had followed his morning visit to the bathroom, I wasn't bold enough to try to cope with him again single-handed. I flew downstairs and found Phoebe.

By the time we got back upstairs, Freddie had wet the bed.

Phoebe looked over at me and asked:

"Shall we change the bedclothes?"

"We'd better," I answered, "If we don't and he wakes up he'll go absolutely apeshit." I don't know why I said that; perhaps it was my subconscious trying to make out that things were less serious than they were.

Phoebe started changing the bed while I took care of Freddie. As I was changing Freddie into a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, I felt him try to raise his left leg to help a little. It was the last thing he did. I looked down at him, knowing he was dead.

"Phoebe," I cried. "I'm sorry, he's gone."

I slipped my arm under Freddie's neck, kissed him and then held him. His eyes were still open. I can remember the expression on his face - and when I go to sleep every night it's still there in front of me. He looked radiant.

One minute he was a boy with a gaunt, sad little face and the next he was a picture of ecstasy. Freddie's whole face went back to everything it had been before. He looked finally and totally at peace. Seeing him like that made me happy in my sadness. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew that he was no longer in pain.

I stopped the tiny fly-wheel of the wind-up carriage clock by the bed. I'd given it to Freddie because he told me he'd always wanted one. It read 12 minutes past seven. I've never started it again."

Link to this Story.

I stood there for several minutes by myself...

2010-01-18T11:42:00.001-05:00

So, there are only a few things in this world that just tick me off. One of them is rudeness and the other is poor service. Combine both together, and you get me quite pissy. This guy does both.

He does say "hello" when I come in, but then puts his nose back into his ordering paperwork. I look at the menu and then realize, for 4 minutes, he has yet to ask me what I'd like. He just stands there, face down, until the cook from the back notices (that's her in the picture) and yells something. He lies that "I asked him what he wants," and then stands at the register. I order a gyro platter with a Diet Coke and pay (a rather inflated) the price.

The guy doesn't say thank you, scurries to the back, and when he comes back, doesn't give me my Coke. Instead, he puts his nose back in the ordering paperwork.

When the lady comes out with my food in a bag for takeout, I tell her "I'm eating in, you could have saved the bag." She says she didn't know. I say "And I didn't get my Diet Coke." She gets it for me, but of course, doofus isn't there to observe someone else doing his job.

Hopefully, he was just having a bad morning - but I don't think so. On three previous occasions have I come in here and then left because people were standing at the counter and either ignored or didn't see me or didn't acknowledge me. I don't like eating in places like this. In this competitive economic environment, especially for restaurants in SqHill, I feel like its asking to lose business and build a bad reputation. Hence, this blog entry.

But what's worse is that I fear this gentleman is a manager. If so, this business is in trouble because I can see where the employees are learning their customer greeting skills. He's combined two of my least-favorite social faux pas: ignoring me and bad service. The bad service, therefore, is not worth the money and the food (which I am eating now) is nothing special. Too bad.

My verdict? Head down to Aiello's or the Greek Marketplace. The prices and food are better, and the service is zipzap. In the meantime, I am establishing a rule for my blog: I will do no harm by outright naming the establishment described in this blog, or any others I have a negative experience at. But I will give enough of a rough descriptor and a picture with no logo's so that if someone is truly set on avoiding it, they can (with a little deductive reasoning).

And hopefully the establishment will see the bad blog post and take it upon themselves to change it up a bit - I hope. If I stop in and it looks like they have changed or I hear they have improved from others, I'll return. Until then, I will not be spending money at the restaurant with an "Envious" neighbor across the street with the red dining room.

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Homo Twinkiferous

2010-01-16T18:59:00.002-05:00

The Homo Twinkiferous - shown here angry and wet and about to pounce, like his close relation, the gay male housecat. This particular specimen does not belong to me. I personally believe twinks should be kept in the wild, where they can roam free and pee where they want. Nope, this one belongs to a friend. Mine would be clearly tagged, wearing a collar, and have all his shots.

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When sharing a room...

2010-01-16T18:55:00.002-05:00

...make sure the lock on the bathroom door works, or be sure to stay silent while sharing the shower with a friend. Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Dunkin' Donuts in Squirrel Hill

2010-01-14T07:45:00.001-05:00

Well! So SqHill lost a Panera, but I'm not sure we haven't gained so much more. Located at the corner of Shady and Forbes, Dunkin' Donuts has invaded my neighborhood and my diet. But maybe this isn't what I thought it would be: a measurable increase in my cholesterol and carb intake!

Yes, faithful but absent readers, there are the standard donuts, donut holes, and muffins. Coffee by the jug is of course served. This is a senior citizens coffee klatsch dream!

But also on the menu are super healthy breakfast choice items. This morning, I had an egg-white and veggie sausage with cheese bagel sandwich, with a sensibly portioned side of hash-browns and coffee. Also on the menu were egg white wraps with veggie bacon - listed clearly on the menu at less than 190 cals a wrap. Indeed, this Dunkin' Donuts only had veggimeat options for its bacon and sausage. Meaning a breakfast here is probably healthier than the one you can get elsewhere in the neighborhood. Plus, it was fast and only $5.00 - I can eat breakfast again!! Clearly, the city based Dunkin's have to offer healthier options to the hip, urban crowd; the choices here aren't what you'd find at the stores in smaller towns or the suburbs.

The store is decorated as an outsized Dunkin'. Tile floors don't mix well with the coffeehouse furniture, such as a sofa and comfy chairs. But there is a fireplace and two LCD TV's so that makes up for the odd mix of hard and soft surfaces. DD would be wise to mix a little carpet in the areas - I'd stay longer and spend more.

All-in-all, a great pit stop for a quick breakfast before heading to work or school. Get here early - the line sometimes pushes to the door around 7:30am. And speak up. The room isn't acoustically proofed. Music playing, people talking, food cooking may have caused the lady behind the counter to misunderstand me when I said large coffee instead of small. She also may not have been paying attention, as they seem to be steadily busy and it is 7:00am. My only complaint this time around, and I'm not sure at this time of morning I would do any better.

Overall, 3 out of 4 stars. A great neighborhood addition which was risky but was done well and considered the eating habits of the locals. Now I wonder just what will go in the old Panera space on Murray? Hmmm.
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Word of the Week

2010-01-13T21:01:00.001-05:00

Twitterpated: spring love; infatuated.
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Let Them Talk ....and then Drop.

2010-01-11T03:57:00.008-05:00

Here's an interesting article from the L.A. Times by Janet Hook about the filibuster procedure in the Senate - the supposedly last-option scenario that, lately, has become closer to an upfront option.

"Some Democrats want to rein in the filibuster" via the L.A. Times.

Democrats want to rein the in the filibuster, and for good reason. Although nothing is written in stone, and getting health care off the docket as soon as possible will be good for the Dems game plan in 2010, things are not looking up. Instead of a gain/hold of seats this year, Democrats are probably looking towards at least moderate losses. If the jobs picture does not improve dramatically by summer, you can bet on massive losses by incumbents - the majority of whom happen to be Democrats at the moment. Republicans will pin every bad piece of economic news to the Dems, paint every legislative victory in a negative light (i.e., health care, stimulus, infrastructure), and will highlight every legislative failure as further evidence that the Democrats aren't interested in reaching across the aisle. And, make no mistake about it, the Christmas non-bombing and Al Qaeda will find its way into election ads for partisan races from Senate on down to local dog catcher. If a candidate seems desperate enough, he or she may even be craven enough to use the Fort Hood shootings as ad fodder to attack Democrats on security.

And with the exception of the Fort Hood shooting (let's hope we don't reach a new "Willie Horton" low point in American politics), there is absolutely no reason for Republicans (or any challenger to the incumbent regardless of party) NOT to go on the attack. We haven't had great change in either direction, as Obama promised. This is why we have losses for the White House party in the first midterm after taking office - change takes time, and there is often little evident except partisan bickering and chest beating for the WH-holding party to run on. This is not evidence of failure by Obama; it's also not evidence of success. It's otherwise just dead-space; a vacuum. And that vaccuum gets filled with loud, noisy campaign ads by clever speech-giving pols. It has to get filled with such claptrap, because that's the kind of thing that gets people to turn out in midterms - not political speeches and policy papers. That's the kind of thing that gets people elected when there hasn't been change in either direction. Even if it's total manufactured BS, it works - and there isn't a reason in the world not to use it if you think it can get you elected. After all, your candidate would be better in office regardless of how he got there, right? Moral and ethical questions can be addressed later when he's the incumbent and that godless, nameless, bastard liberal/conservative is out. HA.

Hence why Republicans love the filibuster right now. It allows them to, at least, prevent any major legislative victories without a solid 60-vote supermajority - which for a big-tent party like the Democrats is difficult to hold. At the very least, the filibuster and like procedures lows down the policy production of the Congress to a slow drip, limiting the amount of legislation that gets out. And the Republicans have become very good at claiming that all they want is a seat at the table, for real input on bills, and that if the President and his party would only compromise on the details, we could have a bipartisan love-fest on Capitol Hill again. This forces the President and the Democrats into a position where Republicans can say their hands are clean on national problems like jobs, and that they are the victim of political bullying. And nobody likes a bully. And nobody likes gridlock. And, certainly, nobody has a very high opinion of Congress right now - it's in the dumps. And the latest polls show that, as a result of all this, Republicans have closed the popularity gap with once-highly regarded Democrats. (Yep, the G.W. Bush era is closed, peoples). All this from the quiet threat of constant filibusters.

Democrats know two things right now. One, if they want to get any legislation done to hang their hat on before November, they have to find a way to rein in the filibuster immediately.

Two is that even if they don't find a way to do it soon so the results show before November, they have to start hedging their bets that losses in November aren't as massive as one may think - and that they will have to govern somewhere between a simple majority and supermajority after. This means that legislation will need Republican support as well as conservative Democrat support in order to pass, but that the most extreme fringes of either party can thwart anything resembling sanity and bipartisanship with the threat of filibuster. Right now, at least some policy is getting out; if the Republicans continue to be grumpy after November, you could see even less unless Democrats start governing as Conservatives prefer (on abortion, jobs, taxes, welfare, environment, etc). In other words, a "Democrat" Congress in name only, churning out Democrat bills on the surface but substantively conservative underneath.

And good government people know one thing: none of this is good for policy or the nation. Truth to tell, Congress and the federal government are giants that are not meant to move fast anyway. Only in times of national crisis or emergencies do we see Congress move swiftly on anything - only the executive branch can rally that kind of force. But government does rely on Congress (especially its upper house, the Senate) to move legislation down the pipeline to address long-term issues and ideas, deliberate, argue in committee to kill or move it forward, and then eventually vote. That's, along with its oversight powers, are all Congress are really there for. If Congress isn't doing that, then issues aren't getting addressed in an already slow-moving body - and that means trouble in a few years when far-reaching problems with infrastructure or security come to roost which should have been addressed by fore-thinking pols today. (This is why we have committees and "expert" Senators and Congressmen, btw - though they are windbags, if you spend enough time in committee, you see what the future of an issue is).

But I propose this: after health care (which should just be passed, as it has been watered down to the point of near nothingness because of the threat of filibuster), Democrats should pick another hot button issue. Not the environment (that's not bread-and-butter enough for Mr. and Ms. America to get their none-too-sharp minds around). Something economic, with a populist bent.

If you can wrangle in seniors, even better, because once they get cranky, they start banging on pols doors in Washington with their walkers and oxygen tanks - and they vote their self-interests regardless. But often times issues which are important to seniors are diametrically different than those populist image-driving issues, and seniors are quiet in their opposition. You'd be surprised how many seniors AREN'T for better schools because they pay property taxes but don't have children attending; how many don't care about taxes for infrastructure, because they don't commute to work anymore; and how many aren't for new entitlements beyond an expansion of Medicare and Social Security. In the end, for the fixed-income set, it's really about keeping taxes low until they die, and making sure their entitlements are secure regardless of how its accomplished. But boy, seniors do know how to make a stink and they back it up with the threat of a vote!

Back in the 90's, there was a similar showdown between Bill, Newt and the new conservative Congress who were becoming horrible government boors (sound familiar?). Of course, they didn't threaten constant filibuster back then - they were just shoving a ton of bad government bills towards the executive to sign. No, the situation has devolved from that point, with Repubs becoming very sore losers with a sense of entitlement to power in the White House and Congress and the idea that they should always get their way. That compromise when they are in office means "All Conservative" proposals, all the time; and when the Democrats are in office means "Mostly Conservative/Little Liberal," or there is no support. This is what they filibuster over - and doesn't it seem a little unfair? Doesn't it sound like a child throwing a tantrum on the playground?

Bill's response? A government shutdown. When people starting having the services that the federal government provides delayed or stopped, you better believe that public opinion quickly turned away from "principle" to "where's my social security check?" Support for the Republican's dropped out, who suddenly to be heartless and willing to sacrifice the country for principle. Support for Bill rose to the point that he was re-elected in '96 easily and was able to weather the Lewinsky affair, because he looked like he was "one of the people." The Republicans became a very effective foil, because of that shutdown.

So, what should we do today? Another shutdown. A government shutdown over some kind of spending bill which affects medicare and social security payments getting out on time (there's your senior angle); which affects medicaid and other entitlements (your populist angle); and affects state aid (which should piss off the rest of the public). Tack some kind of entitlement, environmental regulation, expansion of government to a budget item which the government requires, and then watch the Republicans freak out. Then allow them to filibuster.

And here's where the beauty of it begins. The current record for filibuster is held by Sen. Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, who in 1957 spoke with limited interruption for 24 hours and 18 minutes on a civil rights bill. However, this was accomplished with some minor rules infractions and help from his Senate colleagues from both sides of the aisle and from the North - collegiality you would be hard pressed to find today. Thurmond committed some rules breaches to keep the floor; senators were allowed to ask him questions during his speech to help rest his voice; he was even allowed to quickly take a moment to eat a sandwich in the cloakroom thanks to procedural maneuvering. I posit that, had these infractions not been allowed to take place, Thurmond probably wouldn't have made it to 24 hours before he became ill. Even with the breaches, I doubt he could have continued another 24 hours.

The average age of the U.S. Senate is 60 years. There are 40 Republican Senators. Using Thurmond's record of 24 hours, if all the Republican's filibustered, the country would be looking at around 40 days of Republican babbling while the government was shutdown. If the Democrats offered no collegial assistance (no sandwich in the cloakroom, please) and objected to every infraction, 24 hours is the most you would get out of each senator before he or she started to fade.

Even the younger and healthier ones - the 40 year olds and such - may last a couple days, but eventually they would start to fade as well. Standing and talking for hours on end is stressful and will have a health toll, even on a young senator. So, allowing for 48 hours of talking from the rare young whippersnapper? You're probably looking at 60 days of Republican babbling. And while Republicans bring the "USA Today" and "War and Peace" to read aloud from the Senate floors, the public will watch on C-Span while they desperately wait for entitlement checks for themselves and aid payments to their local and state governments.

And then, magically, three things will happen. First, like in the 90's shutdown, the Republican's will be shone for what they are once again - a party hostage to principle, unwilling to budge for pragmatic concerns and human decency, and unable to "govern" but more than willing to "preach."

Second, modern Senators and politicians will be reminded of something that should snap a little true bipartisanship, collegiality, and compromise back into place. That the threat of filibuster actually requires you to do it, and there is a great physical toll. That talking of filibuster may actually get you called out to do it, unlike talk of sending troops into battle when you have never done military service - which senators and other pols regularly experience. In this case, they may actually HAVE to speak for 48 hours on end for these principles they hold so dear. Suddenly, after hour 18, reality sets in and things probably will be put back into perspective - that when you are in the minority, compromise means picking your battles and finding ways to work with the majority in their governing philosophy. And that elections matter, and that if you want to govern with a heavy hand, you have to win them - or be forced to speak for 48 hours straight if you want to belly ache over everything.

And, finally, and most deliciously - senators will begin to drop like flies. Ol' Strom was a summabitch, but he knew how to hold on. The hearty senator lived for 100 years. But not every senator is built like that; Strom and senators like Bob Byrd are the exception, not the rule. Despite the availability of a Capitol gym, health services, and the like, the rigors of the Senate and the life on the campaign trail takes its toll. Waist lines expand. Stamina diminishes. Many of them have diseases unknown to us; more than a few have (sadly) publicly battled cancer. These are not always the healthiest people, folks. Some of them are kept under some type of observation by doctors, nurses, and other caretakers; more than a few have (quietly) spent many a night in the hospital rather than at home for simple colds and minor aches and ailments.

The oldest current Republican senator is Jim Bunning of Kentucky at 78 and, in fact, a good chunk of those over 65 in the Senate happen to be Republican. So, you do the math just on those over 65, folks. That's 20 Republican Senators; half the current Republican class. Can half of them, over 65, talk for days on end to prop up the threat of filibuster? Odds are they can't.

So, I say: let them try. Instead of reining in the filibuster, pick an issue, Democrats. Let the obstinate and childish Republican senators filibuster. When stomach pains kick in and their stomachs begin to growl, and nausea sets in on their aged bodies, they will learn. Allow them water, but do not allow them food on the floor of our venerable Senate. But even if they find a sneaky way to eat or even suck on Mentos and M&M's to get through the speech, human processes will come calling eventually. That's when live video is shot of blowhard Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell being forced poop and pee in a bucket at the Senate podium. You see, with no rules infractions allowed, there will be no bathroom breaks or the filibuster will be broken to yield the floor. When that video is broadcast on C-Span and You Tube, they will learn. And, if that doesn't do it, when John McCain or Joe Lieberman or the like are standing up there for hours on end, without water or substantive food, forced to speak consistently for 24 hours or more - they will faint, and fall to the floor ill. And that's when they will not only learn the final lesson, but also shown for what they really are. Not tantrum-throwing children, but sick old fools. And then, the filibuster will be put in real context - a useless tool for anybody, but certainly for the country's older legislative body.

So, the lessons these old men and women will learn is one that they may have forgotten, but one good ol' Mom and Dad taught me from my earliest days. "No job is worth your health, son." And with the exception of military, security, and emergency service personnel, I'm sure Mom and Dad would say a the job of a senator isn't worth dropping dead over a filibuster.

My special friend Zach

2010-01-10T02:36:00.003-05:00

I just have to cut and paste it. It's from Facebook; it's from my friend Zach. I say this with love, but it's got to be the most...well, I'll let it stand on its own.

***

Zach status update: "In Chi-Town! Bring on opera!"

Zach, less than an hour later, comments on his update: "Haha. I just realized I spelled 'opera.' I meant Oprah!"

***

From "classy" to "afternoon talk show" in less than an hour! Sweet.

Quote of the Week

2010-01-07T06:22:00.001-05:00

"I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is ending up with people who make you feel all alone." - an as yet unnamed source.

How true.

AirWick Motion Sensor Freshener and my New Years Resolution

2010-01-07T00:31:00.005-05:00

So I'd like to start the New Year (please, dear god, I'd like to start a new year) and the new decade with a funny story, and then my New Year resolutions.

I was at a friend's house this past New Years Eve, watching some TV earlier in the day before heading out later that night. He's got a pretty nice house. We had some food, and watched some movies - all in all, a good day before starting the evening.

So I was walking by one of his bookshelves, and I heard this "psst." I didn't know what it was at first, but the general area smelled really good afterwards. I walked past another time, and the same thing happened, and finally I got curious and took a closer look.

Now I thought that maybe he had one of those air fresheners set on a timer, which I have heard when I'm using the bathroom at a public location. I always thought those were really cool, and I'd sure want one if they sold them to the public. So I was pretty excited to take a look.

So I found the little machine. AirWick makes them, and they actually are not on a time sensor, but a motion sensor. Every time you walk by, the freshener releases more scent.

But I didn't quite get that at first, and apparently I came at it close enough and at an angle that it didn't see me. I picked it up, and it detected the motion, and bam - scent-o-rama. Like a skunk who'd just been frightened, the little air freshener got me right in the shirt and neck. I put the sucker back down, but it caught me one more time. I smelled like an ocean-fresh whorehouse.

Adding to my situation, I am allergic to strong scents. Usually, I can handle regular air-fresheners - but not a face full. I sneezed myself silly pretty good and got plugged up pretty fast. But then the air freshener is also oil based, and whatever was in it caused the skin on my neck to start itching pretty good (I'm a big ball of allergies). I looked like my neck had been attacked by the vampire Lestat. So I had to cut the visit short to head home and take a shower and a Zyrtec.

As I drove home, I couldn't help but laugh a bit - because getting shot in the face with an air freshener just about summed up my 2009 and most of the 2000's. It was a final odd and unlikely act which appropriately happened to me. I just wanted to look at it and see how it worked. Only *I* would find a way to grab it without setting the motion sensor off, point it about my face and neckal area, and find way to take not one but two shots before putting it down. No, I'm not unlucky - I'm just one of those people who end up in odd and awkward situations regularly.

Now, I know it was my own fault for playing with his air freshener - but kill me for being curious. Or, at least, hose me down with AirWick ocean-breeze. And, of course, he thinks I'm odd now for touching his air freshener in the first place. (It's not like I was stealing it - I was just curious; marketers would be pleased!). I guess I can't really blame him.

Let the soft and gentle stink of 2009 and the 2000's fade away. Now? The new and improved scene of 2010. Smells like coffee and chocolate. Smooth, warm, and NOT AWKWARD.

So, this brings me to my my resolutions for 2010.

1. End up in less awkward situations. If I see an air freshener, I'm not going to pick it up; I'll ask about it instead. If I end up in awkward situations, I'm going to gently and quietly extricate myself from them - possibly with a ton of apologies, the purchasing of gifts, and the offering of sexual favors. But the goal is not to get in them in the first place. I will attempt to be more "smooth" and "artful" in 2010.

2. Continue to drink moderately, and when I do not drink moderately - have an escape plan. It has dawned on me that most stupid things people do, they do when they are drunk. I am no different. So, in 2010, I will either drink moderately or be ready to make a quick escape when things get weird. Of course, a safe escape - this may mean an investment in emergency cab fare at all times. This does not relate to the AirWick incident. I was not drunk - merely buzzed.

3. Undisclosed resolution. Either you figure it out eventually or I'm failing at it. Ha.

Happy New Year!

Oh, and in case you couldn't tell by the Aiello's Post...

2009-12-28T20:47:00.002-05:00

or as if you even care, I'm back in Pittsburgh. I will be here over New Years.

Let 2009, the 00's, and links to Muskegon (blech), Michigan come to an end. :) Instead, I shall celebrate and dance on the grave of a very bad year and a break from craziness. :)

Challenge for the Week

2009-12-28T20:39:00.001-05:00

When the crazy people come a callin', do not answer the phone. Instead, let it go to voicemail. That's what it's there for. Crazy people and telemarketers.

Word of the Day: Perspicacious.

2009-12-28T20:30:00.002-05:00

Perspicacious: "My friend is normally not very smart, but every once in awhile, he becomes very perspicacious."

Best pizza in Squirrel Hill (and probably Pittsburgh)

2009-12-28T18:47:00.001-05:00

The relationship between a pizza and its city is deep and soulful. New York has the original; Chicago has its deep dish; L.A. has the California-style. There is even Tex-Mex versions in cities of the Southwest (a sweet BBQ like variety). Each pizza unmistakably resembles its home.

In Squirrel Hill - my neighborhood in the city - there are no less than six pizza places. All local; there are no chains which serve walk-ins - all delivery. Walk in, order some slices, eat-in; call ahead, order a pie, take out. ; a few of the locals even deliver.

Around the SqHill, the pizza of legend (and supposedly the pizza of Pittsburgh) is Mineo's. When I first moved here, the only thing anyone could talk about was Mineo's pizza and desserts from Gullifty's (and the dessert is a story for another time.) Mineo's is certainly a fine choice, but if you ever get a minute, saunter up Murray towards Hobart a bit and visit Aiello's.

The guys in the place are about as Italian as you can get; one is actually pretty hot. Aside from him as a distraction, the pizza is pretty authentic. I have yet to get something from them I hate, even the hoagies (which I rarely partake in but fall victim to their call occasionally).

When at Aiello's, order the red pizza. The key is the combination of a very delicious, crispy pan crust, and a homemade sauce. Put whatever toppings you want on it to your taste, because the combination of those two things really makes the pizza. The pizza is well balanced between cheese, sauce, and dough - it's solid. An all-around, no-nonsense pizza that leaves you satisfied without going overboard, leaving you feeling weighed down and bloated. It's a hard-working pizza - gets in there, and gets the job done. Like the people here, in some ways. In short, Aiello's is the Pittsburgh pizza.

If you're in a hoagie mood, I recommend a cheese steak. Now, I know that that's a Philly thing, but Aiello's hits a balanced Pittsburghian note here too. They use Mancino's Italian bread, which is definitely not store bought or GFS schlock. Order extra sauce; like the pizza, the bread and sauce make the hoagie. If you're a light eater, get a half. The whole is more of a Sunday afternoon work in progress - start at the beginning of a Steelers game and finish by the end.

As a backup or if you want something stronger and a bit heavier, the Italian hot sausage is also a good choice. And I mean the sandwich and not the hottie behind the counter. Despite working in a pizza place, he remains light and studly in appearance. But if you can order him on a plate...I digress.

Finally, although I don't think they make them there in the store, order a peanut butter and chocolate cookie. It's just sweet enough with the peanut butter - but it doesn't wash away the taste of the great foods you just ate, but instead the chocolate compliments it. It's also chunky (my favorite type of cookie) so it doesn't feel like you're cheated when you pay a dollar for it. Order two slices or a half a hoagie, and let the cookie end it gracefully.

Total price? Under 7 or 8 dollars, depending on the number of toppings you get. Not bad at all. Aiello's is my choice for Pittsburgh pizza.
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Poker league

2009-12-27T17:59:00.001-05:00

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Already my parents are driving me nuts, so..

2009-12-25T18:33:00.006-05:00

My Mother and Father are driving me nuts already on Christmas. Apparently, the electric stove - which my mother never had to cook on growing up or in home economics class in high school - is a P.O.S. The temperature control on it runs hotter than what it appears on the knobs, causing things to overheat, overflow, boilover, burn, etc. You'd think that, after having this happen a number of times, most people would be careful and just watch what they are cooking. She walks away, and something happens - a clear accident. Instead, she throws a fit, complete with a stream of expletives that would make a sailor blush. Then she blames the stove which, fair enough, doesn't work properly. She blames the fact they don't have a gas-line and a gas stove. Just nuts. And eff me for saying "it was just an accident." It's just the end of the world. Everyone is horrible. And electric stoves are what caused my Grandma Bolton go be such a horrible cook, and "lose her mind." Pssh.

In other crazy Michigan news - apparently someone tried to blow up a plane in Detroit. The plane was coming in from Amsterdam and someone tried to explode the plane. They set off some firecrackers first. They suspect Al Qaeda, but we can't really be sure of that yet, can we?

But most telling are the comments from passengers. The observations from one gentleman from Holland, Michigan - in the western, conservative, Republican part of the state - was that he heard "a pop and saw some smoke and fire." Then, he said, “a young man behind me jumped on him.” He said there was a little bit of commotion for about 10 to 15 minutes, and that the way passengers responded made him proud to be an American.

Another passenger from Pontiac - in the eastern, more liberal part of the state - was that he was unaware of the incident until departing the plane, and that he did not "see or hear anything."

Now, I have to say: if someone on an international plane started setting off firecrackers, or setting a shoe on fire, or whatever else - I would probably jump on them too. I'd probably beat the snot out of them. There is a good chance I would end their life before they could end mine, if I judged if that was their aim. I want to make that very clear.

But it's telling that the gentleman from Holland felt the need to parade his patriotism. Why is that the first emotion that he felt? If I were him, I don't know that I would have felt an overwhelming sense of national identity when interviewed. Indeed, we found out that the assailant was on the government's No-Fly List. If anything, I think I would have thanked God, thanked the passenger who threw himself on the assailant, thanked everyone who assisted. That the sudden quick-and-astute actions of his fellow passengers could be linked to nationalism/patriotism is puzzling. The government had nothing to do with what happened on that plane, and members of any society (American, British, Iraqi, Swahili) probably would have done the same things to save their skin. It's called the survival instinct. It's a basic human psychological motivation, and it knows no geopolitical boundaries.

Interesting, though. Today, I watched the Lord of the Flies (the 1990 movie). I read the book long ago, but the movie was a brutal and graphic depiction that always stuck with me. If ever there was an allegory for the way that our country works, and even what happened on that plane, it was that movie. The strong, savage, war-like children band together and pledge their allegiance to the lithe, muscular, older hunting boy, Jack. Jack, who before being stranded on the island, was rumored to have stolen a car and been a rather "bad boy." Despite all his failings in leading a tribe that turns murderous, Jack gains conrol of the group - killing Simon (the curious intellectual) and Piggy (the sensitive-but-physically weak moralist), and eventually turning the hunt on Ralph (the ethical leader). The children follow him as long as he provides fun, the illusion of security, and swine meat. Oink. In their hedonism, they forget the ultimate moral rule - killing is bad - and surrender themselves to their pledge to Jack. They lose sight of the morally-correct leadership of Ralph, which is to remain alive but not lose their human decency, for that of Jack.

And then they are rescued. We are left with an image of once-mighty young hunters and their righteous former leader, cowering before a U.S. Marine who has come to rescue them. Tears come to their eyes, and Ralph bursts into tears. The look on the savage hunters faces suggest that reality has sunk back in and the outside world has come calling, where murder is wrong. And they have killed two of their friends.

How does his relate to the gent on the plane? The patriotic gent from conservative West Michigan? Instead of being thankful for the smart, quick thinking of his fellow passenger - one of whom tackled the assumed bomber - he puts his faith in strong, war-like, patriotic America. The conservative's nostalgic America of September 11, 2001 to January 20, 2009. The America of the patriot act; of the invasion of Iraq; of waterboarding; of Gitmo; of Abu Gharaib. He puts his faith in not just STOPPING the assailant, but the faith that will will retaliate, dominate, and then destroy. In short, he puts his faith in an America of Jack's, and if felt good to say it out loud.

The guy from Pontiac? I'm sure he was just happy to be alive. He reported what he knew to the news, and moved on with his life. He'll probably go see his family and friends on Christmas Day, have dinner, and maybe hug those he loves a little closer. Monday, he'll go to work. Life will go on. I suspect, from his comments, he knew that the entire situation was out of his hands from the get go, but that America had nothing to do with why he was alive. He may put his faith in Ralph's America - the America where people take a more pragmatic-and-measured view of things.

Of course, it could also have something to do with the ethnic heritage of the gentleman from Holland: Syed Jafry. We can draw no sure conclusions about the heritage of the gentleman, but I can say this: after Sept. 11, 2001 - throughout the country and especially in my home state of Michigan - there were racially motivated attacks on people of middle eastern origin. Indeed (showing the ignorance of many people in my state and elsewhere), there were attacks on people who even just had "arabic appearance" - including people of latin, greek, and other heritages. It was horrible.

Maybe Mr. Jafry is just a white, Anglo-Saxon protestant with a really interesting name. Maybe Syed and Jafry are Dutch names, and I'm just guessing the etymology really wrong. But also, possibly, the gentleman from Holland, Michigan is a little afraid. Maybe by identifying with fortress America; aggressive-saving America; Jack's America; and the former Bush/Cheney America, he's hedging his bets. Maybe he was just scared enough that he felt, like many other people of foreign born descent, that he had to say something to make his allegiance known - in case we slipped back into that savage shade of patriotism again.

If this is just the start of a new series of confrontations with Al Qaeda, I guess we'll find out. With Obama in office, will it be a Ralph's America - or Jack's?

Ugh - my mom is calling.

*UPDATE: The guy from Pontiac speaks further. From AP: "Rich Griffith, a passenger from Pontiac, said he was seated too far in the back to see what had happened. But he said he didn't mind being detained on the plane for several hours. 'It's frustrating if you don't want to keep your country safe,' he said. 'We can't have what's going on everywhere else happening here.'" Pretty measured response from Ralph so far.

(Courtesy of www.freep.com).

Ahh...I'm home.

2009-12-25T05:14:00.000-05:00

Well, I made it home - finally! Took 10 and a half hours, but I'm here. Turns out that storm did indeed hit. It was just more north than I thought (so it was a good thing I took that tour of the turnpike much more to the south). My hometown on the shore of Lake Michigan was completely covered in ice. My car sled down the road, and I practically skated in the front door of my parents house. Yep, I was a regular Michelle Kwan.

The family's traditional Christmas Eve party was long since over; I had missed it. Everyone had a great time, and I'm disappointed the trip so long. But my parents - bless them - were waiting up for me. My Mom gave me a big hug, some party leftovers (mmm...Swedish meatballs before bed), and I settled in. And even though it's only for a couple days, I get to be a kid at Christmas again. There will be home cooked food. There will be sleeping in. There will be cards and board games and Scrabble. I'll see my favorite aunt. There will be excessive TV watching. But the real signal that Christmas is here?

None other than a living room visit from my good buddy, Ralphy, from "A Christmas Story." I grew up watching him with my family, and when I wrangled the remote from my night-owl father, there he was. Twenty-four hours of him on TBS. I've seen the movie too many times; I even own it on DVD. But it's a tradition, nonetheless.

And so - with Ralphy in the background; with holiday food in my tummy; with my all family in a warm and safe house; and with a very white (and icy) Christmas out our front door - I sleep.

I'm very happy to be home.

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The Storm I kept south to avoid?

2009-12-25T00:29:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure where this storm was that I stayed south to avoid. It's in the Midwest; I'm in Indiana - about as Midwest as you can get. Maybe it's a pretend storm. That, or a Christmas miracle!

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Welcome to the Indiana Toll Road!

2009-12-24T22:49:00.000-05:00

Now this is a treat! To avoid freezing rain to the north, I have opted to remain on I-80/90 and then go north on US-31. I have not been on the Indiana Toll Road in years.

This is the first travel center I encountered. And yes, not only are we in "down home" territory, but were also in '70's flashback territory. First, the music entering was no less than the BeeGee's, and then John Denver. "Rock and roll fantasy." Hilarious.

McDonald's and a small chocolate shop dominate the scene here. So we've given up completely on healthy eating and are just moving into grease-and-sugar territory.

Also, the bathrooms - not so good. Lots of reading material on the wall - if I'd wasn't afraid of cholera and I'd had a pen, there would have been plenty of grammar to correct. And I was using the facilities and, for some reason, the toilets just flush on their own. I was at the sink washing my hands and kept thinking people were in the bathroom with me, and no one would come out. I got out of there quickly and got some McNuggets.

Clearly, either the toilets are broken or the travel centers in Indiana have phantoms in the bathrooms. And based on how many times those suckers flushed, those phantoms must have a serious case of the trots. Spooky.

Welcome to Indiana.

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The travel centers are getting...rough.

2009-12-24T22:32:00.001-05:00

Just to be clear, I'm not a lurker of rest areas and travel centers. I drank a Mountain Dew, and it ran right through me. Maybe I should see a urologist? Lol.

So this travel center was pretty simple. It had a Hardee's, which if you've never had - don't. Hardee's, I'm convinced, is slang for Hardening...of the arteries. The Frisco burger is enough to clog a valve.

This travel center also had showers and a traveler's mart - which was full of schlock like small die-cast semi trucks and kitschy little figurines. There were also personalized license plates and trucker hats. I saw this through the window because the store was closed, but believe me...it would have been just the kind of store worth wandering through.

I'm feeling as if the kitsch/schlock factor in the travel centers is a sign we are entering "down home" territory. Stay tuned.

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My friend has a big basket

2009-12-24T22:24:00.000-05:00

On my drive, I talked to my buddy Brian. We were talking about the Christmas spirit and such, and iit came out that Brian just loves to wrap presents and make personalized gift baskets. I didn't know of his talent, but apparently he's quite good at it. He knows how to make the curly bows with the scissors (although admits that more complicated bows are still beyond his skill).

If you could hear the pride and assertiveness in his voice. "Just give me a gift and I'll wrap the heck out of it," he said. I think this is how hunters feel about deer hunting season. For gift wrappers, Christmas is open season - leave no gift unwrapped and no bow un...bowed? No mercy.

And, of course, being a Pittsburgher - there's a Steelers gift in the basket. Had to butch it up a little.
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Oh, and one last thing...

2009-12-24T19:34:00.000-05:00

The Middle Ridge travel center has Popeye's and a Hershey's Ice Cream shop. Though - again - it is clear that no cardiologist or dietitian was consulted in the making of this travel center, one could also enjoy French creole cooking and Pennsylvania chocolate ice cream! How cosmopolitan!
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The Middle Ridge Travel Center

2009-12-24T19:27:00.002-05:00

Okay, so I could only go about an hour and a half before my back hurt. My old P.O.S is crowded for a tall gent such as myself, so I end up doing a lot of crouching in the drivers seat. This, along with seats made of cardboard, plastic, and felt, contribute to a searing lower back pain. Plus, I had to use the facilities. I downed that Starbucks to stay alert on the fast and furious Ohio Turnpike - and just as fast and furious was my sudden need to wiz. So, here I am at another travel center.

Each travel center is a little different. The last one had a big Starbucks, and this one has more of a coffee stand type. The last had McDonald's; this one has Burger King (cardiologists clearly did not have much say in the tenants of these centers). The last had an Au Bon Pain (a little French bakery chain for those of you not familiar); this has a Panera (an American bakery chain). No real difference there, though - both rape you for a half-sandwich and soup at 8.00$, with no drink. The only difference is that Au Bon has a French name, so it sounds classy to drop excessive dough there. I'm not sure what language Panera is from. Esperanto, perhaps?

I can say this about the Middle Ridge travel center. It is more international than the Portage center. They also have a Manchu Wok. So after a quick Seattle latte or American burger, you could get some General Tso's and a fortune cookie. The fortune inside?:

"Chinese food may not fill you up, but french bakery will cause empty wallet and sore bum. Your lucky number is 13."
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The Middle Ridge Travel Center

2009-12-24T19:14:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I could only go about an hour and a half before my back hurt. My old P.O.S is crowded for a tall gent such as myself, so I end up doing a lot of crouching in the drivers seat. This, along with seats made of cardboard, plastic, and felt, contribute to a searing lower back pain. Plus, I had to use the facilities. I downed that Starbucks to stay alert on the fast and furious Ohio Turnpike - and just as fast and furious was my sudden need to wiz. So, here I am at another travel center.

Each travel center is a little different. The last one had a big Starbucks, and this one has more of a coffee stand type. The last had McDonald's; this one has Burger King (cardiologists clearly did not have much say in the tenants of these centers). The last had an Au Bon Pain (a little French bakery chain for those of you not familiar); this has a Panera )and American bakery chain). No real difference there, though - both rape you for a half-sandwich and soup at 8.00$, with no drink. The only difference is that Au Bon has a French name, so it sounds classy to drop excessive dough there. I'm not sure what language Panera is from. Esperanto, perhaps?

I can say this about the Middle Ridge travel center. It is more international than the Portage center. They also have a Manchu Wok. So after a quick Seattle latte or American burger, you could get some General Tso's and a fortune cookie. The fortune inside?:

"Chinese food may not fill you up, but french bakery will cause empty wallet and sore bum. Your lucky number is 13."
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The Ohio Turnpike Travel Center Workers

2009-12-24T17:53:00.000-05:00

I love these little centers. I stop at them a lot on the way home; I even slept at a few during a driving tour of the northeast and Canada. Lots of stuff to do. I played Monopoly pinball for 10 minutes while I stretched. Plus I got a peppermint mocha from the 'Buck. Awesome.

I wonder what it's like to work at them though. It's like its own little world. For the people who work here, they must seem thousands of people each shift. How do they keep from going crazy?

The lady at the Starbucks gave me a white chocolate mocha instead of a regular one. I had to give it back (white chocolate is effin gross), and she made me a new one - no fuss involved. On Christmas Eve. With a line of weary travelers waiting. And only two of them working. Wow.

I can only assume that they must really enjoy their breaks to keep up such good spirits. Or they are drunk or high - which are both fine by me. My corrected 6.00$ mocha is delicious, delivered with a smile, and my back is stretched and ready for another two hours.

Thanks eerily happy travel center people. :) Merry Christmas to you.

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The Glove State

2009-12-24T16:12:00.001-05:00

Well, let the great American holiday road trip begin! I'm on my way to Michigan for Christmas to see my family. I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about shortly, dear faithful yet non-existent readers.
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Amanda's Adult Juice Box

2009-12-23T08:05:00.001-05:00

Were not sure, but this probably is NOT 100% juice. It's most likely wine. This is why Amanda was fired as a lunch lady; the kids LOVED her though.

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A More Vulgar America? An Article by Peggy Noonan

2009-12-22T17:59:00.006-05:00

Maybe this is the type of thing I should include in my blog. This is an article by Peggy Noonan talking about what she describes as "The Adam Lambert Problem." Personally, I find most of what American Idol spins off to be a problem (except Kelly Clarkson - I love her).

Here's the link:
Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal, "The Adam Lambert Problem."

I like Peggy Noonan. Sometimes, every once in awhile, I find myself in Conservative territory and agreeing with some of them. Granted, not the crazies, but somewhat even handed Cons like Peggy. I like her writing a lot too. She's a classy gal (a nod to a friend).

Your thoughts? (As if you are actually there lol).

A Ready Audience for an Unready Blogger?

2009-12-22T15:32:00.012-05:00

I still don't know what my blog should be about. I notice that a good number of people who have blogs talk about music, or news, or cooking, or something interesting. I don't really feel like I can talk about any of those things - I'm not really quite an expert on anything (well, at least anything I can blog about.) But even if I picked a topic, I'd have a problem. And it's this...

I noticed that a lot of blogs make assumptions about the audience they are writing to. As if, the audience KNOWS the blogger very well. They say things like "as we all now, I don't like poppy seeds.." or "as I've said all along, I think cutting it off was the best thing to do."

It's interesting, because I wonder whether or not the audience knows the blogger at all, let alone to the point of knowing their personal tastes and idiosyncrasies. Personally, I get a little suspicious and wonder whether or not anyone is reading their blog at all. What if they are like that crazy person at home who sits in the bathrobe at 3AM and talks to the people on QVC as if they are their personal friends? "Oh Suzanne, you vixen - you KNOW how much I love your jokes. You are just TOO much. Yes, I loved the Hummel figurines - you know how much I love those. Yes, I'll take two locket pendants in blue. So what are you doing for the holidays? I'm having a party if you don't have plans..."

Creepy.

I'm sure they have audiences though (at least, I hope they do...or it's weird.) I don't yet. I look at the comment boxes, and I see nothing. Nada. How sad. I also have no followers. I have no linked blogs. Kind of a bloggers desolate wasteland in here.

A friend of mine says I should write about myself in my blog, but I think I'm rather boring. More so, how can I write about myself when I have no one to write to? To whom can I say "As we all know, I really hate..." or "I've said this before but.." It's like I'm having a conversation with someone who isn't really there. And then that means, when writing about myself, it will have to be mostly declarative sentences. Or I'm going to look crazy.

I also can't really tell stories about myself, because I don't have anyone technically listening and responding. Also crazy-person behavior. So, pretty much, I'm writing out into the ether.

Or am I?

A couple weeks ago my Mom's computer went wonky on her. I don't really know that I believe her. I suspect that it was just fine and she just downloaded a virus or didn't know how to turn it on or something. My Mom is like that. I love my Mom, but sometimes she overreacts to things instead of just chilling out and looking to see, say, if the plug came out of the wall. Unlike us who investigate on the Internet first, she just panics and thinks she's either broken it or its defective.

(P.S. to the faux audience - while on the subject of parents and technology, remind me to talk about when my Mother learned how to TXT sometime.)

Apparently, though, she had the wherewithal to get on the phone with the representative from HP and get talked through various fixes to the problem. I guess as time went on, her technical skills started to lag those necessary to fix the problem. HP did that nifty remote-computer takeover, and started to snoop around her computer. Of course, my Mom had never seen this before - she was just astonished. Bless her.

While the HP representative (a nice gent from India) was snooping to fix the computer for a couple hours, he remained on the phone with my Mother. My Mother, being from another generation, didn't know that you're supposed to sit there in utter silence and contempt of the computer helpline people. Instead, she fell for the witty banter he is trained to say, such as "how is there weather there, Mrs. Bolton?" Asking a nice Michigan mom (in the middle of a Michigan winter) that question is just asking for TMI. Let the mudflow of information begin.

I'm not sure if all the HP Reps are this chatty or my Mom just cornered the poor guy. By the time the call was over, the HP rep and my Mom had talked about: his kids, her kids, each others plans for the Holidays, and how he is recently married. The guy even found a way to share PICTURES of his kids, over the computer somehow (this may be a whopper by my Mom). It even got to the point where the guy asked my Mom how long she and my Father have been married. "32 years," she responded. Says the HP Rep: "Do you have any advice for me?" To which, of course, my Mother had much advice to offer.

The Rep eventually found out it was a bad hard drive (I still don't believe - I'm sure she just had her sleep mode set to 2 seconds or something). They made arrangements to send the computer in for repair. I'm sure the phone call was supposed to end there, but considering the soulmate my Mother had found in the HP Rep in India, I'm sure the call lingered on a bit longer. Knowing my Mom, and considering she probably had never talked to anyone in India before (and may never again), she probably wanted the moment to last.

The moral of the story? Well, first, that my newbie Mother got more of a devoted Internet audience on a tech call to Hewlett-Packard than I have with a blog and nearly 20 years of being on the Net. Ugh.

It also means, I suppose, that just assuming that you do have an audience can work. The Hewlett Packard Rep did; he assumed someone like my Mom would respond to those computer-driven questions. (Little does HP know about my Mother - they may want to dial back the depth of even the most shallow questions a bit or their phone lines are going to burn up). I guess questions like "...and how is your family this evening?" work, even if one doesn't have a spouse or kids in the house.

My Mom also did, by assuming that the HP Rep would listen to a few things about her kids - and then her grandkids, marriage, and the weather - and fill in what he didn't know with his imagination. I don't know what the customs are in India, but she just assumed that her advice for her American marriage would apply to his new one. And apparently, somehow, it did.

The moral of the story is that I guess it's okay to assume an audience with technology in general. As long as I don't PRETEND I have an audience, which starts to work its way into crazy "Imaginary Friends and Magical Creatures" territory.

Besides, if the Internet is consuming everything - words, video, images, recordings - for all of time, then someday and at some point I will have an audience. I may be dead by that point, but my words will live on. To quote Humphrey Bogart from Casablanca (out of context), "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life."

And if not, it just so happens I also own an HP, too.

Quote of the Day

2009-12-22T01:21:00.001-05:00

"Now THAT is a man who has eaten a LOT of BEEF!" - South Park character
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Goal for this week

2009-12-21T18:32:00.001-05:00

Pick something I believe in. Defend it. Do not back down while still keeping the peace.

Great. Why don't I just look for a unicorn while I'm at it. Pssht.
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Mail theft

2009-12-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

So, I wonder who I call about postal mail theft. Its fairly obvious that our upstairs neighbors are stealing our mail. My roommate has lost checks and actual money. I am now missing a letter (from an envelope which looks like a check would be in it.)

I've never had worse neighbors. Ii really do want to leave a flaming bag of poo at their door. But we share a stairway...so I'd have to suffer as well. Damn.
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Dream and then today

2009-12-21T15:42:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure where I got this from, but I had dream last night that I was living in a communist country with Stalin as a close friend and father like figure. Eventually I had to kill him, though, because we couldn't handle how authoritarian he was. Weird.

Still not sure what to write about on this blog. I spent about 30 minutes writing something about myself last night, but then I realized that I don't like being that self-indulgent. So that was fun. Maybe I'll find something to write about today when I'm out and about.

If I could own a Redbox...

2009-12-20T20:27:00.001-05:00

I'd be a millionaire (or at least a thousandaire - but still an improvement).
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2009-12-20T19:52:00.000-05:00

Welcome to my mobile blog! Now, the public can enjoy my thoughts. AS THEY HAPPEN!
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