Friday, June 25, 2010

Crazed Sex Poodle!

So recently, Al Gore was alleged to have attacked a masseuse- this happened 2 years ago, but the allegations are just now surfacing, and she, in an effort to make him stop, called him a "crazed sex poodle."

I am now jealous. No one has ever yet called me a "crazed sex poodle," a title I highly covet. What a great combination of words, like "electric joy pig." I plan on demanding people call me this.

Particularly my-I am thinking it is too early to change my Facebook status, right? But this has been fantastic. Thus far.

Unlike on the job front! There just aren't any. People have been asking me, how's the job hunt? And I say, it's like a snipe hunt! None exist on the North American Continent. Then people say I Haven't Used that Word in 35 Years and I say You Now have an Opportunity to Use This Sadly Underutilised Word.

Mens. Dey beez lak da rainbowz. Dey comes into yo life, no one knows where dey comes frum, and den dey brightens it up for a wile, and deys be all beaufur and den dey disappears an no one knows where dey goes to, but you happy dey wuz dere.

Yah, I went there. So I am really hoping that this is not going to be like that. Most guys do vanish. It's like some kind of magic act, "Watch me make this guy disappear!"

And no, I don't do anything weird. So there.

My concept of a pleasant date evening is, I cook food, then we have dinner and wine and some more wine and read poetry to each other and then have crazed sex poodle antics. Is that so bad?

We saw the Francis Ford Coppola version of "Dracula" which- that wasn't intended to be a comedy, was it?

First of all, it had Keanu Reeves trying to act, which is like looking at videos of babies sucking on lemons for the first time. Hi. Lar. I. Ous.

Then it had- Dracula was wearing a cape/train thing, that was at least 30 feet long. It looked ridiculous and inconvenient. Can you imagine trying to pounce on a victim with a 30 foot train? You'd constantly get caught in it.


Now this chap has many questions for me, some of which I feel like answering right away and some of which I do not.

"What did you do with 'Robin'?"

"Why do all the guys disappear?"

"What kind of dating experiences have you had?"

"What do you find physically attractive?"

"What parts of your body do you like the most?"

"What do you like to do for fun?"

He asks lots of questions, which is a Great Thing, because he is interested in me. This has been fairly rare.

I skirt some of the "Robin" involved details- do you know I've known him nearly 2 years? Time flies, doesn't it, and am rather left with, I went to Nashville, and I cooked.

This is largely true. Sometimes, we went to the bookstore. Sometimes, we went to Opry Mills. Once, he took me shopping, in an outdoor mall, in 15 degree weather, to which I loudly objected.

I don't know why all the guys disappear, or where I go on dates. Actually, I don't go anywhere usually, I stay at home and then they come over, or I go there, sometimes, and that's pretty much it. Perhaps they disappear because they are treating me like a whore, because I am acting like one. That has been posited by a number of people. What with being unemployed and such, it is difficult to go on "dates" where you spend "money" and such. Also, I am a little agoraphobic. Why leave the house when everything you need is at hand? And if it isn't, it should be.

I have had disappointing dating experiences. I do not mean to sound shallow because people have plenty of inner beauty and all but I do not want to dig through layers of fugly to get to it. I don't dislike someone because they're fugly, I just don't want to date them. K? Then the ones I like, vanish.

Then there's "Robin" who is neither fugly nor has vanished but lives in Memphis and - that may, and probably has, gone as far as it's going to go.

I find it easier to define physical attraction in terms of NOT. Not hairy, not fat, not pasty, you know, nice build, soft smooth skin, handsome, etc . . .

I like all the parts of my body, thank you very much, and don't plan on giving them up any time soon. I also find this an odd question, I do not want to play favourites with my body parts, and also, what if, for example, I didn't particularly like my, say, elbows? What would I do about it? I'm not going to pull-a-part for people to exchange. I would not, personally, mind exchanging my body for that of, say, Vin Diesel or Mark Wahlberg but that is not a choice.

For fun, I tend to take apart the car, and sometimes I can put it back together, and I like to plant heads and things in the yard, and I like to can things and make beer, and drive around real fast with the tops off the car and wave at people. Please note: this last activity involves leaving the house. I also like to go to Pull-A-Part.

I am trying to remember what I did at one point when I had a life, before I started teaching and had the rental house and all of that that involved 80 hours of work a week and no $.

I would theoretically go to plays, we used to do that.

I like the Opera.

I like to (theoretically) play tennis, having done it probably twice in the last 10 years.

I like to go to state parks (I don't like to go downtown/midtown or anywhere there are homeless people and inconvenient parking).

I like to go to Stone Mountain at night.

I like to go thrifting.

I like to eat in restaurants but not the MTM kind of restaurant; I do not like trendy food. I like large portions of well prepared tasty food. Grandma food, from a variety of ethnicities.

I do not see movies in the cinema. They are too expensive and awful. Like, "Avatar," which had blue people in it and was some kind of fantasy.

Some time ago, I was accused of not being able to appreciate fantasy, largely because the films I reserve my highest appreciation for involve Joan Crawford arguing with someone, then slapping them into next week.

I do appreciate fantasy! This is not true. I lead a rich and interesting life of the imagination. Some of which, I am willing to share here, and some of which I am not, and you had best be glad about THAT. But my fantasies tend to involve- at least the repeatable ones- arguing with someone, and then slapping them into next week. So blue people or whatever has no relevance to me. My brain refuses to process it.

I don't go to bars- very, very rarely, because- first of all, you can't smoke in bars in most places anymore so what fun is that. Then, you're going to spend your evening talking with the same people you would have talked to anyway had you stayed home and spent $1 a beer instead of $6 a beer. And you can play your own music at home also, and then you don't have to worry about driving.

On the other hand, home involves a slightly higher degree of risk that RHS will take off her clothes and make you see her private parts, which- I have seen more of that girl's vajayjay than I EVER have needed to. Which was exactly none.

I don't like shopping much, and I did not know this as much as I do now until I met "Robin."

I don't want to have brunch in Piedmont Park post clubbing with a bunch of queens.

I am sure as the situation develops I will have more to tell y'all. MMM! It has been a whole lot of hotness!

Monday, June 21, 2010

The F-Word

Recently, I have been noticing that the f-word seems to be popping up a lot, particularly in reference to Sarah Palin.

No, not THAT f-word, I mean the f-word, feminist, as in, is she or isn't she?

So my question is, exactly how are these people defining "feminist?" My understanding of "feminist" was the kind of woman who refused to be behind a great man but wanted to be great herself. But the modern definition of feminist seems to revolve entirely around women who are angry at men and have some kind of chip on their shoulder and also must believe in abortion.

I don't agree with this. Why wouldn't Palin be a feminist? Do you have to go rail against the patriarchy to be a positive role model? She became governor of Alaska and then managed to make it from being a failed vice presidential candidate to a major media phenomenon, and how many other failed vice presidential candidates have gone on to do anything?

She may not be smart in the Constitutional law professor, Hillary Clinton, Condi Rice I-read-lots-of-books-and-am-familiar-with-theories, but on second thought, what good are all these theories anyway? Theories have been the cause of most of the distress of human kind. You have to be able to practice it. And whatever anyone says, the woman is very shrewd, to be able to go from failed vice presidential candidate to a major media figure.

I am somewhat tempted to ask the lady lawyers about this but have decided not to so as not to offend anyone. See, Alex, I am capable of not offending people. Just not you.

What else have I been doing? I didn't get that job i was hoping for, which- that was really disappointing. I really did like the job, and it has taken me MONTHS to get that far. I just want to be EMPLOYED already.

I had to buy a new laptop after the previous one started acting up: there is something loose inside it, and when it is on a perfectly flat level surface it is fine. Then if you take it off that surface, it freezes up and stops working. So I took the laptop to the repair place and they said that the motherboard was going out and it wasn't worth replacing. Also the desktop has gone down for some reason. It got Fed-exed to Robin, and I am not entirely sure what he is doing with it.

And Anthony cleaned up my whole yard and then got arrested for texting Ruth he was sorry.

O, and I went blackberry picking with Amber and Alex and Jen on Saturday.

I enjoyed this!

Then we had a variety of car drama last week: Dad's low coolant light came on, he had to take it in, get the water pump replaced, the Cadillac had to have its water pump replaced, then the lower radiator hose- I had them replace it, and then I was driving to visit a Friend and it came off, and the car started stalling and then issued billows of steam.

So I spent part of Saturday night and a good bit of Sunday tugging on two long, black, hard hoses which spewed.

I made sure I texted Alex this. Alex has thus far not responded, so I am thinking he needs to hear more details about this, and I am also thinking he needs to experience it in interpretive dance. The first interpretive dance will be "Le Tuyau de Radiateur Mal Installe Par Rick."

Despite the fact that I dance like a refrigerator.

Well. So this chap is, believe it or not, actually responding to my texts and claims to be hugely into me. And he is hot, and not creepy looking, and has a car, crib, and career, so I am like,

"Are you a unicorn?" Seriously, because, it should not be all that hard to meet someone decent, but it is, or you meet someone decent, and then they don't call you back, etc. . . and this chap thinks I am fascinating and intellectually challenging and I can have great conversations with him (much of which consist of compliments to me, so do I mind this? No I do not.) OMG, and he knows who Tennyson was, and my ardor was only slightly dampened by discovering Alex knows who Tennyson was also.

But yes. He is a unicorn. He has one horn, and I am magically able to make it grow.

My main concern right now is that it is like the size of a red bull can. I could barely get any of it into my mouth. It was like, normally, they're like a Geo Metro, but this was the Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. It was the Sam's Club Giant Economy Size. I do not know in the least how I am going to get it in there. This did not, of course, stop us/me from inventing new and sexy ways to have fun, which I will have to describe and demonstrate for Alex in great detail. So yes, he is coming for dinner this evening and I will prepare, after asking him what he eats/doesn't eat- Freddy is a picky eater! Did you know this? He won't eat capers or olives! - smoked salmon with cream cheese and cucumber on ryvita, salad, potato salad and sausage, and then Clafoutis with blackberries for dessert.

Like that's worked before. But I keep trying. Could it really be that this one will be different?

I will try! I am feeling somewhat insecure about this so I am not going to write all of the things I would like to. Also, gushiness is not really one of Cruella's prime traits.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Making me reconsider riding MARTA - - -

Apparently, MARTA offers hitherto unexamined quantities of entertainment.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2E6-9U0Bd3w&feature=youtube_gdata

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Confessionals

First of all, and let's get the minor things out of the way, I learnt a new word this week which was highly applicable to a situation I was in earlier in the week, "butterface," as in, "She was great all the way through, but her face."

I would rather think "buthisface" doesn't work. Anyhow, the how, and the what, and the where, and the when, and probably the why were fantastic. But the who - - - well, you get above the neck, and it's like, what the hell happened? Ima ask him to wear one of those leather hoods and claim it turns me on.

And Alex's girlfriend's car got stolen, and then my Dad's car had to have the thermostat replaced, so I am not the only person dealing with Inanimate objects breaking. That's not particularly confessional, but I just wanted to note that. Else I shan't remember.

So my real confessional was that - - - I read Erma Bombeck. And love her.

I know! I am a single (dammit, too single) gay guy! I have no children (but I would love to) and that may drive some of the passion. . . and it's like collecting macrame owls and shag carpeting and avocado appliances. . .

Well, I know that she's an odd cultural artifact, disdained today, like jello molds and the aforementioned macrame owls, but she continues in the tradition invented by Betty MacDonald in "The Egg and I" and Shirley Jackson, most sharply in "Life Among The Savages" and less sharply in "Raising Demons," and then by Jean Kerr, in the concept of domestic satire and in evincing memories of a bygone age in which those of us who are Gen Xers were born. Mrs. Bombeck is seen today in the likes of Dave Barry and P.J. O'Rourke, who take ordinary situations and through degrees of hyperbole and satire, transcend the ordinary. But the days of housewifery and stable marriages have passed. The days of the No-Draft window in the car have now gone, leading to a comfortable nostalgia for those of us who remember them from our childhooods.

She's a fairly sharp satirist and some of the satire is yet current, and some of it is, reference the No-Draft window, a note has been forgotten to be left for the milkman and so he leaves fourteen half gallons of milk in the garage over a four day vacation, the girdle creeping up, the concept of separate sexes in dorms, the vacuum/magazine seller, trading stamps glued to books and collected are gone and therefore nostalgic to those of us who distantly remember such things.

Nostalgia: Women who take "word-a-day" improvement courses in which they are instructed to learn a word-a-day, such as "tsetse fly" and work it into everyday conversation; a woman who was suggested by a British obstetrician to become pregnant to improve her golf game and did, to amusing results; our author takes painting classes to be defeated by professionals, our author suffers through her husband's inept home improvemnt phrases, remarking, " my husband came home from the drugstore ecstatic with two cigar boxes under his arm. He rushed to the basement, nailed them together, painted them dark green, and called them 'shadow boxes.' Despite the fact they looked like two cigar boxes nailed together with 'King Edward' bleeding through, I avowed they belonged in the Metropolitan."

In a chapter on home improvement difficulties, Mrs. Bombeck describes her frustration as she is regarded as a capapble woman.

"How masterful," she said, dabbing her forehead with a lace handkerchief
"Not so masterful," I said. "From that day foreward i was awarded custody of the mower. I also had ot repair spoutings, clean out the dryer vent, repair the clothesline, build the rock garden, drain and store the antifreeze, and wash the car."
"My goodness," she whispered, "I'm so addle-brained about cars I scarcely know how to turn on those little globes in the front . . . . the . . . "

Mrs. Bombeck, of course, responds in form, with dry comments.

Erma Bombeck was smarter than she casually appeared in writing. Once she complained dryly to a writer asking about women's liberation, "We were the women who forgot to burn our bras." She was remarking on the fact that although she- and thousands of women like her- had not taken a vocal part in the women's liberation movement, at the same time, they were not unthinking, and not to be taken necessarily part of Nixon's "silent majority."

It's unfair to underestimate her; although she never wrote polemics on the level of Germaine Greer or Simone de Beauvoir, her writing yet contains a sharpness and an understanding of commercial adaptability. She was a woman with a career, although the career was divided between maintining her household and the career she chose, through sheer marketability, this indicates a shrewdness, an understanding of what her values were (family, foremost) and what it would take to sustain that, and what the market would accept from her.

The writing has been underestimated as a classic of American Literature; like Mark Twain, her writing characterised a time and a class, and it characterised a sense of satire. Although her writing was never as politically important as Mark Twain's, there is a strong value in her writing, to understanding the American culture at a certain point in time, as was Mark Twain's.