Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Stormy Morning

Getting up early for a 7:30am dental checkup with the power flickering. Another hour of sleep would be nice. I had to crop the bags under my eyes.

Friday, April 25, 2014

It Burns

Reaching under the sink this morning for my pore refining skin toner, I pulled this out instead...

I'm tempted to try it. This face
could probably use a spiritual peel.

It doesn't surprise me to find a bottle of holy water in our bathroom. I'm married to a Mexican.

What does make me wonder though is for what purpose three-quarters of it has been used. Have we had toilet vampires I was never told about?

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Snap Out Of It

The closest my partner and I ever got to anything that could be considered "domestic violence" was about seven years ago. In a fit of anger he belly-bumped me. Immediately struck by the juxtaposition of pissed-off rage the and gentle sploshing of our subcutaneous abdominal fat, all I could do was laugh. We both laughed until we cried. I love that even if it crossed his mind for a second, he could never bring himself to hurt me. That's the kind of person I hope I can be too.

Yesterday I came quite close to slapping JB across the face. Not Joan and Christina style. More like Cher and Nicholas Cage. I just wanted to snap him out of his panic attack and focus on the fact that the situation we currently find ourselves in is temporary.

It's just some light remodeling.

Like the first sneeze of cold & flu season or the first Dove bar of PMS, I've learned to recognize the initial warning symptoms of JB's anxiety arcs. And I fear we're in for a heavy-flow cycle. I may need to pay the contractor a bonus. Why on earth didn't I budget for that?

This morning JB woke me up to inform me he had a nightmare. "Did I survive?" I asked.

"I don't think you were in it."

"Then why are you waking me up?" I know, but sympathy is hard to muster when it's 4am and I'm sleeping in the kitchen.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Servo Sunday

Another Easter come and gone. My post-holiday depression is exacerbated by symptoms of Reese's Peanut Butter Egg pre-diabetes and the fact that I'm still decorating my Easter eggs by dipping them in colored vinegar water.

Seriously. It's twenty-fucking-fourteen and I'm using the same technology popularized by Pontius Pilate, who felt throwing plain white eggs at crucifixions just wasn't festive enough. (Let's keep a lid on Pilate's flamboyant homosexuality. The Family Research Council would have a field day with that.)

Except for the occasional curve PAAS likes to throw at complacent dopes who think that after forty-plus years they have the instructions committed to memory. Yesterday morning I took the three dozen eggs that I hard-boiled on Saturday night out of the fridge and sat down to work, only to find I was supposed to grind the enclosed wax coloring crayons onto still boiling-hot eggs. Don't even get me started about how I spend my Saturday nights.

Well no more. As Jesus is my witness, I will no longer celebrate his undeath like a stone-age gentile. By this time next year I'm going to be the proud owner of one of these bad boys...

That's right. Why stain my fingers when I can express my passion for Christ with three-hundred bucks worth of servo controllers and ten thousand lines of code? The future of pseudo-pagan religious tradition is robotic, my friends.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014


One of the great memories I have from the Big Gay Cruise is getting to know all the Denver Bears I met by way of StevieB, who obviously has impeccable taste in friends.

Someone once told me his impression of Denver is that all the straight guys are primpy, exfoliated metrosexuals while all the gay guys are beary, butchy men's men. That may well be true; I don't think I met any straight guys in Denver. To be fair, I've only been there once, with Stevie as my tour guide.

The whole week at sea in the company of so many follicularly gifted men, I never once felt self-conscious about my naked face. Not until my former boss commented on a Facebook photo I was tagged in. "You should grow a beard."

I knew he was making a witty allusion to Sesame Street's "One of These Things..." game. But instead of shapes and numbers, the objects in this game were stereotypical gay sub-types.

As I was still in post-cruise vacation mode and had five days' worth of nearly-visible stubble, I decided to take his unserious suggestion seriously. I'd grow a beard. I've attempted this before but always aborted the first time someone told me I have spiders making love on my lip.

Those who have read my Twitter profile know I describe myself as a "bear wannabe". Not only because I'm attracted to bears, also because I so admire bear culture that I wish I could belong to it.

All the way back to my preadolescence, long before I would even dare to admit to myself the possibility I was gay, I dreamed of the bear-like qualities I'd attain once my pituitary began spurting androgens like a summer lawn sprinkler.

It wasn't to be. In his infinite wisdom, God saw fit to grant me only enough secondary sex characteristics to pass as male while keeping open the option to transition without depilatories, should I ever so desire.

I find this highly unfair and hypocritical. Everyone who's seen Michelangelo's work knows that God is the Beariest. There are cherubim and seraphim riding his back fur, for heaven's sake.

Now Jesus on the other hand... From the neck down I can totally relate to the body of Christ (minus the abs) in that I too appear fully Nair-anointed. But that beard is perfection. Depending on the artist of course.

To me this begs the question: Is facial hair supposed to be a symbol of manliness, or of godliness? Or is the beard supposed to represent man's connection to God?

Any answer to that will depress me. As a man born without sideburn follicles, I find myself alienated from the divine. Along with all women. So I'm in good company anyway.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Mal De Wank

Man, I've been a slug this past month. This wasn't supposed to happen. My intention was to maintain the healthy momentum I established preparing for the Big Gay Cruise to launch me straight into pool season. I even took the extraordinary relationship step of mixing my socks with JB's in order to dedicate an entire drawer to my low-mileage swimwear collection.

The alternative was to smoosh all my cruise stuff in a Space Bag to stash in an IKEA storage bin. But then I daydreamed about unsealing my Parke & Ronen time capsule in the Spring of 2016. Overcome with nostalgia, I try on my skimpy, so-three-seasons-ago swimsuits and stand in the mirror. And I ask myself, "Was I really thin enough to wear this? What happened to me? How could I let myself go like this?"

Nope, I thought, snapping back to the present. Not gonna happen. I'm keeping these boys front and center next to my underpants.

But only days after returning from vacation I came down with bronchitis and a head cold. Then one morning a few weeks ago I got out of my spinning bed and fell over. Google suggested I had a rare neurological condition caused by spending too much time at sea. But when I further read that 97% of those suffering of Mal de Débarquement Syndrome are female, I knew I had to keep looking. (Me and my Münchausen's ain't got no time for a chick disease.)

StevieB said I probably acquired a parasite. Or a brain tumor. JB's diagnosis was "hangover". But my doctor said "upper respiratory infection". When I asked him about the dizziness, he said it was most likely my cold virus caused a minor inner ear infection. "Nothing to worry about, you'll live."

"You sure about that? Because Stevie and WebMD told me differently."

I felt better learning the medical term for my condition was "labyrinthitis". It sounded every bit as exotic as Mal de Débarquement Syndrome, but so much manlier. Like a Minotaur with jock-mange.

While my illnesses might explain my slug-like qualities of late, I'd be hard-pressed say it justifies the half-dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Or the pint of Ben & Jerry's. Or coming straight home from work to lie on the sofa in front of the television until bedtime. Or the uptick in masturbation frequency.

And even that has been lazy and sluggish. I normally dedicate substantial amounts of planning, technique, paraphernalia and network bandwidth to my auto-erotic endeavors. But lately I can barely bother myself to lift the laptop lid. It's gotten so bad that these past few times I've just jerked off to the guy on the paper towel package.

In my defense though, he is pretty hot.