April 2014 Archives

ragetards

Can we improve upon that name?

Regardless, we need a term for these self-aggrandizing twits (Suey Park, Annalee Newitz, Sean Hannity) who apparently do little all day except hitting F5 in their web browser, parsing for some pretext of offense.

Can I please enjoy the picture of the reassembled original Star Wars cast for two seconds before someone's railing about sexism? We can rail tomorrow. As a bonus, we can think for more than two seconds before racing to invented outrage.

I would like to apologize to all 'tards for the joke in the subject line. I know you hate that.

note for the person who finds my corpse

When the cleaning specialist asks, I was doing this. Conveniently for him, there's a pressure washer lying next to my brain's splatter on the deck.

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note for the person who finds my corpse

When the coroner asks, I was doing this.

black jelly beans

"You know that's not normal, right?" said Allie of my childhood Easter stories.

No, but I would have guessed that.

• • •

Borrowing from American Indians, I would drink 10 glasses of water on Easter Eve. (It's a thing; look it up.) The purpose? Awakening earlier than my siblings. If I slept until a reasonable hour, I could be sure that all of the robin's eggs and Reese eggs in my basket would have been replaced by peeps and, god help me, black jelly beans. My good stuff would have migrated to my siblings' baskets, and their dregs to mine.

And so I got up at a ridiculous hour just to squirrel away my Reese eggs. Sometimes my sister Nadine had downed 15 glasses of water and I'd be too late, but usually I arrived in time to mount my defense. And then I would bite the ears off my four siblings' bunnies.

Just to send a message.

meme correction

This one's for Washingtonians.

This joke made the rounds yesterday, as it should. It's pretty much spot-on.

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But having lived in both places, I say with confidence that absolutely spot-on would look like this.

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slipping

Despite hanging out with Dorkass recently, and then Annette's entire family, I have distressingly little to rant about. I know, I know, I'm surprised too.

I hereby promise to talk to a neighbor tomorrow. That ought to do it.

the inconvenient "but"

My readership is less than half American these days, so a primer: one of the U.S.'s founding fathers and first presidents, Thomas Jefferson, wrote our Declaration of Independence and was undoubtedly the most important mind this nation has ever produced. Although he opposed slavery, he owned slaves and even impregnated at least one, which causes angst here. We want to lionize him, but then there's that nagging, inconvenient "but."

My favorite walk in Washington D.C. starts at the Jefferson memorial. That beautiful open-air marble dome, that view abutting the Potomac, cannot be bettered, and now it has a wondrous view of the King memorial reflecting across the water. From there I head north along the Potomac's bank, a lovely, tree-lined route recently featured in the opening scenes of The Winter Soldier. It winds through the understated but lovely Roosevelt memorial and stops at the spectacular new King memorial, a few hundred meters from where he gave his most famous speech.

Some have criticized the King memorial for how angry he looks, but I am not among them. He looks stern. It works.

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What I didn't expect was a delightful bit of positioning. If you follow MLK's eyeline, he's glaring across the water at Jefferson for all eternity.

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does a trannie pee in the woods?

People's sexual orientation isn't something I think much about—not unless I'm hanging out with a gay friend and need an insult. Mostly this is because I don't care. I have higher priorities. There are far more important reasons to hate people.

If I do think about it, it's alien to me. They say orientation is a spectrum, and I accept that on faith. Mine is most decidedly a single point on that line, and from here it's hard to imagine orientation being a range of points. But I have comparable difficulty imagining anyone enjoying peach schnaps or Kanye West. Yet here we are.

When the bear bar was filled with fat bearded guys, I was of course not surprised. Biker jackets, flannel shirts and testosterone abounded—also not a surprise. But everyone watching, delighting in, and squealing at RuPaul's Drag Race? I have to say that's a surprise. These guys? That show? Can someone kindly draw me a map from the Harleys parked outside to RuPaul's trannies?

a bear actually walked into a bar

The long-threatened trip to a bear bar took place last night. As Mike and I were about to enter the establishment in Seattle's gay district, I paused under the rainbow flag to put on surgical gloves.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"You dick. I am not taking a punch for you."

I took the gloves off.

I regret to inform the readership that no drinks were sent to my table. So it's official: there is no demographic on the planet to whom I am attractive.

I did attract my share of stares from fat, hairy guys, especially when Mike left me alone. They weren't making eye contact. It was like I was some oddity they were trying to figure out. They stared unblinkingly and without care. Guys are creepy. How do women put up with this 24/7?

"It helps to be attracted to them," says Allie.

needy

Anna checked in this weekend, and conversation immediately turned to relationships. Her divorce isn't yet filed, yet she's already thinking about husband #2. Not the best of signs.

I tried to coach her up. I used myself as an example. "See, being in a relationship isn't one of my priorities. Not in and of itself. If I meet someone in whom I'm really interested, then my priority is to be in a relationship."

"So basically, you never want to get married," she replied.

Wow. Um, no, that's not even a tangent to what I'm saying. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I actually like the idea of being married. I like the idea of all the wonderfulness that would have to happen between here and there. All I'm saying is that when I meet someone, only then do I start thinking about a relationship. With her. Specifically her. But I don't sit around pining for a hypothetical next woman. That's how you end up forcing a bad relationship."

"So right. You don't ever want to get married."

Anyone want to get married first and iron out the details later? Do I ever have the woman for you.

farewell, my forever friend

You've survived four girlfriends, 18 Football Weekends, five room-paintings, countless lawn-mowings, the Bleach Incident of 2006, and hurtful stares from complete strangers. But mostly, you've survived the girlfriends. It wasn't easy. You're welcome.

This is your eulogy. You've had two head-holes for several years now, and the real one has long been dwarfed by the new one. You've given me your warmth and, finally, your structural integrity. You are physically incapable of staying on my body anymore, so I'm afraid it's time for a proper burial. Now, at the end, I'm grateful that it's me pulling your plug and not some fleeting girlfriend who makes fun of you to her physical therapist while she's banging him reverse-cowgirl-style.

That would have horrified me. Because you deserve a better death.

Note to reader: in the second picture, the shirt is not lying crumpled on the floor. I'm actually wearing it.

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paranoia will employ ya

In my line of work, all work is digital. We store our work in giant databases. When the database goes kerplunk, you damned well better have reliable backups. I've been royally fucked in the past by relying on other people backing up my stuff, so when I built my company, I entrusted backups to the only person I've ever truly loved. Me.

"What's that grinding sound?" I thought last weekend. Something in my closet sounded like gravel in a garbage disposal.

That was the hard drive. All data was lost.

Eep.

An intense 24 hours later, I'd recovered all the data from the offsite backups, and nothing was lost. With great relief, we all tried to remember the last time we'd seen a happy ending to this situation. No one ever had.

"Finally," sighed Rich, "John's pathological paranoia works fer me instead of a-ginst me."

How's that working out for you? Are they throwing their legs open as expected?

You go wow some more. I'm going shopping for your wedding gift.

my pleasure

"Thank you for your integrity and candor," wrote the prospective client I had just turned down. The project was set up to fail, and I'd said so when declining their business.

I reread his email. "What an odd sentence," I thought.

Then it occurred to me: never in my life has someone thanked me for my candor. Thanked me for my silence, sure...

resistible link of the day

You'll note that the link retains its "unvisited" appearance.

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still hurts

Just once, I'd like to google whatever moderate physical discomfort I'm in and find out that it's something other than untreatable, terminal cancer.

old

I awoke yesterday with a twinge in my rib cage. I chuckled. How did I hurt that in my sleep? Then I stood up.

Holy hell. 24 hours later, I can still barely lift my right arm. It feels for all the world like a cracked rib, but how?

There once was a time when I knew damned well how I'd injured myself, and it was usually an awesome story involving basketball, cows, power tools or my older brother's sadism. Now, injuries involve breathing.

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