The bitch's back

Stupid spinal column. All effed up again. Made me miss the big gay blogger picnic. And GayProf was there, even. Pffft. [Update: The Evil Ganome was there too. Double pffft. Which I guess is like pfffffft.]

Back soon. In the meantime, more Cloud Cult! Yaaaaay!
I love them more than pizza. For serious.

Pictures worth 1,000 turds

After a delicious and entertaining Sunday brunch at Bubby's of Brooklyn with Mrs. and Mrs. Nator, Da Nator and I went traipsing around DUMBO and Brooklyn Heights taking photos, because we are, like, deeply artistic an' shit. (And because I have no idea how to use my camera, so Nator was kind enough to instruct me. But mostly...ART! Yeah.)

These are just a few. Some of the others that don't suck entirely will soon be available on my newly minted, Brooklyn-themed photoblog. Self-serving, egocentric bitch that I am, of course I'll let you know when I officially launch that sucka.

No one has ever photographed the Brooklyn Bridge before...special.

I call this one "Cute Guy with Dog Butt".

Heh heh...they said shaft. Heh heh. Shaft.

"Get that g.d. flashy thing outta my face before I shit in your shoe."

Helen DARES to keep kids off drugs

What would you do if you randomly found a small but not unsubstantial quantity of high-grade marijuana...I'm talking stinky, sticky, bright green, red-hair-laden hydroponic chronic...lying unattended in the vestibule of your apartment building?

I'd like to think that my fair readers...a conscientious, morally unflappable group, by any standards...would do just as I did, and appropriately dispose of the offending specimen, post haste. FOR THE CHILDREN, people...for the children.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must dispatch to locate some antiacid medication. It seems that the three bags of Cheetos, half a large pizza, and two Snickers bars I ingested last evening have elected to disagree with my somewhat delicate digestive system.

Character studies

Joe's recent post about the Central Park Disco brought back fond memories from a couple summers back...

That dude, who was all of 40, spent the whole afternoon hitting on her.

If she's 71 now, Disco Grandma was 69 years old then. I've heard people comment that they hope they look that good at her age. Shit, I say. I wish I looked that good now.

I love New York's extensive and bizarre cast of characters. I think she's my favorite, in a close race with the Naked Cowboy. Ultimately, though, Disco Grandma wins. The Cowboy attended a party I bartended a few years back, and though he was very sweet and has washboard abs, he's a pretty crappy tipper.

Tagged & towed

Our heroine Lynette tagged me this week, in what I believe to be sweet and well-aimed effort to distract me from the craptastic-ness that has recently abounded. Because I love her, and because my vacation got cancelled and I'm totally missing tonight's Cloud Cult show in Denver and need something to do instead of think about that, and because I'm a huge slacker, I'm gonna play along and tell you ten things about me. Try not to shit yourself with excitement.

Aiiight, here goes:

1. I'm freakishly ambidextrous. Completely snapped both bones in my right arm when I was four, and as a result had to learn to use my left. I still write, play guitar, and primarily eat right-handed, but I bat, throw, and brush my teeth lefty, and can paint equally well with both hands (which is to say, not well at all.) I tend toward the left foot in soccer, too, but my right is almost as strong. Or was, back when I could still be persuaded to get off the couch every once in awhile. (NOTE TO MY LOVING COMMENTERS: Don't bother asking which hand I diddle myself with. That's an unimaginative question. I expect more from you.)
   


2. I was Little Miss Boulder County. Yep. I was on the road to Jon-Benet Land for awhile there, from ages four to six or so. I was winning, too. Tied for first place in a talent competition with the first and only stand-up comedy routine I have ever performed. The problem was that I hated dresses and girly things. At seven, I quit pageants to play little league baseball. My mom was heartbroken.



3. I'm scared of grasshoppers. We had this huge, horrible infestation of them the summer I was seven. The back yard was so carpeted with fucking grasshoppers that it crunched when you walked across it. They covered the back of the house, including the outside of the back door and the doorknob, so they got inside every time one went in or out. Do you have any idea how huge those bastards can get? And they spit that nasty tobacco juice shit all over you...iiiiiiiick. I can chase down a roach the size of my foot and kick its arthropodic ass, but show me a grasshopper and I get squealy.



4. I was in a Kevin Costner movie. My dad and I were extras in American Flyers. It pretty well sucks. But I got to meet John Amos, who was completely awesome and seemed extremely large to me at the time.



5. I was overweight and distinctly unattractive from ages 13 to 19. I'm neither now, but I still walk around feeling like a fat, ugly kid half the time. Especially in New York. Oof. I think I'd feel better if I moved to the Midwest and wasn't surrounded by 23-year-old stick figures with flawless faces all the time. Jesus christ, enough with the models already.
   


6. I have consumed damn near every illicit substance known to man at one time or the other, with the exceptions of cocaine and meth, neither of which will ever pass my mucous membranes. The first half of that statement shocks no one, I'm sure. Some may doubt the second half. All I can say to them is...well, fuck you.



7. I have never, ever shoplifted anything in my life. I may have a felonious nature, but I don't steal shit from stores. In fact, a Best Buy clerk once forgot to charge me for a $30 telephone, and when I realized the mistake, I made the 45-minute drive back to the store to pay for it. Then I called my mother and told her she had raised me all wrong.



8. I detest Ray Liotta with every strand of my DNA. I'd tell you why if I really knew, but I don't. I'm just deeply Liottaphobic. Fuck you, Ray!



9. I attract sociopaths. If you've ever had any desire to date/fuck me, you probably are one, and should have yourself committed to a psychiatric facility before you commit a(nother) crime against humanity. Seen Girl, Interrupted? Yeah, you're Angelina Jolie's character. Now get the fuck away from me.



10. Yes, it was me. Oops. Sorry 'bout that. What can I say? I'm a vegetarian. Lots of legumes and whatnot.

There you go. I guess I'm supposed to tag some other folks, or something? Sigh. Okay. Uhmmmm...how about Earl, and P/O ('cause he hasn't been around much lately...wtf?), and CSCFON. Yeah. Bring it, bitches.

Perspective

I could bitch like mad about the slew of crazy medical problems I've had in the past couple of weeks. It would be easy. I'm good at that type of thing. You've been here before. You know this.

I won't.

Instead, I feel lucky. Lucky that my medical issues are more inconvenient than serious. Lucky to have a job that provides health insurance to cover the extensive bills. Lucky to have a caring family and wonderful friends who have called and emailed and cheered me up and helped me out. Lucky, all in all, to be me, to be 34 years old, and to have a long life to look forward to.

Jesse, after all, just recently turned 33. And on Friday, his life ended, after a heroic battle with a horrible illness.

I feel lucky to have shared Jesse and Yen's courageous, painful, and beautiful journey. Yen's eloquence has drawn readers from all over the world, and provided them...us...with a constant reminder of the immeasurable values of life and love and chocolate and faith and now. Their story has become a powerful force in the lives of people who have never met them. I've come to consider their acquaintance a gift, and I am profoundly saddened that Jesse's portion of the narrative has come to a close.

The looming presence of Jesse's mortality has given me cause of late to formulate a theory regarding the deaths of those we love. I believe, at a very visceral level, that there is no real death, but merely a change of energy and scene which gives the illusion of separation for those who have yet to make the transition. Perhaps, then, it would be a worthwhile venture to treat the period of time after our loved one's passing and before our own in the way a child treats the night before Christmas. Maybe if we focus on the excitement and anticipation of the day when we'll see our love again, rather than the pain of loss and longing, we will live more and suffer less. Maybe. Wouldn't it be wonderful to wake up every day with that tiny, glowing ball of exhilaration in our bellies that tells us we're one day closer to something amazing? There aren't too many things better than that sense of I-just-can't-wait-ness...maybe thinking this way will allow us spend the rest of our lives feeling it.

It's just an idea. And it is, without question, one of those ideas that is far simpler in theory than in practice. The very physiology of human emotion necessitates some period of abject suffering after the loss of something or someone to which our circuitry has grown lovingly accustomed. But I want to believe that it's possible to choose joy, to appreciate what was and what will be again, and to treat life as a fantastic adventure so that we have great stories to tell when we're finally reunited with our loves.

Maybe I'd just rather think of sweet, incredible Yen living his life with the joyous anticipation of the night before Christmas, as he eagerly awaits the day when he'll see Jesse again.

I guess it's all about perspective.



Travel well, Jesse. My gratitude and tremendous admiration for your bravery, strength, and brilliance go with you. You will be missed.