What Say You?

1963 Cliff May-designed Robert and Alice Power Residence in Camarillo⁠
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⁠In the second half of the twentieth century, the Ranch style came to define Southern California living; with its rambling, low-slung profile, shallow-pitched roof, and open concept floor plan connecting it to its landscape, the ranch house embodied the effervescence of the buoyant post-war years. By the early 1960s, architectural designer Cliff May had been perfecting his take on the Ranch style for over thirty years, distilling the original adobe and Spanish Colonial forms into the sweeping ranch houses of the jet age.⁠
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⁠The home is a classic May design, featuring an expansive roof line, indoor/outdoor floor plan built around a semi-sheltered pool, walls of glass, skylights, and adobe-inflected details such as viga and latilla style ceilings. The house is prominently planned around a central pool—a classic May design choice—and, with it’s walls of windows and sliding doors, invites the pool to become the central social space within the home, a true California original.⁠
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87 Vientos Road, a 4 bedroom, 4 bath, 3,569 square foot home located on a 1.09 acre lot, is currently listed for $2,360,000.⁠

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Yesterday Was Cindy’s Birthday

She absolutely loved the Disney princess I’d generated of her a few days ago and asked if I could do the same with a picture of the two of us. This of course lead down the rabbit hole and ended up doing Muppets, which I happen to like a lot more.

I know I’ve relentlessly disparaged AI, the datacenter impact on the environment, and the evil, evil men running those companies, but damn if some of the images I generate by using it don’t take my breath away.

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Released 33 Years Ago Today

Pet Shop Boys – Very Relentless (1993)

This was one of the first CDs I replaced when I started rebuilding my collection years ago, and remains one of my all-time favorites.

As I wrote last spring:

I love this album, mainly because it was so different [the Relentless disc of the set] from what PSB had put out up until that point.

I will forever associate this disc with a little club I happened upon called The Playground in San Francisco in August of 1993 because it seemed they were always playing it.

I discovered The Playground after I had started boxing up my life to move back to Arizona—for the first time—after nearly a decade in The City. City life—and still pining over Rory—I knew it was time for me to cut my losses and start new.

Once I’d made up my mind to leave however—going so far as to give notice at work and on my apartment—as she is wont to do, The City pulled out all the stops to get me to stay. One evening I was out in front of my apartment building washing the car, and an absolutely gorgeous man happened by, struck up a conversation, and the next thing I knew we were upstairs doing the nasty. I started meeting guys left and right. And then my friend Rick came over one evening and started singing the praises of The Playground.

I was no stranger to sex clubs, having frequented the 1808 on a regular basis just after moving to San Francisco and spending many a rainy night wandering the halls of Mike’s Night Gallery many years later, but I’d drifted away from those venues because it was easy enough to find sex pretty much anywhere in the city if you really wanted it. So why pay for it?

In any case Rick’s full-throated (pardon the pun) endorsement of The Playground let me to check it out one night.

From the description in my Journal at the time:

There ís something very primal about the place, something that ís very much linked to our deepest (and yes, darkest) sexual fantasies. The owners have a gold mine in their hands, if they know how to keep the ambiance alive. 

It s a converted warehouse on 17th Street between Folsom and Harrison. The building itself is at the back of a large parking lot. It’s all gray metal with yellow painted trim. At night there are two rotating yellow beacons located on the loading dock where you go in. When you first enter, to the right is the admission area. When you pass through that, you first enter the television and refreshment area. There are several sofas clustered about a lone TV. If you proceed back, slightly to the left, the next area you come to is the glory hole space. It’s a series of black painted cubicles surrounding a raised platform. Naturally, there are more than ample holes drilled between the cubicles and the platform. Immediately to the right of this area is what I’ve come to call “the drive-in.” There’s an English taxi (vintage unknown) parked there that faces a projection television that plays the same porn videos that are playing in the television area. If you continue back toward the rear of the building from the drive-in, you get into another area dominated by separate cubicles. These cubicles surround another, smaller room, and they have small holes drilled at eye-level, allowing you to look into the smaller room and see whatís going on. When you exit the peep-hole area and head again, toward the rear of the warehouse, you pass “the dungeon” on your left, where you’ll find a sling and various other equipment I could not identify. To your right is the restroom (and yes, people do have sex in there). Continuing back, down a set of stairs, are three more spaces: the jail, the infirmary, and off the infirmary, a small room with a bed and a single lone light bulb. There’s something very eerie about these two rear rooms, although exactly what it is, I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on. The jail, which opened only recently, is very hot. It consists of a large area surrounding four cells, complete with bunks and toilets.

I think this is the building (at least as it appears today). I can’t definitively verify that because gates on street view are blocking the view of the entrance.) The parking lot was much smaller with another building blocking it off to the right of the entrance gate.

After visiting The Playground several more times, combined with all the men falling out of the sky, I abruptly changed my plans to leave and ended up staying in San Francisco for another nine months. By then the downpour of eligible bachelors had ended and I was at wit’s end with the same aspects of city life that had initially prompted my thoughts of moving back to Arizona months earlier. It was then that I returned to Tucson for six months before the siren call of The City prompted my return.

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spoiler alert: not everything totally fucking sucks.

good news is out there — you just have to go looking for it. so today, let’s do exactly that.

bear with me, this is another longish post. but it’s all good news.

Good News number one: a lot of this shit has been flying under the radar, but judges and courts continue to cordially invite Donny — along with his like-minded flunkies and acolytes — to go fuck themselves.

here’s one that was definitely under the radar.

long story short: back during the 2024 campaign, three days before the election, the Des Moines Register published a poll showing mean old Kamala Harris with a three-point lead over God’s Own Avatar on Earth. of course, that’s not what happened. Donny won Iowa by 18 points — but because Donny is the most-broken-inside piss-baby in the universe, instead of forgetting about the one bad poll and getting on with his infuriatingly charmed life, he went ballistic and sued the paper and the pollster, for being very very mean to him.

yesterday, an Iowa district court shitcanned the lawsuit, ruling that there’s no First Amendment exclusion for being a dumbfuck who got his feeling hurt by words.

the score: justice 1, morons 0.


this next case involves some shit-kazoo sheriff who got his own feelings hurt by ballots.

The California Supreme Court on Thursday ordered a county sheriff to return about 650,000 ballots he had seized from election officials as part of an investigation into voter fraud that state officials said had no basis in fact.

what we have here is just one more MAGA numb-nuts who was so saddened by an election that didn’t go his way, that he took it upon himself to confiscate a bunch of ballots, because reasons.

this is just one more way in which Donny has broken our nation. now, every dipshit on the losing end of an election believes they have the right to meddle with the results.

ace job, Donny.

the California Supreme Court shut that shit down pronto, ruling that doing your own research after an election isn’t a thing, even if you’re some high-on-your-own-supply cultist with a gun and a badge.

the score: justice 2, morons 0.


the third case deals with an appeals court ruling that Donny can’t disappear immigrants without due process.

The Trump administration scrambled on Thursday to halt a number of imminent deportations after an appeals court blocked authorities from expelling people to third countries without a chance to contest their cases, according to documents obtained by The New York Times.

we’re really on a roll here. the score: justice 3, morons 0.


and then we have the whole shittacular farce that played out this week, with Diaper Nurse Natalie sweet-talking Donny into banning CNN, MSNOW and Politico from the White House — which, by the way, is the latest wrinkle in the story: that it was Nurse Natty, taking advantage of Chief of Staff Susie Wiles being away on vacation, who convinced Dear Leader that a media ban would be totes awesome.

my god, it’s like a high school lunchroom. there really are no adults at all in the White House.

anyway, in short order: in the middle of the night on Wednesday, a judge blocked the ban and reinstated the three networks’ access. then, on Thursday morning, when they reporters showed up for work, the White House was ‘all nuh-oh, you can’t come in, we don’t want to get your cooties.’

so it was right back to court for everyone involved, where the judge was all, ‘what in the actual fuck?’ and reinstated the reinstated access. double-reinstated, boo-yah!

are you all still following me? oh, good. 

so, everything at that point was hunky-dory, with the reporters finally being allowed to do their jobs. but then, when it came time to cover last night’s state dinner for China’s President Xi, MSNOW and CNN were once again barred from attending, because reasons.

so now, presumably, it will be back to court again this morning.

the score: justice 3.5, morons .5.


Good News number two: even the loyalists at Fox News seem to finally be getting exasperated with Dear Leader.

just look at how glum Stuart Varney is, as he lays out what Donny hath wrought.

“those polls showed 51% would vote Democrat, for a Democrat candidate, 43% for a Republican. why is this happening? four dollar gas, six dollar diesel, seven percent mortgages, the ongoing war, and the president is less popular personally than at any time in his second term. his attempts to reverse the trend have fallen flat. five thousand dollar checks for everyone didn’t fly, and the ban on diesel exports won’t work. if this trend continues, Republicans will lose the House, and maybe the Senate. thirty-nine days to the vote. if that happens, say goodbye to what’s left of the Trump agenda.”

“say goodbye to what’s left of the Trump agenda”? 

don’t threaten me with a good time, Stu.

after the 2024 election, Republicans had the golden goose: the House, the Senate, the presidency were all theirs, and they could do anything they wanted. Donny took that golden goose and clownfucked it so hard that their agenda currently lies in tatters — and now, far too late to do anything about it, Republicans are waking up to the fact that maybe this guy wasn’t the answer.

boo fucking hoo.


Good News number three: the First Couple continue to make each other miserable.

ook at these two lovebirds. have you ever seen a two people more head-over-heels smitten with each other?

seriously, Melly’s in shitfit mode because her whole weekend has been ruined by having to pretend to geef a fock about the husband whom she loathes, and his playdate with what’s-his-face from China or wherever. look, it’s enough that Melania deigned to show up. please don’t ask her to bother to learn anyone’s name, or where they’re from.

and as for Donny, he just realized that he and his diaper nurse can’t spend the weekend canoodling.

too bad, so sad.


Good News number four: Dear Leader can’t stop being a clownshoes buffoon.

can anyone tell me what is going on with Donny’s ass? every time he’s out in public these days, he looks like he’s smuggling a microwave oven back there.

what can possibly be going on? is he wearing some kind of medical device? has Natalie chosen to make things easier for herself by having Donny wear all the diapers at once?

look, if anyone knows what’s happening, it would be Google’s janky, six-fingered plagiarism robot, am I right? that homey’s infallible. so let’s ask it. hey, plagiarism robot — what the fuck is going on with Dear Leader’s ass?

There is no factual or medical news regarding Donald Trump’s health or physical condition concerning his lower back or posture.

you’re no fun, plagiarism robot — but you do get bonus points for knowing who I was referring to when I said ‘Dear Leader.’


Good News number five: Dear Leader continues to deteriorate, both physically and mentally.

yesterday, Donny had exactly one job: to walk in a straight line for six feet, without fucking that shit up.

spoiler alert: he fucked that shit up.

Donny can’t even manage to walk on his side of the red carpet. he keeps meandering to his left, forcing his Slovenian rent-a-wife to walk on the bare concrete of the Epstein Parking Lot where the Rose Garden used to be.

was it Donny’s frontotemporal dementia that caused him to veer? or was he deliberately being a dick to Melania, just because he could?

who cares? either way, that shit’s hilarious.


and, finally, Good News number six: someday this war’s gonna end.

today marks 38 days to the midterm elections. should things go our way, we’re going to have a ginormous fucking mess to clean up.

there’s no doubt in my mind that useless pantloads like Chuck Schumer will continue to waste everyone’s time on a series of strongly-worded letters — but at the same time, there are folks on our side who are right now giving serious thought as to what we’ll need to do, in order to dig out from under this shitpile Donny’s inflicted on us.

one of those people is Robert Reich. here’s what he posted last night.

10 Steps To Fix What Trump Has Broken

And mend everything thereafter

If we want to clean up the mayhem Trump and his regime have created — and prevent anything like this from happening again — here are the 10 big reforms every political candidate should support.

They’re structural reforms in how our political system works, rather than policies such as Medicare for All, affordable housing, childcare, or a $20 minimum wage. But these structural reforms are necessary prerequisites to getting good policies enacted. They must be passed by Congress in order for anything else to get done.

I’m summarizing them below the video. Please watch and share:

we have our marching orders. let’s do this.

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So…

…meh? No spoilers.After seeing the first three episodes, I can’t say I’m especially wowed. Then again, I’m not so disappointed that I won’t be tuning in next week to see the next one. I’m still not sure what I was expecting, but so far I haven’t seen whatever it was.

To me it seems like just a random assemblage of parts, hoping that a coherent storyline will emerge. This is Ryan Murphy after all. Is there even supposed to be a coherent storyline?I guess we’ll see as the season unfolds.The Coven actors reprising their roles were obviously my favorite, but the new main character, Ben, ain’t bad. And he’s easy on the eyes.

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The entire world is laughing at us, and can anybody honestly blame them?

Donald Trump—that hell-spawned, hemorrhoidal, half-witted Heat Miser—gave a “speech” at the UN, although it was really more of a SCREED, and it was every bit the shitshow anybody with a semi-firing synapse could’ve guessed it would be.

He opened by feverishly fellating himself and lying his ass off about the state of the dumpster fire HE’s responsible for—then paused for applause that never came.

Couldn’t get a pity clap from people professionally trained to tolerate bullshit.

The whole planet had to watch him riffing like the day drunk at the corner of the bar in a strip-mall Applebee’s at two in the afternoon, spraying spittle, spite, and spinach dip across the specials menu.

Except nobody could cut him off, and he was threatening a country instead of the assistant manager.

He even found time to pick a fight with an adjective, announcing that we were renaming artificial intelligence “superintelligence” because “artificial” made it sound fake.

Motherfucker, what do you think ARTIFICIAL MEANS?

Your face is the color of a Cheez-It. Let’s not get precious about authenticity.

And don’t worry about reining it in, folks. We just need to change the name. The brakes don’t work, but Donald’s picked out a vanity plate.

What’s the worst that could happen? Somebody uses AI to cook up an extinction-level bioweapon? A little oopsie with the species?

We could wander straight into “Shall we play a game?” territory, but this cantankerous Creamsicle with the intellectual curiosity of a urinal cake was busy fixing the LABEL.

It’s a branding problem, folks. Little PR. Like renaming gonorrhea Super Mario Party.

Your dick’s still on fire, but congratulations, you can now win Rainbow Road.

“Artificial” offended his sensibilities, but annihilating Iran—a country of ninety million people—rolled right off his tongue.

“Or do I annihilate the Islamic Republic and do it quickly…?”

“Do I drive them into hell…?”

At the United fucking Nations.

He was talking about ninety million people like he was getting an estimate from Terminix.

Imagine if an Iranian president stood up there. Imagine if Ahmadinejad had come to the UN General Assembly and said: “Do I annihilate the Jewish state, and do it quickly? Do I drive Israel into hell?”

Imagine the Western response, the global response, the media outcry.

Republicans would’ve been on every channel demanding we bomb Iran before the translator finished the sentence. You know it. I know it. They would’ve understood every word, every implication, every reason a parent might pull their kid a little closer after hearing it.

But when Donald says it, we’re the assholes for being horrified. We’re overreacting. We don’t understand his humor. Well, explain the joke. Explain the funny part to somebody trying to raise a child in the country he just threatened to erase.

But I’m supposed to swallow that because we’ve already swallowed so much, to let yesterday’s disgrace make today’s easier to stomach. It doesn’t. It breaks something in me to love this country and watch him teach the world to fear what we’re becoming.

The president of the United States went to the United Nations and threatened genocide against a member state in front of the world.

Our country’s name is attached to that threat. Iranian children have to live under it.

This is where we’re at.

And from threatening people who have no say in how their country is run, he went straight to slobbering over somebody who keeps his own people that way. Out came the red carpet for Xi Jinping, the honor guard, American B-1 bombers overhead—our military providing the thunder while Donald provided the heavy breathing.

Look at that photograph. Xi barely changes expression. Trump looks like somebody just zipped his balls into a golf bag.

What the hell was that all about, by the way? I’ve seen some interesting chatter online.

And all that American pomp was for a guy whose people can’t vote him out, whose party has the courts by the throat, and whose government can drag its critics off to prison and torture them.

Donald looks at that and wonders why his presidency came with so much goddamn adult supervision.

When China scrapped presidential term limits in 2018, he said, “Maybe we’ll have to give that a shot someday.”

That’s covetous, crotch-quivering, crown-craving envy. He heard “president for life” and needed somebody to slide a menu over his lap. No voters to fire him, no judges telling him no, no obligation to ever pack up his shit and leave.

And we’re supposed to laugh like the guy who tried to overturn an election is kidding about wanting to stop having them.

He even had an excuse when asked about accusations that Chinese companies supplied Iran with satellite imagery before a strike that killed three American troops: “They basically do what we do.”

What the literal fuck?

Three Americans dead, and he sounded like somebody took his parking space at Costco. He had an entire speech’s worth of praise for himself and one shrug for the people who risked their lives under his orders.

And none of it got in the way of the welcome. While our service members fight an illegal, unconstitutional war with no exit strategy in sight, their crepey, concealer-caked, candy-corn-colored Commander-in-Chief is practically pulling a hamstring trying to kiss Xi’s ass.

Where the fuck are the Reagan Republicans? Where is their outrage?

These cowards of convenience have spent years prostrating themselves before this prick, surrendering one principle after another until their patriotism could fit on a lapel and everything else was for sale. He can humiliate America and lick the loafers of despots, and they’ll still insist the real threat is an imaginary transgender child on an imaginary softball team.

They can sniff out communism in a school lunch, these flag-fondling, freedom-fetishizing frauds, but put an actual communist leader beside Donald and watch them swallow their tongues.

A kid gets a free sandwich and it’s the Bolshevik Revolution. Xi got bombers and we’re supposed to appreciate the diplomacy.

We roll out the red carpet for Putin and Xi while we shit on our closest allies daily. The American government under Trump and his cultist Republican Party is a disgrace.

He’s turning our country’s identity inside out—who we believe we are, who the rest of the world sees when they look at us—and taking with him the things we still wanted to believe about ourselves.

And yes, there’s a long, ugly argument that we were already the bad guys, but standing at the United Nations and announcing that he can unilaterally wipe another country off the planet leaves a hell of a lot less room to argue otherwise, especially with an entire Republican Party at his feet, surrendering everything they once swore made us different and leaving the rest of us searching for our country in the things they’re willing to throw away.

Look, I know we’re numb to a lot of this shit. Believe me, I get it. My Instagram algorithm is slow cooker recipes, workout videos, and doomsday prepping at this point. Here’s a chicken marinade. Here’s a glute exercise. Here’s how long drinking water keeps in a bathtub.

I’m trying to make dinner and determine whether civilization has a return policy.

And whether I’m laughing at him or trying not to panic, he’s still up there “representing” our country. Our name. Our reputation. Our national identity.

Future generations are going to watch this footage and wonder if we were all fucking high.

Because a plurality of the dumbest dumbfucks who ever dumbed watched the first term of this shitshow, forgot what a disaster it was, blinded themselves with irrational hatred of other people, and put the motherfucker back in that office AGAIN.

But on behalf of the sane Americans who didn’t vote for this shit and are tethered to the inside of this endless tantrum, please believe me when I tell you:

He does not speak for us.

We are embarrassed. We are angry. We are sick. We are scared.

And we are determined to make this shit right.

Because he does NOT speak for us.

He never has, and he never fucking will.


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In An Alternate Universe

Prompt: Age the person in this photo 45 years. Give him a shorter haircut and a full beard.

The Butterfly Effect. Different genetics, different timeline, different struggles.

But since we’re playing around today…

This is the eternal me, the forever 28-year old guy that lives in my head.

And that guy who never thought to grow a beard until it was too late to actually do it.

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Down A Rabbit Hole

I ran across this image earlier this morning. Damn, does that bring back memories…

In the early 1970s, the biggest consumer TVs were 27-inch direct-view CRT sets, so I was blown away the first time I saw TV projected on an Advent VideoBeam 1000’s 7-foot screen. The first Betamax videocassette recorders were still a couple of years away in 1972, and broadcast and cable TV were the only viewing options. I knew I’d never own one, but that didn’t mean a boy couldn’t wish—and designed every subsequent dream home living room to properly accommodate one.

While Advent was already known for its founder Henry Kloss’ incredible speakers, he was more interested in pioneering home-video projection technology. The technology was developed in house, with the projector’s CRTs manufactured at the Advent factory in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Audio came from a speaker mounted in the VideoBeam 1000’s projector base, and its sound was bounced off the screen.

What’s so amusing fifty years later is that we now have a Jetsons-inspired screen the same size (with a proper 14:9 aspect ratio) that hangs flat against the wall in our living room that is more reliable, doesn’t require constant adjustments, and cost significantly less than what this Advent was selling for (even adjusting for inflation).

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HOW Does It Know?

Prompt: Cleanup, sharpen, and colorize.

It got the color of the patchwork suede jacket almost exact. The flannel shirt was indeed red, and the t-shirt underneath was navy.

As my dad used to say, “How do it know?!”

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If I May Take A Moment To Say…

…to everyone who has left comments on this blog. Sometimes it feels like I’m screaming (or jerking off) into the void. It’s nice to know what I post at least has enough effect on other people to prompt even a small response.

Again, thank you all!

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