Once a legitimate blog. Now just a collection of memes 'n menz.
…and others I simply do not. Buck and Eddie from 9-1-1, yes. The attraction and the chemistry is obviously there even if the writers never go in that direction. But Robbie and Whitaker? I don’t see that at all; just a lot of wishful thinking on the part of fangirls. But I do enjoy the fangirl artwork…
BTW, if you aren’t watching The Pitt, you should be…it’s damn good television.
An old friend and former housemate from San Francisco currently living in Oregon came to town to attend a family funeral yesterday. We managed to steal him away for a few hours today to share coffee and reminisce a bit. But surprisingly, “two old retired guys who’ve known each other going on 35 years” had very little to talk about since we text each other almost daily. But it was still great to physically see him again. That’s been twenty years or so…
I met Michael in San Francisco one morning in June ’92 on the J-Train heading downtown. He got on, we made eye contact multiple times and I finally got up the nerve to hand him one of my “Woof” cards (yeah, they actually had that printed on one side with my number on the other). He called shortly thereafter and we started hanging out and even had a brief affair. I don’t remember why it didn’t work out on that level, but we remained good friends over the years and after I’d moved back to Tucson in 1995—and six months later realized what a horrible mistake I’d made—he offered me a place to stay until I got resettled—and even flew down to drive my car back while I piloted the U-Haul.
Even after I’d found work and had a steady income again, we remained housemates. The location wasn’t ideal (he lived out in the Avenues), so the commute downtown became a pain in the ass, but the rent was reasonable, the company (including three adorable pugs) was excellent, and most importantly, we simply got along.
Everything was fine until Michael met his future husband in ’97. Raymond and I did not get along, and while Michael was hoping for a “Three Muskateers” sort of friendship, it proved impossible (at least for me). I ended up moving out and back to Phoenix in ’98. Tensions were high, and I didn’t even say goodbye.
We remained incommunicado for many years, even upon my return to The City a year later. After my first cancer diagnosis, bygones became bygones after I returned to Phoenix again (for the last time) and we reconnected.
Funny the directions life takes you…
It’s been one year since my retirement, and unexpected health issues notwithstanding, it’s been what I’d hoped for. I don’t miss working at all. Dreams of sleeping in every morning were quickly forgotten since Ben still has to be up and out of here by 7 am. I do occasionally go back to bed after he’s left for the day, but it’s been rare. It’s far more common for me to lay down in the afternoon for a couple hour nap—assuming the dogs let me.
The mere thought of going back to work gives me a case of the icks.
Most surprising since I had what I thought were good relationships with my immediate supervisor and colleagues is the absolute indifference and radio silence I’ve gotten from them when I have reached out. I mean, I considered them friends—work friends, yes, but still friends. I called to wish my old sup happy birthday last spring and it was almost as if he couldn’t be bothered. I reached out to another colleague prior to my surgery last September and he wished me well, in the most dispassionate, disconnected tone I’ve ever heard. I haven’t bothered following up with either of them, and of course, no one has reached out to me. So fuck ’em.
I have friends from previous employment who have stayed with me over the years, most notably my friend Cindy, whom I met while working at Phoenix Baptist hospital those many years ago. We chat every few days and—at least prior to my swallowing issues—used to get together every other month or so to share Mexican food. I’m her tech go-to, and she’s my medical go-to.
My days have settled back into a semi-routine. Not having one was the most difficult thing I faced. Yes, the world is my oyster as they say, but I still like some regularity.
After I pull myself out of bed, “eat,” and get ready, every other day (because a large iced latte will last me two days) I run out with the doggos for caffeine and pup cups and then spend the rest of the morning in my “office,” online, either working on this here blog thingie, or subjecting myself to Reddit, Tumblr, Instagram, and the news from various sources,
Sometimes I run downtown to the library and see if there’s anything in their CD collection I might want to hear. Back in the day, it was how I substantially expanded my musical tastes. I occasionally will burn a few Minidiscs when I get home, or make labels for ones I’ve already recorded.
After “lunch,” I generally retire to the living room and get some serious cuddle time with the doggos while watching YouTube or Netflix or whatever catches my attention.
Then there’s the infrequent afternoon naps…
Every week I have two PT appointments, always back to back on the same day (although not necessarily on the same day of the week) which actually helps me keep track of what fucking day of the week it is. (An ability that apparently atrophies when you’re not always counting down the days until Friday.)
My one goal—originally manufactured to answer the question I was often asked prior to retiring, “What are you going to do?” (because apparently you are expected to be doing something after retirement and “taking each day as it comes” was an unacceptable answer) was to get out and do more photography. I even bought new batteries for my DSLR, hoping to dust it off and put it to use. But practically that would involve getting out to begin with and with everything going on in the world, I have no desire to be out and about.
A lot of people will say this is boring, and I completely understand. But for me, it’s perfect, and what I was looking forward to for many years prior to retiring.
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Damn, Andy Bell was cute. But then, weren’t we all at that age?
“Live never to be ashamed if anything you do or say is published around the world—even if what is published is not true.” ~ Richard Bach, Messiah’s Handbook
Quote above notwithstanding, there’s a lot more to that photoshoot that I am not going to share. (Although if you were on a certain BBS in the early 90s you might’ve come across a photo from that shoot of me in a cowboy hat, leather vest, and…not much else.)
Erasure: Lay All Your Love On Me (1992)
Looking at iTunes, the song has been covered by several artists over the years, but IMHO, there is only one definitive version of this ABBA classic:
…the Tarot card readers (yeah, yeah I know) that I occasionally stumble across on YouTube warned that when all this Epstein shit came all came out it would be much, much worse than we ever imagined. It seems that—unlike their predictions for a landslide victory for Kamala Harris—they were right about this.
Just when I think I can’t hate him any more than I already do, I constantly find myself re-evaluating that stance.
Which is exactly why CDs and MiniDiscs slow down as the laser goes from the center of the disc to the outside edge. It’s to guarantee a uniform data stream speed…
Look it up!
But I rather like the overall plan and exteriors. And that Studio…????????????????
From the source:
Architect Wallace Neff’s third house for opera star Amelita Galli-Curci was located in San Diego’s bucolic Rancho Santa Fe community. Rancho Santa Fe, technically a census-designated place, transports you into the California of yesteryear, and provided just the artistic respite Galli-Curci desired.
My favorite aspect of this home are the garage’s generous overhangs, which provide both protection from the elements as well as adding visual interest to an otherwise stark facade. This home’s design expertly straddles the Spanish Colonial and midcentury modern forms, creating a home that combines the best of both worlds.
And is there anything more romantic than a home situated within its own private eucalyptus grove? While I prefer native plants, I grew up with eucalyptus trees in my backyard, which will always afford them a special place in my heart and imagination.
The home was located on Las Planideras, yet has since been demolished.
Project: Residence of Mr. Homer Samuels and Mrs. Amelita Galli-Curci, 1947
Architect: Wallace Neff
Location: Rancho Santa Fe, California
Photographer: Maynard L. Parker
I leave it to you, my faithful readers. Because I can’t today…
(Originally appeared on Voenix Rising 26 May 2016)
Ben and I were heading home the other day and as we were driving down Lincoln and crossed 22nd Street, I was reminded of a time—a lifetime ago, it seems—when my family almost bought a house in that neighborhood.
It was during eighth grade—or perhaps shortly after I’d graduated. Dad was rightfully proud of the work he’d recently done for Hallcraft on their new Biltmore Highlands subdivision, so one sunny Saturday we headed over to what seemed at the time to me like the far east side of the valley to check it out. I don’t know how the talk started, but before I knew it we went from looking at the model homes to being shown one house in particular a few streets over that my parents were actually considering buying. It was a large, beautiful three bedroom, two bath place with a courtyard entrance, a spacious kitchen and a large family room with a fireplace. The bedroom that was to be mine was significantly larger than my current room, eliciting no small amount of excitement on my part. The room also had two windows instead of one.
My enthusiasm was tempered somewhat by the fact that it would now actually cost to phone my best friend (apparently calling from certain Phoenix exchanges to certain Glendale exchanges back in the day incurred wasn’t free).
This move also meant that my sister and I would be transferring to a new school district, something I think caused my parents’ eventual decision to bail on that house and that particular subdivision.
We did end up moving into a new home a few months later, actually only about a half mile south of where we had been living, so the seed had definitely been planted. I’m sure economics were also a factor; we got a much larger house for less money in Hallcraft’s Bethany Heights than we would’ve gotten if we’d moved to Biltmore Highlands.
Ironically, even though my best buddy and I now actually lived closer to each other than we had previously with this move, after high school started we drifted apart and each went our separate ways. (I found out many, many years later that Neal—whom I’d known since 4th grade—transitioned to Angela sometime in our twenties. He’d always told me he’d felt like a girl trapped in a boy’s body, so this did not come as a huge surprise.)
What does all this have to do with the title of this post? Well, I got to thinking how different (or perhaps not) my life would’ve been had we actually moved to Biltmore Highlands and my sister and I had been forced into a new school district.
Obviously, I would never have met the people or made the friends I did if I’d gone to a different school than the one I did, but I wonder if life post-high school would’ve actually been that different. I’d still have undoubtedly gone to the University of Arizona in Tucson and had similar experiences. Or would I?
A currently popular idea in cosmology is that there are an infinite number of universes, each one calving off and growing on its own, depending upon what choices are made. And not just your choices, but multiply that by the billions of other souls on this rock and it boggles the mind. Multiply that by the number of possible planets and potentially sentient beings in the universe, and it truly becomes an unimaginable number.
So it’s always an interesting “what if” game to play. What if I’d actually gone to ASU instead of UofA, stayed in school and gotten my degree? What if I’d kept on going the night I walked out of The Joshua Tree and never met Dennis? What if Bernie and I never visited San Francisco—much less moved there?
I suppose there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that if this multiverse idea is in fact reality that somewhere, maybe as close as the orbit of an electron—there are universes where Hitler was never born; where JFK was never assassinated; where you are just as likely to be President of the United States as you are to be living in a cardboard box under an overpass; a world where the Dark Ages never occurred and Christianity never gained a foothold; a world where you actually bought that Apple stock in the 90s; a world where mankind has already colonized the solar system and is moving out to the stars…
once again, everything in the news is so unbelievably stupid that I don’t even know where to start. so I’m just going to spin the Big Wheel of Moron™ and see where it lands. ready? here we go.
oh my god, could Preznit Fuckwit please shut his rancid anus-mouth?
Just spoke to Pres. Trump. I asked him if he had seen the video of Rep. Omar being attacked and sprayed by a substance.
“No. I don’t think about her. I think she’s a fraud. I really don’t think about that. She probably had herself sprayed, knowing her,” the president said.
I asked again if he had seen the video.
“I haven’t seen it. No, no. I hope I don’t have to bother.”
and just like that, Donny Convict continues his 79-year-long unbroken streak of being the worst fucking person on the planet.
can we get Wonkette’s Rebecca Schoenkopf in here for a minute? she’s so good at putting into words what we’re all feeling right now.
thanks, Rebecca.
this fucking guy. he admits he hasn’t seen — and doesn’t want to see — the video of the assault, but that doesn’t keep him from running his ignorant mouth about it.
he thinks the attack on Rep. Omar is a hoax, because of course he does. Donny hates Omar — because he’s a fucking racist — and, because he doesn’t have a single ounce of decency in his rotting body, he can’t even mumble some halfhearted third-grade-level statement about ‘bad. so bad. we’re all wishing her well.’
what kind festering cum-sock hears about a woman being sprayed with some noxious liquid and goes ‘oh yeah, I’ll bet she did it to herself.’ who the fuck even thinks like that?
you know what? I’ll bet by crying ‘hoax!’, Donny’s telling on himself again — because with as always with this shithead, every accusation is a confession.
look, I don’t want to be a conspiracy guy. it’s really not my thing. but for the life of me, I’m still trying to figure out how Donny’s blown-to-bits ear magically regenerated itself.
oh wait, we’re not done with Donny. Rachel Scott has another question for him.
More from my interview with President Trump last night: I asked the president about Sens. Tillis and Murkowski calling for Sec. Noem to step down.
“Well, they’re both losers. You know, what can I tell you? They’re terrible senators. One is gone and the other should be gone,” he said.
he’s such a charmer. once again, Donny can’t just brush it off and go, ‘yeah well, that’s just your opinion, man.’
he’s so spite-fueled and broken-inside that he has to go scorched earth.
you simply must check out Senator Tillis’ reaction to being called a loser.
CNN’s Manu Raju: “the president called you a loser.”
Tillis: “I am thrilled about that. that makes me qualified to be Homeland Security Secretary *and* senior adviser to the president.”
let’s be clear-eyed about this, Thom Tillis is not our friend. he’s as xenophobic as they come. he’s totally down with ICE rounding up immigrants and shipping them to who the fuck cares, and he thinks they should be doing more of that shit. he’s just mad at ICE Barbie and Nosferatu McGoebbels for fucking up.
still, his response to Donny is so perfect that it’s hard not to be heartbroken about it.
well, that was fun. let’s give another spin to the Big Wheel of Moron™.
after his humiliating shitcanning and banishment from Minneapolis, you might have hoped that Obergruppenführer Greg Bovino would have had the decency to scamper back into his cigar box, close the lid, and never be heard from again.
fat chance. the Itsy-Bitsy Nazi is so high on his own supply that he stopped off at Mount Rushmore and took a victory lap.
“team, behind me are a few individuals there. that’s the original ‘turn and burn,’ the folks that help make American. but you know what? I’m very proud of what you, the ‘mean green machine,’ are doing in Minneapolis right now, just like you’ve done it across the United States over these past tough nine months. and I want you to know, you’re the modern day equivalent of ‘turn and burn.’ it makes me very proud. I also want you to know that I’ve got your back now, and always. I love you. I support you, and I salute you.”
I’ll bet that speech is even more impressive in its original German.
‘turn and burn,’ by the way, is Gestapo Greg’s pet name for the fascist shit he’s pulled in Minneapolis, Los Angeles and elsewhere. and this racist little fireplug is so arrogant, he thinks the dudes carved into Rushmore — George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln — would be totally be high-fiving him for his lawless behavior.
how delusional is that?
free clue for the Fascist In A Teacup: no, no, no, no, and fuck no. none of those homeys would approve of your banty rooster antics. stop shitting all the over Constitution and pick up a fucking history book, Greg. you might learn something.
ok, let’s spin Big Wheel of Moron™ one last time.
tonight, Donny and his Slovenian rent-a-wife are attending a Kennedy Center screening of the Melania movie — the so-called ‘film’ that everyone knows is going to be a twenty-megaton box office disaster.
at its London premiere, it sold one ticket.
one ticket! now comes the part where we throw our heads back in laughter. ready?
and now comes the part where the worthless scribblers of The New York Times corruptionwash that shit.
come on, Grey Lady — stop pulling your punches. nobody is ‘questioning’Amazon’s motives. everyone knows exactly what this is all about: naked corruption. it’s Jeff Bezos burning through millions of dollars in order to curry favor with Dear Leader.
Melania Convict is the least-interesting person on the planet, and nobody — absolutely nobody — was clamoring for a documentary about her.
despite that, Bezos gave Melania FORTY MILLION DOLLARS for the rights to her ‘story.’ Amazon spent five million dollars on production, and another thirty-five million on promotion. that’s eighty fucking million dollars for a film which is predicted to take in about one million at the box office.
one hand washes the other, am I right? blatant corruption doesn’t get any more blatantly corrupt than that.
oh, and in England, where the premiere sold one ticket? rejoice, everyone — UK ticket sales have skyrocketed to six!
Vue, a major European cinema operator, is offering nine showings (451 seats in all) at its multiplex in York, England, from Friday through Sunday, one analyst noted. As of Wednesday, it had sold six seats.
now here’s a question for you all: do you think these two lovebirds will take separate cars to the screening?
and now for your hero of the day — some obscure songwriter who probably no one’s ever heard of, Bruce Springsteen.
I wrote this song on Saturday, recorded it yesterday and released it to you today in response to the state terror being visited on the city of Minneapolis. It’s dedicated to the people of Minneapolis, our innocent immigrant neighbors and in memory of Alex Pretti and Renee Good.
Stay free.
and just like that, Springsteen continues his seventy-six-year-long unbroken streak of being fucking awesome.
let’s give it a listen.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other
From Doug at Still Blowing Bubbles:
A man came in while I was chewing eggs, and it’s a seat-yourself restaurant, but a instead of sitting down he approached one of the waitresses and said, “Excuse me.”
“Hi,” she said. “You can sit anywhere.”
“Well, there’s a problem,” he said. “I can’t pay, but I’m expecting a check in the mail within the next few days. Would it be OK if I paid later?”
He was in his 40s, balding, skinny, not black but not quite white — maybe Mexican, maybe something else. He was asking Angela, a waitress who’s taken my order dozens of times, and she’s always nice. Being nice is her job, and she was nice to this guy. Without even a second of hesitation she said again, “You can sit anywhere, and pay when you can.”
A meal on credit, no questions asked. Apparently, I was eating breakfast inside an episode of The Waltons.
When Angela came to my table a little later, leaving the bill, I offered to pay for that guy’s breakfast. Said it quietly, so as not to embarrass him.
“Aw, that’s sweet of you,” she said, “but it’s not necessary. He’ll pay when he can.”
“Do you know him?”
“Well, I don’t ‘know’ him, any more than I know you, but he’s a regular. He’ll pay when he can.”
Saw a similar exchange once at Bob’s Diner in Madison, but it startled me then and it startles me now. This is America. You don’t expect kindness like that.
