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Yes Please

Mockup of Apple’s rumored next-generation MacBook Pro with a dynamic OLED bar replacing the standard row of function keys…

When I first read about this I thought “Oh hell no!” but now that I’ve seen it, me likey!

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Happy Father’s Day

It may not have been the life you wanted or would have have chosen if you’d had the freedom to live your truth, but you had no regrets when all was said and done, and I still miss you every damn day.

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The First Time

Nearly half a century later I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Fourth grade, alone in my room as was often the case. Where was my mom? Probably in the kitchen. Where was my sister? Outside the in the back yard or watching television in the family room; details elusive and unimportant.

It had stood up on its own unbidden before; many times in fact. The first time I recall it happening I was only three or four years old, and scrambled to explain to my father why I was naked and sprawled out of the floor, rubbing my body against the rough carpet. “I was looking for something under the bed,” was the remembered excuse. But this time it was different; it demanded attention and could not be ignored.

I slipped my pants off, climbed onto the bed and on all fours, straddling the fuzzy faux leopard-skin pillow that had adorned it for many years, started rubbing against it. I thought of the how the new P.E. coach’s nipples prominently showed through his too-tight T-shirts and his chest hair poked out at the neckline. I thought about the man’s bushy mustache and his fresh-out-of-the-Marines high-n-tight buzzcut. As I rhythmically rubbed against the pillow and thought of these things, it felt good. Too good. Suddenly my body was wracked with convulsions; I felt like I was going to piss. The pleasure centers in my brain exploded and I scrambled for my shorts, hoping to stem the flow long enough to get them back on and down the hall into the bathroom before everything was wet. But then it was over. No stream of urine; in fact, nothing at all.

Of course, that would soon change as the days progressed and that urge returned again and again. Quickly I realized that while the initial rush was similar to the feeling of emptying my bladder it was only because I’d had nothing else prior to compare it to; in actuality it very different. And when I realized I wasn’t going to wet everything, I was actually able to enjoy the feeling.  The first time the milky fluid came spraying out—as I stood naked in front of the hall mirror rubbing the pillow against my crotch (where was my mother?)—I thought I’d broken something, yet it did nothing to prevent me from doing it again.

“Why did you take that pillow into the bathroom with you?” my mother eventually asked. “It smells. I want to throw it in the washer but I had to pee first,” I’d respond.

Soon I discovered I could wrap my hand around it and achieve the same result, giving that poor pillow a much-needed respite from the washing machine.

One day I captured some of the milky fluid onto a glass slide and put it under the microscope I’d gotten for Christmas the year before. Slowly the little squiggling things came into focus, confirming what I’d been surreptitiously researching. Nothing was broken.

And so it began—and the Sears catalog was never looked at the same way again.

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Quote of the Day

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…

“But let’s get serious, let’s get journalistic for one second: fuck this evil lying fuckstick coward, his evil lying fucking press conference, his evil lying fucking lobby, and every expensive fucking car their whole flock of fucksticks fucked in on. “It’s literally everyone’s fault except ours,” says this useless foreskin of a person, this mass child-murderer by proxy, sanctimoniously lecturing all of us about “responsibility” with such mind-boggling gutless hypocrisy that it makes you want to peel your entire skin off and mail it to him with the middle finger propped upright forever. “Every school in America should have an armed guard, duh huh hruur rfugnh. [Finger guns, dancing].” –This motherfucker, this fungus on the taint of America, who is either the dumbest ignorant sack of pus who ever lived OR the literal devil. “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun,” says this amoral piece of turd, neatly sidestepping “or not giving the bad guy a fucking SEMIAUTOMATIC ASSAULT WEAPON.” This mercenary limpdick fuck. This sandwich bag of dog shit. Fuck Wayne LaPierre. Fuck this evil, evil fucking person.” ~ Sashayed, who posted this wonderful rant in 2012!

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THIS.

Source.

Michael Sheldon has posted a batch of memes sure to provoke controversy, plastering I AM OMAR MATEEN on the grinning faces of a host of his country’s most unapologetic homophobes. And I think it’s awesome.

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A Brief Conversation

Me: I seem to remember there used to be a lot more shirtless men running around Phoenix in the summer when I was growing up.

Ben: Skin cancer.

Me: Fuckin’ cancer, taking away all our fun!

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#truth

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I Would Never Wish Anyone Dead…

…but I will take great glee in reading certain obituaries.

Hey Dan, DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THE SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE? Do you not understand that it is not acceptable for you to be espousing your particular brand of batshit insanity publicly as an elected official?

There are days I really wish I believed in Hell, because no one is more deserving than you, Dan, to wake up there.

P.S. The Internet is forever. Just because you deleted the above tweet after the Internet blew up in your pathetic fucking Dominionist scumbag face doesn’t make it go away.

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To Absent Friends

One of the great truths revealed to those of us who have lived long and colorful lives—and which should be impressed upon the young even though they probably won’t believe it—is that friendships come and go.

Stop and think of five people who you consider your good friends, your “squad” in today’s parlance. Now think of how many of those five have been consistently on that list.

In your twenties, you think that the people you hang out with will be there for you for the entire journey through life. If you’re very lucky, when all is said and done, maybe two or three will still be there as you loose your mortal coil. The vast majority however, will have disappeared either through attrition, misunderstandings, or simply by drifting away.

This is a lesson that still stings when I think of that one particular friend in Tucson whom I’ve written about before. But I realized while going through my address book recently that I have dozens of names and phone numbers listed, but precious few of those names are of people with whom I have active, ongoing relationships.

I guess you could call them zombie friendships.

Interests change. Passions ebb and flow. You’ll always have that one friend who knows where all the bodies are buried (and who probably helped you dig the holes), and one or two who you can call on a whim to meet for coffee and no matter what they’re doing they’ll will put it on hold to rush out and meet you. Then you’ll have the casual friends, the third-party friends-of-friends, and the work friends who you don’t mind spending 8 hours a day with but wouldn’t dream of seeing after hours (but who occasionally transition into that first or second group). Then there are the internet friends—some of whom you feel closer to and seem to know better than the flesh-and-blood buddies sitting across the table from you.

One of the advantages of having our contacts in electronic form these days is that we’re not reminded quite as often of this unending churn happening in our lives. It’s easy to delete names of anyone you’re no longer in contact with and years from now you’ll be hard pressed to remember who they were (although it’s an admittedly difficult thing for me to do; I still have info for people I worked with five years ago, even though I know I’ll probably never reach out to any of them ever again).

It’s not as quite so easy to forget the souls who have passed through your life if you have a physical, hand-written address book. When I pull out an old flip-up rolodex I have from the 80s, it saddens me to look through it and realize how many people I’ve lost contact with, and—having lived through the AIDS decimation of the 90s—how many of those people aren’t even alive any longer. But yet I hold onto it, if only to keep their memory.

I think that’s one reason that as we get older we treasure the friendships we have even more than we did when we were young—especially the ones that have spanned decades—because we never know if they’ll last another week, another year, or until our dying breath…

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Very Strange Behavior

I realized a few days ago I hadn’t been receiving any comment notifications via email from this here blog thingie and is the reason I posted Is This Thing On a couple days ago. Everything seems to be set up correctly on the back end, but nothing is working. We’re going on 7 days now.

The Google has been less than helpful.

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