bittersweet.

“…Last night I was inspired to believe in America again. But it wouldn’t last. Because in the same night that we elected the first black President, California voters passed Prop 8 eliminating marriage for same-sex couples. Because at a time when America finally seems ready to set aside our petty differences, and come together to elect a man President who at one point would not have been allowed to vote in this country, at least everyone can agree that we hate queers.”

Eric has some things to say.

That’s good, because I don’t know what to say after an election where chickens gain rights while human beings lose them.

poor eric.

Suddenly, I found myself violently pitched forward. It took me a second to realize that someone had rear-ended me, which I found disorienting because whenever I imagine myself getting into a car accident, I just assume it will be my fault. So I was pretty unprepared for the scummy guy who emerged from the car behind me, moseyed up to my window, and explained, “Sorry, my man! I was looking at a chick, you know how it is! Uh? Uh?”

No, I do not know how it is, and it’s not because I’m gay. It’s because I’m not a cartoon wolf in a zoot suit whose eyes bug out and go “AH-OO-GAH!” when I see clothed boobs on the sidewalk. I mean, this chick must have been fucking amazing. More likely, she had a penis the size of a baseball bat.

The recent string of bad luck in Eric’s life has fueled some seriously hilarious posts I like to think of as The Anger Chronicles.

i am about to blind you with some serious fucking science.

I’m not a Fergie fan. To the point where when someone mentioned that Fergie had an album coming out, I was skeptical that Americans would be interested in listening to an album by British Weight Watchers royalty.

The first time someone told me about Fergie’s new song, that is exactly what I said back. “How did this happen? Is it a novelty song?”

After a five-second pause, the friend gave me some seriously sad eyebrows and said, “From the Black Eyed Peas?” Continue reading

the top model strike continues

At the strike last Friday, I was babbling to Eric about how I sometimes put the post of the sign at the top of my hip. “It’s my strike hip,” I explained. “Why doesn’t anyone else use their strike hip?”

Eric pulled out his camera. “Okay. Give me your best Top Model pose,” he said.

I tried.

“No,” he said, sounding disappointed, checking the viewfinder. “You really look bored in this one. This time, try to be just a little more aware of the fact that you’re trying to look bored. That’s much more model-y.”

I posed again. Continue reading

116.

dammit. i had written half of this entry when my browser crashed. i lost everything i had written, which is mostly about how fucking hot it is up in this motherfucker. the dvd player broke today. my computer keeps crashing. the bank outside the coffee shop says it’s 116. it’s hot, people. hot. so hot my cheeks are sweating. all of them. my eyelids are sweating. I’M IN MY HOUSE. the cats look like someone steam-rolled them. they don’t want to eat. ants have come into the house in search of any water, at all, and are happy enough to hang out in all the sinks and near the cat food or near the litter box and why is my life so gross? Continue reading

bad night. (warning: not for the squeamish or sympathetic.)

So we hosted a small party last night, mostly comprised of people we’ve never met before. Five minutes after the first group of guests arrived, I was bleeding into the kitchen sink.

This was not one of my better parties. Well, I can’t speak for the people who attended, but I wish I could send apology notes to them. I guess that’s what I’m doing here, since many of them seemed familiar with this website. Continue reading

well, it’s another entry about my boobs.

Just got back from seeing Inside Man, or The Inside Man, or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see it because Clive Owen is amazing, and if the entire movie was him doing that first monologue straight to the camera I would have been much more entertained.

Consequently, about half an hour into the movie I started thinking about writing this entry.

There’s a scene that’s in the trailer, so I’m not spoiling anything, where the bad guys make everybody in the bank strip to their underwear. This taps into something I’ve never talked about here, mostly because it hasn’t come up. I recently confessed my this confession to a co-worker, and while he did give me the, “Every day I learn something weirder about you” look, he didn’t suggest I keep this neurotic fun fact to myself, so I’ll blame all of this on him.

The scene confirmed my fear, and let me know that it was a perfectly normal, rational thought to have each morning.

When I get dressed, I always think, “Is this what I want to be seen in when the bad guys bust into the building and force us to strip down to our underwear?” Continue reading

Half a Tank of Gas

Yesterday.

7:00am — So. Tired.

9:00am — 10 miles Drive to Hollywood to meet and welcome the new kid. He does not disappoint. I draw a not-to-scale and only slightly inaccurate map of all the Los Angeles he’ll need. [Hey, Eric. Last night I drove through Culver City. It is nowhere near Sherman Oaks. I promise not to smoke crack before I write another stupid map in your journal.] Continue reading