American Dumbass

Seriously, the only title for a reality TV show that I’d believe actually reflects reality. I probably still wouldn’t watch it, though, since I get plenty of examples of the Stupid Americans phenomenon in the wild.

Case in point – and here’s a bonus, I can bash Americans and The Gays in one swipe – PrEP. Now, assuming most of my readers are normal people and not tramps (just kidding, you whores) let me tell you a little about PrEP.

PrEP stands for Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis and is a medicine for HIV-negative people that helps prevent HIV infection by disabling the virus’ ability to replicate in a new host. It is intended to help minimize new infections in high risk individuals.

Naturally, every gay man seems to be on it.

And – proving we’re just as dumb as the next idiot – that has led to an increase in risky behaviors among gay men. Honestly, it’s like carte blanche for promiscuity. When you caution a gay guy about risky choices, the dismissive response seems to have culturally become

It’s ok, I’m on PrEP.

It’s like

With a side of

…thrown in for good measure. Of course, never a subculture to miss out on an opportunity to <ahem> poke fun at ourselves – y’know, that defense mechanism we sissy boys all learned to beat the school bully to the punch – this has led to a plethora of reductive memes.

Everything from

And more pop-culturally relevant snarkiness like this

To defensive-slash-denial based arguments to dismiss potential judgment of our behaviors. Of course, while ignoring any other potential issues – because PrEP right now seems to be the crown jewel in the pill culture world of consequences that we live in.

I mention this because – impinging upon personal freedom arguments aside – masks seem to be the new PrEP for us Stupid Americans.

Which is to say that I almost ran over an aggressive jaywalker yesterday. Seriously, this old broad – or possibly a quarantine woman in her mid 30s, hard to tell, all I saw was two inches of gray roots – stepped off the curb and into the street in front of me while I was tooling down the road at 35 MPH.

No crosswalk.

No corner intersection.

No looking both ways.

Just <bloop> I’m crossing the street.

As I brought Angela to a sudden-yet-graceful stop, I noticed her mask and said out loud, “It’s ok, I’m wearing a mask”.

The place – the Pearly Gates.

St Peter: What are you doing here?

Roots Lady: I dunno, I was wearing my mask.

COVIDiot.

Someone make me a meme of that please.

30-something gays who act like you’re still in your 20s?

Yeah, talking to you. Get on it.

I was ruminating on this while out for an urban hike yesterday. The parks and paths were littered with people out enjoying the sun.

Walking, running, cycling.

Nearly all without masks.

My thought? “Well, they’ll make handsome corpses”.

From what I understand, masks protect those around you from aerosolized viral transmissions if the wearer is a asymptomatic but infected. Most obviously, germs spread via coughing and sneezing. They also allow an extra layer of protection to non-infected people who would otherwise breathe those aerosolized particles in, thereby introducing foreign germs into their systems.

But!

You can also spread these particles through:

Spraying it instead of saying it.

Laughing.

Panting…

Y’know, like you do when you’re exercising.

So, there I was, wheezing into my mask yesterday looking around at all of the more fit people around me getting their fitness on sans masks.

Seriously.

Not even taking the most minimal of precautions to protect themselves by wearing a mask.

Why?

Because it’s uncomfortable.

Sure, I get it – I was just fast-walking and the inside of my mask was like a windshield at a drive-in theater swamp. I can’t imagine what running or cycling with one on would be like.

It’s ok, I’m social distancing when I exercise.

But, are you?

Under the best of conditions, I’m annoyed by others when I go out to our city paths for a walk. Mainly because I really don’t understand why people won’t follow basic traffic flow on pathways and sidewalks. Portland is a bridge city, thanks to the Willamette River running through its center. Ergo, our city paths often cross bridges, with at least sidewalks on both sides of the bridge – making walking with the flow of traffic a pretty easy thing to accomplish with no real effort.

So, why won’t people?

Mostly because they don’t think about it, I’d imagine. But also, our paths are mostly divided into a cycling side and a pedestrian side, each about 6′ wide. The cyclist side is always marked with an arrow indicating traffic flow, in order to reduce head on collisions between cyclists.

Pedestrians, though, get this marker

As you can see, it’s got arrows indicating pedestrian traffic is both ways. Also, since it’s Portland and our unofficial forecast is “Cloudy with a chance of protests”, you get impromptu art like this

Which is a fact. I’m actually surprised I haven’t seen one with a mask painted into it yet.

Anywho…there I am, wishing I could comfortably walk without my mask around all these fit, germ-spewing Petri dish Stupid Americans, but I can’t because they won’t behave in a manner that indicates “social distancing” is anything more than an abdication of personal accountability than “I’m on PrEP” is for the overly promiscuous Gays. There I am, on a 6′ wide pathway on the bridge walking with the flow of traffic and I’ve got other walkers coming at me head on instead of walking on the opposite side of the bridge in order to consistently maintain a 6′ bubble.

Pop Quiz

Me: What’s 6′ divided by 2?

Stupid American: Uh…social distancing?

Me: Oooh, no! Sorry, not even close.

Actually, my fellow exercisers make Gray Roots look like a genius. At least she had her “PrEP” on.

See y’all on the next lockdown. I’ve pitched a reality show for it called America’s Got Common Sense. Due to an absence of content, it’s just three minutes of credits and 57 minutes of commercials for contactless toilet paper and alcohol delivery services, a sweatpants wardrobing service, Windex epipens, UV butt plugs, lighting halos for Instafluencers and premium Zoom packages.

I think it will be a real hit this Fall. All three major networks have picked it up.

American Dumbass

Of Course, *I’m* The Bastard

I own it, but don’t think I wear that label with pride. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you probably know my triggers and how to avoid them.

It’s not all that hard. Try to behave like a decent human being, try to be considerate of others, have a bit of integrity…pretty low bar shit.

It’s that try business that both makes these criteria easy and challenging. And a bit forgiving at the same time.

I never said I wasn’t complex – but still, when there’s wiggle room, how hard does one have to try to remain on the wrong side of grumpy old Xtopher?

And if you’re going to put any effort into a relationship with me…how bad at effort do you have to be to end up remaining on that side of me?

Enter – or re-enter in this case – Black Sheep Brother. If you haven’t read about him, try looking for the black story, er, back story. Seriously, I just did and failed.

Long story short, Black Sheep Bro bailed on the family because he needed some time away. This was maybe 2005-ish. I was still with Sacha, so maybe it was even earlier…2002? I know it was – well, never mind. Short story is already long.

I told him at the time – as he was my best friend. Wow, it just occurred to me that this was pre-Silver Fox! Anyway, he told me he needed a break and I warned him to not just disappear, “Do it right”, I told him, “That way re-entry won’t be a bitch. Or impossible.”

Flash forward to now.

Now.

After I acceded to family pressure to reach out to him after he got married, moved to Shittatle and had a kid. Since we both lived in Seattle, reaching out was the obvious choice – just ask my mom and sister! Hehe.

So I did it. That was three hours of my life I’m not getting back. During that talk, he finally told me “the reason” he needed a break. I apostrophenated – Chrisism – that because the reason defied reason. He said he was disappointed that mom hadn’t been more supportive when he got his DUI.

“I expected more from you”, he said she said.

“But your DUI was years ago”, I said.

“No, the other one”, he replied.

I know I failed to hide my reaction to that, but his excuse still smelled like bullshit. “I think that’s a parent’s job to say stuff like that”, I tried.

It all ended with him showing me he had a full deck of victim cards, but at least I tried.

Flash forward to 2013-ish and he’s moved to Texas with his wife and now two kids. To be near his wife’s family.

In their state of bliss, they both take turns drunk dialing me to talk about how awesome they are. The wife trying to back channel a relationship for BSB and his family, for their kids.

Black Sheep Bro slurring out conditions the family must accept in order to be rewarded with the presence of him and his progeny. Your basic shit show. Now, he’s laying out conditions like “As long as I don’t have to be around That Man“, which genuinely confused me. Of course, I asked, got no clarification and eventually started guessing. For my effort, I was rewarded with a “He knows what’s he did” when I guessed he’d been referring to our father.

For the record, I think both of my parents are pretty damn awesome, so he’s partying alone in this Blame Game.

I also pointed out that last time he laid the blame for his abandoning the family at mom’s feet. I also told him that conditional returns were not something I was going to condone.

Apparently, he doesn’t need that kind of negativity in his life. I’m a real buzz kill, I know.

But since then, I’ve not heard boo from him or his wife, even though I’ve been privy to the goings on because mom and his wife are friends on the Facebook. I’ve also managed to deflect suggestions from the family that I reach out to BSB for his fiftieth. That suggestion arose from his wife’s accurately interpreted vaguebooking that his marriage was ending.

I considered myself fortunate to have been able to beg off that chore since I had an outdated number.

Until.

Present day…I get a text from my sis asking if I’d also received a friend request from BSB like her and our youngest brother.

I hadn’t actually. I chalked this up to our last conversation and noted my surprise that he’d not blacked it out. But I also was only manufacturing any offense I presented because over the years I’ve been friended and unfriended by both him and his wife multiple times and received vague attempts at reaching out from Facebook profiles with fake names and no pictures – all claiming to be Black Sheep Bro.

If I wanted to chat with faceless blank profiles, I’d spend my time on Grindr.

But of course, my friend request came in a day or two after everyone else’s. And goddamnit, I wrestled with it – even while entertaining myself that he’d cared enough about me to do something petty like ask for my friendship last.

Me being me, though, I found a way to be actually – and in my mind, rightfully – bothered. I was offended that after all the water under the bridge we’ve had, he just sends a friend request.

That’s all.

No nothing else.

I didn’t know what to do with that. For a while, I leaned toward just accepting it without comment. How passive-aggressive of me. Realistically, I rationalized, this will probably result in him de-friending me yet again, so why not?

But, then around midnight last night, I decided to demand an explanation.

Via Messenger, because two can play the Drunk Dial game – I’m just playing the 2020 version.

Really? Just showing up after all these years and all your vitriol with a “Hey, y’all!”?

You’re not Paula Deen, yo.

Why? Because your wife left you? Now we’re worthy of your attention?

Tell me why you aren’t sticking it where you and I both know I should tell you to. What’s changed? How have you *suddenly* grown? Because all I want when I see this is to groan…I feel bad for you. But not badly enough to sign up for the same BS behaviors you’ve delivered in the past.

And, y’know what? I genuinely felt that he owed me – us, as a family – some goddamned context. To just blithely send out friend requests on the Facebook without it left me vacillating between he felt entitled to our forgiveness and/or that he felt his actions weren’t in need of forgiveness.

Neither option carried any generous feelings with me.

I have to say, his response presented me with a third option that I’d not considered: that he didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness.

In retrospect, it was a fairly obvious option. But the rest of his response left me a little dubious that his rationale wasn’t entitlement all along.

And how would you have me reach out after all these years? I would follow the example you set…if there were one. Yeah I turned to a long lost family relationship in a time of personal adversity. But don’t recall asking you for shit. You’re still the sanctimonious prick aren’t you. And real angry about it apparently. You wanna tee off on someone else just for making an effort? Try a therapist or your ugly cat.

How cute.

Deflection.

Name calling.

Smells like a Trump supporter-level argument to me.

But, to clarify, he’s trying to equate my living in distant parts of the country with his actively departing the family after dropping a blame bomb on mom. Then dad. The reality there, which he’ll not acknowledge since it’s a fact – and we know how Trump Supporter Logic works with facts – is that I still called and took calls from the family. I still came home for holidays.

I was coming to terms with being gay. He was having a mental breakdown in the heart of a well-known river in Egypt.

I think there’s a big difference there.

And he wraps up his indictment argument by shaming me for kicking him while he’s making an effort.

Trying, if you will. And I won’t, as it turns out. If the level of effort he’s willing to put into this after almost two decades is to tap a button that says “Send Friend Request”, then that’s far too little and way too late. Here’s a parting gift for you, Black Sheep Bro, pardon me while I spray liberally.

It makes me sad. And I’m sure it will or could result in awkward family gatherings down the road. But I’ve traveled those roads before, so I know the terrain. One of the things that I said in my texts with my sister was this:

I feel bad for her and dad. Never having been a parent, I can’t imagine how that parental “never give up” thing must feel. Like on one level it’s, “Oh, here we go again” and on the other, “But he’s our son”…so they can’t not sign up for the potential hurt once again. Just in case it pays off this time.

It’s like me and dating, I called it the Lottery of Love.

Maybe this time

I’ve got a good supply of forgiveness. It’s just not endless – even for my brother. If he wants back into my life, it’s not gonna be with spin like saying his relationship with the family is “long lost”.

He abandoned us.

For me, I’ll sprinkle some of my forgiveness on the situation when he’s accountable for his actions. No more “She knows what she did” or “That man” or being offended that I don’t let him piss on my leg yet again while telling me it’s raining.

He’s still my brother, that won’t change. But I’m fine with the present state of our relationship – which he forced upon me – until he does.

If that means I’m the bastard, so be it.

Of Course, *I’m* The Bastard

What *Could* Possibly…well, you know the rest.

I have a project today.

Life savvy-slash-reasonably intelligent people-slash-those armed capably enough to cope in the world might think of this as more of a cute “project”.

But not me.

I’m installing a new modem/router.

Witness my white whale

Isn’t that cute? It’s called a surfboard.

I’m appropriately terrified.

I may as well be changing Angela’s oil on my own. I’m having flashbacks to the lawn mower engine I disassembled in my Junior High Shop class and gave up putting back together. I just stuffed it into a locker and waited out the end of the school year. Thankfully, my dad got promoted at work and relocated the family half a country away.

It’s the Shop Class Dropout Relocation Program.

So, yeah. This is more daunting than cute for me.

But after paying for Comcast’s modem/router at least 5x over in their monthly equipment rental fees, I’m bound and determined to make this switch and then fling their equipment at their building as I whiz by in Angela.

So, wish me luck. If you never hear from me again, don’t be too surprised.

Oh, gawd…it just occurred to me: I’m going to have to come up with a pithy new wifi name. Farewell, YouGoGlennCoco.

What *Could* Possibly…well, you know the rest.

It’s A Bot Time

It’s been a while since I got into a battle of wills with a fake person.

Thank goodness – ok, alrightness – for Words With Friends.

If you are patient enough, “someone” will surely come along and help you out. The most recent assistance they are offering is investment help.

But since these are fake people, they just keep going. And let’s face it, I’m the victim here, too polite to refuse the chat request of a stranger – in case they are an actual person; too stubborn to forfeit the game and take a statistical hit.

So I just amuse myself.

Oh, Ann…

Seriously, some people watch movies for fun, I do this.

It’s A Bot Time

But At Least My D!ck Is Bigger Than His…

Or so his actions would indicate.

Here’s the pre-set up (Right? Just settle in, it’s one of those Galby stories):

I was doing my Lyft thing. I’m really trying to go from driving 4/week to 3 while still making my weekly goals. Because 20-ish hours/week with Lyft beats any fucking job that I’ve ever had. Seriously, it’s like every other job I’ve ever had was my personal Ike Turner by comparison.

And if you don’t get that, google it – but thanks for following my blog instead of doing your arithmetic homework.

Anywho, the bogeyman here is that when I get bored, I can just hop in the car for a change of pace. Also: entertainment. Also, also: what, I should exercise when I’m bored? Pish.

So, I’ve been playing around with my preferred schedule of having a couple days of driving and a couple days off. Lather, rinse, repeat. On top of that, balancing demand to maximize my time.

Interesting side bar, once I started driving again I found I was in high demand. Rides stacked up one after another – the caveat being that drivers were so scarce (I don’t want to explain why – it turns racism in American politics on its ass…ok, I do want to explain why – just not here) that I was driving 15-20 minutes to pick up a passenger. That made my customer service heart absolutely ache. So I was glad to be out there doing.

Recently, though, demand has leveled off – a good sign that people felt secure enough to leave their homes to work. I no longer felt like the last Lyft driver on the planet. Which is good since riders were waiting 15+ minutes less frequently now. I dunno why I feel responsible for the overall customer experience here, I just do.

See also: why I don’t drive for rapey Uber.

Surprise! None of that actually has to do with the size of my figurative penis.

I’d say that this kind of does – except it would make me sound really bad in the wrong context, ie: the unofficial language of ‘Murica – though, during my impromptu shift today, I picked up an essential nurse from OHSU after her shift. OHSU is located on a hilltop – like, a big one.

If I knew I was dying, that’s the hospital I’d want to be taken to.

Further from Hell, you see. I know, not the rationale you expected. Have we met? Hehe.

The thing I like about delivering or fetching people from work there is that these folks are essential, even without a pandemic. And being a hospital atop an idyllic mountaintop in Portland means real estate is at a premium – and they don’t waste it on parking lots.

One rider told me she’s been there 9 years and is still not in the top 1000 on the parking spot wait list.

But.

The hospital has a variety of programs to incentivize employees to take alternative transportation – including Lyft credits. Well, “credits”.

Naturally, I do a brisk business on the hill.

Today, I picked up an essential scrub heading home after work who had a 24 minute drive. It was 3:30-ish in the afternoon. In the last week, this has been well within the window of when all the locked down peeps have given in to escaping their shut-in shackles to demonstrate how driving on a freeway is not like riding a bicycle.

On top of that, this was one of those “three seasons in one day” types of days. We had sun, rain and – while I was driving my scrub across town – hail.

We took I-84 for most of our freeway transit. The important thing to know here is that it’s a serpentine three lane freeway in both directions, most lanes grooved by decades of asswipes who kept their snow tires on too long.

Mix in some of that hail and biblical rain and you’ve got a challenging drive.

Throw a micro-penis into the mix and, well, you’ve now surpassed shit-show level shenanigans.

I-84, aka: the Banfield, stretches West to East across Portland’s east side betwixt I-5 along the Willamette River and I-205, which runs N-S through a part of town called Felony Flats.

It’s 4.8 miles, this Banfield stretch of road. The 84 continues on past the 205 (we Portlanders really hate including the “I” in our freeway designations) toward the regrettable Gresham and then on up the Gorge toward the heavenly hamlet of Hood River.

4.8 miles is, as some who’ve driven it may not know, Portland’s mathematical measurement of Absolute Hell.

Why?

Micropenis.

Seriously, my only explanation.

Knowing I had the full ~5 miles of the Banfield to contend with, I moved over to the far left to avoid the cluster-coitus that is merging on Portland’s freeways.

A reasonable plan, “passing lane only” enthusiasts notwithstanding.

Sadly, there was what I can only assume was a person suffering a stroke while driving five cars ahead of me in that lane. It was so bad that people in the far right lane – even with their merging maladies – were outpacing us. I decided after three miles to get into the center lane. Realizing I had fewer than two miles before my exit to 205, I left my blinker on to move into the right lane for my exit.

It was a simple plan to execute – I needed only wait for the car on my passenger side forward flank to clear with a safe distance between us to execute my lane change. After that, I moved right from the center to right lane.

Mind you (foreshadowing!) my blinker had been on this whole time.

Yes, I use my blinkers.

For whatever reason, this micropenis driver interprets my signal the same way a color blind bull interprets a red flag. In much the same way that a single person attempting dating would – full steam ahead!

The result in both scenarios was the same: the wronged person ends up shouldering the blame.

In this case, that manifested with a horn.

Then an aggressive lane change, acceleration and swift cut off (with no signal) followed by a one-fingered salute.

For my part, I refused to look ahead with an intensity that belied the existence of another driver, so I looked blithely toward him as he aggressively passed me.

I think that made him mad.

As did my refusal to return his hand gestures.

Have I ever mentioned how often I’m complimented – bewilderingly – on my habit of keeping both hands on the wheel? It’s true. I do.

The end result of this tale was – as the skies absolutely pissed rain down – that this inverted prick of a human slammed on his brakes after cutting me off. While having only one hand on the wheel, since the other was displaying his IQ.

He hydroplaned.

Only briefly, thankfully.

Long enough, though, that my recalcitrant conversationalist passenger commented on my defensive driving skills.

I think my active distancing only further enraged this hella fella, since – and I couldn’t make this up – when another driver cut into what was clearly his personal lane, the whole damn thing lathered, rinsed and goddamn repeated.

This joker was so focused on sticking it to a could-care-less-Xtopher that he almost had his second accident in as many minutes.

Don’t worry, though. He whipped out of the right hand lane and into the center to pass that other fool and aggressively cut them off.

Take that, presumably reasonably blessed-below-the-belt other driver!

Sheesh.

Trump’s motorcade driver really needs to get back to DC. It’s not like Trump would ever set foot in Oregon, anyway. As a matter of fact, if he did ever want to reach his base here in Oregon, it would probably be easier to fly into Boise and cross the Idaho/Oregon border to reach his hayseed base in Eastern Oregon than it would be to risk seeing the pussy-hat-clad libtards in Portland that would line his route eastward from PDX.

Anyway…after all that – basically announcing to the I-84 world that he had a two inch penis – when fully aroused – and a four foot foreskin, it turns out that this abortion of a human didn’t even need to be in the right hand lane, anyway. Just as the lane exited from the 84 to the 205, this unreliable COVID test of a human whipped into the center lane to hurry home toward Gresham.

All of his lane jockeying and hostile driving was for naught. If he’d just been in the center lane to begin with, all of his angst would have been avoided.

Stupid American.

If not for the potential for negative collateral damage, I’d say he should keep on driving like an asshole. I’m sure the odds will catch up with him soon enough – I just can’t stand the thought of a decent human being being taken out with him.

Alas.

Seriously, though…road rage was what this guy missed after two months in lockdown?

But At Least My D!ck Is Bigger Than His…

Dos Peliculas

Here’s the Quarantine Level of procrastination I’ve achieved. I am openly admitting that I can do one thing per day.

Now, don’t think this means I have to decide between showering and eating. I’m factoring those basic activities – that I almost always succeed at on a daily basis, almost – out of the equation. Likewise, involuntary biological functions like breathing and pooping. Although, I had Chipotle today, so let’s put that last one on standby for a bit, eh?

No, these are what you’d call larger scale accomplishments that I’m succeeding at in the singular.

Writing.

Exercising.

Lyfting.

Things that require a chunk of time.

The pisser is that I started the quarantine off with promise.

I exercised consistently every third day for the first month. I took 5+ mile walks around town on my off days. The amount of time I’d put into being at least somewhat physical each day was anywhere from two to four hours, and I felt great. But then I deprioritized exercise – claiming an off week and considering what changes I wanted to put into the routine after my test week. Never went back.

I participated and completed NaNoWriMo’s April writing camp, exceeding the 50k word threshold and getting to within what I’d say is two chapters of completing my first draft on a new novel. I’d easily spend four hours a day considering how uncomfortable my barstools are while tapping out anywhere from 2-5k words each day. I even went into that goal determined to come out of it and go into editing my second non-fiction book, but that has also gone to hell.

I’d drive four days a week, committing to a 10 ride goal and usually spending about four hours, minimum in the car on my drive days. I actually have been focused lately on stretching my driving shifts so I can tweak my week to three days of driving while still achieving my weekly financial goal. That’s been more miss than hit, though. I’ve only hit what would be the revised daily dollar goal twice in the last two weeks. Regardless, though, on days where I actively choose not to write or exercise, I’ll generally make myself drive.

That part isn’t so bad. I’ve finally started making extra principle payments on Angela – the new to me BMW, because cars need names! – and finally bought a router/modem combo so that I can tell Comcast to shove theirs up their ass. If I recall correctly – dicey, I know – they charge either $11 or $14/month to rent theirs. Whichever it is, what I spent on those monthly charges in a year easily amounts to more than I gave Bezos to buy my own. Even if I have to replace my personal modem every year, I’ll save money. However, I’ve had my current Comcast modem for three years. You’d think they’d write it off as paid off at this point.

Bastards.

As a result of this lack of motivation and accomplishment, I’m watching movies that have been buried in my queue for friggin’ ever.

Hardly an accomplishment to offset what I’m not accomplishing. But, here I am – notably dragging you along with me now, dear reader.

Last week I checked two such movies off my list – hence the name of this entry. In Spanish, no less.

The two movies were 2012’s Perks of Being a Wallflower and 2017’s Death of Stalin, both of which I had wanted to see in the theaters when they were out. In each of those instances, I had also failed to motivate myself to accomplishing a simple goal.

I guess in that frame, maybe watching them is an accomplishment to crow about.

Especially Death of Stalin, as it turns out. What an ordeal.

Let me tell you, if you’ve ever felt proud for saving $15 on a movie ticket by not seeing a movie, you know how I feel now. This show had such promise for me. A movie about an actual historical event. During an oppressively and globally sad era, no less. And it was billed as a comedy!

Right up my alley. But then they threw in bonuses like some of my favorite performers – Jason Isaacs, Michael Palin, Steve Buscemi and the now disgraced Jeffrey Tambor – doing experimental acting by playing real life Russian political players but using essentially their native accents. So, you’d think I’d have loved it.

It was so boring.

I was looking forward to something close to Stooge level neurotic bumbling through these real life occurrences as these actors portrayed Stalin’s closest confidants attempting to manage the situation his death created.

No.

Just like quarantine is two months (and counting) of my life I won’t get back, this was two hours of my life I’d like a do over for.

Here’s hoping The Death of Trump is a much better movie – that can’t be made soon enough. Keep popping those hydrochloroquil pills, champ!

Perks of Being a Wallflower, on the other reel, was a delightful surprise of a movie. Ezra Klein, Emma Watson and Logan Lehrman in basically introductory lead roles for the two males and Emma’s first post-Potter Star turn. I was kind of irked at myself for depriving myself of the experience for nearly a decade. It was truly a movie that I could identify with:

An out gay High School character – representing for me the freedom I didn’t have available to myself in HS.

Small town life in the 90s or early aughts.

Unrequited love.

Basic Anywhere, USA HS angst.

A great soundtrack.

Writing that captured a moment but pulled you into the story – at least for me – as more than an observer.

Oh! And actual mix tapes.

Actually, I plan to watch it again – and not just for the procrastination value of that act.

It was a good example of what procrastination can result in – seeing these two films.

On the one hand, I put off something that I’d wanted to do that resulted in a sense of relief at having deprived myself in the moment.

But on the other hand, the way I felt at having missed Perks for so long…well, it’s giving me something to ruminate on concerning my procrastinatorial (Chrisism) ways.

Getting stuck in my head over that oughta kill a few days…

How about you? Are you still posting pics of bread you baked or the Caldona Coffee you’ve made or are you starting to struggle to keep yourself and your discipline away from the couch these days?

Dos Peliculas

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Maybe this isn’t a Today I Learned so much as it is a Today I Figured Something Out. Yet another thing you old bastards have been keeping from me!

Y’know, those little a-ha! moments. They really are fewer and further between than I’d have figured as a know-it-all kid. As a matter of fact, surrounded as I find myself by such stupid Americans, I’m surprised that there isn’t much more fanfare when it does happen.

Note to self: throw mental parade next time this happens, you earned it.

Like that time I finally got why it’s called a blow job. I’d simply been looking at it from the wrong <ahem> perspective.

Those types of a-ha moments. Or in that particular case, “ah-ah-aaaahhh-ha” moments.

Well, today…there I was, underthinking things when another one* hit me.

When I’m in a funk and spiraling downward, my older and wiser (just ask them, they’ll tell you) friends will tell me

It’s not that bad!

and I’ve always considered those to be words of encouragement. But as another deluge of Headlines-turned-Cautionary-Tales washed over me this morning, it hit me.

A-ha!

They must surely have been silently adding a word in order to not give away the surprise.

It’s not (only) that bad!

It’s worse.

Just wait.

Much, much…worse.

It’s funny, too. As I’ve been aging – involuntarily, obviously – I’ve found myself warning younger people. When they say something that I know (now) to be naive, I’ll whisper conspiratorially

Listen, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but…

I figure it’s safe, knowing that they likely stopped listening to me when I said the word “listen”, because what could I possibly know, right?

On the other hand, sometimes I like to co-opt my old frenemy Dan Savage’s lil chestnut of wisdom and just push people down a little harder when they say something naive

It gets worse

I really like that one, since I think I mentioned people don’t really listen anyway. I just get my lil chuckle either way. Either because I can tell they didn’t listen and heard what they assumed they would hear or they did hear and…that look!

I don’t give away the surprise. I just leave the warning hanging there, sagely. However, when it finally does happen, I then get to say

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya

I’m just kidding. I don’t really do that.

Oops. Look at me…leaving words out, just like the grumpy old man that I am.

That should have said

I’m (mostly) just kidding

I do say those things, but just for fun.

My fun.

But since I’m old people humor me because I might be dangerous, we all get a good – if not awkward – chuckle.

The reality is that I turn my hyperbole on myself.

For.

Instance.

In the last couple weeks, a couple of my original blog buddies have poked their cute little heads back into the WordPress arena. It’s good to see old friends familiar avatars around this dusty old joint again.

In one of their returns – via comments on one of my blog posts and their blogosphere re-entry blog entry – we discussed the states of affair in his life.

Turns out he’s been having one lately. Or at least a low-key dating experience.

Graduated college.

Job searching.

Put on his – and this turn of phrase of his made me jealous because it’s really funny – COVID-15. But it’s ok, he says, because his beau likes him just the way he is.

Funny. When Myrt barfs on the floor, I clean it up. However, today I also learned that when I barf on the floor…I also clean it up.

Luckily, it was imaginary puke.

Anyway, in one of those moments of self-directed wry hyperbole – dryperbole? Chrisism – I thought to myself

Yeah, yeah…we get it – you’ve got a boyfriend

in faux exasperation – because secretly I’m a big emotional schmuck and it makes me happy when people begin relating.

But I went on to have this whole follow up conversation in my head

Some people just keep these things to themselves instead of blabbing them all over town

I said to myself.

For instance,

I said, mentally touching my pearls.

I like to keep these things to myself when I like a boy. I find that as soon as someone finds out they’re my boyfriend – pffft! – they’re gone.

Meh, wudyagundo – in my head I’m both my worst enemy and my best audience. It’s a bit crowded up there.

But I get a good chuckle out of that.

Anyway, if you ever find me letting hyperbole that you think should probably be silent out for a stroll, don’t be offended…try and enjoy it.

Because it’s probably gonna end up being right.

Yeah, I’m Ouisa.

*I’d just like to clarify, the whole blow job a-ha moment was back before the turn of the century…not recently.

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before…

So, last night while I *wasn’t* sleeping – seriously, it was like…3 in the friggin’ AM – I wandered into this secret FaceBook group I belong to.

Trust me, I belong with these people.

And actually, it was 3:30. I remember Little Buddy checking my recent sleep habits from an earlier conversation today while we were enjoying what I referred to as a breakfast beer since it was the only thing I’d had by 4 PM today besides my energy drink. Waking up at noon puts your whole day into a surreal spiral.

Anywho…in the group, I found this post

Naturally, I laughed loud enough to make Mistress Myrtle look up at me from her position by my thigh.

Shut up, hooman. I need my 20 hours of sleep a day or your life is in jeopardy!

Like I needed that reminder.

And, as if you needed a reminder about my sense of humor. What one Silver Spoon Suitor from my days in Shittatle once referred to as “blue”. Ugh. Genteel people. Gawd save me.

But this post reminded me of an old joke. One of my faves. Me – a giver – felt compelled to share it. Since it’s a secret group, I’ll save you the trouble of trying to find it.

You’re all welcome. Don’t forget to pray for me on Sunday. Maybe say an ejaculation – as one misguided nun at my prep school unfortunately phrased a group prayer from our class in honor of an ailing priest at the Grabby Abbey.

This is my life people, and fortunately, that’s the closest I ever came to harassment during my Catholic School career. 😉

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before…

Pro-Tip

I was having socially distant beers with Filipina Fox recently – we were drinking in the park, surrounded camouflaged by homeless people milling about. She took the opportunity to ask my opinion on something that had been bugging her lately.

Food Delivery Apps.

“Easy”, I said. “Don’t.”

But, she explained her conflict – she is a more than competent cook, by the way – of wanting to support local business and be lazy convenience. But when she orders delivery, she gets mad that the restaurant has to pay a commission to the app, effectively removing the support she wants to provide. Plus, delivery drivers need the income, too.

I totally get that. All that.

However, working in banking as she does, specifically in a capacity where local, small businesses are her clients, she has seen the documentation of sales and expense restaurants incur as part of app based delivery services. The examples I’ve seen point toward that app portion of the fees being about 35% of the order value…and in food, that’s pretty much more than a restaurant’s profit margin. She wanted my opinion since when my Lyft Life gets a little too peopley or if there’s just no ride demand, she knows that I’ll flip on Postmates as an alternative.

Frankly, I really enjoy my untethered, non-professional gig jobs. The flexibility to work when I want, do what I want, yada-yada-yada…with no boss or corporate overlord to worry about. As an added bonus, both options allow me to flex a muscle I took for granted when I walked away from my retail career in disgust – namely: being in service to people.

Still, that a friend was demonstrating this level of hand-wringing worrying about how her actions impacted others made my little gig worker self feel appreciated in a way that most of my actual past bosses failed at.

Yet there I was, telling her to fuck worrying about me and my gig working ilk.

Why?

I was mad at Postmates, obviously.

Well, mad might be overselling it. But Postmates, I have observed in my last few attempts to customer them, has either been doing some shady shit or at least allowing it to happen. Since the reason for my disgust with retail was precisely that shady type of shit being allowed to fester versus holding people accountable to ethical standards…well, this observation bothered me.

So, I told the Filipina Fox my story.

The last few times I’ve ordered Postmates for my self, I’ve abandoned my order and found alternative forms of sustenance because I saw that Postmates wasn’t just making money on both ends, like apps do. They seemed to be actively price gouging.

Case in point:

I went to order from a local Chinese restaurant and found my favorite comfort food – Chef’s Special Fried Rice, which has shrimp, beef and chicken in it! – and added it to my order for $13.95. I thought that seemed kind of high, recalling that it was under $10 when I stumbled in there back in the good, old pre-COVID days and ordered at the bar, had a Heineken while I waited and left for under $20 with tip.

Then again, maybe I misremembered that since I’d had a few beers prior to walking in.

But then-then again, it is super yummy, so even at $13.95…worth it. So, I ordered it anyway. But just to make myself miserable, I googled Republic Cafe’s menu and, well…screw you, Uncle Bob.

Here’s why all that bothers me:

First, it seems to only happen with independent restaurants. When I’ve needed a Chipotle fix, those prices seem consistent with my prior in-restaurant orders. So, again, this is impacting small, local businesses.

Sidebar: I have noticed while driving, when I have to order and pay for something for a customer with my pre-paid Postmates card, that there are variations between what the app tells me the total should be and reality at national restaurants, but I don’t know what the customer is actually charged, so can’t definitively say that this doesn’t also happen with chain restaurants, too. But this sets up point number two pretty nicely.

Second, who knows whether this is a self-defense decision by the restaurant or something Postmates mandates. Regardless, even in the best case, the commission they are getting is off a higher priced menu, so they’re at least getting more for their 35% cut. If the best case here is that the restaurant is jacking their prices up 30% plus in order to offset the cost of selling through apps, well…that mitigates my friend’s concern, right?

Apps are still charging crazy delivery fees to the customer. Their other customer. Usually somewhere in the $3-5 range. So, on top of the $4-5 they would make on my $13.95 order from the restaurant, they add another $4-5 from the customer.

So, they’re making around $10 on each $15 order placed.

And I know, they promote restaurants with free or reduced delivery, too. I have no idea how that works out for the restaurants versus the apps. But on the flip side of that, for every order under $15, Postmates racks on a “small cart fee” of $2 to the customer, so…they’re making money somewhere or wheres – I don’t feel bad for them.

Like Filipina Fox, I feel a little bad for some of the businesses. But mostly, I feel mad that the customer is getting abused the way they are. The end result being that I will make decisions kind of like what she has been opting to do, which is just put on my big boy pants and walk down to the restaurant and pick up my own damn food.

No, really…I have to put on pants. Quarantine dress code and all means I’m probably sitting around in sweats versus dressed to go out. And sweats are not ok for going to pick up to-go food…it’s not like I’m getting on a plane, for Pete’s sake.

But, that’s a whole other rant.

Pro-Tip

Queers & Years

So, this happened…yesterday? No, 1979…wait, it was on the Internet, so definitely yesterday!

Phew.

Lance and Tom have been married for three years.

That’s 21 dog years.

And in straight years those bitches already be death done parted.

But, happy maniversary.

Apparently they figured out what works for them. Videos of Tomkisding a younger guy notwithstanding. Nor shall any other betrayals of troths I’m not in the loop on stand.

Although, were I Lance? I’d not be surprised that said video showed Tom kissing a controversially young man.

He learned it from you, Lance!

Meh. Whuddyagunnado? Such is the nature of the Gay/December relationship. He’s probably just sussing – allegedly – out talent for when Lance predeceases him by two decades…😬

Queers & Years