Made it!
Let the age of fifty-thrive begin!
18 Hours
That’s it. I just need to survive another 18-ish hours and I’ll be satisfied.
Let’s face it, 2023 isn’t off to a great start for 54 year olds or drummers. We lost Fred White of Earth, Wind and Fire on New Year’s Day and Robbie Bachman from BTO on the 12th.
And let’s face it, I’m no drummer – world famous or otherwise.
Which leaves us with Adam Rich and Lisa Marie Presley – both of whom started the year off by stopping.
Forever.
At 54 years of age.
That is a group of which I am a reluctant member…
So I’ve simply got to navigate the next 18 hours without inadvertently stepping in front of a bus or getting struck by lightning and I’ll be happily in the clear.
IYKYK
I was out driving a bit tonight and got a split order – food from two restaurants going to the same address.
How’s that for a solution to the age old relationship struggle of agreeing on what to have for dinner?
I don’t usually take orders that involve more than 10 miles of travel or fall too far beneath my $10/order earnings expectation, but I’ve been in a bit of a Yes Game mood lately and couldn’t help myself. I don’t know what it is about the start of a new year that makes me want to affirm and confirm. So, there I was, picking up food and hauling ass across town for $14.
I pick up the first order and drive a block or two to the next place – pizza. I notice that I’m not particularly affected by my usual feelings about this place, either. They usually piss me off, so I don’t go there anymore – it’s good for my grumpy old man heart to stay away – but this is their food, not mine and I don’t really care.
“Yeah, that’s got about 10-15 minutes left in the oven.”
“Seriously, how long does it take to cook a fuc” – nope, never mind. Not my food.
I shoot the customer a message to let them know and get a “No worries” reply, then sit down to play my Words With Friends while I wait. Once it’s done, approximately one millennia later, I hop back in the car and anon my ass up to NoPo.
The order had booze with it – a six-pack of beer and a bottle of bubbles, someone knows how to Sunday a holiday weekend! – so the customer had to sign for it when I arrived.
I knock.
A small face appears behind the sheer blinds on the door a little less than 2 feet up from the floor and disappears. Moments later, a second face appears a little higher up and then pulls the same vanishing act.
I debate knocking again when a dog pokes its head through, stares at me a moment and runs away. That’s really not good for one’s self esteem, getting dissed by dogs.
Finally, a full sized human appears at the door, opens it and announces, “Epic fail!”
“Yeah, that pizza joint is always a bit of a shit show”, I catch myself just before my adjectification of the pizza place and drop my voice to a whisper to avoid accidentally teaching the diminutive humans any blue language.
The customer explains that he wasn’t worried about the food, announces that he should get me some extra cash for my wait time while walking away from the door and then careens back to his point. He has been trying to teach his kids about stranger dangers and had heard from the big one that the little one had been trying to unlock and open the door when he found him.
“Well, I hadn’t noticed”, I tell him as I trade my phone for a few unnecessary folded bills.
He signs my screen with his finger and shakes my hand after he hands my phone back.
I had noticed the denomination of the top bill when he’d handed it to me and laid it out while waiting for my salad to arrive at dinner for a lil pic for you, my abhorring public.
Like the title says – if you know, you know.
If you’re not a native of or current resident in the city with the highest number of strip clubs per capita in America, let me spell it out for you.
Stripper money.
With one exception, every strip club I’ve been to in Portland gives cash customers an inordinate number of $2 bills as change. The intent is to drive up tip income for the performers, which I’m all for. One particularly raucous (in a good way) club even has the emcee occasionally seed the crowd vis-a-vis a toy gun that shoots $2 bills into the crowd.
It’s kind of fun to watch, but I’m not much for the strip bars these days. Occasionally I’ll stop off at the lesser of the two gay strip clubs since it’s on my way home from another one of my local watering holes and open two hours later.
Shit beer, though, so I’ve got to be in a mood in order to drop in when I leave the other place.
Anyway, I have always thought that spending these $2 bills outside a strip club was indicative of one of two flexes:
A) it’s a particularly empowered performer making a declaration; or
B) it’s a client who is throwing those $2s around like au unhumble brag.
I like both options.
What I’m not as crazy about are the bills that have clearly been in circulation a while. You’ll notice my handful was fairly crisp. The alternative is – what’s an alternative to a “handful” of “fairly crisp” bills? – a crotchful of nearly dry bills?
Oh, and best part?
The customer’s wife must’ve edited the tip while he was talking to me. The order from the first restaurant was only base rate + peak pay, which came to $5 – believe me when I say that the money you make in this work comes from the tips! – so this $14 deliver ended up being $30.64 from the app and another $10 in cash.
I love when the Yes Game rewards my efforts to bust out of my grumpapotamus shell.
A Bag of Ds
It’s short for “a bag of dicks” and it’s usually preceded by the words “go eat”. It’s applications are nearly as versatile as the word “fuck”, but that’s not what prompts this post.
I’ve become increasingly amused by the appropriation of the “D”.
The other day, I walked into one of my locals and was asked the usual question-with-an-obvious-answer upon finding a place to squat at the bar. Instead of giving the <ahem> straight answer, I deployed a little bit of my usual Xtopher fuckery.
“Just thought I’d come in to try and get a little D”.
Bartender: <glances around uncertainly> You know we’re not that kind of bar, right?
Me: You’re a hotel bar. You’re exactly that kind of bar.
At this point, the bartender gives me a look that strongly suggests one of us has been misinterpreting what they’ve observed in the environment over the years. I can tell he’s also slightly uncertain as to whether I have previously unshared first-hand knowledge on the topic (I do) to which he thinks I’m alluding. I know he’s told me that he’s been room-keyed be patrons before…but that’s not what I’m talking about at all.
Me: Well, if you’re going all in with dry January here, I can go somewhere else for a little drink.
The mixture of relief and I-can’t-believe-I-fell-for-it was pretty enjoyable for me. Assuming he enjoyed it, too, I stiffed him on the tip.
Kidding.
But he had to have known there was another shoe just waiting to drop. This is the bar where the other bartender spent weeks asking everyone if they’d seen the Hot D, referring to HBOMax’s Game of Thrones prequel, House of the Dragon.
The very next day, I shit you not, I witnessed the same phenomenon occurring in the wild.
The wilds of my coffee shop.
I’d just finished my set order at the counter, having ordered drinks for me and my perpetually tardy friend. At first I’d declared her as being on her own for coffee. Having a split second to rethink it, I opted to get her a two-shot version of my quad order, riffing as I did, “So I guess I’m removing her coffee agency since she was late!” This amused the woman taking orders, so I stiffed her on the tip.
More kidding. But could you imagine?
Not to be outdone by some old man, the young buck barista asked if I wanted her drink to be “half D”, meaning two regular shots and two decaf shots. I told him no, not seeing the point.
“Yeah, that’s the thing, it’s really whole D or nothing, if you ask me!”, says he with a puckish cock of an eyebrow.
I decided responding “Don’t you gay-bait me, son. You play with this old bull, you get the horn!” Instead, I did the dramatic laugh and point, adding, “This one, with the jokes!”
Does anyone else do/witness this type of prurient wordplay? Letterplay? Whatever.
I’m tempted to think this is the type of thing that would only happen to me or because of me, but who knows, maybe people are just feeling playful in general these days. After all, this is the town that I am fairly certain came up with the business that allows you to anonymously mail someone a literal bag of dicks.
Tire(d)
The Silver Fox says I have the worst luck with tires of anyone he’s ever known. Despite his proclivity for hyperbole and my natural resistance to it when I hear it…I’m inclined to take that statement at face value.
To wit: last Sunday night, I was driving up Sandy Blvd on the east side of the river and was getting excited that my nav was turning me onto NE 57th, as that 5-point intersection was this epic entity during my childhood in that neighborhood. I was considering whether my nav would take me off 57th onto Fremont and right past my childhood home on the corner of NE Fremont and 60th.
That’s when I heard was the airbrakes of a semi or bus misfiring nearby.
Nope.
Instead of getting louder or fading away as the vehicle approached or receded, I was noticing more of a cyclical sound. I shut off my radio.
Then I opened my window. It was like a pressure release valve.
Then my dash gave my clueless ass the answer.
Low Tire Pressure.
“Rear drivers side? That’s different.” I’m not even surprised by that alarm from Angela anymore. No, it’s the location that surpass me.
And it was surprising. Of the three sets of tires I’d had since buying Angela three years ago – ooh, foreshadowing! – the majority of leaks I’ve had have been on the rear passenger side tire.
Hooray for noticing patterns.
It was dark. It had briefly stopped raining, and I had a leak in my tire that I could hear over traffic.
Gamely, I got my compressor out and tried refilling my tire. I could hear sir hissing out of the tire over the high pitched rumble of the compressor.
Because of my track record with leaks, I carry a can or two of fix-a-flat with me. I put it into the tire and pulled forward a hundred yards to spread it around and hopefully coat the hole. Reattaching the compressor, I tried filling the tire again to no avail.
I called a Lyft. I hadn’t opened either the driver or the rider apps since they boondoggled me off their driver platform last February, but it had been on my mind lately, since I become eligible to drive for rideshares in Portland again at the end of this month. I was conflicted for the duration of the ride, listening to the driver’s stories of mixed successes. Casually, I attributed her moderate enthusiasm to her own situation, mostly not driving when demand is highest because of her kid. The right decision – for her.
The next two days were absolute hell at work. Year end in a Payroll department of one…what can I say?
I was supposed to go into the office on Wednesday, but my car was still sitting on the roadside in northeast Portland about 70 blocks from me. Reluctantly, I asked my boss to use one of my banked holidays from working Christmas (observed) and Winter holiday (it was a payroll week) so I could get this taken care of. Unfortunately for me, it was another payroll week and I had to be available Wednesday morning to make any last minute corrections before she submitted the batch, but I could take a half day.
After my recent luck with tires, I’d taken the advice of the Silver Fox as well as a fellow blogger and stayed away from the Continental tire brand, which also meant staying away from the conveniently located Les Schwab tires, since that was the only brand they carried for my vehicle – and special ordering tires there was crazy expensive. This is how I ended up with my third set of tires – Bridgestones – coming from the Costco, courtesy of The Fox’s membership…in the next town over.
At least they had been on sale! I think the whole ordeal had come in several hundred dollars below the cost of the special order at Les Schwab, and under a grand. Oh, the winning!
Not so convinced now so much as I had been that Continentals were to blame as I was beginning to come around to the Silver Fox’s thinking that I had a tire jinx – not to mention the two courtesy patches I’d gotten from my neighborhood tire shop recently free of charge – I called Les Schwab to ask about my options. The thing is, I’d heard the one-tire tragedy often enough during my time waiting at Les Schwab for prior patches to know: one does not simply replace a single tire.
I ended up speaking to the manager of the shop. He told me that 30k miles into an 80k warranty put me in an iffy place. If I was at 70% tread depth, I could just replace the one – which surprised me. Then he hit me with the story I was more familiar with: with an all wheel drive car like mine, the recommendation was always to replace the set.
I’d convinced myself that part of the schtick was always to leverage their in-house financing. That’s the part that always made me feel creepiest to witness.
Then he said two things that surprised me.
First, that I should stop by their shop over on 29th & Sandy and pick up a tread depth gauge since it was close to where my car was stranded. If I was over 70%, I should take it back to Costco for a warranty replacement. Second, if it was under 70%, bring it to them because the warranty wouldn’t matter and there was no point in paying extra to have my car towed further to Costco.
So I did.
I’d forgotten how much I liked riding the bus in Portland. Reluctantly, I got off at 29th instead of riding the bus all the way up Sandy to where I hoped Angela was still in one piece.
When I asked for a tread depth gauge, the person I was talking to immediately started walking toward the door, all assurances that he could help me. Knowing my car wasn’t in their lot, I followed him, since my choice was talk to his back or talk to no one. Once he realized I wanted to borrow or buy one, he started talking to me like he wasn’t sure he was looking at the more dominant of my two heads.
Great. I’d gotten off my bus 30 blocks early for nothing. I checked my phone app and walked toward the next stop along my route. When I arrived, I saw the bus was still five minutes away and decided to walk to the next stop.
Then I remembered what I didn’t love about riding transit as the bus passed me a block from the next stop three minutes before it was supposed to be at the previous stop. Fine. It’s only 20 more blocks, I’ll just walk it.
It started raining.
I really don’t know how I don’t win a lottery. You’d think my cumulative bad luck would circle back to good luck at some point.
Knowing how long it had taken to get a tow when my alternator/battery had crapped out on me at the beginning of 2022, I decided to use my spare time setting up a tow. The guy told me 30 minutes, just as I was closing the last block or two to where I’d left Angela’s fate to the whims of Portland’s mercurial population.
Surprisingly, she was intact. Well, mostly.
Since it was now daylight – and I had 24 minutes yet to kill – I started looking for the source of the leak strong enough for me to hear and feel.
Of course, I had to pull forward…
I had some time to kill before RedKing towing showed up, so I texted my roadside savior from last year – Diezel – to tell him that inflation was fake news. It was only costing me $20 more this year to have my car towed. He then told me that it was exactly one year ago to the day that he’d helped me off the side of the road. Well, him and another tow truck.
Does that strike anyone else as weird timing?
Anyway. Two more surprises: first, the guy at RedKing towing with the Russian accent didn’t name his company RedKing as a nod to his heritage, his last name is Redkin. Second, he was on fucking time! And took less than 10 minutes to get my car on his flatbed – versus the 35 it took last time.
Once I got to the Costco, I learned they didn’t have my tire in stock, but could have it there the next day, Thursday. They were oddly optimistic they could patch my tire, but ordered a full set anyway. A move I was certain was done just to drive me into a conspiracy spiral. They told me I would be ready the next day and they’d call me.
Unfortunately, they called at 4:40 and I had plans to drink my dinner with a friend at 6, so I put them off til Friday after work.
Oh, and they had to replace the tire, but the road hazard warranty covered most of the cost of the tire do it was only $168 for that tire.
But they had to replace the other rear tire, too, at a minimum since the tread was at 50%. For whatever reason, the road hazard clause only covers one tire, despite the pressure to replace the set. My total for the two tires was going to be $447. I was strangely relieved, even though I was having trouble figuring out how the second tire cost $279 and the warranty covering $111 of the first tire was most of the cost.
I came to to the question of whether I wanted them to go ahead and replace the front tires since they had an extra day…and had ordered the full set of tires. Oh, and the recommendation for all-wheel…yeah, yeah.
That would be $1018…somehow costing even more per tire.
“No, but I imagine I’ll be back for them soon enough, given my luck.” I was not down for a fourth full set of tires in 35 months.
My tech told me that to that end, they were putting the patched passenger side tire in my trunk so I’d have a spare if one of the front tires went south. I kind of appreciated that. They didn’t have to do that.
At the same time, I don’t want to encourage my bad tire carma, so I’m not sure I really want it. I have it, though.
More specifically, the Silver Fox’s parking spot will have it as soon as I unload it. Hahahaha.
What? If he could blame Les Schwab for selling me bad tires before, he talked me into Costco tires. Ergo, he’s clearly complicit and can store the tire!
No? Fine, agree to disagree.
Di*stir*bed
Have you seen the ads for this app?
It’s a dating app for single parents. Touting benefits like scheduling your free time so you can coordinate with other single parents.
Sounds great, right? It’s got done thought behind it, which maybe sets it apart from other dating apps.
And then…it immediately reverts to the usual dating app dumb-fuckery.
Your kids go to bed at 8, but you don’t have to.
What the…?!?
Am I supposed to infer layers of planning and responsibility here? Because what I’m getting is, “Your kids are asleep, why don’t you head out for a little slap and tickle? You know, the hush, the bad? Go on, you’ve been a parent most of the day, minus the 8+ hours you worked, but let your hair down and get yours, now!”
Of course, the next ad set featured an ad for Upward, a Christian dating site. Oddly, I respected it more than this Stir ad. It literally said nothing offensive – just put itself out there as a resource for finding like-minded people with a built in foundation of common values.
What was Stir’s version of that? Instead of “Are you a person of faith?” it has “Are you a neglectful parent?”
Not for nothing, but I’m thinking of joining Upward and making my profile headline some sort of riff on questioning when exactly God was going to start blessing America, as the song commands – because we seem to pretty much be embracing the fucked-up-ness of our situation anymore.
Hoorah…at least people won’t be lonely or undersexed as the careen toward eternal damnation. Whatever that looks like for them.
For me, I think I’m there – and my Hell is mass market advertising geared toward separating as-hard-as-they-have-to-work-to-justify-being-overcompensated stupid Americans from their hard not-earned cash.
And do you know what? We have that coming.
Irresolved
Welp, it’s 8:38 on Sunday morning. I’ve been up since 5. 4:30, really – I got up to pee and optimistically tried to sleep more before I had to get up at 6:30 to take the Silver Fox to the airport so he could anon to Tahiti.
8:38 on Sunday morning and I’ve been up since 5.
I’ve read the news.
Exercised.
Showered.
Completed said airport run.
Filled Angela’s tank.
…and called myself a dumb bitch three times. I’m averaging once an hour today. I suspect it’s having nothing to do for the foreseeable hours remaining in the day.
So I thought I’d do something productive to snap myself out of that self-effacing doldrum.
Can you have a single doldrum? Maybe that’s a torpor.
Neverthemess…I debated asking my parents to breakfast, but I don’t want to drive in this halfhearted rain, so I’m not going to make them do it.
That kind of leaves writing. Am I going to finish my Christmas week post? Finally? No. No, I am not.
I’m jumping into ‘23!
I’m not one for resolutions – or proper English simply for the sake of proper English, hence the nonsense title of this post – but at the same time, I realized in the shower today that I was presently living out a fairly common resolution.
Call it wasting less or doing something for the environment, but that’s what I’ve found myself in the middle of. (There’s some more bad English for ya.)
As I was heading out to pick up The Fox, I had the thought that I should take my redeemable recycling with me to drop off after. I had to stop at Freddy’s anyway to get Myrtle more cat food on my way back from the airport – her breakfast sounded like only two or three kibbles when the feeder went off at 5. Then I surprised myself when I realized I was short of my two bag usual for a trip to recycling and decided to leave it. Besides, who knew whether the Silver Fox would have bags that needed to go in Angela’s cargo area? Best not to risk it.
This is when I realized I’d left my fob to The Fox’s building in my car last night, so I’d have to have him meet me at the door to get in. That was dumb bitch #1.
Then as we were driving to the airport in the dark, drizzly wee hours, I was struggling to see clearly and remembered that I’d intended to bring my glasses so I could see better, but didn’t have them: dumb bitch #2.
On my way home, I took backroads to avoid the blurry freeway. This also took me right by the home of the bi-guy I’ve been banging out with lately. That was kind of a fun realization – but now I’m horny. Sadly, I’m withholding with him because last time I saw him he left a mark like we’re fucking high schoolers.
Do I seem amused?
I stopped off for gas before hitting the grocery store. I’d been at 31 miles to empty when I left for the airport and was at 11 when I made it back to my ‘hood.
Then I forgot to stop at the store for cat food: dumb bitch #3.
Crap! I just realized I’d miscounted my dumb bitches, so that’s dumb bitch #5!
#4 was walking to the RiteAid up the street for cat food and not realizing they don’t open until 9 on Sundays. Staffing issues.
So, yeah…I need some positivity this morning. That required reflection, so I reviewed my day.
I had a shower victory this morning. Two, really, if you count showering so early in the day as a victory (I do). But I finally figured out the “right” number of swipes my shampoo bar requires for a good lather. It’s two.
Two.
I’d picked it up at Trader Joe’s last time I was there – purely on a lark. I’d been looking for a candle and struck out. But right next to where candles should have been was their personal care section and for $3.49, I figured why not give a shampoo bar a try? I knew I was getting close to empty on my current shampoo bottle at home., so this was also an opportunity to be proactive versus finding myself shampoo-less in the near future.
The first time I used it, I gave myself three swipes on each side of my head.
Waaay too much. I looked like a shampoo commercial on crack.
Plus side: this bar produces an insanely rich lather. I noticed this as it covered my shoulders and oozed toward my navel.
For the next week or so I regrouped at two swipes per side. Still too much, but I wasn’t mad since it smells so good! It also does an amazing job of pulling the prior day’s product off my hair, so why under-do it?
But this morning I was in a hurry – I know, up at 5 and end up rushing my shower to be on time, can you believe that didn’t earn me a dumb bitch? – and shaved a second or two off my shower by giving each side of my head one swipe.
Realizing that two swipes total was plenty left me looking at the bar in amazement. It looks barely touched after a week+ of daily use. At this rate, if it only lasts me six months, I’d be surprised. But in that half year, it’ll keep three plastic bottles out of my (non-redeemable) recycling.
Looking back on that made me feel pretty good. I felt even better when the reason behind me not having enough redeemable recycling to merit taking it with me when I left the house hit me.
I bought myself a soda stream late last year. I’m actually rather enjoying it. At first I was conflicted about it for political and environmental reasons.
It’s a company based in Israel, which is ire-some to some.
Plus, I don’t like bubbly water just for the sake of bubbles. Hence, the flavoring syrups in front of it. The Bubbly brand concentrates come in glass bottles and make around 12 liters. The larger containers say they make up to 9 liters, but I’ve only been using 3/4 the recommended dose, so they’ll each get me around 12 liters, too. So for the environmental price of two plastic bottles, I’m keeping about two dozen plastic bottles out of the system. Add another dozen for the glass bottle of flavorings and you’ve got quite an impact.
I’m ok with the return on that trade off.
I realized that over the course of a year, that will be hundreds less plastic containers coming out of my home. That made me feel pretty good.
And it all happened without setting out on a resolution spree.
Not bad for a dumb, ol’ bitch, eh?
K-GAY TV Goes to the Movies
This could all be an exercise in how emotionally broken and busted up I am.
Or bitter.
Or self-loathing.
Or what have you.
But I watched some movie and now I want to talk about it.
Merry Christmas Eve, by the way!
Anyway. I’ve fallen into this avoidance trap. I don’t know why, but I’m doing anything in front of the TV to avoid watching Christmas movies. Maybe it’s because I watched Bad Moms Christmas last year and it put me off the whole genre? Nonetheless, this has manifested by me creating my own themes to binge.
One of these was gay themed movies. The two I want to discuss today both put me off watching them for one reason or another – fine, they both annoyed me – if that tells you how hard I was resisting Christmas themed movies.
How can a movie annoy me before I’ve even seen it, you ask?
Not surprisingly, it was the usual trigger for me: idiots.
When Bros came out and the first weekend earnings were reported, they lacked a certain luster. It made less than $5 million in its opening weekend. The writer and star blamed straight people for not seeing his rom-com because the main characters were gay.
Like…what?
Ballpark cocktail napkin math, there’s 20 million gay men in the US. Countless others who identify as queer, questioning, gender-fluid or trans. And then a handful of lesbians who sympathetically tolerate gay men.
Y’know what, that’s too complicated. The old rule of thumb (and by “old” I mean outdated) is that 10% of the population is gay. In America, that translates to around 35 million people. If just ten percent of that 10% <ahem> came out for opening weekend, that’s a $35 million opening weekend.
Bitch, your own people didn’t show up for you. Trust me, having written a couple of gay themed books, I understand the phenomenon. Don’t blame the straights, it’s your community.
So, yeah…that kinda put me off.
Conversely, the other gay themed movie is been awaiting was My Policeman. After the media hullaballoo surrounding star Harry Styles’ other movie release this year (Don’t Worry Darling) I was looking forward to something I could enjoy without experiencing a shitshow of humanity-baiting press beforehand. But the idiots came through and pissed me off again.
Several of the reviews went out of their way to mention Styles’ English accent sounded contrived and unbelievable.
Harry is from the United Kingdom.
What the hell is wrong with people?
After overcoming those frustrations – at least to the point that the idea of watching them bothered me less than the idea of viewing Christmas content – I made a weekend of it.
Are you ready for this? Gird your loins. No, on second thought, you little peeves put your loins out of your minds altogether. I’m sorry I mentioned it.
Bros
Months and months ago, I heard about this gay movie that was coming out this year called Bros. It was written by and starred Billy Eichner, who I am not a fan of – he’s just not my cup of personality tea. Conversely, it was directed by Nicholas Stoller who brought us okay titles like Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Get Him to the Greek. It was also being produced by Judd Apatow.
So there was plenty of recognizable name power behind it. You gotta assume that if anyone could succeed at being a gay-centric rom-com into the mainstream, it was a crew like this.
I spent the time mentally playing Russian roulette. This wasn’t a movie, it seemed as it was a sentence.
Don’t get me wrong, I was only mentally playing Russian roulette, not literally, so it wasn’t that bad. But even weeks after watching it I’m still trying to figure out if I’m bending over backward to not hate it.
Here are me takeaways:
1) There’s some (singular) guy candy. The whole premise of the trailer is that nerdy gay Billy can’t grapple with the reality that hot co-star Luke MacFarlane could be into him. Ok, I feel that particular struggle. Anymore what used to be surprise at learning someone was attracted to me has turned into outright suspicion. Like when a good looking guy pays attention to me my response isn’t to be flattered, it “What do you want?”
2) Sadly, Luke’s character – as easy as he is to look at – has almost the entire patchwork of gay fucked up-ness in his quilt: your basic gym bunny of a commitment-phobe, hyper-sexualized, Homo. Even when the story opens him up a little by giving him a totally out of character secret dream to make him look vulnerable, it’s immediately thrown in the dirt and stomped on by throwing his gay-shame in our faces when his family visits the Big Apple for Christmas.
3) Stunt casting is alive! But maybe not well? Several out actors played roles in this film. That was nice to see – even if the community didn’t come out for the show, it supported the community of out entertainers in its casting. The winner for me was Amanda Bearse playing Luke’s character’s mother. The conservative mindset of the character explains some of Luke’s dis-ease with Billy meeting them, but it was her eventual understanding of how her narrow worldview impacted others that did it for me. It was nice to see Guillermo Diaz play a het dad instead of an unhinged killer. Jai Rodriquez playing Luke’s uber-masc brother pretty much made me realize casting members of the community was more important than casting people who could sell the characters they were playing. Debra Messing is a moderately bright spot in the film playing herself as an out of date star that basically has a meltdown during her scene over being famous for being a fruit fly.
4) The Gays can’t seem to evolve professionally. In the 70s and 80s, we were all basically hair burners and retail queens. Now we’re all drag queens or caricatures of people with no real depth or involved in something that serves our ungrateful and entitled community. Case in point, Billy’s character is a podcaster who is named to lead the blah-blah-blah LGBTQ center. But first he had to build it, which is a central theme in the movie. The closest we come to an actual profession is Luke’s character who is an attorney who does estate planning. To further the programming of The Gays and reinforce that we should not aspire to such respectable professions, he hates it.
5) For as much as we call ourselves a community, there’s truly no unity here. Again, The Gays didn’t go to the movie, but if they had, all they would have seen is the usual selfish infighting amongst the alphabetical factions.
6) The Gays are as self-unaware as ever. Bowen Yang (more stunt casting!) plays a billionaire media mogul who briefly comes into the orbit of this storyline. The scene ends with him dismissing the main characters by telling them he has to go to a Pride pool party and they are too “old” to go in the pool, so they have to leave. Now, I’m all for cleverly bitchy wit. I’m also one for accountability, too, and watching this scene play out made me cringe. Excluding people based on things that are out of their control like age or genes is just not ok. Yang is no underwear model, so I can’t imagine how he felt delivery such an ageist line. If he’s the typical ‘22 model of The Gays, I’m sure the point was entirely lost on him.
Honestly, this is pretty much how I felt about the whole movie. I couldn’t figure out if it was just basic or if it was trying to lampoon was passes for Gay Kulture these days but just wasn’t smart enough to pull it off.
That’s my main takeaway – confusion.
Honestly, props to those involved for taking a big swing on this. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a big miss for me. If you want to see a gay movie about a nerd and a stud falling in love with an out of date TV star having a meltdown…see 1999’s Trick. Tori Spelling was an amazing bit of stunt casting in this indy flick whose meltdown is truly a memorable moment. Plus, Coco Peru’s cameo alone is worth the ticket – rental, now – price, because…it does burn, Coco!
My Policeman
After bracing myself for Harry’s inability to pull of a convincing English accent, I settled into this little slice of life time capsule. Then again, after watching Bros, it was pretty easy to settle in with the expectations bar set pretty low.
This movie takes place in two different times in the three main characters’ lives, separated by 40-some odd years and splices the events of the two points together as the story unfolds.
I’m not going to try and do that here. Suffice to say, it ends up unfolding as a three-way tragedy.
The movie starts with an infirm old Patrick being delivered by medical transport to the home of childless couple Tom and Marion. He’s just recovered from a stroke and is here to convalesce. Marion is glad to have their old pal from decades earlier back in their lives, not to mention someone to take care of to give her days some purpose. Tom is not so happy about the arrival, spending his screen time walking the couple’s dog on the beach.
As the story hood between the past and present, we learn that Tom is a retired policeman who early in his career was a lone singleton in his precinct who was told that single officers don’t get promoted. Enter Marion who is a school teacher that is instantly smitten with the handsome young Tom – let’s face it, regardless of which side your bread is buttered on, Harry Styles is pretty easy to look at, weak-assed English accent be damned.
Tom introduces Marion to a young Patrick, who he claims to have met after an accident.
The three become friends. And it’s a friendship independent of the marriage. Marion and Patrick enjoy cultural outings together without Tom. Tom, for his part, enjoys his alone time with Patrick in…other ways.
Marion does what wives in the 50s-ish era did, ignored the signs about the true nature of Tom and Patrick’s relationship. On that note, maybe we understand a little more of Marion’s motivation behind inviting Patrick to their home to heal. Certainly, it’s easier to understand Tom’s absence in the house.
But it was nostalgic viewing for me. Even though my early relationships with men occurred in the late 80s and early 90s versus the 40s or 50s, the closet was still the room I spent the most time in. Beards – as the women in relationships of convenience were called – were still commonplace. A friend of mine who was a bank VP in the early 90s was told the same thing Tom was. Being a VP versus a beat cop, his response was more “Who the fuck cares?” versus pairing up, but it still happened.
Maybe nostalgia is the wrong word. Because the end result was that I was mad at the memory. The secret life gays were forced to live. The way women were treated as results. The emotional costs on both sides of the transaction.
Regardless, it was a far better depiction of this type of gay-straight love triangle than Threesome. But that probably went without saying – even if you never knew that movie existed…
What upset me most, though, about My Policeman was knowing that the current – or recent – generations of The Gays are oblivious to the trauma of the reality so many generations of their predecessors existed in. Their own culture. But it’s not their problem and certainly nowhere near as traumatic as their realities. Y’know, the one where no one gets their pronouns right and they don’t make enough on their OnlyFans to support their undeserved caviar tastes, leaving them no choice but to self-diagnose with anxiety and/or depression as a result. That’s tragedy.
So while I quite enjoyed watching the story of My Policeman unfold – as well as Harry’s too-infrequent naked ass – the movie left me angrier for what our culture has lost than anything else. That loss is history. Such an important piece of any culture and one of the reasons I spell the word with a K when I pair it with the word gay.
Still, as a counterbalance to my reaction to Bros, I feel like my emotional Geiger counter might not be as broken as I alluded to in my intro. I was still a bit intrigued by the fact that neither of these stories really had the emotional impact upon me their creators would have imagined.
Until…
I rewatched Top Gun: Maverick.
Sixteen minutes in and I am shedding tears the way I wish I could shed belly fat: fast and voluminously.
“What the fuck?!?” I asked Myrtle, who opened one eye at the question to let me know it was my problem and not worth rousing her from her nap.
If it would have just been that one instance of nostalgic tears, I could have written it off. But sixteen minutes later, there’s I was again, wiping my face – not my eyes, my face – with both hands.
Then fourteen minutes later.
Then ten.
And it really didn’t let up for the two-plus hours of the movie.
Top fucking Gun fucking Maverick. That’s the movie that provoked an emotional response from me?
Maybe I am more emotionally busted up than I want to let on.
On the other hand, maybe before I decide I should survey a bunch of naval aviators to see what their response was to TG:M. If they didn’t have a strong emotional reaction to the movie, maybe that’s my out: if you’re in the community, there’s a normalizing factor that familiarity breeds where you’re more witnessing the story versus becoming emotionally invested in it.
Oof. I should have stretched before that reach.
Randumb Gambitches…#1?
I’ve been busy.
It’s frustrating on multiple levels. The work is sucking my mojo away lately, leaving me with a piss-poor reserve of energy for the rest of my life.
Exercise and writing…<pffft!>
So I’ve been trying to come up with short-form ideas for writing and exercise to recharge my mojo.
Exercise was easy – the Peloton app has loads of 5 and 10 minute classes that I can wedge into my day. Gourd knows I’m not bouncing out of bed these days to do a ride or a couple of strength classes before work. My lunchtime rides have – well, I’m at my desk shoveling food with one hand and processing data with the other at lunch, now, ain’t I?
So I do a shorty strength or stretching class during a call or while watching whatever I simply cannot miss on TV.
Writing, though. That was the tough one. If you know me, you know I’m not one to say in 5 words what I could say in 500. That makes short-form writing ideas…a challenge.
Case in point, I finally came up with an idea I want to try and here I am a couple hundred words in on just backstory.
So here’s the notion, and I think it works for me: random – because it’s me, obvs and who knows where or when with me my ire muse will strike? – entries about just the most Gilbert Gottfried conniption inducing things I observe that people do.
It’s genius. Match made in whatever the secular version of heaven – oh, still heaven? Really? That doesn’t seem right – is. It’s so genius, the only non-genius thing about it is how long it took me to get there.
Just think, up til now I’ve been wasting this genius on life extras who end up sitting next to me at the bar, substituting for friends.
Still not getting there, am I? Bit of a failure to launch scenario, innit.
Ok, ok…here we go!
I mean, it’s just that this is sort of a big deal. I’ve been resting on or avoiding the laurels of past themes – some good ones like Today I Learned/TIL, The Red Shirt Diaries, and Dating Into Oblivion – so this is…phew!
Ok, for realz…here it is:
Have you ever been a decent human being driving down the freeway and seen someone come up behind you? It’s best if you’re in the fast lane in this scenario, but any lane works.
What do you do?
Because for me – when I’m in the fast lane in particular, but even if I’m just in the middle lane – I usually move. I can guarantee you I’m not going below – not in a nefarious or scofflaw kind of way – the flow of traffic. Even if the next lane to my right is doing a slick, but law abiding 55 MPH, I’m cruising along at (at least) 58.
But who am I kidding? It’s usually closer to 70 – which in some areas is nothing but in Portland, with its rain and curvy hills and bicyclists and leaves and strange 50 MPH areas on interstate freeways – and that’s a lot oh Ms per H here. Ok?!?
So when someone comes up on me? I tend to get out of their way. After I switch up my passive passing of the car to my right to something slightly more aggressive.
That perfectly describes Portland natives, BTW. Passing people is a slow but steady proposition. Just let cruise control take care of it. But when someone’s I your rear view and going faster than you, you gotta punch it. You can’t slow down to get behind the car you were at mid-pass on because that slows down the speedier than you demon behind you! Then it’s all very, “I’m so sorry, I’m not usually this aggressive – but the guy behind me!” And, really…they were the problem, right?
Suuuure.
It’s a real exercise in doing what’s right for everyone: getting out of the way of faster traffic, apologizing to who you’re passing, and then abdicating responsibility by acknowledging you were perfectly happy to basically coast by this person at a minimally higher speed until this (let’s be real here) Californian came up behind you.
There’s only so much you can do…when everyone has to be happy.
So you juice it a few more MPH to get by, clear a respectable few car lengths and then change lanes.
Good driver. Very respectful. Letter of the Rules of the Road even.
And what happens next?
The micropenis that was in your rear view mirror jets past you and then careens into your lane. Like…WTF?!? You came up in my rear view like your ball hair was being singed but as soon as you’re past me, you pop into my slow lane?!? Just to be sure I don’t miss the smell of burning hair heating the pheromones from the glands in your…area?!?
Easy there, grumpy old Xtopher…maybe they were trying to get to an exi – nope, that was not the reason for their Mad Max style driving since they have now passed the exit I am taking to exit this sideshow of selfishness the freeway.
Why do people do this? Is it some sort of animal brain display of dominance?
Just pee on my car as you go by. Don’t do something that could induce a stroke as my thinking brain tries to assign reason to your whatever-passes-for-thinking-in-your-reality actions I just had to witless witness.
Seriously, though…why do people do this?!?
Mental Venn Diagrams
I’ve been taking some deliberate time lately. Grabbing back what I can of “me” time versus running from work (from home) to social engagements immediately after. Or making a point of taking a lunch to workout and shower before the back half of my day instead of working from 8-5 (or later, many days) without taking a lunch break at all.
I’m not mad that the job I ended up signing on for keeps me engaged at that level. I’m just forcing myself to remember, my work is only one part of my identity and happiness.
To that end, sometimes I’ll leave work (from home) and meet friends – or not – for drinks, maybe dinner. Others, I’ll leave work (from home) and go do dinner deliveries for a couple hours to get out of the house for a bit.
The thing that was missing there wasn’t immediately obvious to me. Just really revealing itself last week – the week before my vacation.
Me time.
All of my activities involved being a participant with someone else. Not that I know the intent wasn’t there. I know I would intentionally set out take myself out for a solo drink often. Sometimes neighbors would drop in to the local watering hole. Others, just the staff would pull me out of my solo time to just be at zero, thinking Xtopher things and recharging my spirit, if you will, so I was ready to put my best self out into the world again.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not mad about being world famous on my block. I just remember from my days of career management, I always had my me time.
I was missing it.
Since my usual activities weren’t providing the recharge I needed, I ripped a page out of the Silver Fox’s playbook and just started staying home. There’s a bit more to that, which I’ll get into later this week or this weekend, but I looked at what I was doing and made a conscious change to change my results.
Like a damn smarty.
It’s kinda hard to stay home. I don’t have a big place, and there’s literally a bookshelf dividing my desk from my couch. Ergo, if I’m looking to get away from work, and “get away” isn’t physically executed…what’s giving me that perceived distance?
Since I’d joined HelloFresh, there were two nights of cooking built in as that get away. That was nice. Keeping the kitchen clean from its newly increased full-function usage versus the usual fridge and microwave abuse it was accustomed to could provide a nice transition one night a week. Can’t say I was keen on turning that critical cleanliness as an escape mindset loose on the rest of my home, though.
It’s a mess.
Last night, in a fit of semi-boredom, I cleaned to metal light fixtures that hang over my kitchen bar. The years of cumulative dust and cat hair since their last cleaning – lacquered in place by kitchen grease now that I’ve taken up cooking again – made it quite a task. I’m not lying when I say each fixture took closer to ten minutes than five to clean. Since it was hands over shoulders work, that added some extra humility to the exercise.
But I needed it last night.
Why? Why did I need a couple 5-10 minute tasks?
To give my mind time to make decisions in the background while I was focused on something else.
It’s a good trick.
And there are just too many TV show options to be able to decide!
If I were a younger gay man – or just one interested in blending my DNA in with the rest of the Gay Herd – I’d have opened up the loathsome Grindr and used that to kill time. But I’d still bet that I’d stand out from the other livestock there by thinking about something while there…
Are you shocked my dilemma is essentially nonsense? What TV show to watch…this is a first world problem of the highest order.
Here’s the deal, though. Last week I’d watched My Policeman – more on that in another blog – and had seen Don’t Worry Darling available to stream on another recent scroll through my entertainment options. In that moment, as the credits rolled, I was able to ask myself, “Self, do you want to watch both of Harry Styles’ current cinematic offerings in one night?”
I quickly responded – reflexively, even – in the negatory. I also dismissed switching to Disney+ to watch The Eternals as some sort of Harry Styles Plan B (he’s in the end credit scene).
Somehow, my addled brain ended up watching the first Kelvin Universe Star Trek movie to scratch the itch I was feeling. It’s Harry Styles adjacent since Chris Pine plays Captain Kirk in Star Trek but also co-stars with Styles in Don’t Worry Darling. As an extra Venn moment, the teaser at the beginning of the film – the moment that we later find out was the break from the standard Trek canon to Kelvin Universe – is Kirk’s birth. Kirk’s dad is played by none other than Chris Hemsworth, known for his role as Thor in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, of which The Eternals is a part.
Exhausting, right? And I didn’t even mention that Zoe Saldana plays Uhura in the Klein Star Trek films and Gamora in the MCU’s Guardians of the Galaxy movies. See? I pulled a punch for you in describing my insanity.
It took more effort and time to type that out than it dI’d to process and execute in real time. And I mention that because yesterday I finally got around to watching Booksmart.
Amazing movie. It did a fantastic job of presenting a story that should be relatable across multiple generations. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about.
As the credits rolled I found myself thinking, “Should I watch Don’t Worry Darling? Wait. Didn’t I just watch it a while back?” You see, Booksmart was Olivia Wilde’s directorial debut, Darling is her sophomore effort.
This is why I needed to B-reel the question. I couldn’t recall whether I’d watched Don’t Worry Darling recently and I also wasn’t sure I wanted to dedicate an afternoon/evening geeking out on one director. It’s neither star Trek nor Wars, so giving something multiple movies in a day elevates it.
So I cleaned light fixtures.
Ultimately, the media drama – not buzz, drama – surrounding Don’t Worry Darling made me decide to give it a watch. It was time to see the thing that created the opportunity for all this other stuff people were talking about to exist.
Couldn’t find it.
I was goading myself in an attempt to sharpen my focus or resolve to succeed because I knew I had seen it available recently. Did I need to rent it to play out my plan?
Nope. Wasn’t even available for rent on any of the streamers I have.
I popped over to IMDb to see where I could watch it. HBOMax. I don’t have that one, and I wondered if I’d seen it advertised to watch while watching House of the Dragon with the Silver Fox at his place. Didn’t seem likely, the last time we’d watched TV together was too far removed.
Maddeningly, I couldn’t find it.
Gave up, I did. Watched Star Trek: Into Darkness instead, I did.
And, no…it wasn’t because of the Uhura thing since the overlap didn’t exist. But since Benedict Cumberbacht plays Khan in this movie, it was enough to derail the fleeting impulse I had to pull up Disney+ and watch an Avengers et al movie – because Xtopher definitely does not watch one Marvel movie, it’s “Sayonara, rest of the week” if I start down that rabbit hole. So the MCU crossover double casting in Into Darkness satisfied the Marvel impulse while also finishing up the two best Kelvin Universe Trek films. Sorry, Star Trek: Beyond, you were…fine.
Interestingly enough, Beyond also dips into the MCU casting pool with Idris Elba as the bad guy. Crap. Guess now I have to watch it. It’s not like I have to get up early tomorrow, so…why not?
I guess this blog was tonight’s B-reel activity. How nice you got to experience that realization in real time right along with me.
atleastihaveafrigginglass 