Birthday: Love

Impressing myself with my own delusional contortions while writing about all the food I consumed over my birthday weekend yesterday, I mused that I wasn’t full from overeating.  No, rather, perhaps my heart was over full from all of the birthday love I had gotten.

Let me set aside the amount of food I consumed – it was all of the food – and tell you how that little bit of pithiness has managed to kick around my noggin for the last day.

Can one be so full of love that they feel physically satiated?

Well, there’s a thought dripping with derp.

The sincerity that I experienced over the last weekend has probably (definitely) always been there with my friends, I’m sure this birthday of mine was just such a focusing agent that the emotions are lingering.  Definitely more present, even 10 days later.

But it’s been coloring my life view lately, too.

Moms with their kids.

Hell, families.

Young couples.

Dogs.

Old couples absolutely take the cake, though.

Mmmm.  Cake.

Seeing old couples tottering through the airport together makes me smile.  Always.  Moreso this last week, though.

Feeling it, I am.

Strangely, I can’t even imagine or conceptualize the type of committment and discipline that’s required to nurture a decades long relationship.

Check that.  I can conceptualize it, actually, it’s the life long partner that’s difficult to imagine.

You have to forgive me, though.  For 10 of my 30 years of adult dating life, I’ve been not dating.  That’s a measly one-third success ratio.  That may suffice for a pro baseball player (I dunno, does it?!?) but in relationship terms, that seems to lack any certain luster.

Especially when spread over two relationships versus one.

Fail.

Yet

I did end my last relationship with the forethought that I may have been ending what was – and has certainly proven to be this far – my last chance at a relationship.  That wasn’t reason enough to try and hold on to something that wasn’t mine, though.

And I think we’re both better for it.  The last thing – in retrospect – that I wanted to do was hang on until Rib woke up one day and asked himself how the hell he ended up with an old boyfriend.

Oldie Hawn, he would call me…and I kid you not when I say I loved it.

But me dying alone or not, at Myrtle’s whim or not, is not the issue that’s been on my mind.

Right, Myrtle?

For once.

Rather, it’s been…surreally, can one be so fulfilled with the experience of loving another that it sustains them through their lifetime?

Whoa.

Now, there’s a derp-full thought.

Tangentially, can one be sustained by less intimate love?  Without asking the question directly, I assume that’s what the cool septua and octa genarians are rocking these days…although Grace & Frankie would have me doubting that assumption.

Personally speaking?  I’d say maybe.  I knew Rib might be my last shot and I did what I thought right for us both.  Since then, I think I’ve followed my Orangatan spirit animal – which is often misconstrued as grumpiness – and just not tolerated foolishness in dating.

I’m starting a movement, too…there’s a legacy.

Sure, I’ve been hoodwinked a couple times. Mostly cuz I’m dumb.  And slightly weak.  I blame my penis.

But I still have a ripcord that I pull when shit gets too bovine.

But I find comfort in the comfortable warmth and familiarity of my Chosen Family…when sincerity sustains more than postcoital pizza or Ben & Jerry’s, I think you’ve stumbled onto something.

It’s made me take a longer, more thoughtful look at young widows and widowers who never remarried.  What is it they know that the rest of us haven’t had the misfortune to figure out yet?

It’s definitely food for thought.

By the way, after all the food I ate last weekend?  Look at what “holiday” my traitorously supportive calendar told me fell on my birthday.

Birthday: Love

Gay-bonics

I’ve been sitting on this draft for about 18 months.  With the clock winding down on the applicability of the adjective “early” to my grumpy, old man shtick, I figure I better either throw this out there or abandon it forever.

I’m no quitter.

In addition to being a grumpy, old man, I’ve also been described as a Grammar Nazi.

Me.

With my ellipses abuse and run on sentences.

That’s just how stupid people can be.  Essentially, I believe it’s all good natured fun because I have such a defined reaction to people using words like “aks” and “Warshington”.  (Sorry, Mom).  Instead of  acknowledging that those aren’t words and – oh, I don’t know – attempting to use the correct pronunciation, I’m the Grammar Nazi.

Sidebar:  I went to diction classes after school when I was young because of a speech impediment.  My Rs came out as Ws.  

Pretty awful when I pronounced my own name as Cwis or Cwistofuh.

But my parents cared enough to make sure I didn’t go through life sounding unnecessarily stupid.  But yet I’m the Grammar Nazi.

Did I mention this class was run by nuns?  In the 70s?  There were motivational rulers involved.

So, yeah…my grumpiness came early.

But on those same lines, my subculture does some shit that really bugs me.  It’s the polar opposite of what my parents tried to spare me, I think.  My people are dumbing themselves down and calling it cool.

Not, it is.

I call this Gaybonics.

I’m not saying gays made each of these so-called words up.  But once the gays got hold of them, it was off to the races and suddenly you can’t get away from them.

Don’t get me wrong, in my day – no, wait, I can do better.  When I was young we gays weren’t exactly the paradigm of maturity.  We called each other “Mary” and “Queen”.  But we didn’t make up words to differentiate ourselves.

So let’s see what exercises in nails on a chalkboard that today’s gays are committing, shall we?

Qween.

I don’t know.  I really don’t.  It’s like they have to re-reappreopriate this word from the earlier generation of gays.  What next?  Need to reboot Stonewall?  I know, history is so dated.

Yaaaas.


I’m a complex creature.  I hate this word and love this meme.

The kid reminds me of my juvenile self.

I think that it’s funny, I use it in texts and comments as shorthand for my enthusiastic agreement for something.

It.

Should.

Never.

Be.

Spoken.

I overhear gays talking and instead of “uh huh” and “mm hmmm” as the lazy active listening cues that accompany head gestures, I hear varying degrees of this fucking word. 

So, my dinner date the other night was fine.

Yaaas.

But then at the end, the check came and we both just sat there.

Oh, gurl, uh-uh.

And I’m just thinking, like he invited me.

Yaaaas.  Right?

But he’s not treating, and I’m all…WTF?

Yaaaaas.

(It’s approaching orgasm intensity at this point)

So I reached for it and then he offers to split it!  And I’m all thinking, I could have taken myself out to dinner with a good book and not have to listen to your boring ass for an hour!  

Yaaaaaaaas, Qween.  Tell it!

So, we split it.

Well, at least you didn’t have to put out.

I didn’t have to.  But just cuz he’s stingy doesn’t mean I have to be.

Yaaaas, gurl.  You do you.

It’s like we’ve all become caricatures of drag queens versus having our own personalities.

Extra.

Over the top.  Too much.  Way to much.

Really?  From gays.

How do we say this about one another (I don’t) when we collectively embrace a coded – yet juvenile – language of our own?

Irony, we are all extra.  Why we must use it perjoratively against one another…well, it doesn’t boggle my mind, unfortunately.  It’s the old “tear another down to build yourself up” mentality.

Very mature.

Of course, most of the crap we make up has to do with sex.  We’re like OCD when it comes to labeling one another.  If only that tendency to label enabled us being organized enough to have our own shit actually together.

Some of these I actually think are cute or quirky in a fun way,  Others, not so much.  The ones I really don’t enjoy tend to be the ones that infantillize – is that a word? – sex.  My $.02, if you can’t say it like an adult, maybe don’t do it…you’ll only end up getting hurt or – more likely – hurting someone else.

(Mom, you might want to skip over this part…not sure of the depth of detail yet, fair warning)

Zaddy.

I hear this word and cringe.  

Outwardly.

Gays didn’t create nor did they sexualize Daddy, and I’m not crazy about it.  But Zaddy is gaybonic for someone with all the characteristics of a Daddy, minus the age.

Ok, first of all, having a Daddy boyfriend – regardless of the gay/straight filter – connotes you need to be taken care of, most likely financially.  As a man of a certain age, I think that should be a temporary situation and that the younger person in this scenario should be working toward becoming a fully functional member of society who happens to have an older boyfriend.

Let’s call that Why I’m Single #44.

So this Zaddy person is likely a peer.  Getting this straight, your shit isn’t together enough to the point you need the guidance of a sexual parent.  It is not at all hard to believe you’ll give someone from your peer group responsibility for your well-being.

When I cringe at this word, I also mentally make a note to never accept this person’s judgment as reasonable.

Boi.

Someone who usually needs a Daddy but settles for a Zaddy.  Someone who will probably still be looking for a Daddy when he’s my age.

When I was young, we called bois “twinks”.  The worst thing that could happen to a twink was to still be a twink at 29.  

God forbid.

Nevertheless, we handled these situations with the correct verbal and public pergatory…by calling them twunks or twonks.  These two words are basically an onomatopoeia for an expired twink.

While we are kinda on the topic of baby talking sex – ok, we were a paragraph or two ago, just go with it – there’s a lot of probably misogynistic in origin words for female body parts.  Gays have collectively embraced terms like “man pussy” and “mangina” in reference to their ass.  

This is not hot.

No, Paris.  It’s nawt.

Someone please explain to me how two gay men referring to a mangina is sexy sex talk?  It’s kind of not sexy to bring up a bastardized version of the opposite sex’s sexual organ in any manner during a homosexual sexual encounter, isn’t it?

Am I somehow out of touch with hot bedroom talk?

I have a hard time envisioning lesbians talking about their “lady boners” in any sexualized manner.

These words make us frivolous…and there’s a time and a place for that talk.  I just don’t like it to be the bedroom.  Let’s play like adults, boys.

Cake.

As much as I bemoan the existence and usage of these words…I don’t loathe them all.  Some of them I even find cute.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I find cake cute…but when I hear it, I don’t die a little more inside.  My self-analysis is that I give it a pass because it refers to something I envy:  namely, a shapely butt.

Now, when I was young…we called this shapely bum a bubble butt.  Descriptive, but not codifying the subject.  Now, heaven forbid anyone talk about an erogenous part of the body like an adult, so we have cake. 

It does make openly discussing analingus a little less daunting, but it’s my birthday weekend and I’m going to be old…so help me god, if I get confused about the concept of birthday cake and end up in bed with baked goods – well, I mean, that doesn’t actually sound too bad.

THOT

This is gay-speak for That Hottie Over There.  Hearing two people use this word in a gay bar is disorienting.  A couple of years ago, I heard it so many times over the course of one beer that I momentarily thought I’d wandered into a smart gay bar.

Alas.

Now when I hear it, I kind of want to chat the subject up just to show these all talk kids how the art of conversation works.

Thirsty.

And…we’re back to perjorative language.

Maybe I could just not be so grumpy.

Possibly.

Maybe others could just not be such judgy bitches.

It’s truly a toss up.

Not sure it’s easier for me to be less grumpy or to change all of gay culture.

So, this translates to desperate in normal American vernacular.  I’m not saying it’s not a part of reality, some people are desperate.  

At least they know what they want.

My favorite occurrence of this is when I see someone use it in the same conversation that they personally reference a THOT.

So rewarding.

Thicc.

Some of the words gays make up and use at one another are mean.  Just mean.  Thicc is a standout compliment is the made up gay vernacular.

When someone has a solid core, six pack abs, defined obliques – crassly referred to as cum gutters – and the like versus a wasp-like 28″ twink waist, they are thicc.  Ditto tree trunk like thighs.  Thicc.

Nice to know we can be nice to each other on occasion.

But, in true bitchy qween style, we’ve misspelled it to drive home the point that anyone that spends that much time on their physique has a box of rocks between their ears.  It’s my supposition, at any rate.  I was, after all, just a bitchy qwueen.  

In less than a day, though, I’ll be a legit grumpy old man.  Since the 80s and 90s wiped out the better part of a couple generations of potentially old gays – and since gays over 40 are pretty much invisible anyway – we haven’t gotten around to creating a gaybonics word to describe what I’ll be tomorrow.

Wait until the world gets a dose of me.  

Muahahaha.

Gay-bonics

Cuba

So…here I am, abandoned by the Silver Fox.

Again.  

This time on a month-long adventure to Spain with Sallory.

Me, with no one to drink wine with but Mistress Myrtle the Mean.  All that’s left for me in life is sharing my gift of Oregon-bred passive-aggressiveness.

Er…I mean, write.  Nothing to do but write.

I figure there’s no better time to flesh out this placeholder draft that is earmarked as a guest post for him to share their Cuba adventure from last January.  Yeah, the one he went on instead of sitting around with me, doing nothing on my birthday.

Who’d want to miss that opportunity?

Anyway, as it turns out, not only is Cuba a cool place to visit, but in the near-year that The Fox has been procrastinating (just kidding, he’s not doing it…I just never deleted the post) this, our be-loathed President has undone the work Obama did to open Cuba up to American tourism after a half century of it being a big no-fly zone for vacationing Americans.  So once again, only Americans traveling under certain strict guidelines – like as part of a cultural tour – can travel to this lost in time country.

It’s amazing what changes a year can bring.

Anyway, I can tell you, from the stories I heard, this little island nation could turn American sensibilities – ie: capitalism – on its ear.

Sure, the beaches are amazing in a non-resort-y type way.

Yeah, the cultural arts are untapped treasures.

The architecture is beautiful, albeit in an increasingly decrepit way.

And the people!

The Fox couldn’t talk enough about them.  

There’s the hybrid of tourists from every other nation in the world – well, Canada and Europe, anyway – since we are the only holdout with a travel embargo.  

Again

All the way to the juxtaposed relative poverty of doctors and lawyers by comparison to the prestige and wealth those vocations have in our culture.  Many of the cab and bus drivers they he and Sallory encountered were actually moonlighting doctors, which came in particularly handy in the case of the tour bus driver/doctor who was able to render some first aid on a tour he was driving for…wait, now I’m confused about whether that happened on their tour or one of my other friends’ trips.

Nobody ever takes me anywhere nice.  Hehe.

I am sure, though, that it was The Fox that told me about the lawyer moonlighting as an ambulance driver.  

Lawyers…in Cuba, they drive ambulances; in America, they chase them.  

Hashtag: irony.

Then there’s the residents.  In every story I heard, I was impressed with how unaffected they were by the tourist trade aspect of their economy.  Well, mostly unaffected.  I heard countless stories of restaurants where travelers were treated like family, with an unfakeably sincere hospitality.  Or how knowledgeable the tour guides were on history and how easily they shared the culture of the people.  You can’t put a price on that passion.

But for each of those stories, there was a less subtle eschewing of the tourist trade.  Like the men who “entertained” – without judgment – travelers for cash.  Again, though, being a genuine population, they were known to share their life stories with their guests…telling their male and female clients equally about their families – including their children.  Can you imagine the sensibility and life circumstance that affords you the opportunity to turn tricks to provide for your kids and family without simultaneously being anything other than genuinely grateful for the financial resource?

I don’t even know how I feel about that, and I’m from liberal Oregon!

A little less conflicting is the story of the 90 year old woman, sitting in her doorway and smoking a Cuban cigar like she had no fucks to give…and charging tourists for the privilege of a photo op with her.

That’s a slightly less dire example of how this somewhat upside down culture was embracing capitalism.

And then there’s the cars.

We all know the island is basically a classic car museum…but why not take it one step further and let Disney turn it into an amusement park?

I mean, seriously, by all accounts, the infrastructure there is severely lacking.  From buildings on the verge of collapse to an airport that can barely handle three planes at a time.

Think about it.

Flotilla rides.

A Haunted Soviet Mansion tour.

The Bay Of Pigs Mystery Dinner Theater.

Tobacco Picking and Craft Cigar Workshop.

The people are definitely accustomed to the hospitality trade, all we gotta do is teach them to run rides and we’re set.

I’m sure we could ruin that island in no time…maybe our Bigot-in-Chief did them an inadvertent favor by shutting the island off to us again.

Oh well, I can always use a good excuse for a quick trip to Vancouver, BC…gotta get done of them Cuban cigars!

Cuba

JLD Has Breast Cancer 

It’s one of those moments where you’re so stunned by bad news that you momentarily forget that this isn’t someone you actually know.

In yet another week of our ongoing mind boggling existence in America under the 45 regime, I find myself observing people around me registering even more shock at celebrity tragedy.

The Hef dies at 91.

The Pratt/Faris divorce devolves.  (Maybe)

Julia Louis Dreyfus has breast cancer.In a simple, yet poignant note on the Instagram, she both announces her diagnosis, expresses gratitude and issues a call to arms on healthcare.

Pretty heroic.

Of course, the nation reacts with stunned awe, commence pre-grieving mode.  That said, I’m usually conflicted at the amount of emotional devastation people can summon for celebrities they’ve never met.  On the one hand, I’m happy to see that we haven’t lost our sense of empathy.  However, I’m also curious about where that empathy is when something bad happens closer to home with them.

Rarely do I see someone so utterly destroyed at the loss of a parent, as was the case with Hef recently and Debbie Reynolds late last year.  Empirically, I know that the shock at the loss of a parent is different, since children are usually present for their decline.  Things aren’t left unsaid, hopefully.

Not so with a celebrity death.  It’s pretty much all shock, all of the time since we are exactly not in their everyday lives.  I expect that’s where a lot of the (over)reaction comes from.

Still, I can’t help but wonder whether we wouldn’t be better off as a people if we couldn’t find a medium to our empathy.

Perhaps our parents would be better cherished at the end of their lives instead of brought out, dusted off and propped at the head of a table for holidays and birthdays.

Or maybe we’d just have much fatter homeless people.

Hard to say.

And let’s not even talk about the death of a pet.

Yup, celebrity and pet deaths…that’s pretty much the apex of our emotions inAmerica these days.  

I’m gonna find a challenge for myself to be better about that…stay tuned.

JLD Has Breast Cancer 

Derp Thoughts

Sometimes I try to share thoughts that get stuck kicking around in my head.  I call these little thought exercises Deep Thoughts, but I’m hardly a Stuart Smalley.  I know it’s not normal that I spend so much time thinking about how to fix society’s perceived problems.

I’m sure some people read them and actually wonder how I get through the day without putting a bucket on my head and running head first into a wall.  Truth be told, just typing those thoughts out really clears my head and allows me to not walk through the North Park Blocks here in PDX screaming at people to get off of my lawn.

It worked!

You know, the sad fact is that I used to process these frustrations I observe in our less and less polite society while running.  There’s something about the ballistic impact of running that just damn near shakes frustrations out of my head.  Alas.  Weak bones had to go and ruin that.

So, now WordPress has become the outlet for processing those questionably Deep Thoughts of mine.

I hear people prefer to read more the comedic tragedies of my existence versus my self proclaimed Deep Thoughts.  People like the funny stuff, I can dig it.

For that, there’s those little curiosities of mine that are probably better as status updates on The Facebook, what some collectively call Shower Thoughts.

Y’know, like does anyone use shampoo and conditioner at the same rate?  I doubt it…so then why aren’t conditioner bottles smaller?

Or as I like to call them:  Derp Thoughts.

Things that aren’t worthy of the deep dive exploration that an entire blog entry would give them.

I might be able to call to mind a couple for instances:

Are all dogs with average length legs really just the result of Great Danes cross breeding with Daschunds and Corgis?  Maybe a Creationist can explain it to me.  Regardless, other than personal preference, is there a cultural or evolutionary benefit to those “original” breeds still existing?

I sat alone in a coffee shop a while back, The Silver Fox was gallivanting around Cuba so I was left to my own devices.  I put some seriously derp effort into how hazelnut syrup is made, Iced Hazelnut Latte was the drink du jour in case you were curious.  This versus caramel and butterscotch, which I know how to make:  sugar, butter, milk and heat, you get caramel.  Some people think it’s brown sugar, butter, milk and heat…but in my mind, I remember that producing butterscotch not caramel.  But what do I know, after all, I’m wondering how to make hazelnut syrup and realizing those caramel and butterscotch recipes are actually friggin’ sauces.  Maybe it’s best that I usually have The Fox looking out for me until I’m properly caffeinated.

While we’re on the topic – which is a rare moment of consistency for me – why doesn’t the whole car-MEL/CARE-a-mel pronunciation issue get the same respect as the toe-MAY-toe/toe-MAH-toe issue?

Who was the first guy to say “Pull my finger!”?  Seriously, there’s no doubt is was a guy, right?  Uncle or Frat Boy.  You decide.

Look at how big Brazil is compared to the entirety of South America.  Seriously, it’s huge.  I’ll find out while I search for a visual aid.

Wow.  Look at that…it’s half the continent, y’know, like how Manhattan is half the size of Donald Trump’s ego.

Brazil is approximately 3.3 million square miles while all of South America is just under 6.8 million square miles.  Same holds true for population, though, Brazil has 191 million of the 385 million South Americans living within its borders.  I’ll never remember those statistics, I have more trivial trivia to clog my neural pathways with.  Plus, me remembering those facts could only result in a meteor devastating Brazil, rendering my knowledge moot.

Anyway, I reckon it’s fairly relative.  But still…why is it so big?  All those much smaller countries each get a president and Brazil – huge Brazil – has a president that has to do so much more work, comparatively.  It’s not fair.

I have a candle that I bought at Restoration Hardware back in 2005-ish.  Those jerks used a paper wick instead of the higher quality paper and zinc wicks, so it pretty much snuffed itself out within the first hour I had it lit.

Helpful tip:  in addition to trimming your wick to 1/4″ before burning, let it burn for at least two hours the first time you light it.  That will prevent the above mentioned tragedy from happening regardless of wick quality.  This tip excludes tea lights, which only burn for three hours, any way.  Tops.

One day, I’ll forget how to tie my shoes because that information is clogging up my system.

Of course, I thought I would return that crappy candle.  I was sick of candles that didn’t burn right because of paper wicks.  I was also tired of digging around said cheap wicks to try and solve the problem.  Yeah, I’ve been E.O.G. since before anyone knew it was actually a funny affliction.  So, returns-ville for this so-called-candle.

Then I remembered that I worked in retail and hated people returning things.  Exchanges, fine…but I didn’t plan on replacing one shit candle with another.

So I kept it.  But me being stubborn and grumpy, I never allowed myself to dig out the wick, either.  Yeah, it’s really something living inside my particular crazy.

And, yeah…I do still have that candle.  It’s an objet d’art now that I have displayed with my Pope-blessed rosaries from the Vatican.  Just to really be a crazy person, I’ve moved this defective candle three times in 11 years.

Maybe that’s not really a derp-worthy thought.

Then there’s the whole hot dog to bun packaging ratio.  We’ve all heard this observation before.  For the longest time, you got 10 hot dogs in a package and only 8 buns in a package.  Humans, being so forward-focused and results oriented obviously fixed that, right?  Just get the carb people to sit down with the scrap-protein people and let’s talk this out.  The simple solution is to have the carb people put 10 buns in a package and charge 30% more.  Retail math.  You can even make each bun less bun-ny, to ostensibly let the eater taste the dog and you aren’t using any more ingredients – thereby increasing your cost – or increasing the footprint of your package.  Happy consumer and you’re suddenly making 30% more revenue.  Win-fucking-win!

Nah.

Instead of doing that, some renegades decided to fix the scrap-protein issue and make nitrate free, high quality meat dogs.  How does that fix anything?  Aside from affording us the opportunity to not eat refuse.

It doesn’t, god-damned hipsters.

But, the folks who made these quality comfort food options were looking at $12 packages of 10 dogs.  Realizing that people creating the demand for these better options were very likely also those retired youth of Oregon’s hipster generation – see also: broke ass whiny bitches – they decided to package their dogs in 5-packs and charged a more palatable $7.  See how that retail math works?

How did this help?

Well, it didn’t, obviously.  But it sure drew the fire from the initial frustration.  And, no.  They don’t taste the same as Ball Park Franks when you cut them up and put them into a pot of Mac & Cheese.  It’s just not the same.

img_1514What’s Myrtle thinking?

Seriously.  Creepy, right?  Please, lurk in doorways.  My grandmother – who’s middle name is the part-inspiration for Myrtle – would certainly not put up with those manners.  Nosiree.

Personally, I think she’s plotting to kill me and eat my face.

For reals.

Those who believe in nature versus nurture, here’s a little Derp Thought homework.

A)  There’s a comic called How to Tell If Your Cat is Plotting to Kill You.

B)  Myrtle likes to shred cardboard boxes and paper bags.  It’s all normal kitty cuteness when you put either down for her to play with.  Or don’t.  She’s not bashful about getting on the counter and climbing into a bag with the groceries still in it.  That pizza box?  Sits right on it if I turn my back.  I wanted the toppings stuck to the lid anyway, so she’s doing me a solid.  Magazines?  She’s like Iron Mountain.  But…leave those seemingly innocuous kitty playthings out overnight and you’re gonna wake up to the sound of her completely destroying them.  She bites into cardboard and rips chunks out with her teeth.  Then rips those chunks into smaller pieces.

Ergo, she’s a psychopath.

However!  Let’s consider for a moment that her shredding tendencies are an inherited trait.

And that her mother’s owner had the book.

Now take another look at that face she makes at me and ask if there’s a plausible argument for nurture in her psychotic behavior.  Regardless, I should not let her sleep with me…

Heck, psychosis aside why is my cat such a basic all-around weirdo?

While we’re on the topic of weird animals, any of you Creationists still reading?  I don’t see any lips moving, so perhaps not.  Well, there goes any hope of getting an explanation for animals whose kneecaps and legs work backward.  Seriously…flamingos.  Anyone?

Since Creationists have had to take a little hit or two earlier, let’s spread the love and balance out the special mathletes in the group.

Who really hasn’t acknowledged that yes, they do actually need to know the algebra that they swore they would never use back when they were learning it in high school?

Or college.

Whatever, no judgments.

Speaking of which, I just opened a bottle of wine.  Don’t judge me for Hemingway-ing, I’m not judging your algebra skills.

Anyway.  Algebra…I use that shit every day.

For instance:

Q:  If I have 39 bottles of wine, how long will my supply last if I have a date over for dinner on Friday nights and we drink two bottles of wine each Friday?

A:  Trick question.  I’m not wasting two $30 bottles of wine on the dudes I date.

Anyway, I think people who think they don’t use algebra just don’t even know that they use it even when they are having their phone do the math for them.  If you can ask the phone a question, that’s basic algebra.  You can’t even ask your phone-slash-calculator to do the math for you if you don’t know what X you need to solve for.

If you can’t even ask the question, then that’s another problem altogether.  So is the English at the end of the last paragraph.

So, yeah…I used to run to bounce the serious frustrations and thoughts around my head and eventually out onto the pavement where they couldn’t frustrate me any more.  Now I type them out into the blogosphere where I never have to see them again.

The crap I just exposed you to?  My Derp Thoughts?  Yeah, it’s probably safer to save those thoughts up and then try to discuss them at a Slipknot concert so that no normal people end up getting hurt by banging their head against the wall when they hear them.

At least, not without a bucket on their head.

Also, why does Slipknot have “concerts” anyway?  I’ve heard what they do…it’s not music.

Mic-Derp.

Derp Thoughts

It’s Been 7 Hours and 15 Days…

…since he took their lives away.

I was texting with The Silver Fox when it happened.  We were removed from the tragedy by 3000 miles and three time zones, but here we were texting as dawn broke in Portland, Oregon.

It turns out neither of us could sleep.  Situational for him, hardly surprising for me.

I had gotten home from work a few hours earlier.

Hung out and detoxed for a bit.

Couple beers.

A few episodes of 30Rock.

Quite a life I’ve carved out for myself:  all Netflix, no chill.

That’s not completely true…I do ok.

Anyway, I texted the Fox preemptively, knowing his doggy daddy routine had him up an hour later.  I was giving him a hard time about not texting me too early, since it was 5:00 am and I was just turning in.  Normally, he waits until 8 to text regarding our coffee plans.  Sometimes I’ll restrict him til 9…this was looking like at least a 10.

Occasionally, I’ll watch the final minutes run out and await his morning salutation.  Other times, I’ll text him at 7:57.

Because I can.

Also, I’m a dick.

With a friend as good and true as the Fox – and many others like him – I realize that I do have quite a life.

Much as I like to downplay that awesome reality.

To my surprise, he replied almost immediately.  Apparently, he couldn’t sleep. Continue reading “It’s Been 7 Hours and 15 Days…”

It’s Been 7 Hours and 15 Days…