balding angrily

This actually happened to Jerry, but he gave me permission to use it as my own story. I’ve tried and tried to get him to write something for the blog, but he won’t. When I suggested that he make this his first entry, he said he thought it was too insignificant. He wants more of a grand entrance for his first post. File this under, “Don’t you hate it when…”

I got on the elevator yesterday with a very hot man. He was more hipster-hot than everyday hot, the kind of hot which you acknowledge but makes you feel guilty for being shallow. He had a pair of Gucci sunglasses on a fake-n-bake tanned face…with perfectly faded jeans split at the cuffs over his leather flip-flops, hugging his narrow hips and ass. He wore a thin t-shirt that stretched over his muscles.

Wait-wait-wait. Sometimes I forget I’m not writing erotic fiction.

I hit my floor button, and he hit his, which was two floors above mine. He picked up a call on his cell. I looked him over…and gave him a casual nod, a wink, and a smirk to show my availability. I rubbed by forearm and hand stuffed casually in my pocket bringing attention to my loins burning with a white-hot heat. My lips quivered, and I licked them to cool them down…

Sorry again.

There’s enough room in our elevators for four people comfortably, six people uncomfortably, and eight if everyone is model-skinny and freshly shower-to-showered. While I cowered in the corner he paced inside the elevator, yelling at whoever was on the other end of his call, taking up the space of the other six hypothetical, model-skinny people. I almost put my fingers in my ears and rolled my eyes at him. Why are the ones who aren’t being assholes in this kind of situation the ones to sacrifice their comfort in order to not come off as douche-like?

We got to my floor, the dinger dinged, and I got off. I jumped off. I got the hell off the elevator away from Hot Asshole. (What ever happened to The Hot Assholes? Has anyone seen them come up on an 80s reunion tour in their city? The last time I saw them they toured with The Itchy Nipples.) Hot Asshole was so involved in his ranting that he, thinking he was on his floor, followed behind me on my way to my apartment, which is a hike from the elevator. We dread having to go to the elevator bank because of the distance involved. I listened to Hot Asshole until I got to my door. As I put the key in my lock I turned around and saw him pause in his ranting, lift his hands in the air in the classic “Why me, God?” expression of exasperation, and turn around to walk back to the elevators.

I chuckled.

Then I thought about him getting in the elevator, taking his shirt off, sweaty from the long walk, revealing a broad chiseled pair of pecs, sheathed in tight skin, accentuated by a sprinkling of short hairs running down the center and disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. I saw him arch his neck and look up as the ceiling of the elevator dissolved to a slow-motion mist of neon rain, while he pulled back his arms popping his triceps to attention, gnarled fingers entwined, hips thrust forward, water dripping down the ridge between his abs, following his pleasure-trail under his jeans.

• Commenting with Safari - My friend and her S.O. have been trying to help me with my problem with Safari, but to completely fix it would require a total re-install of Wordpress, the thought of which makes my hair follicles hurt. Yesterday, when testing commenting with Safari, I got a new error message instead of the normal “You can’t do that. Bad person.” This new error message said that if you’re in Safari, you must change your security setting to allow all cookies. It also told me the problem is with CoComment. I did that, emptied my cache, shut down Safari, restarted Safari, and I could comment. Until I can look into it further, I suggest you do that. I’m sorry my programming idiocy prevents me from being a better host.
• Password difficulties - Again, I have no idea why except that computers have minds of their own, but in the last couple of days regular commenters have had to change their password in order to log-in. I swear to Diana Krall that I haven’t done anything to cause this. And if I did by accident, write Diana and ask for your money back.
• Moderating - You may have noticed that you can now comment, if you’re a second-time commenter, without my moderating. My spam filter is working really well, so I’m not the gate-keeper any more. Also, ignore the “commenting guidelines” that say you can’t use bad words or flame me. I always appreciate a good flame and a well-placed cuss word. If your comment gets too flame-y, I’ll simply delete it and delete you. That’s just how I roll.

- Update -

• Internet Explorer - As Jen-An just pointed out in the comments, for Internet Explorer users the “Submit” button is mostly hidden by the comment box.  You can still submit if you hit that sliver that you can barely see just right.  Oh, Diana Krall, why must you smite me this way?  I just want write some stupid things on the intertubes, get some larfs, and you cross me at every turn.  Crump or Mr. Crump, if you have any idea why this is so or why CoComment is such a pain in the ass, maybe you can let me know.

As you know, Jen-An and Owen came over last night for the Oscars. Unfortunately, no hijinks ensued, but I got pretty twisted by the end of the night. When we were going to bed, Jerry said, “It seems like you didn’t have a good time.” I never understood how straight guys could get so emotionally attached to football games such that when their team loses, they are in a bad mood for the rest of the day. That’s what happened to me.

As usual, I passed out Oscar ballots, and everybody filled out the ballots before the show started. I chose with my gut. I chose for upsets. I picked Ryan Gosling, Djimon Hounsou, Penélope Cruz, and Adriana Barraza over what I found out later were the favorites going into the awards. They honestly turned in my favorite performances of the year. Well, the favorites of those nominated. And honestly, Little Miss Sunshine as best original screenplay? That’s just a slap in the face to the writers of National Lampoon’s Vacation, seeing as how they wrote the same movie twenty years ago.

Other moments of Alex hanging his head:

• West Bank Story for Best Live Action Short - Jerry and I watched all the live action shorts, and this is the only one that was a true groaner. From the opening West Site Story snaps to its end, I was in misery. I was aghast that this heap of warm compost was chosen by the Academy to represent the best of the short subject. And the acceptance speech wherein the fella that produced said steaming heap shows hopes for peace in the Middle East? What part of the short that I watched gave evidence? The part where the Palestinians are represented wearing kabobs on their heads? The part where the guy dresses as a giant menorrah? The part where the Palestian does that leleleleleleh thing and shoots off an automatic weapon? (Actually, I laughed at that part.) Please tell me, Mr. Winner, you wrote this piece to make people come up with solutions for the Middle East crisis. Please ask me to take you seriously now.
• An Inconvenient Truth winning for Best Documentary Feature - As most people know, I’m a huge supporter of green causes, but this, to me, seemed like another example of Hollywood patting themselves on the back for being good. If you were going to judge each documentary on which subject is the most serious - and please, we all know that’s how the documentaries are judged - Deliver Us From Evil is, by far, the more important subject. If the Academy was seriously interested in green causes, instead of giving an award to Al Gore and Melissa Etheridge for that shit song, a portion of the proceeds from last night’s broadcast would have gone to a group lobbying D.C. to pass stricter air admissions standards or a heavy tax on Hummer owners. I honestly want all Hummer owners to be round up and shot.
• Happy Feet winning for Best Animated Feature - What the shit? Okay, I’ve never seen it, and I hear it’s good, but come on, everyone knows that Pixar ALWAYS wins this award as well they should. Plus this win started off the whole Hollywood-is-Green-Look-How-Green-We-Are-Wee-For-Green! Circle Jerk. I guess I’m not done with this subject. I’m scared about this whole emphasis on green because when Hollywood hops on the bandwagon, we can be assured it’s just a fad. What was that shit about last night’s Academy Awards being the first green telecast? As Ellen (who did a great job, by the way) stands under one billion watt light bulbs? Um-kay.

So, yeah. I guess I understand the plight of the straight man whose team loses on Super Bowl Sunday. Jen-An won our pool last night. I, who saw the most movies last year of all the people in our group of four, came in dead last. But I’m not bitter. Not at all. This deathly un-funny post is definitely not the result of being trampled.

“Don’t blame me because you have a penis.” - A deranged but very well dressed woman walking behind Jerry and me said this to us as we were walking to Sunday brunch.

The Anna Nicole Show (E! Entertainment) A continuation of the successful reality show during her living years, the new season will focus on Anna Nicole, her many possible baby-daddies, and her dead son. Producers will keep Anna Nicole’s body from being buried, and they will dig up her son, propping their bodies up in lawn chairs, putting colorful scarves on them, posing them in positions to suggest that they are drinking Mai Tais, having them wave at passing cars through a complicated series of pulleys and ropes, and write letters to troops serving in Afghanistan and Iraq. Throughout the series, producers will talk directly to the camera and tell viewers what they think Anna Nicole and her son would be talking about if they were really alive.

Oh wait. I’m sorry. Looks like I’m too late. Looks like every single available news outlet in the entire western hemisphere already did this.

Yesterday, I profiled Jen-An. Today I profile Owen Wilson, Jen-An’s partner for life. Don’t call him a husband; he hates that.

Owen is:

• Dry - Mojave Desert dry. His biological mother comes up in a conversation, and he says, “I’m glad she’s dead. I hated her.” The first time I heard this I stopped and stared at him, and then looked to Jen-An. His mouth was as serious as a heart attack, his thin lips not even coming close to cracking a smile. Now I realize he’s being his version of wacky and chuckle along. His dryness would make the ashes of corpses left over after the Apocalypse seem like face cream.
• Ready for an Adventure - He likes 7-11.

Owen: Hey-hey. Wake up.
Jen-An (blinking): What time is it?
Owen: Three o’clock.
Jen-An: What the…? Jesus. What do you want?
Owen: Do you want to go to 7-11?
Jen-An: It’s three o’clock in the morning.
Owen: I want some coffee. Do you want to get some coffee?
Jen-An: I hate you.
Owen: How ’bout a sandwich?

• On the Vain Side - I’ve seen vainer, but not in a straight man. I take that back. I’ve seen vainer in many straight men, but they’re icky LA types or closeted gays. He gets his hair tipped. On the other hand, he refuses to wear anything other than jeans and hates dressing up. And I know that’s not a “look” for him. He feels better in jeans and flip-flops. He’s my hero when it comes to dress because when going out with them, I can arrange with him to dress down in opposition to Jen-An’s wishes. I think I spent the entire Vancouver trip in flip-flops thanks to him. So, I take it back; he’s not vain. But the hair thing? That’s a little gay.
• Asperger-y - Jerry and I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and we realized that I’ve got a touch of the Asperger’s. I have a hard time not taking someone literally. I get overly focused on one thing like video games. I have problems in social situations because some unspoken rules that they don’t teach you in school trip me up. We told Jen-An and Owen about this, and Jen-An pointed to Owen, “I live with that.”
• Swarthy-voiced - That doesn’t make any sense when you look up swarthy. I know; I did. But it’s hard to describe his voice. It’s kind of a comforting, scratchy, higher-pitched Fred MacMurray. His voice makes you want to climb in his lap and have him read you a bed-time story or sing you a lullaby. I know; I did.
• Protective of Their Pups - We were with Jen-An and Owen at some event or another, and their dogs came up in conversation. They have two pups, both on the large side, but one is smaller and runty-er. She’s a mix-breed, and I think must have a little bit of Boxer in her because she’s got that flat face. I’m totally talking out of my ass because I have no idea what they are, but I know they’re big, and the smaller is less purebred. They were talking about how cute this smaller one is - let’s call her Eggroll - and I said, to be a contrarian, “Eggroll’s ugly. You know she wishes she looked like the other one.” Jen-An and Owen both acted aghast, and we moved on. Two nights later Jerry and I went to their place for dinner, and instead of buzzing us in like normal, Owen met us at the door and said he had a surprise for me. He led us to the garage where he had set up a card table with a single place-setting of paper plates, plastic cutlery, a framed picture of Eggroll, and place tag with my name on it. For the rest of the night I felt like a heel, and I will never insult Eggroll ever again. She’s a very sweet, pretty, flat-faced pup.
• Talented - He wrote Jen-An a touching and delightfully specific song for their wedding, recorded it, and produced it. He recorded and wrote it when Jen-An was out to keep it a surprise, leading to instances when he told her to stay away for specious reasons.

Owen: Don’t come in!
Jen-An: Why?
Owen: I’m naked!
Jen-An: I’m coming in.
Owen: But you’re not naked! It’d be weird!
Jen-An: …
Owen: And I’m with the dogs!
Jen-An: …
Owen: Go away!

I admit that was an excuse for me to imagine him naked. But it might’ve happened. Maybe. Plus, isn’t naked the funnest word to say?

Jennifer Aniston (or Jen-An) and Owen Wilson are aliases I’ll use for a couple of our friends. They’re married and disgustingly beautiful together. Funny story: Owen was at a party one time with Real Owen’s dad. No, not funny in an ow-my-sides-hurt way, but funny in a whoulda-thunkit kinda way.

Ok, it’s not funny at all.

I thought I’d profile Jen-An today from a suggestion from No One Cares What You Had For Lunch

Jen-An is:

• Wee - The first time I went out with Jen-An, she sat next to our friend that passed away at the movies. Wait. Our dear friend passed away. We met at the movies. Two different things. Our friend - let’s call her Maude because her tall body was exceeded by her huge personality - sat next to Jen-An and dwarfed her. Jen-An looked like Edith Ann with her feet dangling above the sticky floor.
• Bubbly - She makes it a point to make me uncomfortable every time we say good-bye by smashing her healthy bosoms up against me to give me a sloppy goodnight kiss. She usually goes for the cheek, but sometimes she goes for lip-on-lip action. She told me one time that she does that because she thinks I’m too stiff and standoffish in hugging.
• Smiley - She’s got huge teeth. Big, white, blindingly large teeth. Her teeth are like two rows of whitewashed tombstones in her mouth. They’re huge. And she uses them a lot.
• Unflappable - I have tried many, many times to get her to call me a sicko, but she shrugs as if to say, “Meh.” For instance, I would say about a passing, bald, two-year-old in a stroller, “Aw. Look at the little leukemia baby. They really need to keep her at home. I’d like to, just once, have an enjoyable evening with friends without having to think about little cancer babies.” She would respond without missing a beat, “Eh. She’ll be dead soon anyway.”
• An Animated Story-Teller - And a great one. Her stories about her mom are priceless. I wish I never met her mom because the way Jen-An tells a story her mom is a ditz when in real life she’s very sweet. Jen-An uses her hands in screaming-baby-mode a lot when telling a story. Screaming-baby-mode hands are sometimes called jazz hands. I call them screaming-baby-mode hands because if you’ve ever watched a screaming baby - And I have. Sometimes I’ll punch a baby just to get it to scream so I can observe it - its fingers are flexed out and back. Screaming-baby-mode hands are the opposite of white-knuckling-it-hands.
• Repetitive - We were walking through downtown Vancouver back to our hotel from dinner when a passer-by asked her, “Would you like to see me climb a tree or a pole?” An oddly specific question, yes. And delightfully random. That’s not an excuse to repeat the question twenty times from that moment to the hotel, which was six blocks away.
• Unaware of Her Surroundings - We went to an art auction. During the auction, she accidentally bid on an object because she was telling a story with her hands - animatedly. When the auctioneer helper shown the light-stick on her to indicate she was the high bidder, she ducked her head and furiously denied the bid, waving her screaming-baby-mode hands as if to fan him away from our table.

I may or may not profile Owen. I’m close enough with Jen-An that I can write about her and still fudge some details for comedic effect. I’m not sure Owen would appreciate a characature drawn of him. You can read a little about him and their wedding though.

I was doing some dicking around (har-har) on superdickery.com when I came across this. Most of the captures in the gallery I was looking at were instances of unintentional lapses of judgement on the part of the artist - pictures of Batman spanking Robin, pictures of Robin diving head-first into a crook’s behind, Robin’s face dripping with a white fluid. The picture below is obviously intentional, and I’m going to believe that it is a little present to Superman’s gay fans.

I’ve gone to a lot of comic book stores and asked about specifically gay characters, and the out and proud ones are usually kind of lame. (Yes, I’ve had to actually ask the comic book guy behind the counter. It’s very embarrassing, and Jerry can’t believe that I can do it, but I do, and I feel stronger for it.) It’s not like there’s a graceful way to shoehorn a gay story line into an action-based comic. If I were looking for more explicit images with men in superhero clothing, there’s plenty of that out on the web. And it’s usually lame. And horribly photoshopped. And the models are a dime-a-dozen. And what makes a superhero a SUPERHERO has been stripped from the images. Superheros, I think, as a matter of their nature, walk that strange line of being very sexual - wasp-y wastes, bulging muscles, chiseled features, revealing clothing - and being very wholesome - saving kitty-cats, waving to crowds, sparkling smiles, upholding values. That wholesomeness is what’s missing from those kinds of images, and that wholesomeness is what attracts me to superheros and Superman in particular.

But this kind of image is perfect. Sups is keeping it above the waist, but he’s also giving me a little poke - well, not so much a poke as a donkey-punch - to the campy quadrant of my cerebellum.

The Pool Story

They set up the buffet line on one end of the pool, and had patio tables spread out around the pool. My dorm was hosting a party for Parents Weekend for dormers, parents, and family. Dad, Mom, Younger Sister, and I got our food, and I led them to a table. (Older Sister will appear briefly in the next section. Be patient.) They asked me questions about dorm life, and I tried to give some kind of answer that wouldn’t give away that I was still drunk from the night before, or if not drunk, suffering from a hangover that made the barbeque taste like propane. Halfway to our table, Younger Sister asked where Mom went.

I answered that I just saw her “over there” pointing in a non-specific direction. To think about someone else’s location took brain away from dwelling on my current state, which was Wishing for Death with Parent Flavoring. Mom was looking up at us from the pool. We never heard a splash because there were so many echoes in the giant atrium. Her hair was plastered to her head, her mascara was running down her face, and her lipsticks, her potato salad, and her barbeque were floating around her like a mini-entourage, as if she was The Queen of The Underwater Land of Foodstuffs and Purse Contents. To hear her describe it after, she walked straight into the pool. She didn’t slip or misstep. She didn’t catch her heel on a cobblestone. No one pushed her. She just walked forward, her subconscious heeding the whispers of demons, telling her that the water would bear her aloft.

Last Saturday

We met Dad, Mom, Younger Sister, Older Sister, Cheeky Niece, and Too-Grown-Up Nephew for a classical concert of children that have no business being as good as they are. After, we went to Mi Cocina for an un-winder where we drank Mambo Taxis and ate fatty Mexican food. I think I’ve written about the joy of the Mambo Taxi and its ability to make the drinker horizontal…quickly and deliciously. Jerry probably has never seen my family as loose as we were. Usually we have little ones to tend to, but Older Sister, who wasn’t feeling well, took Cheeky Niece and Too-Grown-Up Nephew home.

Younger Sister, who loves tales of humiliation, brought up The Pool Story. We laughed…well, we did more than laugh…we belly-laughed; I hit the table with my open hand, Younger Sister cried with laughter, Dad got all toothy and red, and Jerry sat back and took it all in.

I said, “Before just now, I didn’t know we could laugh about that. I told Jerry this story a long time ago, but I told him never to bring it up.”

Mom said, “Well, really…what can you do? You have to laugh. I mean it was such a ridiculous situation. I just walked into the pool.”

Dad said to me, “That’s probably because immediately after it happened, I pulled you aside and told you, ‘This is serious. We won’t laugh at this.’”

Mom said something else, “Well Alex, you and I weren’t very close then. Remember? Now things are different.”

This is the part where I tell you Mom is, in cold technical terms, my stepmom and writing Mom instead of Stepmom was deliberate. At first I did it for convenience, but now I see it fits. Knowing that I can write this and share that kind of laughter with her…she deserves Mom. Earlier at the concert, she introduced Jerry and me to friends as “my son Alex and his partner Jerry.”

See. Sometimes, I can appreciate what I have now. I’m not ALWAYS all about what life was like when I was younger.

Coda

My biological mom exists, and I will always love her with all my heart, and she will be Mom also…which may make it hard for you, reader. How’s this? There’s Red-Haired Mom and Blonde Mom. Blonde Mom is married to Dad. Red-Haired Mom lives far away with White Beard. They live near Talky Sister and Harley Brother. There’s also Toothy Nephew and Baby Niece, but…you know, it took me this long to write about Dad and Blonde Mom…who knows if I’ll ever get to writing about all these other people?

I’m sorry if you’ve already seen this. I can’t imagine it not spreading through the gay blogosphere like wildfire. I’m sorry if you’re offended by it. I’m sorry that this exists, but I couldn’t stop laughing. You shouldn’t watch this at work, but you will do yourself a disservice if you don’t watch it.

I give you “What What (In the Butt)” by Samwell. This kid’s got potential. (via Queerty)

I can’t decide which is worse, the burning cross or the saliva string between his lips.