Boring is as Boring Does

Today is Friday, and the best thing about it is curry at Sumo. Sumo is a little Japanese restaurant near my office. They have Japanese curry every Friday, and it’s so good that I just want to die. I pop in there around 11:30, get my curry and Diet Coke, and settle down with the opinion section from the Seattle Times. It’s my little Friday lunch ritual, and I guard it jealously. No lunch dates, no chatting, no joiners, and no variation. It’s me, my Diet Coke, my paper, and my curry. Life is good.

I continue to follow Gannon-gate (the President’s gay prostitute scandal) religiously. The blogosphere is going crazy over it, but the mainstream media seems reluctant to report it. The articles I have read seem to imply that he’s being criticized because he’s conservative and gay. Which is ridiculous, so is Andrew Sullivan. Who cares? The issue, of course, is that he was working at a prostitute before and/or during the time he was let into the White House. Which shows incompetence in the screening process, or worse, some sort of collusion by the White House. What would be perfect, of course, would be to find out this guy got in because he was doing Karl Rove. Absent that little gift from the gods, I’d settle for a few solid, muckracking front page stories and an embarrassed press release from the administration. Unfortunately, hypocrisy and/or incompetence aren’t impeachable offenses, or Bush would be in real trouble.

I managed to get trashed twice this week. Monday night and Wednesday night both started with a drink after work, and quickly progressed to drunken stupidity and a fuzzy, stumbling walk home. James got mugged Tuesday night (in NYC, but in a pretty good area of town) and he wasn’t even very drunk. I can only imagine what could have happened to me. I’ve been lucky, but it’s yet another reminder to rein it in a bit. Of course, that would make the blog less interesting, but occasionally I consider it.

JPK seems to have risen from the dead, and started commenting on the blog. You can read his comments to the previous entry. I was hoping for détente, but he slammed my veracity right off the bat. I’ve got thick skin (oh, don’t you even say it, you bitches) so that doesn’t bother me, but it’s frustrating that he still hasn’t learned anything. I’d do well to take Matty’s example, and just pretend he’s dead. Reminds of the old saying (well, rhetorical question): Who’s the fool; the fool or the man who argues with him?

And finally, this is a really lame entry. I should write about Monday and Wednesday night, but just don’t feel like it. Between working all day and paying my bills over lunch, I’m too fried and depressed to rehash it. But the long hours end this week, and we go back to a much saner 50 hour cap. I’ll be more interesting then.

The Blue Box of Happiness

I’ve been working 12-15 hour days for 2 weeks. I haven’t had a day off in a month, unless you count a trip to Montana to visit the family a vacation. Which I don’t: my parents get up at 5 am Mountain Time, which is 4 am for my internal clock. After 3 days I was worn out. Anyway, I’m a little fuzzy. And little loopy. Everyone recharges in a different way, and I recharge by sitting alone and doing nothing for a hour or two. Days and days of nothing but working and sleeping leave me messy and a little weird. But bear with me: a couple of minor, blog-worthy tidbits have come up, so I promised myself and Matty that I would write them down.

First, and foremost, is the untimely death last night of Hunter S. Thompson. He shot himself at his Colorado ranch, apparently on purpose. He famously liked guns, alcohol, and drugs, which can be a bad combination but overall seemed to serve him well. Thompson wasn’t Shakespeare, but he was odd and funny, and definitely had an impact on journalism in the US. In his last column, he described how he called Bill Murray at 3 am to pitch the game of “shotgun golf” that he’d developed with the help of his friend, the sheriff. He called his shotgun an “alley sweeper.” He offered to get Murray in on the ground floor, presumably with some sort of Carl Spackler tie-in (you know, Caddyshack). Thompson made me look sensible and temperate. He will be sorely missed.

For Christmas, I got Carlos a little trinket at Tiffany. Unfortunately, over the weekend he broke it (it was user error, not poor craftsmanship). I stopped by the downtown Tiffany today to get it fixed, and they just gave me a new one. I've always considered Tiffany to be over-priced and over-hyped, a “you’re paying for the name and the blue box” sort of thing. But I’ve got to say that I’m impressed that they didn’t even quibble. The nice young man (even the staff at Tiffany is new and extremely pretty), just said “we’ll get you another one, sir” and then told me the replacement was complimentary. It made my day.

Matty and I were talking this morning, and he told me that Mackenzie wants to get a tattoo. Of a bluebird. It’s a bit unexpected; generally tall, blond 20-something Abercrombie types want to get some kind of tribal thing tattooed somewhere. Matty’s question, naturally, was what is the significance of the bluebird? “It’s the bluebird of happiness,” Mack replied. Well then. I told Matty he should get the Red Bird of Rage, but he insists he wants the Raven of Justice. Personally, I think we all should get the Cuckoo of Unhinged Queens and be done with it.

On a related note, Matty and I decided that if Mack and his (str8) twin brother ever want to, we’re more than happy to take them and get them thoroughly tattooed and pierced. And then strip them to their underwear, put dog collars on them and take them to get drunk at the Eagle. That’s what we did for JPK, and a good time was had by all. True story, and for 6 months afterward the bartenders bought my drinks every time I walked into the place. If that’s what I got for JPK, the twins should be good for free drinks for at least a year.

George Nelson and Betty Davis Eyes

Plague has been sweeping the office all week, so we’re short-handed and coming up on a deadline. Which means an increase in the billable hour cap. While not mandatory, it’s HIGHLY encouraged that we hit the weekly cap. It’s also much appreciated, and of course generously compensated. Being greedy and profligate, I usually work my butt off adding to my paycheck while I daydream about what to buy. Last night I found it.

But first let me tell you about last night, because the evening seems to be developing into a Tuesday trend. Like last week, Seth invited me to Changes for some Trashy Tuesday good times. But with the increase in billables, I was stuck in the office until after 9 pm. I texted my regrets and law-ed away until it was time to drag home.

After 14 hours in the office I was tired, so I hopped on a bus and paid $1.25 for the 7 block odyssey home. But like Odysseus, I was destined to take a roundabout trip. Turns out the bus was headed up the hill past my condo to Manray. Fancy that! I figured I’d get even more value for my bus fare $1.25 by riding to Manray for a hard-earned beer then grabbing another bus down the hill.

Manray was dead but peaceful, so I pulled up my favorite spot at the bar and settled into a frosty glass of Mack & Jack’s. The bartender was chatty, and by 10 pm people started filtering in, so I ran into a few old acquaintances. Seth texted to see where I was, and then called to see if I was staying. Seth had been at Changes since he finished his shift at 7 pm, and clearly wasn’t ready to go home.

To tell the truth, my desire to go home was fading by the minute. I told him to meet me at R Place for some karaoke and drunken boy-chasing. Turns out, he was outside my condo building waiting to pick up Woodsy and Mike Hudson. Couldn’t be more perfect. I told him he should, if necessary, carry Carlitos out of the condo and to get all their butts up to R Place double-time. I downed my beer and headed up the street.

Occasionally the universe sends me a little message, and I’m generally too drunk to notice. When I walked in, a (very cute) bouncer who I had never seen before waved me in even as I was pulling out my ID. “You don’t gotta show me that,” he said, “I know you.” Ok, he was cute AND dumb, which are two of my favorite traits. But it seemed odd that he remembered me but I had no recollection of him. That alone should have told me this was a bad idea, but I was already too far gone.

Once upstairs I ordered a beer, grabbed a table, and signed Seth up to sing "Betty Davis Eyes." He’d done it the week before, but had had a cold and wanted a second chance. The boys rolled in about 2 minutes later, and we began drinking like we meant it. The surprise for the evening was Joey and Robbie came out. Robbie has been incommunicado since school started last fall. Especially on school nights. And Joey doesn’t get away with neglecting his boyfriend like some of us do. Seth brought Woodsy and Mike Hudson, Seth’s new lust interest, and they all insisted Carlitos was nowhere to be seen in the condo. Meaning he was in the bedroom watching Amor Real.

As the price for showing up Seth demanded a shot of Petrone, so I obliged and grabbed another beer. His song came up and he nailed it, and we had a shot to celebrate. Sean Barker wandered in, and we had a shot to celebrate. Things began to get fuzzy, and we had a shot to celebrate. That one stayed down, so we had a shot to celebrate. Ugh. What can I say, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

By midnight, Mike Hudson had (wisely) bailed, and Joey and Robbie were doing the same. Seth was in party mode, and didn’t have to work in the morning, but I decided enough was enough and said my good-byes.

Of course, enough wasn’t enough. Sean Barker left with me, and suggested we drop by the Eagle for a nightcap. Turns out it was Lesbian Night. Clearly, the lesbian community is looking for an outlet other than the Wild Rose, because the place was packed. Upstairs, the pool table was shoved in the corner, and that whole portion of the bar was jammed with dancing, sweaty lesbians. I like hanging with lesbians, but Sean Barker was less enthused, so we went out to the patio where the bears/leathermen/sissyboys had all run to hide from the girls. I did my level best with 2 different guys to get Sean laid, but he wasn’t really into it so I finished my beer and staggered home. With a quick stop to pick up a frozen pot pie, one of my many little drunken indulgences.

On the way home, I stopped to window-shop at Standard Home, a furniture store just up from my building. And there in the window was the object of my affection: a 6 foot long bench designed by George Nelson in 1948 (those of you into mid-century modern furniture will know what I’m talking about). It was gorgeous, and it's something I’ve wanted ever since I first saw one 5 years ago. I drunkenly resolved, there and then, that the extra money I make this month is gonna buy me that bench.

And Carlitos? Well, here’s why I keep him around: when I rolled in drunk at 1 am with my pot pie, he cooked it for me and made me a fresh salad to boot. And then cuddled when I came to bed. Yeah, I don’t deserve him, but I’ve decided I deserve that bench.

What Kind of Pirate Am I?

Thanks to the dearth of comments on my blog, I am reduced to this sort of thing for attention. It's sad, I know, but please just play along and vote.

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also view a breakdown of results or put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Who Wants to Hire an Escort?

I usually leave politics to bloggers who like to do research and cite sources. By and large they do a good job, and are just fine without my help. Besides, all that fact checking is a little too much like work for my taste.

That said, I just have to comment on the latest exposure of the President’s hypocrisy, Jeff Gannon (aka James Gluckert). This little gem is just too delicious to pass by. Jeff Gannon reputedly was Washington Bureau Chief for a news organization called Talon News. For the past year he has received each day a one day press pass to the White House. He’s posed questions to the Press Secretary and to the President himself. However, he was denied a press pass to Congress, and denied a permanent press pass to the White House. None of this would have raised any eyebrows, although it is unconventional. But at a recent press conference he asked the President (paraphrasing here) if the President would be able to work with Congressional Democrats when they are so divorced from reality.

That’s pretty blatant partisanship, and it piqued the interest of a few bloggers. They began to investigate Jeff Gannon, and turned up all kinds of interesting things. Like the fact that Gannon was a pseudonym, his actual name was James Gluckert. And that Talon News appeared deeply connected to, if not a front for, a Texas group called GOPUSA. Which was run by a longtime political ally of George Bush’s. The most interesting tidbit was the websites Gannon owns, which seem to be advertising for a gay male escort. And that said escort is a dead-ringer for Gannon.

Now it’s fine if partisan conservative groups want to hire gay prostitutes to drive their agenda. But it’s another thing when said prostitute is presented as a reporter for a news agency. News agencies, in order to be considered such, need to be funded by advertising or subscriptions, not political contributions. And it’s kindof a big deal when the prostitute is able to get into the White House, under an assumed name, and give the President a nice easy one when he’s got his ass in a jam. With the CIA, FBI, and NSA all reporting to the President, you’d think the White House would know it was letting a gay prostitute hired as a Republican shill have access to the President. Wouldn’t that make sense?

But the most interesting part of this whole debacle is the long-forgotten Valerie Plame incident. Plame was the CIA operative whose name was leaked by the White House after her husband publicly refuted the allegation that Iraq was getting uranium from Niger. Turns out that Gannon (the gay prostitute) was one of only 6 reporters who saw classified documents related to that incident. Interesting choice. What were the criteria for choosing those 6, that they only do out-calls? Gannon, of course, doesn’t do in-calls. And he’s exclusively a top, according to his website. Maybe it was his willingness to, as it says on his website, “go to the game with you, and then afterward…..”

Of course, this is clearly just a bunch of liberals with their panties in a bunch, besmirching the good (well, assumed) name of yet another fair and balanced conservative. Except that most of the material I’ve discussed above comes from an entry in the Conservative Voice blog. Not exactly of bastion of left-wing hand-wringing. And if all of this is untrue, why has Gannon not publicly said so, perhaps in his interview on NPR last week? And finally, if a few bloggers using Google and checking out some websites can uncover this, why can’t the National Security Administration do the same?

Oh yeah, and he’s 3 years behind on paying taxes. When the White House did their exhaustive background check they missed that too. But if he grows a moustache he’ll look just like Bernard Kerrick (the President’s last idiot eruption) and that eternal favorite, G. Gordon Liddy. Come to think of it, they may all have more in common than looks.

JPK, Redux

Last Tuesday was a banner day in the land of the blog. Starting, not surprisingly, with an innocent comment I made on JPK’s blog. He hasn’t been writing much lately, and when he has it’s been fairly cryptic. Well, he had recently put up an entry entitled “girlfriends understand” that included a caveat saying he couldn’t post it earlier because he was trying to maintain someone’s confidentiality. Maybe so, but I think his concern was misplaced. The entry discussed someone moving away, but didn’t mention the person’s name, gender, current location, future location, relationship to Jason, or anything other scrap of identifying information. I looked at it on and off for a week, and finally decided to post a comment. It was just a little too self-important-people-are-watching-me to let pass.

I don’t usually comment on JPK’s blog because coming from me, it tends to provoke him. I’m not sure why an honest, constructive opinion would be offensive, but I’ve learned through experience that they instantly enrage him. Perhaps Paul is right, and JPK suffers from some kind of untreated bipolar syndrome. Anyway, I made an anonymous comment, blandly stating I didn’t think anyone could identify the person in the entry. I worded it so that (hopefully) he wouldn’t think it was from me. The goal was to get him to actually consider some honest, constructive criticism that he would otherwise reject because it came from me. I was rather proud of my little effort to improve JPK’s blog.

Turns out JPK doesn’t like suggestions from anyone. He immediately posted a comment (since taken down) lashing out at his anonymous reader (me) for being mentally ill, inappropriate, and clueless. While these charges are validly leveled at me every day, I didn’t think in this instance they were correct. So I responded with another anonymous comment, essentially restating my previous comment.

This is where it gets interesting. As part of his job, JPK has the ability to do a certain amount of internet backtracking. I’m being deliberately cryptic because I don’t want to get him fired for using company resources on company time for personal business. It’s a courtesy (as you will see) he does not extend to others. After I posted my second comment JPK managed to track the IP address. But not very effectively, because he tracked it back to the wrong person.

As long-time readers may recall, this isn’t the first time JPK messed up by sending flame-mail without thinking it through. But this time was so much worse. He emailed this person (the wrong person) at work. JPK threatened to post this person’s work email address on his blog. He accused him of criminal activity, infidelity, and mental health issues. My poor friend got this scathing mail and sent me a bewildered email, saying “Do you have any idea what this is about?”
Well, naturally I posted a final comment explaining that JPK had the wrong guy. In good conscience, I couldn’t let my friend take the heat for something I had done. But it’s interesting that for someone who is so completely happy and fulfilled, JPK is insecure and angry enough to lash out, unthinkingly, at any and every thing that's even mildly critical. That's good news for me, it means I don't have to work very hard to get him riled up. As someone once said, “I don’t care enough about him to read his blog. I don’t even have fun making fun of him like Andrew does.” I do like making fun of him. And as mean as it is, boy is it fun. Glad to see the good times aren’t over.

Well, Then.....

I just heard of a site called the Prison Bitch Name Generator. You enter your first and last name into little fields, and a Java program works its magic and tells you your prison bitch name. As you can imagine, I had to try it. Want to know what my prison bitch name is?

Donkey Schlong.

It works. I tried it twice, it wasn't a fluke. It's true of course, I just didn't realize Java could discern THAT.

A Full Circle Sunday

For those who weren’t there or didn’t get drunk-dialed (enjoy that message I left, James?), last Sunday was a full day at the Full Circle. It started around noon when Carlos got up and tried to raise me from the dead, then took a shower and got dressed. I stumbled into the bathroom, stood under the water for a while, then dried off and threw on some clothes. Seth had called while Carlos was in the shower, and wanted to have brunch. Brunch (well, mimosas anyway) sounded great. But Carlos wanted to go to IHOP, meaning no drinky. Which was fine, I didn’t really need a cocktail first thing in the afternoon. I called Seth, and his response to IHOP was: “They have crappy food and no alcohol” and he said he’d meet us out later. Carlos and I Benzed up to IHOP, grabbed some brunch, and I fired off texts to round up the crew. The consensus was the it was a Full Circle day.

As usual, I had a plan. I always have a plan. The plan today was to have some hair-of-the-dog with Seth and the boys, then pour on the water and hit the office for some serious billing. It didn’t work out. It almost never works out.

We parked outside Full Circle, and Carlos ran over to the bank to check his balance. Since I had a couple of minutes, I ducked into the little junk shop across from the bar, a place with no discernable name but some cool stuff. I’m slowly becoming addicted to the place; there’s nothing like sifting through a junk shop and coming across a treasure. I’ve seen a few near-treasures there that give me hope something really good will appear one day. But I lingered for a couple minutes longer than I should have, and when I ran across the street to Full Circle, little Carlos was wandering about, wondering where I’d gone.

I settled into a large and deeply satisfying mimosa, and within minutes Seth appeared. Seth had had a bit of a rough morning: apparently, he had a fight with his boyfriend, dumped him, packed a bag, and announced he was moving out. Which explains why he didn’t want to battle the Central District church crowd at IHOP to enjoy some bad pancakes and no booze. I got him a double Black Velvet and Coke, knowing he needed it and that he would get a lot more interesting once he’d gotten a fifth of BV under his belt. About halfway through the first drink, Paul and Curtis arrived from Thumper’s (that’s where people Paul’s age hang out) and shortly thereafter Woodsy and Michael Hudson appeared. Finally, little Adam rolled in wearing his little ball cap and looking like little league had just let out. I cranked up the jukebox, and we settled into a Full Circle afternoon.

Woodsy had been on a bit of a bender that week, and it was starting to show. His eyes were just narrow slits, and he pretty much sat on his barstool just grinning and giggling. Not that we judge people for that. I’ve been there before, just not for weeks at a time. Carlos played some video games and then switch to doubles pool with Curtis and two guys from the bar. Adam tried to talk me into going to Nova Scotia, but I convinced him that Montreal would be more fun. Seth vigorously pursued the bottom of his glass, and Paul hit that point where he stops speaking and starts taking down strangers’ pants.

Seth, as you will recall, had had a bit of a rough morning with the boyfriend. After finishing most the bar’s Black Velvet, he started a pissing match with Michael. Seth is smart, but so is Michael, and Michael holds his alcohol better. It took about 3 catty comments and it was clear that this little dispute was going to end with the two of them in bed doing it six ways from Sunday. I wandered over to the bar to grab another beer, and by the time I got back they were firmly lip-locked and sashaying towards the door. Paul, meanwhile was giving me his trademark “Come over here” slurring, drunken whisper. I looked over and he had some guy’s fly down. Before I can react he whipped it out. “Look at this,” he said while the guy (I have no idea who he was) just stood there too drunk to avoid being exposed.

That was pretty much my cue to exit. I gathered up the Carlitos (who was more than ready to go) and we said our good-byes. So much for work, we picked up Chinese on the way home, and I fell asleep on the couch halfway through my chow fun. That’s the way to spend a Sunday.

Crediting the Muses

Earlier this week I read something (don’t remember what) that made me wonder what other people do with their blogs. I had run across one or two, but really hadn’t followed any blogs until I started reading JPK’s first one. It was mostly rambling, with poor grammar and lots of big, misused words. But he gossiped to a reasonable degree, and that was fun. All of my friends talked about it: what he wrote and didn’t write about them, about himself, about what had gone on the night or the weekend before. I didn’t think he did a particularly good job, but he was the only one doing it. While I stirred up plenty of trouble with gossipy group emails, I had never considered putting it on a blog and really causing grief.

My other inspiration was a website called 570 Bars. This site is about two friends who got a list of every place in Seattle licensed to serve alcohol, and then they had at least one drink at every single one. Obviously this isn’t done in a day, or even a month, but in chunks of 3-4 bars at a time over the course of more than a year. Matty told me about the site a long time ago, but I ran across it one day last fall and was so hooked that I read it one sitting. I marveled at the beauty and scope of their vision. The authors became experts at capturing the bar and what they did there. You can see the development of their aesthetic from one bar to the next, until each review is a single gem capturing their experience that one night, that one drink, that one bar, with that one little group of friends. Each review is sparse and direct, like a shot of cold vodka. It’s beautiful.

Now I read a bunch of blogs, from Anonymous Lawyer (the writer is more bitter than Matty, and almost as mean) to Shiokadelicious! and a few in between. JPK has a new blog of course, but he rarely writes in it. And when he does write, he’s exchanged rambling for cryptic references to people and events that no one knows about. His grammar remains poor, and he’s still king of the solecism, but now the entries don’t even say anything understandable to anyone but himself. Blogging is essentially public navel-gazing, but nonetheless entries should be entertaining and understandable. Cryptic references without context are annoying, but that's not out of character for JPK.

And speaking of boring and annoying entries, this is one. But what the hell, check out 570 Bars and forgive me for my pointless blather. I’ll do better next time.