Sunday Mop Up: 09/10/06

Yeah, I know. I said I'd post more and I didn't. I'm going to stop worrying about it. Maybe I'll pick up momentum after some time. Maybe this is as busy as I can get on my blog. I don't know.

The most exciting things that happened this week were, of course, the gift of the mp3 player, and getting together with friends last night to watch the University of Texas play Ohio State.

Who did we think we were kidding?

After having Vince Young lead our team to the National Championship last year, it was really weird to see our new quarterback, Colt McCoy, try to fill Vince's shoes. Kinda like watching Opie Cunningham star in some porn movie. I mean, you appreciated the effort, and all but...

Don't get me wrong. The kid has a good arm, but he has A LOT of maturing to do. Too bad this huge game came so early in this team's season. The Texas defense looked like it was on cough syrup. We were ranked #2 going into this game? Whoa. Ohio State hardly broke a sweat. I'm surprised that the score was as close as it was: 24-7.

Now, I am not the kind of fan to rip a team apart if they lose a game. Hell, I'm from Nebraska: we KNOW how to lose there! I'm a loyal fan of any team I root for, whether they win or lose (which explains how I can so dearly love the Houston Astros). I will enjoy watching this team develop. I think the head coach, Mack Brown, is a terrific coach. I was just kinda stunned at how puny and lethargic we looked.

I watched the game with a group of about 8 friends on a big screen HDTV. Good food, cold beer, hilarious commentary from the assembled homos: it was just a lovely day.

What else?...oh yeah, my macaroni and cheese was well received. Shut up.

Oh, oh, wait! One more thing! Blogger is featuring a blog that is really clever. I've added it to my links (filed under: "Huh?"). Please take a second and check out "Indexed". A star is born! Thanks for pointing this out to us, Blogger!

Jimmy's Video Stash (bottom of the page, please)

The band Ok Go! with two of the most retarded and wonderfully choreographed videos of all time. Something tells me that they spend more time on the dancing than they do on the music, but why not? So does every act you see on MTV. Enjoy!

Looks Like I Found An MP3 Player!

(Ed. note: okay, I'm a people pleaser and the guy who found the player obnoxious got to me, so I went into set-up and found how to keep the player from starting upon page download.)

Oh, My GOD! I'm so excited! Big hugs and thanks to Mr. Lactose-Intolerant for finding this for me.

You ROCK!

Any feedback you can give me about whether the player works on your pc will be appreciated. I'm just playing with this while it's a free beta test.

I just threw a couple of .mp3s up to see if it works. I'll get serious about a playlist later.

I think the thing is set up to begin playing automatically. If you just can't STAND it, click the little stop button on the player.

I may change that setting in the future, so as not to be all obnoxious and in your face with the tunes, but right now, I want the fucker to fire up right away.

Boys and Their Toys

Man, long weekends sure screw up my internal calendar. I'm sitting here, munching on korean takeout and perusing some of my favorite blogs (your "Smut of the Month" is always a favorite, Melissa!) when I snapped to the fact that today is not Monday, like it feels, but Tuesday. And a Tuesday of a non-paycheck week, at that! Which means tomorrow is Wednesday of a non-paycheck week which is, of course, "Cleaning Lady Day Wednesday"! Holy shit, I'm sitting back on my fat ass, and I've got to clean the house before the housekeeper shows up tomorrow!

I take a lot of shit from friends about this. "Seriously?", they ask. "You clean the house your house BEFORE the cleaning lady comes?"

Yes, I do. Well, okay, what I do isn't really cleaning, but picking up, organizing, hiding, and stashing. Look, I'm a middle-aged gay man. I've got some shit that heterosexual women don't wanna deal with, okay?

I'm a bachelor and live by myself. Just before a visit by Little Miss Civilization, I have to do things like collect the scattered clothes that seem to just explode off my body when I get through the front door from work during the oppressively hot Texas summers. I have a bad habit of letting coffee mugs and empty Diet Coke bottles litter my computer table. You know, that kinda picking up: dealing with the Sloppy Guy stuff. Felix Unger, I aint. In order for her to get the real hardcore cleaning accomplished (mopping floors, dusting, scrubbing the kitchen and bathrooms), she needs to be able to FIND things like the floor and the counters and the furniture. That's my job. I unclutter and she cleans.

But, it goes beyond that. Anything remotely sexual in nature is filed away. Not because I'm ashamed or afraid that the cleaning lady will find out I'm a homo- no, I've explained that to her. She has assured me that she is cool with whatever my lifestyle is, that she's just here to provide a service. But I've had others tell me that and things weren't exactly 'cool'.

flashback: 2001

My ex had moved in with me earlier in the summer. When Christmas rolled around, I wanted to do something special for him as a gift. He had mentioned during the previous 6 months that he wished we could afford a cleaning service for the place. Two grown men in a small 1,000 sq.ft. townhouse could really do some damage, trust me. But I thought hiring someone to clean was an extravagance and a waste of money. So, my gift for him that year was a coupon for a year's house cleaning by a professional service. He was delighted. I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. I soon found out.

I discovered, as I began shopping for a service after the new year, that the big-time cleaning services were just too expensive for me to handle. The median price was around 90 bucks PER VISIT. I wanted someone to come in once a week. I was shouldering this expense by myself, and I couldn't swing that. I quickly realized I was going to have to find a person, not a company, to hire for this job. I hit the classifieds in the newspaper.

Several phonecalls into the process I realized that hiring a person who spoke english would probably be a good idea, since I speak no spanish what-so-ever ("Uno mas cerveza, por favor" is the extent of my bi-lingual skills). And that was going to complicate matters, it seemed. The phone interviews were disasters.

I finally found the number of a "Debbie" who was starting her own little cleaning business "One Day At A Time Cleaning". Sweet and easy-going on the phone, Debbie explained that she was a 12 Stepper and trying to get back on her feet. I invited her to the house for an interview. When she came over, she was completely professional in her appearance and demeanor. She assured me that she could whip the place into shape for 50 bucks a visit, twice a month. I was relieved. I could afford that. I made it a point to explain to her that she would be cleaning for two gay men and asked if she had any problem with that. Oh, no! Not a problem at all.

Right.

I told her that we could try it out and see if this worked for everyone. She agreed to start the next week.

Now, at the time, I had just been promoted at work, and was into having my dress shirts laundered and pressed at a nearby dry cleaners. It was expensive but, damn it, those places can make a dress shirt look fresh and crisp like I never can. Regularly, I was hauling loads of shirts to the cleaners, and bringing home a plastic-wrapped, hangered, and bundled batch of management-ready couture. Over the course of time, lots of hangers and bundle-bands kind of collected. Admittedly, it was getting out of hand. My ex would sneer, in his best Joan Crawford, about the wire hangers, and the bands that were these 4 or 5 inches in diameter, plastic, flexible circle-things that held all the hangers together for transport. I tried to keep the shit thrown away; the band thingies, the plastic bags the shirts were wrapped in, the fucking wire hangers....

Debbie's first visit was a rousing success. When we came home from work it was evident that the woman busted her ass throughout the house. I was so impressed that I tipped her an extra 30 bucks. She smiled when I handed her the cash, but didn't look me in the eye.

The next visit was less impressive. Things weren't dusted. The bedroom was, well, maybe vacuumed, but that was it. My ex and I had tried hard to keep a level of orderliness and clean since the last visit, and I thought we had made things considerably easier for her. When I asked her if everything was alright, she just mumbled, took her money (I tipped her 10 bucks this time, for a very half-assed job) and got out of the house as quickly as she could. My partner spent the better part of the evening pointing out things she didn't do that she should have done.

My first thought was that this woman admitted she was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. I suspected that she was stealing things, and began an inventory to see if anything was missing. Nothing was. She wasn't stealing.

Two weeks later when we got home after work, Debbie had already left. I hadn't even paid her. The kitchen floor was swept, not mopped, and the toilet and tub was scrubbed but nothing else was touched. The kitchen counters weren't wiped down. The vacuum hadn't moved from it's corner in the closet.

"Are you going to pay 50 bucks for this?" my ex asked.

"I'll call her to see what's up." I said.

When I called her she talked very coldly to me.

"I'm sorry, but I can't work for you" she said.

"Debbie, what's the matter? What is going on?"

"Look, " she said. "Nevermind...but in the future when you hire someone to clean your house, you should be more careful about what you leave out for the person to deal with!"

"What? I...I don't know what you are talking about." I stammered.

"Do you really think I should have to deal with your sex toys? Do you know how gross that is?"

Sex toys? What in the fuck was she talking about? We didn't OWN any sex toys.

"Excuse me?" I was completely baffled by what she was saying.

"You know, my husband said that I shouldn't work for faggots, but you seemed like a really nice guy. I should have listened to him."

"Debbie, I don't -"

"Look, good luck to you, but there's no way I'm going to work for queers who leave their cockrings laying around for me to have to pick up!"

"Cockrings..?"

And she hung up on me. When I related the conversation to my ex, his eyes brightened.

"You have a cockring? When did you buy a cockring?"

"No, damn it, what was she fucking talking about? We don't have any sex toys!"

"Do you want to go get some?" He had always wanted a big dildo, and was taking a shot at it. Again.

"You know, you're not helping here." I said. I was perplexed about her comment, angry that I was called a faggot and a queer (for the first time), but mostly distressed that I was going to have to start the search for a replacement. For someone who initially didn't see the value of a housekeeper, I had gotten used to the idea of coming home to a clean house. Paying someone else to clean the toilets is a beautiful thing.

A few weeks passed and I hadn't found a new housekeeper, so I jumped into the cleaning chores myself. I wanted to handle this alone, since the housekeeping thing was my gift to my partner. I made a day of it. I tackled the bathrooms first, stripped the bed, did laundry all day, dusted and lemon-oiled the teak furniture, mopped the kitchen, scrubbed the counters, and did a load of dishes. Even dusted the fucking ceiling fan blades. Me. Jesus! I finished off with a thorough vacuuming.

As I was doing the carpet in the master bedroom, I opened the closet door and did a quick pass with the sweeper. Something in the corner caught my eye. Suddenly, it all made sense.

I was laughing out loud as I came down the stairway into the livingroom, where the ex was watching television.

"I think I found one of our cockrings!" I announced. I was twirling one of those huge plastic bands from the dry cleaners around an upheld finger as I approached him. "She must have thought I was hung like a horse!" I threw the band, ring-toss style, at him. It landed on his head, looking like a halo.

"Dream on!" he roared, taking the band and fitting it around his fist. "If you were hung like this, I wouldn't want a dildo!"

end of flashback

So, ever since, I keep an eye out for anything even REMOTELY looking like sex stuff and stow it away before the housekeeper arrives. It's just too hard to find good help nowadays.

Now, excuse me, there's an issue of "Grizzly" somewhere around here that's still unaccounted for...

Labor Day, 2006

I guess I'd like to take this occasion of a National Holiday to vent a little about Politics. I suspect this will drive the three readers I might have away, but I've been wanting to say this for awhile.

George W. Bush takes a lot of heat for getting the U.S. involved in the shitstorm that is the Middle East war. Hey, I'm not happy about the situation myself; I think we have made one blunder after another there and I really don't think we have a clear strategy (or 'strategery') and the whole thing is a fucking mess. No doubt. But, I DON'T think Bush has ulterior motives with our involvement. 9/11 freaked us all out, and he jumped in to be pro-active and protective of our interests and the guy was just trying to do the right thing. I think he fucked it all up, but I think he was trying.

What I hold Dubya accountable for, and the real travesty of his tenure in Office, is what he has allowed to happen domestically. The President is a puppet and pawn of Corporate America and we are all suffering because of it. "Business Ethics"? Oh, please! Fuck you.

Big Business is running amok in this country. In the name of "fiscal responsibility" we, as the working class, are getting squeezed like tubes of toothpaste. Used up and disgarded. Everyone I know, no matter the type of company they work for, is being pressured to do more and more, for less and less. Companies continue to "down-size" and then dump extra work on the grateful remaining employees. Employees who should just be thankful that THEIR positions weren't eliminated are being bullied and frightened. I swear, my friends tell me, to a person, that they are doing the workload of three people right now. Name the business related issue: healthcare costs and job benefits, over-time, minimum wage, cost of living, outsourcing of jobs, the dismantling of Unions, illegal immigration - Corporate America is doing whatever the hell they bloody-well feel like and this administration is showing no signs of attempting to rein them in. And, all the while, CEOs and Corporate Elites are making obscene amounts of money, while legistators are taking their money to fund their campaigns coffers. We are, seriously, in the throes of a Class War here in this country.

Government is not a business, and should not be run that way. Businesses are not the Government. Yet, each seems to be modeling themselves after the other. For that matter, I'm having a bitch of a time keeping Religion, Business, and Government straight in my mind. The lines are being blurred. While "The Worker", the poor slug and sluggette upon whose backs this country was founded, are being treated as a mere commodity.

We are human beings who deserve to be respected and fairly compensated for the work we do.

Do you work hard at your job? I bet you do. Today is your day. Be proud of how hard you are working. Meanwhile, watch carefully how your freedom of lifestyle is being erroded away. Next time you vote, ask yourself this question: Am I better off now than I was 8 years ago?

The middle class needs to find a leader willing to be their voice. I just pray someone is up to the challenge.

Let's find that person.

But, for now, let's take a day, drink a toast to our little lives and the fading summer that slipped past us as we worked our fucking asses off.

Sunday Mop Up 09/03/06

My alibi for not blogging

Okay, I did a really lousy job of keeping up with posting this week. I blame this fact entirely upon my job and the beginning of college football season and the NFL.

See, my job gets hairy at this time of year because part of what I do is co-ordinate content of sports events and productions in association with the University of Texas for an exclusive subscription channel on the cable system. All UT sports, all the time. Video On Demand. We call the channel BEVOD ( Bevo, the school mascot, + VOD, video on demand, = BEVOD). Wanna watch our team win the Rose Bowl and the National Championship last year? We have that game, and a bazillion little segments leading up to it and after it, all for the viewing pleasure of our customers, available whenever they want.

And not just football. We follow the basketball season of both the men and women, the UT baseball season, women's volleyball, we carry tennis and a little track and field as well. But, without question, football season is when viewership and subscriptions crank to their highest levels and the pressure is on for my department to churn out content like a well-oiled machine. And, at this time of year, my department needs a serious blast of WD-40.

So, the first UT football game of the season was this weekend, and preparing for the roller coaster ride that ensues had me totally pre-occupied this week. Well, not TOTALLY pre-occupied. I was also consumed with preparing for a pre-season NFL game that the cable company was given exclusive rights to show and insert local commercials into. This ratcheted the pressure up another 10-fold. Being able to tout to the public that you can catch a Houston Texans football game only on our cable system is like gold to our Marketing department, not to mention the Media Sales department, who can charge big bucks to local clients to have their commercials included in the telecast. That game was Thursday night. I'm telling you, it was a hellacious week for me.

The game Thursday night was a real challenge. Master Control became a REAL television switching center: we had the network conference-called and took our cues to roll our breaks from countdowns delivered by a silly bitch in a production truck sitting in the parking lot of the stadium. Hey, live tv is a clusterfuck behind the scenes, to be sure, but the boneheaded female who was there to keep the affilliates abreast of what was going on and what to expect was an obvious virgin at the orgy. At one point, she actually jumped onto the phone and shrieked, "We're way behind on our local breaks! Affilliates, take Break 15 NOW! NOW! (pause, 2, 3, 4...) Wait, nevermind, cancel that!" It was like that the whole game.

I hope to get back into posting more regularly next week.

Jimmy's Video Stash (very bottom of the page, amigos):

Have you heard of Bob Schneider? He's an Austin musician and performer who has been around forever. The hardest working man in the Austin music scene, I swear to God, Bob puts together bands and projects more often than some people change their underwear. Back in the day, when Sandra Bullock lived here, he was more known as "Sandy's boyfriend", which was a fucking crime because he is such an amazing talent. They broke up a few years back. Her loss.

Well, Bob has a new cd out. It's called "The Californian" (click on the title to see the cd and have access to snippets from each track) and I am loving it. Recorded in just four days, with minimal overdubs, this record is raw and rocks and I haven't been able to get it out of my cd player in my truck. Corrine Bailey Rae has been replaced by Bob. -Move it on over, baby, I love your shit, but Bob has just pulled his cock out!-Anyway, there are no videos out yet for anything on the cd, so I thought I'd dig out the videos from his LAST cd ("I'm Good Now") and post them, just to give the uninitiated a taste of what this badass motherfucker is capable of. If anything for this latest album ever surfaces, I assure you I'll link you to them.

For what it's worth, Bob is an excellent example of why "American Dildo", "RockStar: PretentiousTurds", and "The Vaginal Discharge Formerly Known As Paris Hilton" make me sick. Here's a guy loaded with talent, charisma, and savvy who doesn't fit the mold of "The Next Big Thing". Although handsome, he doesn't rely on his looks to advance his career. He's in it for the music. His music. Music HE fucking creates. He has worked his ass off in small little venues, honing his craft and flexing his creative muscles, and still does. When he breaks big, it will be on his own terms and he will shine like a Star. I can't wait.

Hey, speaking of waiting, laundry and housework waits for me.

I'll talk to you later.

Outing Another Gay Site

Found this by by following Dop's My View From The Jeep blog. What the world needs now is more gay cartoons, don'tcha think? Click on the pic to get to the site, and then wander around. I giggled quite a bit.

Mr. Grisby's Totally Gay Pet Shop

What's Up with the Date and Time Stamp?

The last entry was posted on Sunday, as it should have been.

I swear to God, someday I'm going to figure this shit out...

Sunday Mop Up 08/27/06

Okay, I saw a movie this week that I want to talk about:

Little Miss Sunshine

starring: Greg Kinnear, Toni Collette, Steve Carell, Alan Arkin, Paul Dano, and Abigail Breslin

Rated: R (for Respectable)

Jimmy's Rating: B+

First of all, I'm risking catching some major shit from a friend for seeing this, when I've promised, hell, I was the one who suggested that I take him to see "Snakes On A Plane" and I haven't done it yet. Dave, dude, the weekend isn't over yet, I may still be able to redeem myself. You, me, and Sam Jackson, it's going to happen. But, in the meantime, I found myself by myself in front of a movie theatre where this was playing, it was minutes 'til showtime, it was HOT AS HELL outside, and before I knew it, I was sitting in an air-conditioned theatre in an aisle seat with a gallon-and-a-half sized Diet Coke in my mitts and the movie began. Like magic.

This is a little movie that is a welcome change of pace from the big budget summer fare that Hollywood loves to crank out. It's about a family on a trek to get the youngest to a beauty pageant across the country. A family that is dysfunctional and unhappy. You spend alot of time smiling and giggling and then wincing in pain watching these characters muddle through their lives together. Kinda like real life.

The standout performances come from Arkin, ever the veteran performer who can still be counted on to bring an energy and vitality to his roles. How many years has this guy been making movies, and why isn't he regarded as one of the finest we have still with us? The other amazing performance comes from Steve Carell. Ya know, I had the guy written off as a professional Retard, but with "The 40 Year Old Virgin" and now this, he shows that he is capable of showing real emotional complexity and depth. Both Arkin and Carell were really terrific.

I found Kinnear to be the least effective in his role. Always cartoonish in whatever he is in, I think he was the weakest link in this ensemble.

The movie isn't perfect. It is as awkward and flawed as the characters in it. But you want to root for this movie, just like you want to root for the characters in it.

Click on the movie title above if you'd like to visit the movie's website and read more about it and see some clips.

Hey, while I'm thinking about it, have you ever seen Happy, Texas?

Jimmy's Video Stash: (very bottom of the page, people)

Only one music video this week.

Another from Corinne Bailey Rae. She's wonderful.

Someone Should Stay Out Of The Kitchen

(this aint the Food Network!)

Today's Breakfast menu disaster:

Peanut Butter and Jelly Omelet

I should know better.

Once, I put raw oysters into a big pot of beans Peggy was making.

We had to throw the whole pot out.

Nasty!

Blue

Sometimes, I just wake up and feel sad. It's not about anything specific, or maybe it's specifically about everything. I just wake up with a weight on my shoulders, a heaviness in my heart.

I've been told that I'm a sensitive guy. Hell, I tell people all the time that I'm a sensitive guy. I use it as an alibi, I think. Truth is, I stumble and thrash about my in life and the world around it, and have a pretty good track record of creating havoc and making a mess of things. I do such things with hardly a thought about Consequences or Intention. I have used the term "happy-go-lucky" to describe this refusal to pay attention to what I am doing. Then, something breaks. I break something. I do something that causes myself or someone else pain. That's when I become bewildered and portray myself as a poor victim of some grand cosmic joke.Or, I berate myself and become hyper-critical, but only for the sake of Drama. I try to beat myself up before someone gets the chance, and if they DO get the chance, I am wounded beyond words. I don't think I'm nearly as sensitive as I claim to be. I think I might just be a huge spoiled brat.

Some days I just wake up and see myself as the weak, insecure, and self-involved man that I am and I'm disgusted and appalled. These are the days when I struggle to remember all that I have to be Grateful about.

It's on these days that what I really need is a turkey dinner, with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. I need those smells and tastes to remind me (and they ALWAYS do) of Thanksgiving Day. Of how much I adore that holiday. Of how I always swear that I should live EACH day in thanksgiving.

I'm a lucky man. I'm a man who strives to live in Gratitude and Humility, yet falls short continually. I'm a Drama Queen. I'm a Spoiled Brat. I have the best of Intentions. And I haven't got a Clue.

(I close my eyes and take a deep breath.)

(I sit in this quiet and feel myself with these feelings.)

(I smile.)

I'm feeling better already!

Boxers Or Briefs?

I have tried a number of time in my life to switch from briefs, my longstanding style of wardrobe infrastructure, to boxers. As a kid, I wore Tidy Whities. Somewhere in my 20's, I decided that switching to boxers was the thing to do. All I can tell you is that it felt like I was wearing a regular pair of cargo shorts underneath - like I had doubled up the amount of of pants I wanted to wear that day or something. It felt weird. So, I went back to the briefs. But to make myself feel better, I ditched the whites and bought grundersnorts in colors. Seemed like a step in the right direction.

Every couple of years, I'd buy another pair and try again. It just never seemed to work for me.

Later, boxer briefs became the rage. I immediately checked them out and found them to be comfortable, if a little retarded looking on a fat guy. I didn't care. I had found something that got me away from the diaper-like look of what I had.

Note: Okay, maybe comparing briefs to diapers is a little exaggerated or extreme, but at this point, that's what they look like to me. I think it's because I so wanted to move away from the damned things. Come on, admit it, big guys look better in boxers. You know I'm right!

So, I'm still in the boxer briefs, and I'm still experiencing Underwear Envy. I went to the Big Ol' Boy clothes store the other day and they had some boxers on sale. Clearance prices. Such a deal. I couldn't resist.

I bought a single pair, just to see if things have changed. They haven't. I wore the pair to work yesterday and I SWEAR TO GOD there is a seam in the crotch that was trying to saw my scrotum off of my body. WTF? Why are these damned things so uncomfortable to me? I couldn't wait to get home and get the fuckers off!

I belong in boxers. I like how I look in them. Why does this have to be so hard?

Maybe I should just "go commando" from now on.

I'm kidding. Freeball at work? No friggin' way! I'm going to try again tomorrow, the suspect pair is being laundered today and then inspected carefully for nylon thread, maybe a stray "inspected by #15" tag, or razorblades.

Sunday Mop up - 08/20/06

So, it's another Sunday, and I managed to remember my commitment about blogging today. It's a start.

I'd like to take this time to introduce you to a new little thing I will be adding to this disaster. For many weeks now, I have been trying to figure out how to embed an mpeg player interface onto my blog template. I've seen other knowledgable bloggers do this, and I'm green with envy. On their pages, when the page builds, a little mpeg player is accessible. This player plays music for the reader, or allows the reader to select other tunes to play while reading the blog. Since I'm pretty much a music freakazoid, I would love nothing more than to introduce people wandering by to stuff I think is awesome and I think they might enjoy. Well screw that, to stuff that I enjoy! I mean, if you like reading what I write, maybe you'll like listening to what I like to listen to as well. Hey, it could happen...

Well, short of spending 700 dollars to buy software to build the macro media flash interface I'd need, I can't seem to figure out how to accomplish creating "jimmy's jukebox". I'm not that commited. Sorry. Mr. Lactose-Intolerant offered to give me an ILLEGAL copy of the program, but regardless of the homo-erotic fantasy of being locked behind bars in The Big House, while being persuaded to have prisonsex with him in front of swarthy convicts who pay us in chocolate bars, toothpaste, and back issues of GRIZZLY magazine while they study our amazing technique, I just don't think that's a good idea.

So, instead, I've come up with this idea: At the bottom of this page, there is a footer. In this footer, I will now have a little section I call "Jimmycity's Video Stash". Here, I will put music videos (courtesy youtube.com) of current stuff I'm listening to, or older stuff that I think is cool. I'll change these out on Sundays and announce in Sunday Mop Up what they are. Just to remind you to check them out, if you'd like.

Another benefit of doing this is that I won't be posting music videos as daily entries any longer, which was just laziness on my part when I didn't want to think about writing something. Sure this workaround isn't as hip as having a jukebox for you to play with, but this solution was FREE. Much more my style.

So, that being said, here's what you'll find down there this week:

"Put Your Records On" - Corrine Bailey Rae
I was all over Norah Jones when she released her first record. Likewise with Madeleine Peyroux. This young Brit has an album out right now that I could just eat with a spoon. Yummy! She's big in England, and I really hope she catches on here. This is the first single off the album, and I think it's sweet, sweet, sweet.

"How We Operate" - Gomez
A band that I've heard the name of for a few years now, but had no idea what they sounded like. The video is to the title track off their latest album and I think the song is really cool. Banjo and mandolin in a song that is certainly not country at all. The raspy vocal pleads "Turn a new page/Tear the old one out!", and I'm hooked.

"One Man Wrecking Machine" - Guster
Wish you could go back in time and fix some shit? No kidding. I liked the song okay when I first heard it back in the spring, but I happened upon the video for it a few weeks ago and totally fell for the little Doll Dude. Maybe because his head resembles a penis in a necktie. Not sure, don't care. Love his white socks, too!

"Novacaine For The Soul" - eels
This is several (10? 9? 8?) years old now, but I remember loving it when it first came out. Shot in black and white with an ethereal quality to both the song and the video that I think rocks.

"Souljacker: Part 1" - eels
This is several years old as well (6? 5?...maybe I should be looking this shit up) and I remember loving the grittiness of the vocal and the tension in the beat. Thought I'd throw it in as a counterpoint of style next to the smooth dreamlike quality in the other track. By the way, the drummer is a hot little pudge in these. I need to see these guys live next time they come to town.

Okay, that's all I've got.

All Dressed Up

So, early on in my counseling, my therapist asked me why I thought it took me so long to realize that I was gay.

"Well," I replied, "I guess that I didn't identify with homosexuals I saw around me."

"And what did the homosexuals look like, that you say you 'saw'?"

"You know, effeminate twinks. I thought being gay was all about being a bitchy, limp-wristed man who wanted to be a woman."

"...'who wanted to be a woman'...?" T. repeated back to me, so I could hear my own words.

"Yeah, you know, drag queens. Drag queens, transvestites, transexuals - they're all the same..." Made perfect sense to me, at the time.

"No, they're not, actually." He took a breath. "You think drag queens want to be women?" He was making sure he understood me.

"Well, of course! Why else would a man take such care and go to such great lengths to dress up and act like a woman if he didn't really wish he was one? They disgust me. I'm a man, and I'm happy being a man, and I don't identify with guys who pretend they are women."

"That's interesting," is all my therapist replied.

"They are gross."

"So," T. pointed out, "you are very homophobic."

"Was" I corrected.

"Are" he countered.

"Look, just because I detest chicks with dicks, doesn't mean I'm afraid of them."

"Really? I'm not so sure. Maybe you're afraid of yourself..."

"What? Please!"

"Maybe you are afraid that everyone thinks of homosexuals in that stereotype. Maybe you hate them because that image does not represent who you are, yet you feel society will lump you in with them when they find out you are gay as well. Maybe you are afraid of what you do not understand."

"Maybe I'm just not into female impersonators..."

"Maybe we're not talking about what you are 'into'. We're talking about you having a strong negative reaction to people you don't know who merely choose to express themselves in ways in which you can not relate.You are very quick to judge others unfairly, and you assume you are being judged unfairly by others."

"Umm... what other people think of me is none of my business?" We came around to this fairly regularly. Here we were again.

"And they couldn't give a shit about what you think of them," he added.

"Great. Maybe I should add that to my sign," I suggested.

"Stick with what you've got, " he instructed. "You've got to crawl before you learn to walk."

Several sessions later...

We're talking about gay bars and how I had visited one that I finally felt comfortable in.

"So, what made this gay bar any different than the others that you dislike?" he asked.

"Well, for one thing, it was filled with big, burly, masculine men," I said.

"They were all masculine? What do you mean by that?"

"They were all in blue jeans, and leather. Many had short cropped hair, big thick moustaches and beards, and tattoos. They looked hot!"

"So, you like that look? You like guys who might have pierced nipples and wear chains, and strut around in chaps?"

"Or baseball caps turned backwards and white wifebeaters so that you can see their hairy armpits!" I was visualizing them in my mind's eye.

"That's interesting," he noted.

I shrugged. "Why is that?"

"It's all drag, Jim. Just different ends of the spectrum. Men dressing up ultra-masculine is no different that men dressing up ultra-feminine. It's still just dressing up. But it's a costume, apparantly, that you feel comfortable being around and to which you can relate. It's all just a 'show'. But, this attire doesn't seem to threaten your sexual identity, it seems. Maybe it soothes your own raging insecurity and self-loathing, I don't know. It doesn't conflict with your preconception of acceptable male behavior. But, sorry, it's still just a costume.

If you ever took the time to talk with, and get to know, some of the drag queens out there, you'd find some self-assured, confident men who can be every bit as masculine as you are underneath the pancake make-up and mascara. They just happen to be comfortable being in touch with their feminine side. And, by the way, they can be amazingly talented entertainers and performers. Likewise, should you continue to meet and get to know some of these leathermen out there, you may be surprised to find some nelly, lisping, stereotypical gays who are dressing that way to either attract a certain type of man, or who just like to project that image."

"Damn!" I said.

And, just like that, T. ruined my Leatherman fantasy. Now, when I walk up to some hot, virile hunk at the bar and I say hello and a purse drops out of his mouth, I think of that exchange between T. and myself.

Aint that a drag?

jimmy writes a joke

Me: For breakfast, I usually just have a cup of coffee and a gay doughnut.

My sister: What's a "gay doughnut"?

Me: A regular doughnut with a little glaze just around the hole.

...I know, don't quit my day job...

Switchfoot "We Are One Tonight"

The impact of this video comes from the editing. I also like the message. We're all connected.

Sunday Mop Up

I love Sundays. Whatever the crazy shit that happens Friday night, Saturday, and Saturday night, I try to keep Sunday open to focus on the upcoming work week and try to get my ass organized. Well, "organized" might be a bit ambitious, how about "I try to get my shit together for a brief and fleeting moment"? That might be more accurate. Besides the compulsory "Sleeping 'Til Noon", my agenda usually includes wrangling and taming laundry, ironing that shit once it's clean (I HAVE to iron my shirts. I'm a fat man. A wrinkled shirt makes me look even more like a sack of potatoes than usual), dealing with scattered dirty dishes about the house, corralling the bio-hazard I've left to fester throughout the week and putting the trash out. Often, a trip to the grocery store to load up on Diet Coke, coffee beans, meat products, and milk occurs on this day as well.

I think I'm going to try to work posting here as a Sunday ritual as well. I make no promises.

So, maybe I'll use Sundays as a way to touch on little things that I fail to mention during the week, kind of a clean up of scattered thoughts and loose ends (NOT that I have a loose end, mind you!). Tidy the blog and brain up a bit, as it were. Okay, then.

Lactose-Intolerant Intolerance:

Last weekend, when I was hanging with some friends, we all met for BREAKFAST (okay, it was, like 11am, but still) at a Mexican restaurant for BREAKFAST tacos. Do you see the emphasis I am placing here? Well, as we are all ordering these tacos FILLED WITH EGGS AND CHEESE and Mexicanny stuff, I ordered a glass of milk. Big deal, is it? I guess it was to a friend sitting across from me (a fine friend, by the way, whom I intend to attempt to impregnate someday. You know who you are, and you have been warned!).

The look on his face was of disbelief and disgust, like I had jacked off in the guacamole or something. When the waitress brought our drinks, it was iced teas and Cokes and my big glass of Moo Juice. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. Then, when I washed down a mouthful of chips and salsa with a swig, he couldn't contain himself:

"Ewww! Gross!" he blurted out.

"What?" I asked (wearing a milk moustache, I'm sure).

"Chips and salsa and milk?" he asked.

"Dude, it's breakfast. Give me a break."

Here's the deal. I like dairy products. Always have. I also like doing gay things to gay men and, likewise, I like having gay things done to me. I'm not about to start apologizing for either. If corn chips and milk is the grossest thing you witness me doing, consider yourself one of the fortunate. I promise to brush my teeth before I kiss you, 'k?

moving on...

I'm a Thoroughbred Racehorse, Baby!

During my bout with food poisoning earlier this month, I experienced a pretty sizable fever. Whenever I get a fever, my left leg swells up from mid-calf to my ankle. This is due to a previous motorcycle injury from way back in the early 90's ("The Motorcycle Years") when I was broadsided on my bike, and had my leg broken. I have a rod is in my left femur from this, and ever since, if I get a systemic infection of any kind in my body, I get this case of cellulitus. It looks pretty gross, for sure, but a flight of anti-biotics has cleared the issue up in the past.

So, for the first 10 days of the month, I was on anti-biotics and the leg got better and better with each day. But I ran out of anti-biotics on Wednesday of last week, and the leg was still a (lighter) shade of red and still sort of puffy. So, I went to see the doctor on Friday. I just wanted more pills (note: I dig being on anti-biotics, by the way. My skin clears up, no b.o. - it's wonderful!). What I got was a sonogram (the doc feared bloodclots), a new script for a sulpha anti-biotic, and a script for water pills- Lasix. The doc also insisted that I stay off the leg for a few days. No long car trips. This totally ruined an opportunity to inseminate Mr. Lactose-Intolerant this weekend and, for that, I've been pretty grumpy.

Now, I've never been on diuretics before. I'm familiar with Lasix, because I like to go to the racetrack and bet on the ponies. If you see a horse in your program that is running on Lasix for the first time, and he's worth a shit at all, you bet on that horse. Because they can fucking RUN. I had always figured that they ran faster because they were lighter in weight. Now, I'm convinced that they are running as fast as they can to get the damned race over so they can take a pee. "Piss like a racehorse"? Oh. my. god! I now understand that phrase.

I've urinated three times just since sitting down to write. No, I haven't urinated while sitting here. I've made it to the bathroom. Jesus.

Anyways, those horses and I have more in common now than just being studs.

Two days into it, my leg is looking MUCH better, thank you.

Okay, back to the laundry...

When The Student is ready The Teacher appears

Yes, I've spent some time in therapy. Hey, when you're a 40 year old man who has just come out of the closet and are scared shitless about it, as well as realizing that a propensity for substance abuse might be a bit of a problem, well, talking to an objective outside party about the chaotic clusterfuck that I called a "life" seemed in order.

I'll elaborate on the "coming out" debacle with my family at a later date. Ditto my journey toward a sober existence. Right now, I just want to talk about finding my therapist.

I didn't find him right away...

Therapist #1:

Years before, as I struggled with self-esteem issues, which I was blaming wholey upon my weight, I had met with a psychologist named George. George had a nice house/office in the middle of a swank neighborhood in central Austin. George had a sofa that he wanted me to lie back on as he sat behind a big mahogany desk across the room from me. Way across the room.

It was a nice sofa, to be sure, but I'm a fat guy, and lieing down into furniture is problematic. Well, it's the getting back up that is the problem, actually. Every session with him began with me asking if I really had to lie down on this sofa.

"Please", he would say.

And so I would sigh heavily and lie down. And every session would end with me grunting and groaning to get myself upright. Just what my self-esteem needed, huh?

A typical session with this guy would involve me spilling my guts all over the immaculate hardwood floor of his office. Details of my feelings of inadequacies and self-loathing would pour from me and splatter below like Campbell's Chunky Soup. I think I'm just being gross now. Sorry.

George would scribble on his pad.

The session would end with a look to his watch, an announcement that we were out of time, and that we would pick it up next week. He'd stand up, open the door to his office, and walk toward the front of his office/house. On the way, we'd pass through the kitchen area, where he'd leave me to walk the rest of the way by myself because he would stop at the sink and rollup his sleeves and vigorously and fervently scrub his hands with soap and water. Like my discharges were dirtying him somehow. Like he'd just had his hands up my ass, or in my mouth or something. I'm not kidding, this happened every session.

It was about session #6 that something happened. I got some input from George. I had been talking about my struggle with my weight when he put his pad and pen down on his desk and looked me straight in the eye.

"You know what I like to do?" he asked.

I just blinked, waiting.

"Sometimes I'll take a chicken breast and wrap it in aluminum foil with some onion, some sliced mushrooms, a little salt and pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil. I wrap that package up and bake it in a 400 degree oven for about 30 minutes. Make a little rice on the side and slap together a salad. It's delicious!"

Over one month into my therapy and all I had gotten from George was a recipe for "Chicken WhatTheFuck".

As he escorted me from his office and ditched me for the kitchen sink, I vowed to never return.

I, also, mistakenly determined that therapy was a colossal waste of time. Years passed before I considered trying it again.

Therapist #2

Bob was a psychologist who was younger than me. By this time, I realized I was having issues concerning my sexual orientation, so I found him because he specialized in that sort of thing. Bob was cool and hip. He had the gelled hair, the perfectly manicured moustache and goatee. At the time, "Seinfeld" was all the rage. His wardrobe was all Kramer shirts, stylin' blue jeans, and Kenneth Cole shoes. He was gay, so I was sure I could learn something from him.

Bob had a sofa as well. But he didn't make me lie down on it. No, I could just sit there, among a menagerie of stuffed animals. He often asked me if I'd like to hold one of the plush creatures as I talked. What? What's with psychologists and their freaking sofas? He, too, sat across the room from me at his desk.

I was determined to stick it out with Bob. Our sessions, again, involved me spewing my history out to him. But Bob was much more apt to interject his thoughts along the way. Mostly, his comments were along the lines of "Interesting!", or "Many gay men go through that!" and "Yes, that's typical of homosexual men!" and after about three months, I realized that all Bob was doing was validating that, indeed, I was queer. Yup, big ol' fag. I know cuz my therapist told me so. whew! Well, I was sure there was more for me to learn from this guy, so I continued to book sessions with him.

Bob also had a group that he invited me to join. This was a collection of 6 people with issues ranging from a middle aged man addicted to porn to a retired nurse who struggled with being passive/aggressive with her husband to a lesbian with a crystal meth problem to a compulsive kleptomaniac to a young bulemic. And me. Big ol' hairy fag, remember?

Everyone was really warm and receptive to me, with the exception of the lesbian. This woman seemed to detest me right off the bat. I couldn't open my mouth without her rolling her eyes at me. It gave me a complex fairly quickly. Self-esteem issues, keep in mind. This chick was doing a tapdance on my emotional baggage. And, I felt no support from Bob. I think he wanted me to deal with it in this "controlled environment" without solving it for me. I was completely intimidated by the bitch. I was furious that I was spending money on sessions that I walked away from feeling like crap. It was too early for me to be in a "group".

Maybe I wasn't gay, either!

I walked away, vowing never to return.

I also, AGAIN, determined that therapy was a colossal waste of time. Years passed... yada yada yada...

Therapist #3

When I talked to him on the phone, T. sounded SO yummy. Soft-spoken and calming on the phone, I had called him during a break in one of my out-patient rehab sessions. I found his name in a list that my employer's EAP (Employee Assistance Program) offered. Yes, he said, he could talk to me about my sexual orientation and substance abuse issues, but not until I was out of rehab and sober. I pictured a small, fuzzy bear. I swear, he sounded hairy. Shut up. Actually, I pictured Robin Williams in "Good Will Hunting". It had recently dawned on me that hairy older men in flannel shirts and beerguts were what tripped my trigger. I wondered if this man, who was obviously sent to the Earth to help me be a whole, complete, and integrated personality, would find me to be fascinating, handsome, and do-able. Yes, I am aware that I have boundary issues as well, thank you very much. I promised that I would call his secretary and book a session in two weeks, right after I completed the 5 week program I was in.

When we met, I was stunned. Far from looking like Robin Williams, T. was a tall, very slender man in his 60's who looked more like a butler in a PBS Upstairs/Downstairs episode. Oh well, no homo-erotic fantasies about my counselor. Drat.

My initial session lasted over an hour, which is unusual, I'm told. Psychologists are strict timekeepers. I sat down in his comfy chair, with him sitting directly across from me. No weird sofa, no big, important desk. Cool.

And it began.

He stopped me 60 minutes into the session. He said I was a People Pleaser. He told me that my relationship with my partner was doomed to fail. And he pulled out a piece of paper, wrote something across it, and told me to make copies of it and to post it in the following places and look at it daily:

*On the bathroom mirror

*On the dashboard of my truck

*In my cubicle at work

and what he wrote was:

"What Everyone Thinks of Me is None of My Business"

I swear, it hit me right between the eyes. It resonated with me completely. The words made me shiver. When The Student is ready, The Teacher appears. I found my therapist.

He told me that we would be spending the next several years trying to convince me that this statement was true and at the heart of my issues.

He also told me to plan on allowing him to talk a little bit next time.

Then, he laughed and told me to go home.

And I walked away, vowing to come back time and time again until I got it right, certain that therapy was going to save my life.

I'm Slow, you know...

It is only TODAY, after several months of working at this blog-thang, that I have discovered a whole cache of comments waiting to be published on my posts. Good grief!

Thanks to those of you who have been commenting, and yet not seeing your input ever publish.

I'll figure this out eventually!

Alive and Kicking and Catching up

Okay, I'm back. What a week last week was for me. My battle with food poisoning turned into a pretty substancial fever, which caused the cellulitus in my left leg to flare up and I was fairly immobile for the first part of last week. Nasty. By the time I had a fair quantity of anti-biotics pumped into me and I was feeling better, it was Wednesday and the work that piles up on my desk in two days, had tripled in size. I was chained to my desk for the rest of the week, and hardly had a chance to look up and swear.

But I still did, ocassionally. There's always time to swear.

Friends came to town on Friday, and I felt like a social animal again. Human contact is a good thing. I often act like "people" are a pain in the ass, and I just want to be alone. All it takes is a little "alone time" to realize that I like interacting with others, that "people" don't suck. Several nights of good restaurants and skinny-dipping was just what the doctor ordered. Got roped into seeing a movie with the group Saturday night. The movie wasn't my choice.

And now, my first half-assed blog movie review:

Title:"The Descent" rated "R" (for retarded)

Jimmy's Rating: C-

Okay, here's the premise: a group of women go off on a caving adventure. This band of females includes a smart-assed punk thrill-seeker, a couple of seasoned chick jocks, an emotionally damaged wimp, and an egotistical uber-bitch, who is the leader. They crawl into some caves. They get lost. They get trapped. And then they find out that they are not alone down there.

Was I scared? No. Was I feeling claustrophobic as I watched these skinny bitches wiggle down into tighter and tigher holes, having no clue where they were going? Oh, hell yeah. I sat in the air conditioned theatre with my gallon and a half sized Diet Coke gulping for air. I wanted to punch these chicks for being so stupid at every turn. I wasn't scared, I was annoyed.

What I DID enjoy was the audience. Some people love getting scared. I was with a group of big, burly men and, man!, did some of them squeal like little girls! One of the guys in our group was talking back to the screen. I was equally embarrassed and delighted by the way they were squirming.

Nothing new here. The movie goes "Boo!" and the audience jumps, shrieks, and giggles.

I rolled my eyes. And laughed at the people around me.

It's all good. Well, not good to me, but everyone else seemed to enjoy it. That's cool.

Someone Has Tried To Kill Me

Pukeapoloosa '06

I am so sick. Friday a group of us went to a local chinese buffet for lunch. A big guy like me can go nuts in a place like this. Sesame chicken, beef and brocolli, egg drop soup, egg rolls, sweet and sour chicken, and a little concoction called peppercorn chicken.

One of the bites of the peppercorn chicken tasted kinda funny. Did that stop me? Hell, no!

By 4 o'clock in the afternoon I got the ringing in the ears. Then the headache. I popped a couple of Excedrine and didn't think much about it.

By 6 o'clock I was beginning to feel dizzy. Shortly after that, I was chilling. Epilepsy-like shaking.

That's when I remembered the one bite of the chicken.

I left work, flew home and didnt make it into the house when it started. Violent heaves. Into the bushes. Yes, my neighbors must really love me now.

Crawled into bed at 7pm, with a plastic waste basket next to the bed. Puked all night long. Was a long, long night.

It's the next day, and I'm worn out. I have been invited to a birthday party and doubt I'll be up for it. Sitting here typing is more than I can handle.

I'm going back to bed.