In honor of the rally planned for tomorrow...

... just about everywhere, I give you a letter that is making the rounds on the internets. My brother send it to me a few weeks ago, and TheHusband received it the other day from a completely different source.

Dear President Bush:

I'm about to plan a little trip with my kids and extended family, and I would like to ask you to assist me. I'm going to walk across the border from the U.S. into Mexico, and I need to make a few arrangements.

I know you can help with this. I plan to skip all the legal stuff like visas, passports, immigration quotas and laws. I'm sure they handle those things the same way you do here. So, would you mind telling your buddy, President Vicente Fox, that I'm on my way over? Please let him know that I will be expecting the following:

1. Free medical care for my entire family.

2. English-speaking government bureaucrats for all services I might need, whether I use them or not.

3. All government forms need to be printed in English.

4. I want my kids to be taught by English-speaking teachers.

5. Schools need to include classes on U.S. culture and history.

6. I want my kids to see the U.S. flag flying on the top of the flag pole at their school with the Mexican flag flying lower down.

7. Please plan to feed my kids at school for both breakfast and lunch.

8. I will need a local Mexican driver's license so I can get easy access to government services.

9. I do not plan to have any car insurance, and I won't make any effort to learn local traffic laws.

10. In case one of the Mexican police officers does not get the memo from Pres. Fox to leave me alone, please be sure that all police officers speak English.

11. I plan to fly the U.S. flag from my house top, put flag decals on my car, and have a gigantic celebration on July 4th. I do not want any complaints or negative comments from the locals.

12. I would also like to have a nice job without paying any taxes, and don't enforce any labor laws or tax laws.

13. Please tell all the people in the country to be extremely nice and never say a critical word about me, or about the strain I might place on the economy.

I know this is an easy request because you already do all these things for all the people who come to the U.S. from Mexico. I am sure that Pres. Fox won't mind returning the favor if you ask him nicely. However, if he gives you any trouble, just invite him to go quail hunting with your V.P.

Thank you so much for your kind help.
---
Related: As a Matter of fact, You Are A Criminal!

Two things I noticed.

I was trolling surfing through the web a few weeks ago and ran across this post at Oh La La Paris. Intriguing.

I don't watch Big Brother. In fact there are few "reality" shows that I watch. But the U.S. version is pretty pathetic. Especially compared to what those people over there are watching. That boy is pretty hot!!



The one with his shirt off is "Kristian". And in the other photo's he looks rather "healthy", if you know what I mean.

So today, I was once again trolling surfing the net, and ran across a video he made. It is of him and his girlfriend having sex in a hotel room. They set the camera up and went at it.

I have no idea whether he made it before or after he was on BB, but -- whoofda. I should have been a gay man in Europe. I would have been much happier.

Oh. The two things I noticed?

The actual "act" of sex took less than 9 minutes. Also, straight people have boring sex lives. Only TWO positions?

I took 'em back.

So, I took back the pants I bought last weekend.

I did some breathing exercises first, to prepare myself. I was sure that the line would be long, and that the clerk would give me a hard time.

Luckily, only two elderly ladies were in front of me, so I waited less than 10 minutes.

When my turn came, I told the clerk that I had bought them last week, and they were the wrong size. I didn't want my money back (I really did), but wanted only to exchange them for a larger different size.

She asked for my receipt. I took a breath and said I didn't have one, but brought a printout of my card statement showing that I had, in fact, actually made the purchase. She hesitated, but then took a look at them. She asked if I'd washed them. I said, of course I had. She then asked if I'd worn them. I said no, I tried on the first pair, realized they were too small sized incorrectly, and immediately took that pair off and put them both aside. I then reminded her that I didn't want a refund, just an exchange.

She said okay, so I wandered into the non-existent men's department and began looking for different sizes in the same colors. I had to get one pair too long, but I was able to find replacements. I figured I could hem them, if need be.

Then I returned to wait in-line again to resolve this exchange. The original girl was busy with another customer, so I got someone else. Once again, I had to go into the whole story, but I was determined.

I left the store within 30 minutes of walking in with new pants.

I did not try them on (again), so if they don't fit, I'll just donate them the next time one of those groups put that little baggy on my doorstep.

Gas prices

I love all these people who are bitching about the price of gasoline today.

Without even bringing up the politicians (okay, maybe I just did...) who are nothing but blowhards, on both sides of the aisle, people seem to forget when gas was really expensive. The 1970's.

In 1975 my father made (in the military) approximately $850 per month. He and my mother had five kids, one car, and luckily, lived on base. They didn't have to pay rent or utilities. If they had, they wouldn't have made it. The base we lived on was in the California desert, in the middle of nowhere. There were no public buses, no taxi service. The only "stores" on base, which had to be driven to, were the Commissary (groceries) and the Base Exchange (department store). No sales taxes were charged at either. But if they didn't have what you needed, you had to go out into "town". It was a sleepy town, I have no idea how large it was, since I was only nine, and didn't think about such things. I knew it seemed to take forever to drive there, though.

And all the stores were closed on Sundays (remember that?). Everything was a store front, there were no malls yet. My mother bought our school clothes once a year. Either out of the Sears catalog (so they could be shipped to us via mail) or we would make the trip to the K-mart - hours away.

I remember my mother bitching about the price of gas. Regular leaded gas, which had reached the unheard of price -on base- of 50 cents a gallon. That was, of course, exactly twice the amount I received each week as an allowance (IF I did my chores).
--
Anyway, the only point I am trying to make is that bitching about it is not going to do anything. You have to act. Raising the taxes, as some pundits have suggested, will not accomplish anything except to make the poorer Americans suffer. Cutting the taxes might be a way to go, as 40% of each dollar you spend is taxes - unacceptable in my mind.

And I don't care that the big oil companies are making record profits, either. That's what company's, successful ones, do. It is -after all- the American Way.

But if you are living in Deland and working at Disney*, driving your SUV or F350 to work each day, stop your bitching. Move, change jobs, take a bus, carpool, whatever.

I did. You can too.

I bought my car two years ago, used. It gets approximately 30 miles to the gallon in local traffic. I drive less, so my 13 gallon tank lasts me two weeks. It had 22,000 miles on it at one year old and now it has 35,000 miles on it.

(* The City of Deland and the employer Disney are only used as examples)

There is a story, there...

and I only alluded to it.

It sounds much worse than it probably was, but I appreciate your comments. And they made me cry, again.

I promise, I will tell the story.

I have only hated three people in this world. And while I DO hang on to the hate, I'm okay with it. It does not rule my life, in any of the cases.

Yeah. I don't think so...

After an hour of watching this show, fourth in a series, I was overcome.

I sat here at my desk and cried. Not continually, but still. TheHusband says I have issues, and I should talk to someone about them. I disagree.

I just understand what the POTENTIAL victims would have been feeling.

It may have been a long time ago (before the internet), but I was abused by an adult. Someone who I trusted, and who my parents trusted. He was, in fact, a very good friend of my father.

To this day, I hate him.

What's wrong?

My phone rang at 0330 this a.m.

There is never a good reason for the phone to ring at 0330 in the a.m.

Of course, by the time I realized it was ringing, woke up, and got out of the bed to find it, it had stopped. It registered as "Private", so I don't even know who it was. We don't have an answering machine, nobody calls us at home - that's what our cell phones are for. Mostly we use it to register services (i.e. the power company, the cable company, etc.) and to have something to hook the fax machine to.

Then, and only then, did I realize that when TheHusband moved the furniture around in the bedroom a few weeks ago, he moved the bedside phone to his side of the bed. During the ringing, he remained asleep, completely oblivious. I don't know why he did that (The phone is moving back to my side of the bed later today).

So I spend the next half hour tossing and turning, waiting for the phone to ring again, or to fall asleep, whichever happens first. Of course, neither did. So I got up and made coffee.

I can't call my siblings. Time differences prevent me from trying. IF it was just a wrong number, then I would be doing to them what had just been done to me.

Typically, when a number registers as "private", it's my eldest brother because he forgets to turn off his "caller i.d. block". But I can't help thinking he would have called back, or tried my cell phone too.

My mother's mother isn't in the best of health. Also, my eldest sister's husband is not-long-for-this-world, the result of a burst appendix (yes, this can kill you, and it's long and painful death). My dad's aunt died last weekend, but since she lived here in the area, I doubt it was anyone on the West Coast calling to tell me.

I hate to shop.

I mentioned a bit ago that I needed new pants. As I said in the title, I hate to shop. I don't do it well. I don't have the patience for it.

I want to walk in, grab what I want need, pay for it, and walk out the door. The only thing I will try on in the store is shoes, so that tells you how often I will buy them (they have to be falling off my feet).

It's supposed to be easy for men to shop for clothes. Shirt sizes are in inches. Neck sizes, sleeve lengths. Inches. And gay men know inches. So before I left the house, I looked at a pair of pants that fit, saw the size, and knew what I needed to buy. I got to the store, found the barely existing "Men's" department and searched for pants.

First, let me say THIS about THAT. I understand this is Florida. I get it. It's hot most of the year. But when did it become acceptable to wear nothing but knee length shorts to an office environment? What, you say? Never? Well, that's what I thought. So why were most of the items that included zippers in this particular Men's department all cut off and hemmed up at the half-way mark? Rack after rack after rack of them. And all of them some sort of earth tone or blue. Yuck.

So among the three shelf-racks (not hanging racks, I wanted to point out...) of pants none of them were flat-front. None. Of. Them. Hello??? Who are the buyers working for these stores? Fine. I got (insert vomit sound) pleated ones. Two pair of earth-toned pleated pants. I would have bought a third, except that they don't have a third pair in my size... It seems that only people who are six feet tall shop at this store. Oh, six feet tall and four feet wide. Seriously, there were dozens of 48 inch waist pants.

I did not try them on, as they were the right size. So then I waited in line, for over 10 minutes while the person in front of me watched each and every item be scanned and waited for the total from the poor overworked check-out-girl before reaching into his back pocket, removing the rubber-band from his wallet, and pulled out his credit/debit card.

Uhm... HELLO!!! Pull the fucking thing out and slide that bad boy while she is checking you out you stupid slope headed asshole, as that is the purpose of the credit/debit card machine right there in front of your flat face. Thank goodness he didn't whip out a checkbook. I would have screamed.

So I brought them home, washed-dried-hung them up and made dinner. Started getting angry at TheHusband for not taking out the trash, but thought better of it and did it myself. Then, went to bed.

Got up yesterday morning and put one of them on. Too small. WTF? I checked the size, no, it was right. How does this happen? An inch is an inch, no matter what country's sweatshop children were making them, right? In Singapore, in Guatemala, in China, wherever. An inch is the same everywhere. That is the beauty of Men's sizes. There is no margin for error. A size 30 means it is 30 inches. I now have two useless pair of pants that I didn't want anyway. Yay Me!

Of course the first thing I thought of was to get the receipt and return them next weekend.

Problem. I had thrown it away after I returned from the store.

Last Wishes

A man and his wife his other half were sitting in their living room and the man said, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependant
on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens,
just pull the plug."


SheHis other half got up, unplugged the TV, and then threw out his beer.

Yeah. What she said...

Probably. In Her Head.

via A Socialite's Life. Nicole Kidman, Quote of the Day.

Piffle.

Maybe I'm missing something (it wouldn't be the first time...) but let me ask the question anyway.

Missy Girl, and a few others, are upset because the "rules were changed at the last minute", and nobody told them until afterwards.

First thing I noticed in all the coverage: All the gay families were wearing rainbow leis as a sign of solidarity.

Second thing I noticed in all of the articles (and blog posts in the gay blogosphere) I read: No one said that ONLY the gay families were given a "late" start time. Just EVERYONE that was waiting in line was given a "late" start time.

About the second thing: This may or may not be a counter strike against the ORGANIZED showing of gay families. But you will never get anyone in the know to admit it.

About the first thing: The minute a participant family decided to wear the rainbow lei, it became a political event, and no longer "about the family".

If you all wanted was for your kids to participate, maybe you should have NOT worn the lei, not been so vocal about your organizational skills, and just blended in with the other "families" that were there to participate.

Maybe then, the White House wouldn't have changed the rules, and you would have been able to have your children roll the eggs along side the straight family's children without incident.

But, what would be the fun in that, right?

"I promised"

Funniest thing I've heard in a long time.

"Promises are like babies. Easy to make, hard to deliver."

Power Outage

Our power went out this afternoon, while I was perusing the blogs in the list to the right. No, I don't think there was any connection, so you should feel free.

(By the way, I'm about to do an update to that list, so if you have any suggestions, please feel free to mention in the comments.)

So, TV off, computer not moving, then I notice the entire house is exactly the same. What is the first question to TheHusband?

"Did you pay the bill?"

He is always so offended by that. I don't know why, it's not like he doesn't have a history of "forgetting" to pay a bill, ANY bill.

After he says that he has, there is only one OTHER question coming out of me.

"How recently?"

Offended twice, over the same subject. He can't win.
--
Of course, a few minutes later, I poke my head out the front door and notice neighbors are starting to gather in the street, all asking themselves (and each other) the same question: "Is your power off, too?"

Now I have to make it up to TheHusband. Or, pretend it never happened.

Driving while on the phone.

Cell phones are wonderful. Although some people need to realize that they are talking to someone ON THE PHONE, instead of EVERYONE IN THE ROOM... but that's a different post.

I was driving home today, got annoyed at the stupid bitch in front of me because she was sitting at a GREEN LIGHT but wasn't moving because she didn't notice because she was ON THE FUCKING PHONE!!!! So I started counting other people who were driving home and were on the phone. None of the people I counted were using Bluetooth earpieces or anything, just holding the phone up to their ear while turning, changing lanes, waiting at red lights, and the like.

I got about half-way home (via I-4) on my less-than-15-mile-trek and stopped counting at 25.

But only because I had to shift down for traffic, change lanes into a faster moving one, and set my cigarette down.

Oh. And my phone rang, so I had to reach into the glovebox and get out my Bluetooth ear piece thingy so that I could safely answer/talk on the phone while I was driving down the road.

Lessons in painting.

There is a lesson to be learned. But first: the Set Up.
--
We are bad fags, sometimes. We've been in this house for one year today, and have only now put the first bit of paint up on a wall. It's mostly my fault. I am okay with white walls. Being the child who grew up on Military bases, I am used to them. Besides, everything goes with white.

But a recent acquisition of art, and I mean a lot of art, has inspired me... er.. uhm... I mean "us".

So, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I've finally taken the wall paper off the wall here in my room. One weekend of scoring and scraping, then the next weekend of a steamer. (Advice: Use a steamer. It was magical.) TheHusband bought me some primer and I pointed out some wall colors to go with the painting I'd chosen for this room. So he also brought home some swatches from which I could choose. I primed the one wall and used spackle on all the old nail holes.

So, while I was out yesterday at the grocery store, he got busy ripping the extra closet out of this room. I mean really, it already had a (small) walk-in closet, why did someone add another? I wanted him to leave one of the walls up, but he didn't. When I mentioned it, he said he never heard me say it. I told him I had, but didn't argue the point.

Today, he went and purchased the paint.

I told him which walls I was going to do which color, and he got me to change my mind. I deferred to his choice. I could always repaint if I was right. So I started.

I got half-way through:
and suddenly, I also got company. I was perfectly willing to do it myself, but he couldn't keep his little boney fingers out of it. Truth be told, I didn't mind. The rollers make my hands hurt. A lot. Besides, it got done faster.

Of course, this means one thing. He has to sit in here and look at what he's done. Standard procedure. Whenever he finishes a project, he will sit for hours and "look" at it afterwards. There is the lesson.

When you live with someone that considers himself a "home improvement expert", and you want a job done: just start it yourself. It will surely get done. Fast.

Amazingly enough, he both agreed that I had picked out the right colors, but he also agreed that I was right in which wall got what color. This means that I'll spend next weekend painting two walls, again.

Being right is enough.
(okay-- two lessons!)
---
Here is part of the art, against the wall.

Yeah, they pussed out.

Disappointing end, but a funny episode anyway.

Link.

Two bits...

I've mentioned that I have cats.

Lots of them.

Well, four, at current count.

I've shown three of them on this site, one here and two others [crap, I can't find the link]. There are other shots, but you'll have to click on the older posts to find them all.

But I have another. Beautiful "Domestic Longhair" as she is called by the vet. The rest of us just say, simply, Calico.

She was the second cat we "found" in the yard of our old house. A kitten, too, but she was rambunctious. She was older (when we found her) than the first cat we found, so at lest we didn't have to feed her with a bottle, as we had the first. But she looked just like her parents, both Calico's. Yes, her father was a Calico, as rare as they are.

She had grown up a bitch. Literally. She requires, no, demands, to have the best place in the room to sit in. It doesn't matter that she had her front claws removed and her younger "brothers" didn't (and if they stuck up for themselves in a fight they would SO win...), they always let her have whatever she desires at the moment. And there is no question, she is so inbred, that what she wants RIGHT NOW will change within a matter of minutes, because she will forget what it was that was SOOOOOOO important a few minutes ago and move on to what is soooooo important right now.

Currently, our bedroom is her Queendom. The other cats pretty much stay out of there, unless we are in there and will defend them. From her.

Anyway. She had long hair. This is a constant problem when leaving the house. It's typically all over our clothes. The other cat's hair is too, but it's easier to spot, since the other's are white.

So her hair is long. Very long. Lately, I've noticed that she is getting dread-locks. It's bad.

She needs to be shaved, not just a haircut.

I have no idea where to take her.

New Pants

So, after getting ready for work this morning, I said to TheHusband:

"I need new pants".

"Why?", he replied.

"Because, first of all, I bought these when I started this job-- 16 months ago, and they are faded. Second, I've worn holes in the pockets from my wallet" (turning around to show them), "and third of all, I've gained a bit of weight, and they don't fit around the waist anymore."

He said, "Maybe you should get up and be more active."

Before lashing out at him with my fist, as I would have back in the day and could blame it on the steroids I was taking to combat the pock marks on my face in the early days of my seroconversion, I noticed something.

The smile on his face.

As I realized that he was just kidding, I figured something else out too.

He'd be paying for my new pants.

Yeah, uhm... nice try.

[I removed the picture, as it was way to big for this space- click here]

First of all, I don't have a Chase credit card. Nor do I have an account with Chase.

Second, if you are going to attempt to scam people, you really should use spell check.

Third, try learning English from someone who actually speaks it. Then, you'll be able to formulate a sentence that actually sounds like you are from Chase, and speak English.

And finally, try sending it to me at my "real" email address, not my throwaway hotmail address.

Will they Puss Out?

After this, I can't wait to find out.

South Park, next week. Be there.

Give me the finger...

Is anyone watching Boston Legal right now?

I just about shit my pants, that was so funny.

With the axe and the Priest and the fingers and the cat.

ROTFLMFAO!!!!

Childhood Trauma Tuesdays

I don't know how long I'll be able to post to this topic, but I'll do the best that I can. What follows isn't the worst story I have to tell, as I don't think my childhood was (completely) horrible. Er... not mostly.

My parents were married in 1959. My eldest brother was born in 1960, eldest sister in 1961, next brother in 1964, me in 1966, and then the spoiler, my little sister in 1968.

My parents were disiplinarians, but I don't fault them for that. Years later, I would have a conversation with my father's mother, and she would say that she thought (at the time) that my parents were too hard on us.

We weren't allowed to have guests over, much. Certainly not without one of them there. I remember a "gathering" at the house once. I asked my father if I could have a soda. He asked "Have you had one already?" I replied that I had. He said, "Well then, book!" meaning I needed to get out of the room, out of the house, out of his sight. He was pissed, but I didn't know why.

Turns out, he was pissed at my mother. She had gotten drunk again. I just didn't know that. This was circa 1974. I didn't realize my mother was an alcoholic until much later (and she didn't realize it until even more time had passed).

Little did I know, a year later, he would be overseas again. It was 1975 and he had been stationed by the USMC on Okinawa. We moved to my mother's home, north of Seattle. When he returned, we moved back to California with him and lived on the base. My dad had a new ring.

It was huge. It celebrated the 200th anniversary of the USMC, and had his birthstone in it. That, and another stone, a small diamond.

I hated that ring, for one reason and one reason only. Whenever my dad got pissed at one of us, he would pop us in the head with it. Typically, that meant that one would get a dent from the ring in the front of our head, and another dent, bigger, in the back from snapping back and making a connection with the wall we forgot was there.

Ten years later we (or at least I would) learn that the ring had been a gift from his mistress. She had a ring just like it (only smaller and more lady-like). It was in celebration of their union, unlike we'd been told. The diamond was her birthstone.

My parent's finally got divorced almost 10 years later. They'd lasted 24 years. My dad and step-mother were together for another 20 years before he'd died. It turns out, he was only happy with ANY woman for about 10 years before he would stray (but that's another story).

When my dad died, I asked -specifically- for one thing. That ring.

I didn't want my brothers to have it.

They both have children.

Last Night.... I had a dream.

No, this is not a post about Rent.

When you first start taking Sustiva, the doctors warn you that you might have (their words...) "vivid dreams". That is an understatement. Three plus years ago, I started a therapy that included Sustiva. For the first three weeks I took it, I would feel like my head had grown by four times, shortly after taking it. Picture a big balloon, then picture your head as that balloon. I realized I needed to take it immediately before I go to bed.

So I did. Then the "dreams" started. Hell, they started BEFORE I actually fell asleep. I'd be awake, but completely within a dream.

But then I started a new job, that I felt, necessitated me stopping the drugs. All of them. There were a total of 15 different pills I was taking for HIV and for the side affects of the drugs I was taking for HIV, and I couldn't work and take them at the same time - and still do the job. So I stopped. All of them. For a year. I was unable to keep the job (for unrelated reasons...) and spent a couple of months not working and not taking drugs.

Then I got my current job, and decided it was time to see my doctor again, and probably get back on some sort of drug therapy. For a description of that time, see the beginnings of this blog.

I began another therapy of drugs, that included Sustiva. My doc said I could take it in the morning if I liked. I declined. To me, it was the same drug.

When I first started taking it again, I was irritable. Very irritable. I would have a fit if TheHusband left lights on in the house after bedtime. They bothered me. I would have a fit if TheHusband had the T.V. too loud. It bothered me.

Everything bothered me, after the pill had taken affect. And the dreams. Oh the dreams.

Here it is, more than a year later, and I still can't take that pill in the mornings. I take it about 15 minutes before I go to bed, and then my mind starts getting all fuzzy. And the dreams start. I never know if they are real.

Last night, I dreamt that Mark McEwen was back at work. And doing the CBS Evening News - as a welcome back.

Except that they were superimposing famous newsmen's hairstyles onto his head throughout the newscast, including: Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, Sam Donldson, David Brinkley, and Bob Sheiffer.

When I woke up, I would have sworn that it was a premonition, and Mark had returned to work.

How disappointing that I was wrong.

Come back soon, Mark.

It's some funny shit, here.

Click here.

A reminder: Brian is Canadian. For those of you who don't know, that means he speaks Canadian. Say it with me: CAN-ay-DEE-yan. It's a funny language to be sure, but if you stay with it long enough, you'll get it.

I have no idea what show he is talking about, but the clip is funny.

Go back to what you know.

Although that template was snazzy and all, and looks great at the three (count 'em THREE) other blogger's sites, it just wasn't working for me.

Sometimes fucking with things you don't know enough about is a bad thing.