July 2003 Archives
We're learning in these past two years that even though the Hamptonian Trendiods might be flocking out here to "The New Anti-Hamptons" in Gucci'ed droves, the days work still passes in glacial episodes. You have to get used to service up here being so slow as to think you've been left out or forgotten. There just isn't any where or any reason to rush. That all being said, we often forget that basic underlying current up here so when we asked our very humpy, very bear excavator how long our driveway extension would take back in June, he said four days and we were happy homos. Knowing what we know, what we should have asked next was, "Is that four consecutive days...or four days over the course of the next six to eight weeks?" One would assume four days is four days, starting fresh on a gorgeous Monday in early July and finished on Thursday with Friday as a backup rain day. Well, here we are in August and truthfully, they've been here three days already...spread over the last month and still no gravel in place. I'm not saying the placing isn't coming around, I'm just saying, when the contractor tells you they haven't come back to work on the job because they're working on another job "...but don't worry, they're coming back so just make the check out for half right now," it doesn't instill a lot of confidence. Unfortunately it's not an isolated incident, that's just the way things work up here. That's why when we ordered our new kitchen counter and sink, Jeff and I will be ripping out the old one, tearing out the backsplash tile replacing it with bead-board, and installing the new one with the sink. When you want something done right, just do it yourself. Right?
I'm a little behind on the phenom, but I'm all about The DaVinci Code. Not the most well-written book though certainly not the worst I've every read and some of the clues even I figured out and I'm sort of a dummy so it's not like rocket science or anything. There is something about the book that kept me turning the pages and devouring the book in two days though; something about all the codes and symbology and the history of Christianity which, true or not, I almost fully believe in. It was also a kick for me because every time he mentions the Opus Dei Headquarters on Lexington Avenue in New York City (he mentions it exactly like that and he mentions it a lot ) I got chills because for years I walked past it being built on my way to and from work and couldn't for the life of me figure out about the double entrances on Lexington Ave and on 34th Street, but now I know. I also now need to start paying more attention to the trail of black-clothed priests streaming in and out of there to see if they're walking funny or have blood-stained pants. That's all I'm saying.
I guess we not only have the right to engage in sodomy, we now also have the right to make and participate in horribly boring reality dating shows. Boy Meets Boy on Bravo was just about everything I hate in all the zillions of other reality dating shows: boring people in boring situations asking boring questions. It made for a long hour. I do understand and appreciate the groundbreaking novelty of having an all gay dating show however it's my beef that shouldn't we not pander to the least common denominator repeated ad nausea in every straight show? Shouldn't we strive to be better, more interesting, more stylish, more...um, gay in our product? This goes for every bad movie, book, theater, etc that markets itself as 'gay' and has banked on the fact that we gays will flock to anything gay oriented, even if it sucks the donkey. Throw in gratuitous nudity and you've just guaranteed yourself a hit practically. Snore.
My first thought was "BAND FAG" and then as I started watching all the episodes, I realized how very, VERY lucky those school-chums of the Star Wars Kid are...lucky he didn't wear a dark trench coat into school one day loaded with guns and ammo and start blowing people away for the most embarrassing video ever. As I'm a the-cup-is-half-full kind of guy, I'd tell this kid to get the fuck out of that psychiatric center now, buck up, and accept that his 15-minutes of fame is quickly ticking away and needs to get booked on any and every talk-show in the world. I'd even think the Oscars might be calling him for a cameo next March. (via JayBear at SardonicBomb.com)
Though way back in the day I scored something like a 6 or 7 on the Butch Scale meme of yesteryear (and ONLY because I like scented candles, mind you), TODAY, I sashayed all the way up to a number one. Ain't no downed tree gonna come between me and my chainsaw. Seriously.
Unfortunately, I probably lost a few points for running right in here and blogging about it afterwards. Either that or because when I cut the support of the tree, it crashed and broke the kitchen window. I'm not saying the butch thing doesn't need a little work, I'm just saying, having a chainsaw is a good place to start.
With nothing better to do in our lives then sit around and apply for home equity lines of credit, we opted to spend the summer free-balling whilst playing in the dirt. It's always a comfort to leave the homestead at 4:30am looking like this (only darker because, you know, it's 4:30 in the morning) and coming home at 6:30 to find your forest, for which you often just only see the trees, has been robbed and left looking like this. Not to bitch and moan too much because we did order the new driveway, it's just that girls need some notice. If it wasn't for the total hot sex daddy running the show, I might feel less generous about making coffee and Danish for the workers in the morning.
And wouldn't you know it, the day the excavators come to clear out several decades worth of brush and rubble, ignored scrub trees and trash which have been piling up against our old stone wall, a freakishly large thunderstorm blows through Barryville this evening and downs a huge limb hanging precariously over our house right onto the kitchen porch. Why, if it hadn't been for me being firmly ensconced on the sofa about 30 feet away, watching the TiVo'd Project Greenlight from last night, I would have been crushed . Luckily, the Great Garden Gnome, Alaska, was on duty and his kind short-person magic not only keeps the petunias vibrantly magenta, but also shelters the compost-giver and gentle waterer (which is me, kittens).
Jeff and I are always on the look out for new, ridiculous words that we can use with one another in our charming-but-annoying-if-you're-not-either-of-us way. Case in point, our pet names for one another; it might surprise no one that in the private confines of our home, I don't call him "Dirty Love Monkey" as in, "Come here, Dirty Love Monkey, I'm all squishy and need some attention." What we do call one another is typically "Poopie" or "Poops" while "Poop Stinky" is typically reserved only for me. It's adorable, I think.
In the meantime, several words have entered our vernacular as of late, mostly thanks to reality TV and other TiVo'd gems we've had the good fortune to be able to witness. Why we would appropriate words synonymous with vagina and actually use them is beyond even us, but you know, when the right word fits, you just don't fight it.
Cookie - (noun) Picked up from Kelly on last week's Amazing Race 4 after she had to ride an elephant through the crowded streets of India. Apparently the spine of an elephant is very close to the surface and after riding one between your legs, it causes genito-urological discomfort (Kelly to Jon: "My cookie is going to be sore for a week after riding this thing"). Our appropriation went something like this, "Good God, is that your cookie? Roll down the window when you do that!"
Choochie - (noun) From some HBO documentary a month or so ago about the return to Hooker Central Avenue somewhere in the Bronx. They interviews this dirty skank of a hooker who was explaining how she had to tell a john to use lubrication because, "Oh poppy, my choochy's so dry." Jeff and I either use the entire phrase as a means of filling up the long silences between conversations ("Hmmm..the river seems to be down a little bit...
Shzuzsh - (verb) - From "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" Episode one, where Carson and Kyan are explaining to Butch not to leave the house without checking in the mirror and "...shzuzshing your hair one more time." I was standing at the mirror this morning getting ready to go up stairs and Jeff wanted to know if I shzuzshed. I had shzuzshed just prior with my Physique hair care leave-in conditioner and felt confident enough in my shzuzsh to leave the bathroom and get dressed.
Though I was planning on not mentioning it, Jeff noted that in all fairness, you have to take the good with the bad so I'm posting about the Afgan War marine who ran off yesterday with the ugliest 12-year old British girl I've ever seen. However it's up to everyone reading to decide if it's bad because he's a pedophile, the girl has been hit with the stick hard, or because he's apparently a Studebaker cousin. Whoops.
A perfect weekend: Fridays off from work, loving in-laws come to visit, and no humidity.
Yes, that's how we say it. For anyone who caught 'Sex in the City' last night during Charlotte's first Shabbat meltdown, 'bashert' has the emphasis on the 'SHERT'. But no matter how you say it, meant to be is meant to be.
Everyone's favorite pop-culture guru is now making inroads into his 30's with his usual style and substance. Happy Birthday, Max.
Joining the ranks of Mason Thomas, 2, and Reese Charles, 1, my youngest brother, Matt, and his wife, Nicole, just welcomed their newest son and my newest nephew, Hayden Matthew into the world yesterday afternoon. He was a bit early on the arrival as we all had him penciled in for mid-August, but what can you do? I don't know what to think about having a Cancer for a nephew except that he's in pretty good company if you hold with those Crab Movers and Shakers, Max and Tyler.
Don't think the significance of three boys under three years old hasn't settled in on just about everyone who hears about it. "Holy shit!" seems to be followed with a look of great sympathy for the young parents but in all honestly, the boys are the cutest, most handsome little men ever brought forth so we all have a good idea that Hayden will be more of the same. Then again, we're not complete ostriches with our heads stuck in the sand. Coming from a family of four brothers, we all know boys will be boys.
It's not enough that the local judge called our area "...the butt-hole of New York" in a phone conversation with Jeff last week, now they're hiring failed spelling bee champions to make local signage around town. Maybe I can get a job doing that. I wonder how much they pay?
All you English teachers and professors and other assorted politico-literati who-ha's: try not to be jealous because we now own the official George Orwell's "Animal Farm" Checker Set. Made up of those nasty pigs and the ever-present, docile cows, the epic battle of good versus evil, light versus dark, totalitarian swine verses cud-chewing federalists, can be played out every night in your own home. Or it could have been before the company went bankrupt and we snatched up the last one of these to be found in all the Delaware River Valley. Feel the burn of your envy, bitches.
After several bouts with death over these last months, we were finally able to get Nikki and Andrew and their baby, Ella, up for a visit to the country. Always apprehensive about babies because of their trail of poo, goo, and doo, I was relieved to find Ella a most charming and happy little girl, quick to smile the smile of a diaper filled but good and easily the most squeezable kankles and mushies of any baby, ever. It didn't take us long on Friday morning to just steal Ella for some personal time, leaving her parents to sleep in. The rest of the weekend was filled up with naps, relaxing jaunts on the porch doing nothing but sweating, taking Ella for walks, finding creative ways to keep Ella confined and happy while we cooked and grilled, and even some home-based fireworks. It was awesome but we have serious make-up affection time with the kitties if we don't want to find ourselves murdered in our beds.
