"That Cake's in the Shape of..."

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Blanche: Why, Rose, that cake's in the shape of--
Dorothy: We know what it is, Blanche...
Rose: I thought it was in the shape of Florida!

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It seems we've begun telling people now... Thank god! There's nothing I hate more than being censored...

Well, perhaps we haven't told you in person, yet, dear reader, but if you have my number, feel free to call me and we'll discuss it, but first, as I hate despise loathe talking on the phone, first hear me out here--can you do that for me?

In one year, we will be selling our home and moving to Florida. Yes, Florida, the state shaped like... Well, you know...

But that's not why we're moving there--that's just icing... :)

You see, for some strange reason, the brother's Rich and Mike (husband and brother-in-law respectively) harbor not-so-secret passionate desires to live in the Sunshine State--I don't get it, but that's beside the point. For as long as I've known Rich, he's always not only desired, but passionately advocated for Florida as a possible living destination.

If you know me, you know one thing for certain--I am not a beach person. I am, however, a person who loves life, and after about a month of debate and the plop of seven new green things landing on my desk with the cursory, "These are for next week..." Well, as I stared at the half of my desk that is shaped a lot like Florida and the large pile of papers that had just been deposited, I realized that at-home persuasion wasn't necessarily needed any more...

Change was needed...

When I heard that Plop! on the fake wood laminate of my humble office, it was as if the weight of the decision just up and left. Does that mean in still won't be hard? Of course not. I'll be leaving behind all of my siblings, my parents, the nieces and nephs, and friends whom I love just as dearly as the blood coursing through my family's veins... But although I love my family and friends so dearly...

And it may sound harsh, my dear reader, but please don't think less of me for saying what so many others think...

There's more to life than living near your family... (Well, there'll be no taking that back once I hit "publish"...)

There is an entire Earth here waiting to be experienced! To be looked at, enjoyed, explored...! A whole planet! And I've barely seen most of the east side of Pennsylvania! Sure, there was that two-year stint in West Virginia... Not that it counts too much, it was for bible college after all... With my few years in the military, I got a dash of Missouri ("Misery" is more like it!), a touch of Jersey, and a smattering of Texas... A whiff of Ohio, Michigan, and North Carolina also blipped on the radar a handful of times, but they were really more drive-bys, you know?

Rich's reasons are totally different, mind you. He's always fancied himself a beach bunny, wanting to get a nice even tan, wearing ugly Hawaiian shirts, large Jackie-O type sunglasses--not that he does those things now, mind you, but one can just sort of glimpse at Ms. Cleo's crystal ball and get a rough idea of the fashion faux pas I might be in for... I'm hoping with me by his side, we might just avoid the worst of it...

Well, I did say "Might"...

Of course, the first few days of thinking this over, I was quite a nervous wreck, but then it all started coming into focus, and now I'm feeling just the slightest bit Zen about the whole thing. Figuring out new ways to garden... Never shoveling snow again, or wrestling with the coal stove, Disney at my back door, hardly a day all year that goes below 65 degrees, and--well, this is the real happy thought of the moment--I, Mr. Jason Hughes, born January 14, in 19__ can have a fucking POOL PARTY in the MIDDLE of FUCKING WINTER!!!!

Now, don't misunderstand, dear reader--nothing is set in stone. After all, who knows what the future holds! ("Call me now, Ms. Cleo!!") But the ball has started rolling. A list has been drawn up of all the things that need fixed before selling this place. A long list of web sites have been saved, neighborhood searches are being done, realtor.com has been visited more than once...

And let's not forget, there's the shape of the state to consider...

There's something invigorating about this decision: a new place to live, new neighborhoods to explore, new foods to try, new cultures and subcultures to learn about... I almost feel like I did before I left for basic training... Nervous, excited, scared, giddy... I was the first one to move out of our home growing up... The first one to go to another state for college. The first one to move north of Pottstown... (The real kicker is I'm not even the oldest!) But I've never really been too afraid to try new things and new places--just scared enough (which I think is a bit healthy) to be cautious (hence the flurry of web searching going on) but excited enough to not over-think it too long...

I think...

As I said, nothing is set in stone... But wheels are moving, gears are grinding...

We're going to be moving to Florida... Not that I'm telling work that yet--after all, until things are set in stone, there's really no need to rock the boat (hint, hint, fellow co-workers who venture over here now and then...)

But until then, I get to stare at that half of my desk shaped like...

Now That's a Flag of a Different Color!

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Mom: I just heard from your Uncle Kip...
Me: Oh yeah? About what?
Mom: Well, you know where he lives, right? And that he flies a rebel flag off his front porch?
Me: That's news?
Mom: It is! Someone wrote in a letter to the editor... Apparently they think Kip is against Obama or something...
Me: (Laughter) Well, he is a racist at heart and in mouth, so...
Mom: I know! I mean, I fly it just because I like how it looks--I always like to think of myself as a rebel! But your uncle... Oh my...
Me: Wait, wait, wait... Kip reads the paper?
Mom: I think someone must have told him about it...

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What is it about flags, dear reader? What is it we say, with bits of cloth strung together in a colorful pattern? These bits of cloth evoke feelings of pride, rage, anger, love, patriotism, hatred...

Funny how little bits of cloth can sway our hearts and minds so, isn't it?

I've recently redecorated my car with a pride sticker after years of letting Betsy travel naked on America's highways and biways. You see, dear reader, once upon a time, my kid brother Mike was in a strange place in his life (when aren't each of us in that strange place, yeah?) and borrowed my car for a little while...

It came back sans pride sticker. Not that I blamed him--it's not like you could expect to see me running around in a car with an "I ♥ Jesus," right? Perish the thought! But I stood back in satisfaction as I surveyed my once naked Betsy now all aglow with her new rainbow strip across the back, just under the word MUSTANG. It's a beautiful thing...

This is where my older brother Tom would declare something along the lines of, "How come I don't have a straight pride flag? I want a straight pride day!" Never minding the fact that any time, on any day, at any given moment, straight pride is in every peck on your significant others' cheek, when you file taxes jointly, when someone comments on your ring (or tan line where the ring belongs!), the dominant culture is always a bit jealous of the many minority cultures it must "put up with" (or eradicate) when they make themselves known as unashamed of being not-so-mainstream.

Perhaps it's the rebel in all of us? Always wanting to feel unique, special, and different? To make ourselves stand out from all the other riff-raff we find ourselves surrounded by? A reminder to the rest of the world that we are all aren't the same, that there are those who live in your neighborhood, shop at your grocery store, work in your building, and pay their taxes just like you do, but have a slightly different perspective than you about all of it...

We went camping this past weekend, as you might know based on the last post to grace this blogs top spot (Helllooooooo hotties!) to a "gay men only" campground. Of course, being the prude's that we are, we made a solemn promise to ourselves that if it was in any way sleazy, we were going to leave. What we found out, however, that while there were a few there solely for a sleazy time, there were many more there just for the love of camping in a safe environment (and yes, there are many unsafe camping environments for homosexuals, FYI...). But the truly awesome thing? It was like Christmas! The lights, tiki torches, flags from every nationality, candles, decorated tents, decorated campers--it was insane! But each site was unique, and each camper took great pride in the way they made their camp area special. But even though each site was unique and special in it's own way, there was one thing that had brought us all together... Okay, well, two things: Love of Camping, and Love of Men... And as we started talking to some of these thousands of men, we found out, of course, that we had much more in common than that--our love of life, first and foremost.

And, of course, we all know (or should know) that nine times out of ten (that last dentist wouldn't take the bribe to recommend that particular brand of fluoride...) what we have in common is much more numerous than that which separates us, no matter where we are on this earth. No matter who we are, where we come from, who we sleep with, or who we don't sleep with, we are all humans just trying to find the best way to live our lives in this world...

Which, in my opinion, is all the more reason to celebrate... So find and fly your flag, my fellow human being, and be proud of who you are and what you stand for--even if I disagree with the sentiment, it's hard to hate when we're open and discussing what we believe and why... Even if it is a flag of a different color... :)

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Oh, and that second pic? That was our camp site--the most under-colored, under-lit site in the whole place... Granted, it was right there by the stream, under the pines, truly beautiful... But we've already been to Walmart to start spicing it up the next time we set up camp...

Happy Fourth of July!!

Working on quite the long post (take a guess about what? :D) but until I get back from camping...

Well, enjoy...

Happy 4th of July, everyone!

Who Knew There'd be Bitches at the Vet's?

Beaux is healthy now. Infection is gone, his white blood cell count is down, and he's attacking even the invisible things I didn't know I had laying all over my house, not to mention the dog, my feet, the curtains, the bookcase... Hawthorne also had his check-up today, and Hawthorne is also healthy as a horse. Always has been, hopefully always will be.

But there's nothing like a trip to the vet with your healthy pets to make you feel like you are the single-most horrible owner on the face of this green earth. I usually get to see Dr. Mike, but apparently he's on vacation--I got his "understudy," a young lady with the bedside manner of Mr. Scrooge before he started seeing ghosts...

Case in point is a discussion about Hawthorne's "junk":

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Vet: Have you ever considered getting him fixed?
Me: What? He's nine years old! Why would I do that to him now?
Vet: I've personally already seen three cases this week of dog's with prostate problems...
Me: ... And?
Vet: And they could have been avoided if they had simply gotten their dogs fixed.
Me: Yeah, well, he's nine. He's healthy. He does not at this point have prostate problems, and if he had problems, then we would consider our options.
Vet: Hmm...

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"Hmm" all you want there, but I am not spending money to take away something that's not an issue. I'm all about preventative care, don't get me wrong. And if I would have had the dough back when I got Hawthorne, he may have gotten fixed then (of course, the guilt trip back then was not about his prostate, it was about the potential for more puppies in this lonely, cruel world... but I digress...), but he didn't. He's not a humper. When he does get the opportunity to see a female dog, all he does is lick her face anyway (talk about your lack of a sex drive!), and you think now I should take them away? Should I have my balls removed just in case I have prostate problems in the future?

And then there was this doozy:

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Vet: He has some plaque build up, you see?
Me: (I peer at the tooth in question) Hmm...
Vet: He should really be scheduled for a prothy.
Me: A what?
Vet: A good dental cleaning.
Me: Oh, he's fine. They don't hurt him, see? (I knock on his tooth)
Vet: Yes, but in time that plaque could leave him with quite the sore tooth.
Me: I have a toothbrush for him. I'll just make sure to hit those back teeth a little better.
Vet: That's not going to cut it, sir.
Me: And why not, ma'am. (Yes, I'm copping an attitude. I want to see Dr. Mike, not this sanctimonious snoot...)
Vet: Because he needs a good cleaning.
Me: And how much does a "good cleaning" cost?
Vet: Only around $500.
Me: Are you nuts?! I don't even spend $20 go to a dentist, and you want me to pop $500 so he can have "pearly whites"? I don't think so.
Vet: Well, we put him down with anesthetic, and keep in mind some of those teeth may need pulled due to cavities, there's the IV to keep him hydrated while he's under--
Me: No. Absolutely not. I'm sorry, and you can think I'm a terrible owner all you want, but there's no way in hell my healthy playful active nine-year-old dog is "going under" for any reason other than life-saving surgery--and maybe not even then depending on the scenario. Am I clear?
Vet: Sir, why do you even have the dog if you don't feel you need to take proper care of him? (Yes, she is now getting snooty with me...)
Me: He gets fed, he gets love, he gets played with, he gets a bed, three balls, an acre to call his own play ground, he barks when strangers arrive, and is great with nieces and nephews. He's nine years old and, except for that brief moment in time when he was stolen from my yard while I lived in Allentown and was missing for a week and I had to spend close to $3,000 to save his life due to some cruel and negligent morons, I am an excellent owner to this dog, just as I will be an excellent owner to this cat. All I need you to do is give him his rabies shot, his heart worm shot, worry less about his balls and more about his general health, okay? Dr. Mike has never once implied anything of this nature and I resent you doing so.
Vet: ... Nurse, make sure he gets to see Dr. Mike next time, alright?
Nurse: Yes, Doctor.
Me: Thank you.
Vet: Thank you.

---

Bitch.

Granted, I copped attitude first, but that's neither here nor there.

Needless to say, I will not be seeing this vet again... I made the receptionist put it in Beaux's and Hawthorne's charts that they only ever get scheduled for Dr. Mike in the future, just in case... Not that I begrudge him time off, you see. Just his newest trainee...

"I have to find my peace cuz no one seems to let me be..."

As I was preparing tonight's post, dear reader, I got the news in a CNN breaking news email, "Michael Jackson has died."

Rest in Peace, King of Pop. You certainly had little enough in life...

You were an under-appreciated legend in your time.

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Everyone's taking control of me,
Seems that the world's got a role for me,
I'm so confused,
Will you show to me
You'll be there for me?
And care enough to bear me?

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You weren't perfect--who is? Half the things you were accused of we knew to be false, yet the media hung you out to dry anyway...

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Like a comet
Blazing 'cross the evening sky,
Gone too soon...

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Your music will live on, and it will leave the world a better place. Thanks for the memories, Michael, and here's hoping you are now at peace.

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On a slightly lighter note, how bad must our health care system be if we can't even keep our celebrities alive? Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and MJ all in one week...?

Brings new meaning to "bad things happen in three's," doesn't it?

Getting Worked Up over Pussy on Our Tenth Anniversary...

Those of you who know us personally know one thing for certain: Our relationship started with kittens. Five kittens to be exact. After three months of eye-tag and smiles, I turned to Richard one night, looking devilishly cut and ripped in a neon-orange tank-top with khaki shorts, and said, "Would you like to come home and see my kittens?" (I later find out he could have cared less about the kittens, but if I'm completely honest with myself, at that moment, I also could have cared less...)

Along the way, Spot, Pavement, and Cleopatra all bit the dust in various ways and we remained catless until just about a week ago, when we adopted a "female" kitten named Beaux. True to form (as Spot came into my life under the very same false pretenses...), at the vet they ask, "Where's the girl kitten, Beaux?" I gestured toward the kitten being held in the arms of the nurse and said, "You mean Beaux isn't as girl?"

So Beaux is a boy. Irregardless, the reason for the sudden impromptu trip to the vet was the fact that Beaux, playing with her--his toy mouse suddenly went stiff, tipped over, vomited, and then lay lifeless. While purring. My first thought was, "Holy shit! I have a narcoleptic cat!" Then other bad signs happened. Wouldn't wake up, but continued to vomit. Spasms. More vomiting. I'm sobbing, beside myself. A kitten I've had for less than a week was suddenly dying before my eyes! A few quick calls and some google searches had me at the door of the vet's, tears streaming down my face with a kitten who suddenly changed sexes...

He has an infection somewhere in his bowels, and another day and he could have ended up a brain-damaged to dead kitty. Sigh. Of course, my third heart-attack happened when I got the emergency bill! A kitten I've had less than a week has already cost me nearly $400!

But as I watch him playing now, fighting with Hawthorne over the newest "life-like" mouse toy, I know it was worth it. Beaux is already so ingrained in Hawthorne's--and our--lives, I already have a hard time imagining how I wasn't looking where I was stepping before he arrived. I've realized how much I've missed the sound of a soft purr just over my shoulder. The pitter-patter of wobbly paws racing out from behind the corner as I walked by to attack my feet.

So our Saturday evening plans to celebrate our tenth anniversary were axed due to the extraordinary vet bill we weren't expecting...

But really, it all just makes sense. Full circle and all that. What started with kittens continues with kittens, and as we sat there Saturday evening watching a film, Hawthorne between us and Beaux taking flying leaps over his body to take turns on our laps, it all just seemed wonderfully perfect.

Or perhaps puur-fect would be more appropriate. Of course, it would take my gay relationship to be built on pussy, wouldn't it? Of course, even my pussy lacks a pussy...

Simply, wonderfully purr-fect...

Amazing... (and not the Grace part!)

I was recently told in a business exchange on eBay:

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Now I know why God is directing me to pray for you!!!

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How does that work exactly? How does a simple eBay transaction turn into a calling from god? Well, it's a matter of highlighting text and deleting the wrong portion--i.e., instead of deleting my auto signature (which directs you here) I deleted the text response to the query in question...

Now, don't get me wrong--the customer in question is a decent enough fellow, but this whole "god wants me to pray for you thing"--umm, isn't it god you'll be praying to? About me?

So if god already knows I need "help," as it were (if one is to assume that atheism is something in need of help), why would god want you to tell him that you now know I need help?

I'm reminded of this comic from Russel's Teapot:



Good stuff, that Russell. I do wish he were still blogging, but you really should go check out his stuff--too funny! (Clicking on pic will open it in a larger window... for those of you not reading this blog on a cell phone, dearest younger brother!)

So I guess the only thing left is to wait... :)

It's amazing to me what people will believe...

The Price of Beaux...

I want to kill people. I want to strangle their necks. Of course, how is this different from every day life? It's not so much, really. But when it's been 24 hours since your last cigarette...

Well, you're just more likely to kill them, that's all...

Beaux is the reason, just so you are caught up, dear reader. The price of Beaux is the cessation of cigarettes in my life. While the trade off IS a good thing, and while it WAS my idea...

Well, sometimes I don't think these things through...

Who is Beaux? Technically, her name is "Face of Beaux," named after the "Face of Boe" from Dr. Who, the FANTASTIC television series! Of course, the real face of Boe and our face of Beaux look nothing alike. After all, who would want a kitty that was just a head floating in a glass canister of smoke? Okay, well, maybe you would, but I certainly don't.

Oh, how rude of me... This is Beaux:


This is the Boe she was named after:


I'm just glad Beaux ended up being cuter than Boe!! Who needs an ugly cat?

Regardless, people need to die... I need a cigarette...

What the worst part is, I know I will not die from wanting a cigarette. No one has ever died from wanting a cigarette. Gone mad, perhaps, a bit nutsy, but died? It's the smoking that'll kill me!! And as the one half of my brain tries to explain this to the other half of my brain... Well, it's not pretty what's going on between my ears... A very nasty, very ugly fight is going on...

I've already won... Now it's just a matter of convincing my brain that we're not doing this anymore...

Sigh. Stupid habit. Even stupider for my brain thinking it needs it so...

WWJS?: Or Who Would Jesus Shoot?

You know, I just don't get it.

Now, don't get me wrong: I am not one of those anti-gun, anti-2nd-amendment, more-gun-control types who think everyone just needs more laws to keep people from murdering one another: Far from it! What I don't understand, though, is how these people who are fervent, verging-on-psychotic, right-wing nut-job Jesus followers are also the same types who would brandish sixteen pistols, seventeen shot guns, seven rifles and a war chest of ammo...

Or is it just me? Does anyone else see... well, something not quite right about this image?

Let's look at the facts: There is not a command that says "Never go to war," although the OT god was so much about war, you would of thought his commission on giving the so-called "holy land" to Israel was close to 90% (God, Jesus, and Ghost Realty, Inc.)! But when it comes to the new testament? You read things like "turn the other cheek"; "love your enemies"; "whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me." When Jesus was getting arrested to be put on trial (and eventually nailed up like an oil painting) and Peter cuts off the ear of the high priest, did Jesus cheer him on? Grab his sword and say, "I can take it from here, Petey"? He admonished his disciples and (supposedly) healed the priest: In Matthew he is reported to have said "Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword..."; in Mark he is recorded to have said "No more of this!"

When the Pharisees got everyone in an uproar and they tried stoning him, did he start throwing rocks back? Grab a sword and go all jihad on their asses? No, he "passed through them" (became Casper, if you will) and walked away... When I read "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord," one wonders how many of these southern baptists and what-not think, as the bible is to be taken quite literally, that guns don't count--it's the sword they need to be concerned with... (Perhaps that might explain a lack of enthusiasm for the art of fencing here in the states?)

Of course, many a Christian likes to pull the old 10 Commandments out at this point: "The Bible says 'Thou shalt not MURDER,', not 'Thou shalt not kill!' so there!" (I have to be amazed that this is still the only bit of actual Hebrew most of these right-wingers have learned...) And it's true: it is "Thou shalt not murder" if one translates it correctly. But what is murder?

There are no disclaimers about self-defense not being murder. There are no asterisks (*) nearby calling attention to a footnote that reads "Except when protecting your land, crops, wife, child(ren), goats, sheep, cows, and American-made pick-up truck." If every person--let me repeat, every person--is made in god's image, and every human has an eternal soul, and you kill that human despite the NT examples set forth by your man-god...

What makes your life more important than the robber or murderer? Sure, you can justify it til the cows come home (or at least reasonably close to home), but can you find me the disclaimer? The one that reads "if your life is in imminent danger, you are no longer committing murder, you are simply killing"?

If one looks at the entirety of the new testament, the portion of the bible we are supposedly living under, show me where violence on the part of a follower of Jesus is condoned or otherwise not frowned upon...?

And remember context: The "sword" in the new testament? Always is a metaphor--it is never once referred to as an actual physical weapon to be used by a follower of Jesus...

But that's probably only because shot guns hadn't been invented yet... And Rome must have had sword-control laws in place... So now we have to ask, who would Jesus have shot? Anyone? Anyone?

The Betty Crocker Look...

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Me: Definitely black.
Rich: Uh...
Me: Just think about it...
Rich: I am, and... The ceiling?
Me: With maple beams and recessed lighting...
Rich: It seems so--morbid.
Me: It’s not like I’m moving a coffin in!
Rich: May as well...

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Yes, dear reader, you know the routine by now, do you not? We’re painting another room--our room, this time. Two walls have gone redwood, two walls camel tan. The hardwood floors are a golden maple, and there are two rather nice-size windows with matching golden maple trim--it’s going to be a classy mod look with a hint of rustic, if you can catch my vibe here...

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Rich: And track lighting is so.... So...
Me: 1983?
Rich: Yeah, sounds about right.
Me: Who mentioned track lighting?
Rich: You did!
Me: Recessed lighting, not track lighting. This isn’t an art gallery, it’s a bedroom!
Rich: It’s a morgue.
Me: Yes, yes, that’s the look I’m going for. I thought it’s be a nice change from what everyone else does with their bedrooms. Very TrueBlood meets Betty Crocker.
Rich: Ha-ha, very funny.
Me: Look, does the rest of what I’ve done look good?
Rich: (Shrugs.) Yeah, it does.
Me: Okay then, have a little more faith, okay?
Rich: Seems I have no choice. I’ll pick out a suit to wear while I lay in state every night.
Me: Yes, and I’ll check your teeth for lipstick.

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On Being a Local Celebrity of Sorts...

I was accosted in Wal-Mart today. There I was, between the pharmacy and the pet section, minding my own beeswax as I pondered over what the best way was to construct a fency-type trellis to keep my gladiolas from falling over once they bloom. (I know, to have my problems, right?) So as I'm standing there mulling over new and inventive ways to use towel racks, I feel a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turn around, ready to proclaim my "No, I don't work here" line (am I the only one in the world who gets asked by random people in Wal-Mart where things are located? I must have "a look" or something) when a couple of little old ladies say:

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Old Lady #1: You're that young man who had the yard sale last weekend, right?
Me: Um, yes, over on Rt 895, yeah?
Old Lady #2: Well, my friend here and I were having a very heated disagreement ever since we left your yard sale last week and were wondering if we could run our problem by you?
Old Lady #1: That would be nice if you could...
Me: Um, sure, I guess. A problem with something you bought from me?
Old Lady #1: Oh, no, no--
Old Lady #2: Nothing like that--
Old Lady #1: Why I wouldn't dream of returning--
Old Lady #2: It's just that--
Old Lady #1: --something I bought at a yard sale--
Old Lady #2: --when we left--
Me: (Am I in hell?)
Old Lady #1: --even if it was broken or something--
Old Lady #2: --we fought a bit and almost--
Old Lady #1: --which it wasn't, no worries--
Old Lady #2: --turned around...
Old Lady #1: --but I was thinking--
Old Lady #2: --Frita, please!
Me: (Yep, hell... In Wal-Mart... Who knew?)
Frita: --what?
Bernice: Let me handle this, all right? We were just wondering if you two gentlemen were...
Frita:Put it delicately, Bernice!
Bernice: Oh, shush. Well, are you gentlemen--together?
Me: (Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!) Uhh...
Bernice: Not that it matters--
Frita:--so cute together--
Bernice: --as my daughter is actually--
Frita: --just the way you two--
Bernice: --maybe you know her?--
Frita: --sat there, so happy together--
Bernice: --what's the name of that gay place?--
Me: (I should always know where the fire exits are, shouldn't I?)
Frita: --as I was saying to Bernice--
Bernice: --Emeralds? Rubies? No, that's a burger chain--
Frita: --I think it's so nice--
Bernice: --Diamonds! That's it! Do you go there?--
Frita: --and complimented her on her tank top--
Bernice: --that was the biggest clue, wasn't it, Frita?--
Me: Uh, well, yes, we are "a couple," ten years now...
Bernice: I told you, Frita!
Frita: Yes, yes you did...
Bernice: Well, we just wanted to tell you gentlemen good for you!
Frita: Yes, very much so!
Bernice: And in this area!
Frita: It's so sad...
Bernice: And that California thing? Shameful!
Frita: We should let him finish his shopping...
Bernice: Yes, we've bothered you enough, but, well, good for you!
Frita: You have our support!
Me: Uh, thank you, ladies. You have a nice day, now...
Bernice: So polite!
Frita: Real gentlemen...

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So that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I imagine a celebrity must feel like. Even if it was just for a few moment... In a Wal-Mart...

Speaking of Luck....

But... No one even mentioned it! you're thinking...

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Visiting Scientist: Surely you don't believe that horseshoe will bring you good luck, do you, Professor Bohr?
Bohr: I believe no such thing, my good friend. Not at all. I am scarcely likely to believe in such foolish nonsense. However, I am told that a horseshoe will bring you good luck whether you believe in it or not! How can one argue with such logic?

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Indeed, it's much like the "What harm does it do to believe in God?" (Ask the last group that drank the Kool-Aid...) For the record, Bohr is a Nobel Prize-winning physicist, but there he is, with a freakin' horseshoe hanging on the wall over his desk. And why? Even he isn't sure...

We humans are a generally stupid species, for all of our technological innovations and such--perhaps our one saving grace (perpetual curse?) being we are just smart enough to know how stupid we are without being quite smart enough to know how to not be so stupid. Why, for instance, do we knock on wood? Call off on Friday the 13th? Expect people to act just a tad crazier under a full moon? Worship gods? Pray to angels?

Did you know that, while wearing a seat belt has been known to save more lives in the drivers' seat of a moving vehicle, the number of pedestrians and cyclists who die increases in areas where seat-belt wearing is mandatory? Honestly! Any lives "saved" through the use of seat belts has been negated by the fact that, since the drivers feel more secure in the automobile, they in fact drive more recklessly than they had previous to being forced to wear such a safety device! But so many people believe that seat belts save lives that we thus made a law saying you must wear one, even though as a result more people will now die--just on the other side of the wheel... Gotta love the irony there.

Remember back in the 80s when we were all told that heavy rock music stars actually recorded Satan speaking backwards on their records? (How many of you just wondered what the heck a "record" was?) People by the hundreds threw out thousands of dollars worth of albums so that their children wouldn't be influenced by the evil Satanic speech coming from their record players (as if!!). Most of these songs you can now hear on any commercial-filled yet Satan-free "classic rock" or "easy listening" station.

Now, somewhere between the unreasonable panic over swine flu and the even more unreasonable panic over the thought of terrorists using a cargo container to sneak in a nuclear bomb (as if...), one wonders how the term "common sense" ever came to be coined when it's obvious so many people lack the very stuff. (Perhaps "common sense" is just one of those mythical things, like demons, gremlins, and luck dragons...? Often mentioned, never seen...?) Yet for sense to be "common" (in that, every one is supposed to have it), one has to simply observe how many buildings do NOT have a 13th floor; how many people refuse to go to work on Friday the 13th; how many actually stop and change their path to avoid going under the ladder (I actually think a painter made this one up just to prevent himself from getting nervous up there watching all those doofs go under him!). What is it about irrational and illogical beliefs that so many refuse to give them up?

Could it all actually be for shits and giggles? Somehow I doubt this...

Most people know the principle that any action causes an equal and opposite reaction. (Okay,maybe you don't, just google it and it's won't be long til you're all caught up.) We step on a loose rock and lose our balance, we quickly form quite a few beliefs:

• Falling hurts
• Loose rocks cause falling
• Loose rocks are dangerous
• Loose rocks are to be avoided whenever possible

But, before you know it, all things "loose" are suspect. Of course, this is a very logical conclusion to come to, not only because of your experience, but it's rationally sound. Loose footing = falling down = pain. It's not that hard, is it?

But then think about "Break a leg!" To wish an actor or performer "Good luck!" is to jinx them--why? Because somewhere along the way, a few to many people were wished "good luck" before their performance and proceeded bomb in front of an audience. There's no direct correlation between these spoken words of "good luck" and bombing your rendition of "Baby Got Back!" (one wonders how many contestants on American Idol have been inadvertently wished "good luck" before Simon ripped their hearts out with a toothpick). But our minds do make that correlation for no good reason. It's illogical, irrational, very unsound, and if you based your thesis for graduating on such a premise, they'd revoke your right to say anything at all about anything afterward! We silly, stupid humans do this sort of thing all the time!

How many of us know rationally that knocking on wood doesn't do anything, yet, once we say something out loud, there go our knuckles, banging out a River Dance of the fingers! We know that those random numbers we picked at 2:00 pm are just as unlikely to be winners at 8:55 pm, yet we are 90 percent more likely to be unwilling to trade our lottery ticket for another ticket of equally random, equally chance of winning numbers at 8:55 then we were at 2:00... Why? Who knows... Because we're stupid. We believe prayer actually does something... We believe standing in the rain causes a cold... We believe all sorts of crazy, stupid things...

With a little luck, here's hoping this post causes you all to stop and think before you start knuckling out the Star Spangled Banner...

As if "luck" has anything to do with it...

First Principles: Know Thyself...

We are a curious creature, are we not? I do believe we are the only ones that can actually think about ourselves while simultaneously thinking about thinking about ourselves...

But that's a philosophical dead-end... At the moment...

Oddly, most of the things that form who we are as people are locked in the recesses of our minds, the formative years in which most us (if not all of us) cannot recall nor think about or ponder on--between the merging of our genes from our biological parents to the nurturing we receive in the beginning (not to sound all biblical about it!) make us who we are, and in turn bias us toward a lot of our later actions, desires, motivations, fears, worries, and wonders. Not that these cannot change through either further outside or inner factors (a death, an injury, the continuation of "nurture" in a sense), but most of us experience a relative "freedom" from the most cruel and unusual of circumstances, allowing us to mostly remain the core human being we became at conception through young childhood. (Granted, these are my opinions and feel free to disagree, of course, but from all I've seen and read and thought over, this mostly holds true...)

Anyway, back to it: The other evening, I was out having a great evening and it was said to (and about) me, "He avoids adversity. The only adversity he's ever had was the military!" Regardless of the emotions this elicited from my mind, it did begin my mind turning and thinking: Isn't "adversity" really open to interpretation? I mean, not only is one man's adversity another man's walk in the park, so to speak, but the term itself tends to open-ended gradation, doesn't it? I mean, what is adversity? And who is to decide how much is "too little" or "too much" adversity for one person to bear? And further, is an avoidance of adversity a sign of cowardice, or a sign of intelligent avoidance? Again, it's probably in the eye of the beholder sitting in judgment of another, isn't it?

My mother is very fond of saying "God never gives anyone more than they can bear." Of course, if that were true, no one would ever go crazy or insane in traumatic times, would they? Of course, she is also fond of saying "Everything happens for a reason," as if reasons were the end-all be-all of our existence.

Or are they? One of the first things we learn as children is to ask "Why?" Why indeed! "Why is the sky blue?" "Why can't I go there?" "Why did you say that?" All in an attempt to find out where we are, and how we fit into that picture, our environment. While many a child has driven their parents up one wall and down the other with the endless queries, these are the times and the questions which form the later human being (if indeed circumstances even lend themselves for a child to ask about who it is and why it's there...!). All of which will eventually lend itself to how these young persons will react (or act) in the face of "adversity" of whichever degree presents itself (in terms of one's perceptions of adversity and its varying degrees that individual thereof holds!).

If any given person takes the time to reflect on what they do or don't find to be adverse, that is. How many persons take the time (perhaps we should ask, have the time? make the time?) to not only think about things in general, but themselves in particular? Why they feel this way about this? That way about that? A certain reaction to this person or that circumstance?

A certain general attitude?

I'm a big "believer" in you are who you think you are (scare quotes on purpose--know why?) and an even bigger "believer" in that only you can make that happen. But beyond that (and this may get a bit dodgy, I suppose) I find it even more important to let others be themselves, if you catch my meaning. To say it slightly longer and a bit clearer (I hope!), just as it is important to know yourself and hopefully to like yourself, I believe it just only slightly less important (perhaps equally as important) to let others be themselves insofar as it is not an infringement on others (or yourself). A large part of who you are is how you react and engage with others in your environment, both from within and without!

Of course, this greatly simplified philosophical excursion has smaller parts and larger ramifications (what wandering wonderings don't!) but to slightly sum up (without getting into the personal details--after all, I have to retain some type of mystery or else you'll grow bored and find someone younger!) when it comes to one's proclivities toward engaging, avoiding, embracing, or dealing with "adversity," can one really say for certain who is dealing with them and how they are fairing?

Or should we simply reserve our harshest judgments for ourselves and allow others to lead their lives in whatever manner makes them content?

Should contentment even be one of our goals in life?

Okay, this could go on forever, granted. Suffice it to say this:

---

There is always a well-known solution to every human problem--neat, plausible, and wrong. --H.L. Mencken, Prejudices

---

Indeed. But the beginning of finding a solution that isn't wrong?

Know thyself.

The rest should fall into place...

Unless you find out you aren't any good at it... :D

"And in the end, should someone die?"

I awoke this morning to a note sitting on the computer desk:

---

Ja,

They can play with the guns.

Rich

---

I guess I should give some back story on this one, eh?

We took the nephews to see the new Star Trek movie last night, and between the four bags of popcorn, three sodas, and three bathroom breaks, we learned a lot as uncles taking young nephews to the movies, the first of which being "no soda!" Additionally, since Rich and I are selling things on eBay, there are various toys and such laying about the house, much to the joy of said nephews and fear of one certain uncle--after all, most of these toys are older than myself and worth a bunch of $$$...

So they were toy guns... Nonetheless, a strange note to wake up to, wouldn't you say?

When the parents of the nephew's came to collect their children, me and the sis-in-law took a tour of the yard to locate various plants to boost their flower beds back home. In the course of our travels, the neighbors... unfortunately were in full force. I swear to god, it's like they spot me and they come rushing out of the woodwork--it's HELL! Even Ann commented, "Dude, what's up with your neighbors?"

Well said, if I do say so myself... All this time I thought it was just me...

One of these hellish neighbors had the gall--no, the audacity!!!--to walk through my FLOWER BED! I nearly had a heart attack... Excuse me?! What the FUCK do you THINK you're DOING!! I wanted to scream. These people KNOW the pride I take, the care I put in, the immense work it requires to get these beds looking weed-free and blooming year-round! What the FUCK!!!

But being that I have various hang-ups of confrontation stemming from my childhood, I simply downplayed it with a simple, "You didn't step on anything, did you?" (As if that were the sole reason for my heart palpitations...)

"No, why would I do that?" came the reply.

Why the FUCK would you WALK through some one's fucking FLOWER BED!!!! "Just checking" and a friendly smile later (Where is my Grammy award, by the way?) we left her behind as we continued our circuitous route around the house. Two more neighbors later and the family was on their way to plant some great beauties in the yard while I was left contemplating how I would confront my stupid, unemployed, bored-out-of-her-mind neighbor about walking through the beds when they are just as easy to get around if one simply goes six feet to the LEFT. On the GRASS. In the fucking YARD!!!

It also crossed my mind what a shame it was that I did only have toy guns lying about the property. What is up with my neighbors indeed...

If I could afford it, a ten-foot-high privacy fence would enshroud my 3/4's of an acre. But until the blessed day when we sell this place and get a secluded neighborless piece of land on which to build my dream house...

Sometimes in the end, no one dies...

But they should...

Reflections on the City...New York City, that is...

Having traveled for just over twenty-four hours to Manhattan for a brief glimpse into what makes the Tribeca Film Festival a festival, I can easily say without a shadow of a doubt I am a country mouse.

Not that visiting the city is bad, dear reader, don't get me wrong! We had a glorious time walking the city, seeing the sites, riding the subway, eating, laughing, talking and drinking with friends new and old--but it was just enough, you know? I defer to my friends when in the city (sometimes to my own chagrin--can you say "Pink Berries"? Yech!) especially as they have been there more, seen what's good and what isn't ("Yech!" goes double for a strange concoction called "bubble tea"... Puh-blah!) and generally know their way around, and they almost never disappoint. Whether it was the Staten Island Ferry, Grand Central, the Strand, chicken on a stick... The list of things to do, see, smell, taste, touch, hear...

Except crickets. Frogs. Birds. The wind in the grass... Being in New York was... Well, it was like trying to roller derby through a herd of 250 million water buffalo all going in different directions... Slightly less hairy, slightly more dirty, but just as difficult to get used to. My friend Scott claims that unless you've lived there for more than two years, you will hate it--it's just a given, but it will grow on you. If you ask me, that's like saying the city grows on you like cancer, but that's just me I suppose.

As I sit now in my own home, having showered the grime and dust of the New York City streets from my body and mind, I listen to the wind chimes on my front porch, a slight breeze coming through the screen door, crickets singing a serenade to the stars and bats pirouetting after their prey, I can't help but to appreciate the lack of people; the absence of noise and sirens; the lack of light shining from roof tops and bridges.

But it was nice to visit. In another year, I may get the urge again! And, of course, if Scott does move there permanently, it may have to be slightly more often--after all, he's well on his way to being a great film and television writer. But until I have to once again traverse those streets and enter the bowels of the earth to ride the metal snake, I think I'll just sit here in my small slice of country side and enjoy...

All part and parcel of being a country mouse...

The Bonuses of Life...

Dear reader, I'm ecstatic! Granted, Rich would be the first one to tell you this is all too easy an emotion to elicit from me...

I've recently joined freecycle--you may have heard of it? Communities in local geographic areas join an email list, and whenever someone has something they want to get rid of--they spam everyone on the list! Brilliant! And over the last few weeks, spammed I've been, mostly with offers for baby clothing and such, but being spring time...

Yes, offers for dirt. Honestly, dirt is the first thing I've gotten from freecycle. (Go figure...) Being that freecycle has come with its fair share of vultures, it's rather hard to get anything for free, especially on freecycle. (Again, imagine that...) But be that as it may, one of my philosophies in life has almost always been "If it's free, I'll take two!" So when I was spammed with free dirt, well I simply hijacked my father's relaxing Sunday afternoon (as well as his truck) and before we knew it, we had unloaded a pick-up full of dirt into a rather rocky / sandy / jungly / stumpy / poison ivy area of the yard.

At this point, I was satisfied. Not ecstatic, but satisfied.

And then Monday came. An offer of thirteen bags of dirt in Lansford. After work, I hijacked Rich (and his car) and off we went to the hopping metropolis of Lansford (population 2) and grabbed the dirt. In the rain. In the dark. (Did I mention how thrilled Rich was with my newly found dirt-o-matic sniffer?) We made quick work of dumping this dirt on top of the old dirt and called it an evening.

Today, I go out with a rake to level out some of the dirt, remove some of the rocks, and...

Is that...? I dig a bit, shuffle some stuff...

It is!! Hosta's! A shitload of hostas! A smattering of daffodils, a little bit of snow on the mountain...

But hostas!! Bonus!!!! NOW I was ecstatic... Hosta heaven, freecycled into my yard with the dirt... (Oh, have I mentioned how Richard told me just two weeks ago he didn't understand my love of hosta's? He thinks they look "weedy"...)

I just spent the last few hours re-"weeding" my flower beds....

Simply ecstatic about the bonuses of life...

Where Time Stand Still...

Don't get the wrong idea, dear reader... Time standing still isn't anything that happens around here--in fact, time flies just a bit too quickly for this country boy wanna-be. Has it really been that long since my last post? So many things have drifted through my mind the last few days (okay, okay, weeks!), the least of which is "Why does a giant hafta have a companion ox who's not only named Babe but has to be blue?" Such are the drifting ruminations when the mind has time to wander. Included among these were passing glimpses into the strange mind of Jason that I felt needed to written about (although the time to do so never seemed to materialize) are

• Who decided "clockwise" was the correct direction for things to spin?
• Doesn't Tony Perkins ever get tired of lying about the so-called "gay agenda"? (I'm assuming he must not be a fan of top ten lists...)
• Why must you say every single M. Night Shyamalan movie title in a Haley Joel Osment whisper?
• Why would anyone--anyone--think that stretch pants look good on them?

Hmm... Perhaps some of these things are best left unexplored, yeah?

So, as I'm enjoying the first beautiful Saturday of the spring building the brick pathway on the right (the left hopefully to be done on the next beautiful spring Saturday...) contemplating the fact that on Friday we laid off four workers due to losing our second-biggest client on Monday, the bane of my existence (aka Luthor from across the street) decides he's going to yap my ear off for three hours... THREE MISERABLE HOURS!!! I'm all for lonely old men getting out of their homes every now and then to see what they're missing in life, but not on my time... But I deal with it, grunt an acknowledgement of his existence on this planet every now and again as I saw timber, lay sand and brick, measure distances and do higher math (aka anything more than two plus two...) to get things right and accurate until...

---

Man: Hi there!
Luthor: I'll see you later Jason. I haven't had breakfast yet.
Me: But it's 1:30 in the afternoon! What--? Oh...
Man: Is that your grandfather? I'd like to speak to him as well.
Me: No, and if you do find out we're related somehow, pull the plug. Who're you?
Man: Hi, I'm Stan, and I'm a member of the church just up the street, you may have heard of us? Din--
Me: Hi, Stan. Say, listen, can I ask you something?
Stan: Uh... Sure?
Me: Do people walk up to you when you're dirty, laying a brick sidewalk, listening to old men yammer endlessly?
Stan: Uh--
Me: Do I come knocking on your door to tell you the wonderful time my life is because I enter a building once a week?
Stan: I, uh....
Me: Do I look like I'm in any position to quit where I am on this project just so you can ask me if I've found the love of Jesus or some such other nonsense?
Stan: (extremely distressed look) Well, I...
Me: Fine, you don't waste my time, I won't waste any more of yours. Have a nice day.
Stan: But--
Me: I said have a nice day, Stan, now please go on about your business while not being on my property, okay?

---

Yes, I'm sure I took away his happy thought. In fact, I guarantee it! While I did happen to appreciate the irony of the bane of my existence being scared off by the less annoying bane of existence, really--would you walk up to someone who looked very busy, annoyed as hell at his "grandfather" (shudder shudder) while he's holding bricks, and expect him to listen to your spiel about fairy godfathers and such?

Hmm... Well, maybe you would. But I'm sick of wasting my happy garden time for yappy neighbors and holy rollers (believe it or not, Luthor's term!!). Luthor, of course, later came back to tell me that he was actually a "very nice" holy roller "for a Lutheran," but apparently didn't know "we were Baptists."

While my "baptist" status in the neighborhood came as a bit of a shock ("Who is 'we'?" I asked. "You know, real Christians, not these holy rollers!" was his reply), I asked how it was possible a man named Luthor wasn't a Lutheran? (He didn't get it--84 and addle brained!!) Thankfully, his "breakfast" was on the stove and he needed to get back. He just wanted me to know how nice the young man was...

Yeah I thought, he and his big blue ox...

At least the right half got done... Something tells me it'll be a while before I get around to the left, especially if the rest of this year follows today's pattern...

A Turning of the Tide? orThe Calm Before the Storm?

In just the last two weeks, the number of states with legal same-sex marriage has doubled. (I'm still not sure if that's sad or amazing.) The first was Iowa which, just last week, ruled that denying marriage to same-sex couples was unconstitutional. I think I speak for most East Coasters when I say I almost fell off my chair... Iowa? Seriously? A mid-west state has just legalized same-sex marriage? Let's face it, the mid-west bread-basket portion of our country gets the short end of the stick when it comes to social policy. Not only has the so-called "Family Research Council" been in over-drive, slamming my in-box full of emails exhorting me to "speak up" for marriage since it's "in the cross hairs" (because everyone knows you ruin more marriages with gays than guns...). But even after I got up off the floor and back into my office chair, it seemed just moments later when the legislators of Vermont voted to override their governor's veto and pass a bill for same-sex marriage (I'm sure we all feel bad for Tony Perkin's not being able to use the "activist judges" phrase in this case...)

When I pried my head out from the ceiling tiles and dropped back down to the floor, it hit me fully: Two states in less than seven days! Then another email came in: Washington D.C. had voted to recognize same-sex marriages performed in other states...

The nation's capitol city... Will recognize same-sex marriages...

I do believe I passed out...

There are now four states in which same sex marriage is currently legal (five states in which same-sex marriages have been performed--I think at this point California can suck it!): Connecticut, Vermont, Massachusetts, and Iowa. There are now four more states considering bills to legalize same-sex marriage: New Hampshire, Maine, New York and New Jersey. There are even more states (and districts [D.C.]) that will recognize those relationships even if they won't perform those marriages: Rhode Island, New York, and New Mexico!

I'm still flabbergasted that the East Coast is demolishing the West Coast in terms of equality--not to mention Iowa representing for the bread basket! (What is UP with THAT?!) And when you look at the world view? Sweden just became the fifth European nation to allow same-sex marriage, following the Netherlands, Norway, Belgium and Spain! And who could forget our neighbor to the north Canada! Add South Africa and Nepal--the tide does seem to be turning indeed!

But then I read Ryan's Blog where he talked about gays in Iraq. After some research I found the following map (clicking on map will open it in a larger window...):


Homosexuality legal

██ Same-sex marriage recognized

██ Other type of partnership (or unregistered cohabitation) recognized

██ No recognition of same-sex couples

██ Foreign same-sex marriages recognized

Homosexuality illegal

██ Minimal penalty

██ Large penalty

██ Life in prison

██ Death penalty

Does anyone notice anything disturbing? Places where religion have a stronghold on a nation's laws and policies have a very disturbing record when it comes to equal rights for same-sex couples... Conservative Christians in the United States, Fundamentalist Muslims in the Middle East, the combination of both in various parts of Africa, not to mention the socialist and communist areas of the map--more and more the "defenders" of "traditional marriage" are seen side-by-side with very strange bed fellows! Russia, China, Islamic countries, and the conservative Christians of the United States united together in preventing same-sex couples from entering into life-long, committed relationships so that they can care for one another in the same way heterosexual couples take for granted--truly a "godly plan" if I ever saw one... It's quite scary that the only difference between the fundies over here and the fundies over there is that I can no longer be put to death simply for existing... Sparse comfort, but comfort nonetheless I suppose...

But I remain hopeful (if only because the "depths of despair" isn't nearly as cozy as the highs of anticipation...). I can't help but to believe in my fellow human beings, for I truly believe that everyone, even when they make the greatest mistakes and commit the most awful atrocities, are almost always sincerely trying to do the right thing, no matter how misguided or mistaken.I can't help but think that the ignorant fear and misguided "defenders" will realize the error futility mistakes they are making with their current decision-making processes. As if what two consenting adults do with one another is more important than the millions starving around the world. As if two penis's in one bedroom were more important than thousands dying from inadequate health care.

I can't help but to believe that, in the end, before I breathe my last breath, before I leave this Earth for eternity, I will be able to declare my love in front of my friends and loved ones, to be able to care for him as he grows older, to not have to worry that our dying days will be filled with angst and worry over money instead of spending our last days sharing in one another's company, cherishing our time, sharing our love...

Dear America--dear world!--I have faith that eventually, you will all realize what a mistake you have made in fighting against equality. That you will come to terms with your irrational fears and conquer them with the reason you possess. That you will finally recognize your fellow man and woman for the individuals they are--just like you, with the same hopes and dreams you have, with the same expectations from life, family, and friends you have. To be loved, accepted, deserving of respect, and treated equally in the eyes of the law and in the depths of the heart.

I have faith in you, my fellow human being--can't you have the same in me?

---

---

Sources for this post:

• Chicago Tribune
• National Public Radio
• Wikipedia

Keeping My Own Company...

I've always thought that if one cannot enjoy their own company and pay attention to one's self, one can never be good company for anyone else...

Today my hubbie returns from Maryland where he was with his family as my sis-in-law has some surgical procedures (I couldn't go due to having had my own surgical procedures and thus, no time to take off from work...), me and the puppy have been spending some quality time.

Okay, scratch that--Hawthorne has been Dopey, Mopey, and... something else -opey, pining for the half of his human pack that will actually play endless fetch while I've been watching season two of Doctor Who. But mostly I've been relishing the quietness--the hum of the refrigerator every now and then, the ticking of the clock, the occasional bloop! from the fish tank. It isn't often I get three days in a row to sit with my contemplations, ruminating about whatever I please, googling cheese-making just for shits and giggles, and wondering what would happen if you were to lock a fundamentalist Christian in a room with a radical Muslim with the understanding that neither could leave until one or the other had converted--would there ever be a need to unlock that door to let them out? (I don't think so either...)

I've also been using my oodles of free time to read, a favorite past time of mine I haven't had the energy or time to indulge in... well, I'm not sure "years" is an understatement. I've missed reading getting lost in the worlds and lands of another writer's mind, diving headfirst into an alternate reality and losing sight of time and space as you meld your mind into those turning pages... But even more so, I've missed how it makes me think, what it stirs in my mind, how it creates a burst of neurological fire and sifts through inklings and ideas long since stored, covered in dust. Sounds a bit crazy, doesn't it? Doesn't it?

Reading during my teenage years was an escape--from Tom's heavy metal music, Mike's yelling, Sylvia and Cynthia's arguing (and alternate laughing spasms...). I learned the unique trick of being able to drown out even the most loud and obnoxious of noises when involved in such endeavors as reading and studying (much to hubbie's occasional annoyance). But I digress.

In all that reading (while insulating myself from the world around me), fiction and non-fiction, fantasy, biography, religion, science, horror, mystery, and anything else I could get my hands on, this is when seeds were planted. I wouldn't realize it until much later, of course, but when I started attending a certain bible-based institution, the seeds of the many conflicting ideas and philosophies and world views all came to fruition against the wall of conservative, fundamentalist ideology--and shattered my world.

Of course, I haven't really gotten a damn thing accomplished in the "real" world--dishes have piled up (Perk #1 of being single for three days: No running out of silverware or dishes!), laundry sits on the floor where I have dropped them (Perk #2: No one trips over your jeans when you leave them in the hallway overnight and bitches about it!), and no one interrupting at a climactic moment in the plot with an inane question, like "What did you say last night around 10:30 last night?" (Perk #3: I can forget about 10:30 pm last night).

But more than Hawthie has missed him, and while I do value alone time, sometimes it's better to be alone together, you know? Enjoy a companionable silence, laughing together at the same movie, conversing the pros and cons of whatever happens to be problematic. I miss shoving my feet under him on the couch when they get cold; the way he hums and sings when making dinner (or makes fun of mine when I cook dinner); arguing over who has more blankets; walking around the yard yapping with the neighbors; and a plethora of other things...

Having always been so solitary a creature, it's wondrously odd what love can do to change a person. If you would have asked me ten years ago if I would miss someone after only three days, I would have laughed. And perhaps "miss" is too strong a word...

But it will be nice having my companion back, if only so once again we can steal the covers from one another at night...

And laugh about it in the morning...

Together...

Awkwardness....

Even the word looks a bit off, doesn't it?

I'm supposed to take a woman who has been doing this job for over 25 years in the green thing industry and make her "faster."

I've been with this company for seven years, doing this job for three, have been told repeatedly that I am the fastest and most profitable AT this job (not to brag, just stating what I've been told), and am supposed to take my "fastness" and impart this wisdom of speed and profitability onto her...

Awkwardness...

I've always been the fastest at ANY position I've held. I'm a fast learner, I take shortcuts when necessary, and when I get bored, I tend to be a very BAD employee--which is why I like this job--there isn't much time for boredom, hence, I'm almost always the good guy...

But I've never been told to take old dogs and teach them new tricks like this before...

Adding to the awkwardness is it's pretty well-known that I don't like this person. I've never been a fan of people who are bad at their jobs, know that they're bad at their jobs, yet keeping making excuses for why they are bad at their jobs. I find it pitiful and repugnant to continually punish your fellow coworkers for your incompetence! But that could just be me...

Let the punishment begin...

The Box...

---

"Jonathan says it is a defect of the aristocracy that they say what they please..."

---

Mr. Stoker apparently never envisioned a society in which we all prided ourselves on doing just that--saying whatever we please. And last time I checked the balance in my bank account, a member of the aristocracy I am not...

Among others who are saying exactly what they please (as is their right to a degree) is the religious right as many of the New England states are debating full marriage equality in their states' legislative sessions, including New Hampshire and Vermont (which was the first state in the union to come up with the separate yet inherently unequal "civil union"...)

My inbox has been biblically flooded (figuratively and literally!) with emails from all the right-wing nuts, hoping that my voice can be included in those standing up for "traditional" marriage and "family values" in a world "increasingly gone awry"--as if...

I know we've tread this ground before, dear reader. I know you're saying to yourself, "Well, don't have to read this!" as you obviously consider yourself well-versed in the ways and means in which I am not afforded the same 1,138 benefits any straight couple with a $20 will receive at any state, church, or tackle shop in the nation!--all due to the penis/vagina ratio in your nearest Motel 6...

Ah, the sacredness of marriage. (I know--I threw up a little in my throat there too!) While we all know what a farce this "traditional marriage" crap the right spews on a daily basis from their pulpit, street corner, or cardboard near you (as the tradition of marriage is actually one of female slavery, taxation, and inheritance issues), I am reminded once again of that wonderful passage from one of my most cherished titles, The Bostonians, by Henry James. The novel is a brilliant satire of the women's rights movement back in the day, but this impassioned speech by one of the characters brings the passion bubbling forth in me every time, so much so that I do believe this is perhaps the third time it has been posted here. Nonetheless, until full equality is recognized at the expense of the dreamed-of theocracy on the right, I bring you once again one of my most cherished life quotes:

---

"But you really do strike me as stupid even about your own welfare! Some of you say that we have already all the influence we can possibly require, and talk as if we ought to be grateful that we are allowed even to breathe. Pray, who shall judge what we require if not we ourselves? We require simply freedom; we require the lid to be taken off the box in which we have been kept for centuries. You say it’s a very comfortable, cozy, convenient box, with nice glass sides, so that we can see out, and that all that’s wanted is to give another quiet turn to the key. That is very easily answered. Good gentlemen, you have never been in the box, and you haven’t the least idea how it feels!"

---

No idea indeed...

I think it important that, while we are all busy screaming for our positions and invoking our right to speak and worship as we do (or don't) please, we must keep in mind--you may have the right to believe and say what you wish, but that should in no way trump my right to enjoy the same freedoms and rights. It is not a request of a "special right" to marry the one I love any more than it is a "special request" on your part to marry the one you love...

On Being Magical...

And it was, dear reader. After a splendid afternoon hanging out with my friends, a few of us decided to go check out Rainbow Mountain's dance club...

It felt like coming home...

We haven't been to a club in years, mind you. With the buying of the house six years ago, my body's predilection toward evicting organs, and a myriad of other issues, the money just hasn't been there. Mind you, we'd go out to see the odd band, go to the straight event here and there (like Bally last week)... And they have been fun times...

But upon entering the dance club...

Home. Surrounded by hundreds of gay men and lesbians all there for one reason--to be together, dancing, drinking, and having fun. Celebrating life. I didn't want it to end...

One of the more mysterious things to me is how I automatically become 600% more attractive upon entering a club. (Seriously, it's not just the Long Island's and Snake Bites!) The cruising, the eye contact, the brush-up here and there, Rich symbolically "claiming" me by constantly touching my shoulder, placing an arm around my waist (you gotta love that jealous streak!)...

Oh, not to worry, dear reader! I use my powers for good! Dancing with the geek who just isn't pretty enough for everyone else. Pecking the older gent on the cheek who feels lonely sitting at the bar getting the cold shoulder from the twinks. Being the first to walk up and give the nervous male dancer a dollar when everyone else feels--shy? too "good" for that?--they'd be viewed as "dirty" or something... (Hey, get this--he's putting himself through medical school! He might be next in line to remove another organ from this aging body!) The best part is ignoring those who are in good with "everyone else," the "pretty group." Those same twinks who won't give Ray or Harold even a polite hello... The ones who are "too pretty" to be seen with the aged, the over-weight, the "unattractive." It worries me that they have not the foresight or the inclination that one day they might--or will be--part of that group. An accident, a medication, or just age, will place them at that lonely spot at the bar... That dark corner where those just wanting to be seen as human, congregate and grow bitter at the shallowness of young gay culture...

Granted, when I was new, young, and hotter than poached eggs on the scene, I had that streak--but it doesn't take long for some people to realize how the game is played, and if the rules should be followed... And lord knows, I've never been one to really follow the rules...

This is American society, dear reader. Obsessed with beauty, youth, sex. It's not just a trait of my subculture--just glance at the magazine rack, a passing billboard, and number of beauty shops. We have elevated unattainable beauty to even higher levels of perfection while at the same time allowing ourselves to become obesity capital of the galaxy, this United States. Held together by our views of beauty and love of cheeseburgers, the oxymoron is that we idealize what we won't be, worship what we refuse to attain, envy what we won't work for (take a look around you next Sunday in the pews...)--a very disingenuous magic, if I do say so myself. And while this part of our culture has been philosophized to the point of the proverbial dead horse, it is nice to be reminded that, while none of us will be the ideal person with the ideal body and the ideal life...

You can still have a wonderful, fun, vibrant, magical life...

As long as you learn to live your life with respect for everyone else and not just those that fit into your idea of "perfection"... What a piss-poor world this would be if we all were the same. I like to believe each individual life is made just a bit better, a bit richer, when we all take just a moment to acknowledge that...

One might almost call it magical...

Worried About Losing That Working Feeling...

It's just a tad bit scary when you go into work and see a real estate sign out front. What's even scarier is when you get lied to about why it's there: "Oh, no, that actually is supposed to be in front of the building next door--they put it on the wrong lawn."

Uh-huh. That's why it's still there four days later...

...and why I can find it on a certain realty web site for commercial businesses...

...showing our building as "For Lease."

What it doesn't say is when the building is available for occupancy... I'm half tempted to call the realtor to see when it would be, just so I have my doomsday date, you know?

Perhaps I don't want to know...

On the more optimistic side, perhaps we're just moving buildings again, yeah? To a new location maybe? A new office?

But I abhor being lied to.... Especially when my livelihood is at stake... Which makes me seriously doubt the validity of my usually optimistic outlook on life at the moment...

I'm sure it's not as dire as my mind is making me think it is...

---

And why in Sam Hill does spell check demand that "realtor" be capitalized? Last I checked, "garbage man," "plumber," "house wife," and "project supervisor" aren't capitalized on a regular basis--who do realtor's think they are, gods or something?

Tell you what, Merriam Webster--when we start capitalizing everyone's job description and title, then I'll go along with this little charade... Until then, I'm lower casing it, if only because it's one small portion on my world that I can control at the moment...

---

(Isn't it amazing how obstinate we get when things are happening beyond our control?)

On Irish Car Bombs and Bally...

I'd like to be the first to make a motion that St. Patrick's day from here hence forth shall only be recognized, celebrated, and acknowledged on either Friday nights or Saturday nights...

So how Irish was I last night? Let me count the ways:

• 1 Irish car bomb (pictured)
• 2 pink fruity things
• 1 Mike's Hard Lemonade
• 2 rum and Pepsi's
• 1 gay kiss at a straight bar in small town PA at a "traditional" Irish wake

... and me back at work with only four hours of sleep...

And I promised myself I would call off today. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for the guilt-ridden work-ethic they passed on to me, their 2nd of 5 offspring...

Such a blast, though, such a blast... The town of Bally didn't know what hit them--especially when I ran into two cousins and an aunt!! OMG!

Here's the weird circle of my life--I have a hubbie named Rich. Together we went to the Bally Hotel with his cousin Courtney, our friend Trace, Trace's cousin Rick, and his friend Debbie. When we ran into my cousins Megan and Matt, it came up that Courtney, long before she knew anyone in my family, used to cut their hair when they were but wee lad's and lassies. And Matt knew Rick from Zern's where he has a stand (Zern's is the farmer's market in Boyertown my great-grandfather used to own most of)! It was like the six degrees of Jason in Bally! (Okay, okay, all this seemed a lot weirder when we were all heavily buzzed... Huh.... "were" buzzed?)

Come on, you know you wanna start singing "It's a Small World After All!" And even if you didn't, you're singing it now in your head. Consider it a traditional Irish curse. :) We didn't get due representation on the ride in Disney, thus you are cursed to have it swimming around your noggin for at least another hour or two...

We did manage to earn ourselves a lot of Mardi Gras beads (I know, I know, but something tells me beads are becoming more and more universally accepted at EVERY holiday...) I think there was at least two spilled green beers, a broken camera, at some point someone did the Hustle (mistaking it for a dirge), and we all joined hands and tried our hands at River Dancing.... That last was thanks in large part from the car bombs--taste like chocolate, hits you faster than Obama's economic recovery package, and leaves you feeling much better than either on it's own...

It was a good night... I'll post some pics as soon as my fellow Irishmen and women wake and upload from their various broken and unbroken technological appendages--after all, the proof is in the car bomb...

---

---

For those who wish to make their own Irish car bomb:

• 1/2 oz. Irish Cream (Bailey's)
• 1/2 pint Stout (Guinness)
• 1/2 oz. Whiskey, Irish (Jameson)

Mixing Instructions:
Pour half a pint of chilled Guinness into a beer mug and let it settle. Take a shot glass filled with 1/2 oz. of Irish whiskey on the bottom and 1/2 oz. of Irish cream on top. Drop the shot glass into the Guinness and chug.

Chug, chug, chug, chug-chug-chug-chug-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG...

Kiss Me... I'm Irish!

Makes us all wish we had just a bit more of the Irish in us, yes? Hubba-hubba...

Happy St. Patrick's Day everybody!

Thanks to Restoring Love for the pic.

The Dreams of Death...

We dream of the day when, the very men and women who were "created" equal are actually treated that way. When no one goes hungry, no one get sick, the old die peacefully and the young grow up healthy, strong, well-educated, with respect and dignity...

What is the cost of this Utopia? Some seem to think it's in giving your life over to a god, or an equally-worshiped deity of some kind. Others grasp at platitudes and proverbs and turn them into mantras for life.

I've just finished watching the 1988 version of the film Appleseed, which I first heard about over at Exploring Our Matrix in this post. Granted, I haven't seen the actual movie James McGrath is speaking of here--it's sitting on my coffee table as we speak, waiting for me to first finish the 2004 remake Appleseed of the 1988 version of Appleseed I just finished watching so that I can then watch the third installment in the series also named Appleseed... (You follow all that?)

Basically, in the city of Olympus, 80% of the humans have been genetically modified since birth to be happy in this Utopia, created after WWII, while the other 20% have been brought in "from the outside," "saved" as it were, from the fate worse then death they had been living beyond the walls of Olympus...

And it was killing them, these humans. (Some of them anyway...). Right from the outset we witness a woman go off the deep end (quite literally!), unable to live in the perfect society to which she has been brought, longing for her freedom from the "perfectness" of it all...

What is the cost of Utopia? Is it our freedoms? In Christian mythology, after this life full of its hardships and toils surrounded by a curse of "original sin" and pain and death, we will be brought to a place of perfect peace and tranquility, where no sadness exists, food is plentiful, pain not even a memory, and joy abounds like a two-year-old boy in a mud puddle!

Trust me, you wouldn't be the first person to cry, "Ugh! Sounds like hell!" (One wonders how many Christians will actually end up there and come to the same conclusion!!) Most Western religions actually vary very little on this theme (although one wonders what happens when the Muslim has slept with all seventy-two of his virgins... Does he apply for new ones? Or simply live the rest of his eternal afterlife being nagged by seventy-two different women?), and since I've been told multiple times that hell is exactly where I'm going, I can't help but wonder if that means I'll be in their heaven after all... (unfortunately, however, this would ruin the promised experience for them...)

I can't help but think that if it was bliss and peace we as humans truly desired, we'd have it by now... What, after all, can we not achieve if we but try? And to be honest, the effort these days is hardly much more than a whim. Sure, we love the stories of how billionaires spend money to rid the malaria from the tiny corners of the Earth where it still thrives (and true, too, that it thrives there unnecessarily!). But we also love the story of the man or woman who brings themselves up by their own boot straps, creating a better life for themselves and/or their children through sheer will power and guts alone--could it be these romanticized stories of hardship and pain are the reason alone we haven't achieved are own Utopia already? Are we just too lazy to be bothered with those backwoods corners of the Earth that haven't eradicated malaria (or whatever) themselves, waiting for the heroic story of the local person who did it without Bill Gates' money?

Or could it be that we already know that, were we to even try, something else would come along and ruin the dream?

What is the price of Utopia? What is the cost?

I recently read on a chat site where our planet would be a lot better off if we as humans didn't even exist--better off for who? The animals? As if they wouldn't continue hunting each other for food and territory... As if animals still wouldn't go extinct... As if volcanoes weren't just as effective--if not better--at spilling carnage and pollution into the atmosphere... "Better" is very subjective, as we can see. Additionally, how could something be labeled "better" if no one were around to say what "better" actually was? And how could it possibly be "better" for us--the very keepers of such whims and notions as "better" and "worse," "good" and "bad"--to not be here?

Utopia may be the dream for most--call it "heaven," "nirvana," "Abraham's bosom"--it all means the same thing--and end to Life.

"Life is pain, highness!" the man in black cried to the weeping woman who wished simply to be back safe in the palace with the man she did not love. To finish the quote? "Anyone who says differently is selling something..."

Selling heaven, selling salvation, selling a gadget for $19.95 that slices, dices, and does the dishes afterward (for an additional $5.95, of course, and only in the next five minutes...)

This post may seem a bit dreary to you, dear reader--after all, if life is nothing without the pain and suffering which made us--continually makes us--who we are and what, pray tell, is the point?

Perhaps you missed it--Life is the point. If eternal bliss means feeling nothing, I'll kindly take a pass. If peace forever means giving up being me? I'll wait for the next car. If reaching Utopia means I must give up my flaws and imperfections, then what's to become of me? Who will I be? What will keep me human? How can it possibly be an afterlife if the life part has been eradicated?

Yes, it sucks to being born with nothing and having to struggle for that first breath of air. It blows even bigger monkey chunks to die after struggling for so long to make it however far you make it in life--what with the cars, the house, the 2.5 kids, and the dog that thinks you're god... But the reason you appreciate them so IS because of the work involved--the struggles, the pain, the adversity, and ultimately the triumph--all before the next thing comes along that needs a good conquering.

It could be that perhaps Utopia would be best--after all, how can you possibly miss living if you don't remember having lived? If all the pain and sorrow and whatnot have been removed, how are you going to know all that you're missing out on? All the living you had done to reach this Utopia? If Utopia strips you of everything that made you who you are and everything you have experienced, perhaps you can be brainwashed into loving the fact that nothing ever happens for eternity...

Of course, you may as well just call it death... After all, isn't death what comes after life?

It Always Says What You Think It Says...

---

A preacher was telling his congregation that anything they could think of, old or new, was discussed somewhere in the Bible and that the entirety of the human experience could be found there. After the service, he was approached by a woman who said, "Preacher, I don't believe the Bible mentions PMS mood swings." The preacher replied that he was sure it must be there somewhere and that he would look for it.

The following week after the service, the preacher called the woman aside and showed her a passage which read, "And Mary rode Joseph's ass all the way to Bethlehem."

---

Darling Dearest...

Rich is seriously considering revoking my status as a gay man...

Let me explain: About seven months ago, he decided on a whim to buy the movie Mommy Dearest, claiming this was a "must see" movie for any and all gay men. I shrugged.

Off and on every few weeks on a night when no Netflix movie had appeared in our mailbox, he would tentatively offer, "We could watch Mommy Dearest you know," as if I were simply dying to watch a movie I had never heard of about Joan Crawford, you know?

Granted, my membership as a gay man was already questionable, what with my aversion to anything labeled a "musical" and a distinct distaste for Bette Middler and Barry Manilow albums. But my passion for dance music generally and a dying devotion to Moulin Rogue has thus far kept my membership from lapsing, you see?

So as I lay healing, contemplating my navel (quite literally the Frankenstein version thereof...), his words drifted through the air once more and my will power collapsed:

---

Me: Fine, put in Mommy Dearest and let's see what all of the hoopla is all about.
Rich: When you put it like that, I'm not sure I want to anymore.
Me: You have been ragging me to watch this for months! Either we watch it now or it goes on eBay.
Rich: But it's my movie!
Me: Anything we do not use is fair game, I'm sorry--those are the rules we made.
Rich: Fine--but you're going to love it!

---

"Love" isn't exactly the word to describe it. "Boring," perhaps, or "Blah," but Love? Not quite.

Adding to the utter amazement at how such a movie could ever have become a cult classic was my own confusion: Yes, I heard the references to "Joan Crawford," but in my head I kept picturing "Joan Rivers"! I kept asking things like, "This is a biography?" and "This is supposedly a true story?" and always met with a resounding, "Shh! Yes!" as Rich sat enraptured by the show playing on our television.

Then there was the ending.

---

Me: She's dead? I thought you said this was a biography!
Rich: It is!
Me: But she's not dead!
Rich: She's been dead for a while, darling.
Me: Then who's the chick doing the E! fashion stuff? With the big mouth?
Rich: That's Joan Rivers.
Me: Oh... Oh, so this is the woman who wrote that Valley of the Dolls book?
Rich: That was Joan Collins.
Me: Then who the hell was this?
Rich: Joan Crawford. Big-time actress.
Me: Yeah, I got that, but what's she been in?
Rich: Oh, things like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, Torch Song--a bunch of others.
Me: Well, I've heard of the first one...
Rich: You've never seen Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?!
Me: Based on other movies you've been excited about recently? I'm not missing much.
Rich: Are you sure you're gay?
Me: What?
Rich: I think you're in danger of having your license revoked.
Me: Because I found this movie wanting and haven't seen the other?
Rich: Among other things.
Me: Okay, Mister "I wish the eighties were back." Talk to me when you can pick out something not in neon orange on your own, okay?
Rich: Is that so, Mister "I still think Jeans and T-shirts are a classic look"?
Me: They are.
Rich: I wonder if WalMart has Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
Me: Oh, god... If I lose my gay membership, you lose your WalMart privileges--fair enough?
Rich: (He grins) Fair enough.

---

Now if only I could locate that damn agenda everyone keeps telling me I'm supposed to have...

On Being "Not in Pain..."

You remember, dear reader, when I mentioned briefly the fact that I was to be "scanned" on Saturday to "see what was going on in there," right? There was a possibility of diverticulitis or some such other disturbing intestinal issue...

Well... That was the understatement of the century!

It started Saturday morning--a very unassuming, kind of pretty morning, where a few birds decided to sing and we had an easy time finding the hospital where the CT scan was supposed to take place. I drank the tepid, stale-milkshake tasting crap ("tasty barium solution") beginning at 7:45 am, 8:40 am, and then at 9:10 am. Blech! They place me on a table, run me back and forth through a metal donut a few times all the while piping something into my veins through my left knuckle. (Due to many hospitalizations in my life, most of my elbow veins are quite... collapsed?... leaving the rest of my arms open for needle infestation wherever they can get blood to appear...) Fifteen minutes later they tell me I can go, so Rich and I head to the coal place to buy some bags of coal to heat our home. 45 minutes later, as I am lugging 30 lb bags of chestnut coal into the house and Rich lays down for a nap (having only had four hours of sleep due to double shifts and not knowing what this appointment involved), my cell phone begins ringing. I don't recognize the number, so I don't answer--half the time my cell doesn't connect at home anyway, so I figure I'll check my voice mail after eating a nice big lunch--the first lunch in over two weeks in which I'm allowed to start "reintroducing carbs" into my diet. I'm imagining a nice grilled cheese sandwich with a few fries dipped in honey mustard... Heaven on a plate, I tell you...

But my phone keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing. They never leave voice mails, it's like three different numbers, over and over again. I grab Rich's cell as he half dozes on the couch and dial one of the numbers:

---

ME: Hi, uh... Someone keeps calling me from this number? My name is Jason Hughes? (I don't know why I say this as a question, but there it is, hanging there the same way bricks don't...)
Woman: Yes, thank you for calling, I'm connecting you to Dr Carlson now.
Me: Wait, I-- (I've been put on hold... Why is hot intern Doc calling me?)
Doctor: Jason? Thank god, how are you feeling?
Me: Uh, fine... How are you?
Doctor: You--you feel fine?
Me: Yeeeeessssss....
Doctor: No pain?
Me: Nnnnnooooooo....
Doctor: You need to get back to the hospital right away!
Me: Um, okay, but why?
Doctor: You really have no pain?
Me: No, in fact I was about to eat lunch--
Doctor: Don't EAT!!!!
Me: Uh--okay. (I drop the sandwich as if a snake has just appeared between the leaves of lettuce... Rich stares at me curiously...)
Doctor: Your gall bladder is on the verge of exploding!
Me: Um--come again?
Doctor: Radiology called me, and that never happens. You must return to the hospital ASAP before it ruptures!
Me: My gall bladder is going to explode? (Rich sits up wide-eyed, his mouth forming a "whaaa....?")
Doctor: Yes, go straight to the ER immediately. Your--your really not in any pain at all?
Me: No, I feel fine. Great, actually.
Doctor: Amazing. Get to the ER.

---

I spend the next half hour calming Rich down and we set out once again for the half-hour-away hospital. I feel no sense of urgency, mind you--have I mentioned how great I feel?--but Rich is beside himself, apologizing for every pot hole hit, for every Sunday driver in front of us on this Saturday, for every song he likes that I disdain that pops up on the radio...

We get to the ER where Rich's dad is anxiously awaiting to see me doubled over in pain and agony--after all, Rich's quick message to their answering machine left little to their imagination--"I have to run Jay to the ER--his gall bladder is exploding!!"--and is amazed as I walk in and greet him with a hug. I walk over to the receptionist in the ER.

---

Me: Hi, yes, I'm here because I'm suffering from Choleocetesis? (again, the question hangs there... She eye balls me...)
Receptionist: Are you sure?
Me: According to the latest and greatest in technology, yes.
Receptionist: Well, fill out this form, we'll be right with you.

---

I can hear the unspoken "Hypochondriac!" added to the end of that sentence. I fill out the forms, chatting amiably with an amazed father-in-law and a beside-himself husband. They finally call my name and am ushered behind a curtain and handed a gown--you know the kind, one-size fits none, the world can see your ass gown. I change and sit crossed-legged on the bed and amuse myself with games on my cell phone. The curtain gets ripped to the side and a doctor and nurse approach with what is to become a very routine Q&A session:

---

Doctor: Tell me your name, birth date, and what you are here for.
Me: Jason Hughes, January 1976, Choleocetesis. (He looks up in alarm.)
Doctor: Gall Bladder attack? Show me where the pain is.
Me: I don't have any.
Doctor: You don't--no pain?
Me: No.
Doctor: Lay back. (He pressed various parts of my abdomen, looking for any sign of pain or discomfort...) Here? How about here? Here?
Me: Nope. No. Uh-uh.
Doctor: Who told you you were having a gall bladder attack?
Me: (I relate the events of the past two weeks.)
Doctor: And you have no pain.
Me: Nope. (I'm quite bored with the amazement of this by now, but nonetheless continue to answer this question repeatedly. Of course, now he's looking at me like I've just arrived from Carckhouse #4 looking for my next pain-killer fix...)
Doctor: Well, I'll go take a look at the results of your test. We'll be back in a few minutes.

---

Yes, a few minutes. Hospital speak for an hour or two. I continue my game of Jewel Quest until they reappear ten boards later...

---

Doctor: Wow... This is bad. Very bad. Uh, still no pain?
Me: No. (I half-sigh this.)
Doctor: Uh-huh. Well, we'll be admitting you shortly. In the meantime, you should call someone--
Me: My partner is in the ER waiting room.
Doctor: Nurse, bring him back so we can fill him in and get this patient admitted STAT. (I'm a bit amazed at the use of "STAT." I thought that was a television ER thing only!) We'll also be ordering an ultrasound to get a better picture of just how imminent this gall bladder explosion is, okay? See you soon.

---

I'm shown to a new curtain, ordered to fill a plastic cup with urine ("Mid-stream, now, not at the end or beginning or urination, mid-stream!"), and wait patiently with Rich until another doctor shows up. In the meantime, my parents stop in for a visit, Rich wanders back and forth between complete worry and emotional breakdown. All the while I chat with nurses coming and going, filling vials of blood from various parts of my arms (yet never the elbows), inserting an IV, and listening to the older-than-Jesus woman in the next bed complaining about her leg pain. (In fact, she gets quite loud when I'm wheeled out for an ultrasound before she is...). After all that, another doctor comes in.

---

Doctor: Name, birth date, complaint?
Me: Blah, blah, blah...
Doctor: And what have they given you for pain? (peering at my chart...)
Me: Nothing. I'm not--
Doctor: Nothing for the pain? Nurse!
Me: I'm not in any pain!
Doctor: What?
Me: (Sigh.) I'm not in any pain.
Doctor: Do you have a football game or something coming up?
Me: Do you need glasses?
Doctor: Excuse me?
Me: I'm thirty-three--who am I playing football for?
Doctor: Well, men like to play down pain so as not to interfere with various activities they have going on...
Me: (Apparently I need to sound more convincing...) I'm NOT IN PAIN. Honestly.
Doctor: I'm going to go take a look at the results of your test. (He is also now giving me the "Hypochondriac Crack-whore" look...)

---

I sigh again as Rich looks worriedly into my eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks. At this point, I'm so worried he's going to drop over of a stress-related heart attack, I send him off to find food and liquid for himself (yet telling him it's for me...) When the doctor returns, there is more of the "This is bad" and "This needs to come out now" talk and I'm sent up to Floor 5. I'm visited by two of the Fab Five with their spouses and children, in which my niece, poor sweet thing, says "I don't want you to die!" We console her and continue to josh and chat happily away--still not in pain. I'm beginning to imagine how my malpractice suit will take shape. Rich's parents also stop in for a brief visit and then it's off to surgery where there is much more amazement about my painless existence on this planet, more rechecking of my "tests," and still more urgency about getting my gall bladder out. From what I can gather, I have a gall bladder on the verge of exploding with one huge stone blocking all entry/exit from said bladder, and many little gall stone buddies hanging out behind him, all waiting their turns to wreak pain on my body. The large stone is apparently my saving grace from pain as it keeps all the other stones built up behind him from doing anything. Yet, at the same time, since the "bile" can also not leave, it's trying to create new exits (hence, the imminent explosion...), and I seem to be up a creek...

At midnight I am wheeled into the OR. Painless.

At 3:00 am Sunday morning, I awake. In pain.

Go figure.

As I drift back and forth between sleep and wakefulness, various nurses come and go, asking me questions, drawing more blood, hanging more IV bags, my poor husband trying to sleep but be there beside me whenever I wake up, however briefly. I get more visits from friends and family, a bunch of phone calls, and a nephew who makes me promise not to die for another 800 years (I promise him only fifty...) and am discharged at the end of the day on Sunday... Less than 24 hours after being sliced like a deli ham...

I've been recuperating at my mother's house (with Rich stopping in every day between work shifts) as she reintroduces me to all that I've been missing on television the last nine months, playing Nurse Good Body (as she so names herself--"I'm Nurse Good Body without the Good Body!") and slowly healing. My stomach is strangely misshapen, of course. There are five new holes just above the scar left behind when the appendix was removed in 1991, and I realize I won't be winning any "Navel of the Year" awards... ever. Suffice to say, however, that with the removal of my gall bladder, according to two doctors now, all of the heartburn and stomach pain I've been experiencing and chalking up to "getting older" have all been the result of my failing gall bladder. I've most likely been suffering this for years and the many empty bottles of tums, Pepto, Pepsid, Milk of Magnesia, all of it--should now be history.

I think that's the most amazing thing about this. I can eat red meat again without fear. Orange juice can be a part of my mornings again. Onions need not be shunned. Chili peppers are my friends again. Granted, without my gall bladder, I'm told there will be some things my body won't be able to process, but since every one's body is different, I just have to see what happens after eating certain things and then decide if it's worth it. (Apparently, some people find they can no longer eat anything greasy while others can now eat things they never could before! Go figure!) But this should end approximately five years of a diminishing array of foods and reopen my life to those things everyone else could eat without issue...

Finally painless in all areas of my diet.

Life should be good once again!

"You mean, you put down your rock and I put down my sword and we try to kill each other like civilized people? "

It starts with an auction. An auction for a god-awful, ugly-ass statue of a Pegasus and her colt getting ready to take flight. Actually, if you're into that kind of stuff, it was quite lovely--but I wasn't feeling it.

It went on eBay. Gladly.

It sold. On eBay. For $1.81. Not that I planned on retiring on this sale--don't get me wrong. The whole point is to get rid of things! And it's $1.81 more than I had before!

But then pain happened and hence, I didn't check my email for two days. This stuff happens, you know? Well, at least to me they do. Perhaps you have a better, healthier life. Who's to say?

Regardless, once I've regained my health (If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything...), I'm going through my emails, getting ready to ship those items that have sold, and I received this message about the Pegasus statue:

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I did not bid on this item. I think that my aunt did and she is not here. Please don't give me a bad rating for not buying this item. I am sorry for the inconvenience. Please respond. Thank you.

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Uh-huh. Okay, whatever. You are a moron--I get that. I delay response and continue going through the emails when I see this one from the very same person in regards to the very same statue:

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Can you please leve me feedback and when I get the item I will be sure to do the same for you. Thank you.

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Um... Ooooookaaaaaaayyy...

So I ship the item. Never mind that this person has multiple personalities all vying to spend her $1.81 (plus $7.00 S&H, insurance optional but recommended...). True to the schizophrenics wishes, I did not add insurance, packed it tightly in a thick cardboard box surrounded by newspapers and plastic bags as tightly as possible to keep the thing as safe as possible--granted, I think the thing is uglier than Bug-Blathered Beast of Trall, that doesn't mean I am an unconscientiousness shipper, ya know?

But things happen. Specifically, postal workers go postal on their packages and sometimes things arrive broken--this, my friends, is life. It's happened to me, it's happened to Rich, it's happened to everyone. That's why insurance is offered, ya know?

So I get another email from the schizo:

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I have just got the item and it is broke in many pieces. I want to see if you will send me a new one. Or give me my money back. I can send it back to you if you would like. Please respond.

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Issue #1: It says at the end of my auctions, No refunds or exchanges are offered! I think that's pretty clear.

Issue #2: EBay is also quite clear in the terms of service in regards to damaged items in transit: BUY INSURANCE!

So I compose what I feel is a quite reasonable response:

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I'm sorry to hear that your item was damaged in transit. As this was a one-of-a-kind item, we do not have any other Pegasus statues on hand and thus, cannot offer a replacement.

Unfortunately, insurance was offered when you paid for this item and you chose not to purchase the insurance for $1.00, as stated both in the item listing and on your shipping invoice. Therefore, we can also not issue a refund. You are more than welcome to take this up with either eBay or with the Postal Service which delivered your item as the item was packed with due care and shipped accordingly. Although we cannot foresee all things that may occur while an item is in transit, we do offer you the opportunity to purchase insurance, thus guaranteeing you the opportunity to reclaim your money should something unfortunate occur.

Again, our condolences on the damage to the item, but there is nothing further we can do to rectify the situation.

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What I wanted to say is "Tough shit!", but being the generally nice guy that I am, I try to say it gently and with compassion.

And I get this:

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When you packed this you used plastic bags from the store. You did not pack this to where it would not break. Not only that it looks like it was broken before! If you do not return my money I will file a complaint with E-Bay!

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Tell me, dear reader: How does a broken item "look like it was broken before"? Apparently she is psychic AND schizophrenic! A real seller's dream! Just my luck!

I respond again:

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When we packed this item, we did indeed fill it with plastic bags to cushion the item as it traveled--we packed the box full to ensure that the item could be as safe as we could possibly make it. I resent that you imply I sold you an item that was broken previously--I have never misrepresented any item I have sold, nor have I ever had an item break in transit before. As stated before, we took all due care with packing this item as we do any item before shipping. We offer insurance to be purchased just in case any circumstance such as this were to happen.

You are more than welcome to file a complaint with eBay as I know we didn't do anything untoward, nor did we misrepresent anything about this item. While I do feel sorry that the item arrived broken as I wouldn't ship out anything I didn't think was safe enough to travel (after all, why would I want the grief??), these things do happen.

As I said, please feel free to take this up with eBay or the Postal Service, and hope that you do remember in the future to purchase insurance on items so that this unfortunate circumstance is never repeated.

I will await a letter from eBay in response to your complaint.

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That's that! I think triumphantly, hitting "send." After all, I know I'm well within my bounds as a seller--I have a 100% rating of 137, have always managed to satisfy my customers. I take great pride in this.

And what do I get?

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I would like to send you photos of what I recieved. Can I get and e-mail address to send them to Please

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I love how "Please" is an after-thought. Someone is singing a different tune! Ha! Someone has actually started talking to eBay and learned the sad truth. I respond:

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All correspondence will be maintained through eBay's mailing service, for my own protection as well as yours. I have been in contact with eBay and waiting to hear from them with regards to how to handle this situation.

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I didn't hear anything back. Finally! I think, and begin doing what I actually get PAID to do--work during business hours!

But the more I thought about it, the more I started thinking about just refunding her damn money. After all, $1.81 never broke the bank, did it? Obviously this is a person who isn't playing with a full deck of cards--they don't want it, they do want it, they don't want it, they do want it... Blah, blah, blah...

So I compose one last message:

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Dear _____________,

We have decided to refund your purchase price for this item. Being that you are apparently new to eBay (with a feedback score of only 11), perhaps you didn't realize all that can happen with a transaction of this type. Perhaps purchasing insurance never crossed your mind as a necessity rather then a way to get another $1.70 out of you. Rest assured that within the next two business days, you will be refunded. However, please note that this is against my own personal policy, was well within my rights concerning eBay selling guidelines to refuse the refund, and am not responsible for how a carrier handles such items once they leave my possession. I can only hope you have learned the value of insurance on such items.

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There, I thought. I'm still the Nice Guy. I hate myself for it on some level, but on another, I know that this deranged person will perhaps benefit and learn from their idiocy (and hopefully never bid on another item of mine again!!)

As of right now, the refund has been claimed with nary a thank you or an apology, or even an acknowledgment--Nada! While I realize that courtesy isn't foremost on most people's lists of things to keep in mind when dealing with others, you would think she would say something, even if it's only to gloat or something, ya know?

This is simply reason Number 842 of why I hate people...