My Face, Your Ass

Today started out like any other day: me waking up, getting ready for the day with cereal and coffee, petting Goliath (Oh! We got a kitty named Goliath. I shall have to put up a posting about him. I am becoming a crazy cat person) and then leaving for a nice leisurely stroll to the Providence Train Station to catch the train to Boston.
While on the train I read, I doze off, I wake up and read, then doze off (perhaps I should go to bed earlier) then wake up and get off the train at back bay station.
This is usually a cattle rustle because everyone is mindless, and we just funnel through two sets of double doors and either walk or take the escalator up to the main platform of the station.
I decided to take the stairs because, ya know, I'm a chunky monkey and I need the exercise. As I'm walking up the stairs, I notice that a 20 something dude on the escalator is staring at me. I don't get self conscious or anything, I just immediately go to the most vain part of my mind: Oh he wants me.
I turn my head and smile at him, and just at that moment all traffic on the stairs stops, but I keep going. Unfortunately, the stairs are arranged so that your head is about the same level as the ass of the person in front of you.
I did a big ol face plant right into the old dudes ass.
Thank God for pants, because I was so deep up there I would have been able to tell what he had for dinner last night.
It is hard to pull away from giving someone a free colonoscopy with your face without looking like a total ass (pun here. Get it?) . I didn't. The guy in front of me turned around and gave me a doughy "I'm being herded like cattle and something new just happened and I don't know what to do so I'll keep eating my cud" look. I apologized. In fact I think I said something like "Oh my god, sorry, ew, sorry oh god, sorry" and kind of under my breath.
The guy next to me on the escalator kept going, but he saw the whole thing, and of course the son of a bitch was laughing.
Screw you ya bastard. I wasn't attracted to you in the first place, you slope headed, fish faced, mouth breather.
I needed to drain the lizard so I stopped by the Back Bay bathroom to relieve myself. So I pee (point of interest, it apparently doesn't matter where you piss in this bathroom. The walls and floor are saturated with it. Even the air. Gross), decide against washing my hands in the toilet paper clogged sinks, whip out my purell and give my hands a sterilizing once over.
As I head out, I notice in the mirror that I have this huge boogey hanging out of my nose. And then I realize that that was probably what the guy on the escalator was looking at. Well thanks for telling me, ya jerk!
Like I said, my day started off pretty normal, and so far it is just par for the course.

I am become an old man.

Last Friday, I went to bed at 9:30pm.
Last Saturday, I awoke at 8:00am.
Last Saturday night, I went to bed at 10:00pm.
Last Sunday, I awoke at 7:30am.

What the hell? At what point did I become old? In college, those awoke / went to bed times were reversed. This is an horrific step in the journey to wearing suspenders that hold my pants up around my armpits, and I look forward to my mashed banana, "Are You Being Served" at 7pm on PBS, and having slow easy glide enemas to ease my constipation. You know what I mean, this is the journey of a thousand miles and it is starting with a bed time. Damn it.

Today I woke up with a swollen toe. Not in a good "A storm is coming" way but a "Oh shit, my warranty is up" way. The second metatarsal / phalanges on my left foot decided that it didn't want to work. I woke up and it said "Hey, fuck it. I'm done. Count me out."
I figured that this new development was something that maybe needed to be walked off.
Nope.

It seems that the rest of the toes are fine, but my second one it just refuses to lift up. That's when the pain happens, trying to bend my toe upwards like in a normal step. As I hobbled into work, I called my doctor and made an appointment for later in the day.

Fast forward 6 horrific and painful hours (I was at work after all. The toe was just annoying and unpleasant) I called a cab, and hauled my ass over to the doctor's office.
He watched me squirm out of my shoe, then examined my toe and said "Well, it might be broken. What did you do?"
"Nothing. I woke up."
And this is what he says, I shit you not:
"Ah, it's starting."
Holy shit! Is there like a clock on my back?! Does he actually measure your life using http://www.deathclock.com/ ?

Sitting there crestfallen, shell shocked, and dumbfounded (all at once) at his implication that I am not immortal he continues to poke and prod my toe watching me wince the whole time. He's a sadist, I'm sure of it now.

He gave me an order slip to go have X-rays taken of my foot just down the street. I said thank you, paid my $25 co-pay and limped out of there.

My doctor's office was very polite and considerate, and had made me an emergency appointment with a podiatrist down the road. I was to get my X-rays taken and then head on up to this foot lover's guild.

My primary care physician is at 1269 Beacon Street. The radiology lab and the podiatrist at both at 1101 Beacon Street. The appointment is for 3:15. It is now 2:50 and I'm walking 10 feet in as many minutes.

In fear that I wouldn't get help, I started to walk faster and in the process I am sure damage my foot even more. But I'm a champ so I grit my teeth, curse under my breath, and over my breath, and haul my chubby ass to the doctors. I make it to the Radiology lab and surprisingly am seen very fast. Like seconds. This nice woman leads me into a thick walled room, tells me to take off my shoe, hop up onto this cold metal table, and put my foot on this black sheet of photo film.

She then casually hands me a lead apron and says "Yeah, cover your lap with this."

Ok bitch. A few things we need to go over.

1) Your casual patient/nurse decorum is fine out in the hallway, but when you are gonna fire up a 12 million watt, X-ray inducing machine, I'd prefer if you'd take on a little more professional tone.

2) My lap? Or my BALLS?! Which one? Cause this 1' square piece of lead ain't gonna cover the massive contents of crotchel region. I'm just sayin' is all.

3) You are firing sperm killing, mutation engaging, freak creating X-RAYS at my body, and I know it is old hat for you, but SHOULD I COVER MY FUCKING BALLS WITH SOMETHING OTHER THAN THIS TINY PIECE OF LEAD CLOTH THAT YOU'VE HANDED ME?!!!!!

Before I could spurt out any of these questions, the bitch disappeared behind her lead shield. In panic I grasped my kugelsac through the lead cloth and heard the characteristic angry electronic bark indicating that I'd been saturated with super power inducing X-rays.

"Move your foot to the left" - MMMERRRZAP!

"To the right" - MMMERRRZAP!!!!

"Now place your head under the lamp" - MMMMMMMMMMEEEEERRZZZAP!!!!!

Ok, that last one didn't happen, but it may as well could have for all you know.

I saw the digital negatives come up on screen, and I asked if there would be a way that I could have a copy. The nurse smiled and said "Sure, you can have some should you need a second opinion".

So the nice X-Ray technologist who just created mutated sperm in my gonads pleasantly handed over a copy of my foot bones to me. Isn't that special?

Here they are. Photo quality might not be the greatest, but here goes:

Ok, so now it is 3:15 and I have to haul my ass up 2 flights of stairs ( I took the elevator, of course) and I show up to the foot fetish lounge.

I answer some insurance questions, get asked several times who my primary doctor is, and after every answer I get "Oh...Him."

Alright, little creepy, but whatever. I like him. I'll look past this.

So I get led into this back room, and I'm told to take my socks and shoes off so the doctor will be better able to come in and suck on my toes. I mean examine my toes.

Side note: You have to be messed up to want to work with feet. I mean, working with intestine is shitty, but at least it isn't with people's nasty ass feet. Don't get me wrong, my feet are perfect, but I'm just sayin', some peoples aren't so good.

This portly older gentlemen whom I can only describe looks like a southern Colonel minus the weird white goatee comes in and greets me.

This is the type of person who has charisma and presence. Someone you instantly like despite the fact that he's a stranger.

"Hello Mr. Carlson, what seems to be the trouble with your toe?"

"Well, I can't bend it. The others are fine... YEEEOWW!!!!" I scream as he bends down, grabs my bad toe, and peels it backwards.

"Guess that hurt huh?" he chuckled

Despite myself, and the blinding wall of red pain that I'm seeing through, I chuckle as well. What can I say? This guy has an affability that needs to be researched.

"Does it hurt when you pee?"

"Yeah, but only because I squeeze every last drop out"

Chuckle. "I mean, does it burn?"

"No. That's a foot related question?"

"Yes haha, it might mean you have (something or other that I completely forgot because he then man handled my toe, sending waves of agony up into the pit of my stomach)"

He took my X-rays, looked at them, and saw something there that I didn't see at all (Oh, if you look real close, you'll see I have a bone spur on my big toe. Isn't that interesting / disgusting?)

As I was looking at the X-Rays, he bent down and began suckling on my toes. "I'm testing to see if there are any bacterial infections. This may take a minute". Ok, that didn't happen, but I know that kinky freak was thinkin' it. Him an his lovable portliness.

"Do you eat beef? Drink excessive amounts of red wine?"

No, and no.

"Might be gout, might be arthritis. We'll get some blood work done on you, and we'll see what it is. For now we'll put you in a buddy splint." - which basically is means he just taped my big toe to the damaged toe next to it. Surprisingly it did help. These freaky foot doctors sure know their stuff! He bandaged me up, caressed my foot for a few more minutes, moaned inappropriately, and then smelled his hands. No lie.

Ok, maybe a little lie. The bandaging did happen though.

He then says to me "Don't worry, maybe it is just some inflammation. Nothing to be worried about." Stands up, says goodbye to me, then heads out the door.

Not three feet from the door, his nurse practitioner says "So what's the verdict?" And as loud as if he were talking across the room, says "Probably Gout."

WTF?! Give me a straight answer you sideways foot loving pain inducing ..... aw, I can't stay mad at you! You're so portly and cuddly!! (Fuck, how does that man do it!!!)

I hop on down to the lab to get my blood work done, and of course they are closed for the day. Not wanting to have to come back again for blood work alone, I remember that there is another lab 2 blocks down the street.

Ok, I can walk 10 feet in 7 minutes, that should only take me 5 more hours. Dammit!
Again, I grit my teeth, spit blood, and of course push an old woman who happened to be walking faster than me over on the way there.

I get to the lab, and of course there is drama there. So much so that I'm a little worried.

"I'm supposed to be done for the day, I ain't doing any more!" screams a woman.

"They've been waiting an hour!" screams the boss.

Oh god. Great, this cross eyed pin sticker is pissed, and she's going to take it out on me.

My turn comes up, and I hobble over. "Oh great, your info isn't filled out. Your doctor probably wanted to get out of there, just like me."

In my humble and terrified voice, I say "I'm sorry" (Insert puppy dog eyes here)

"Oh honey, don't worry, it's ok. I'm not upset at you." Success!!!! I can still win 'em over.

So here I am. Waiting to see if I have gout. I was going to research the disease, but instead I figured I'd type it into my blog. My god, this took almost an hour. Time to get to bed!!

Fashion Faux Paux

Several months ago, I bought (on sale of course) a shoulder bag / satchel / man purse at The GAP for around $30. My previous shoulder bag had waisted away where the straps hinge to the bag. This one was kind of nice; the shoulder straps had metal hinges that attached to metal brackets on the bag, so there would (hopefully) be no cloth deterioration on the straps.
I have to admit, this is a nice bag: Brass buckles, leather straps, smooth black fabric. It's fancier than what I need it for which is dumping assorted gum wrappers, holding purell bottles, stuffing my yellow and black scarf that resembles the House of Hufflepuff that was hand made by my mother, and whatever book I am reading at the time.
Today on my commute into work, I wedge myself down into a seat on the orange line, and dive balls deep into my Bon Appetite magazine. I was perusing a letter a woman had written concerning her love affair with Celery Root (no lie) when I happened to glance up and see a very pinched, curt, coiffed man standing before me.
This was the sort of man that you instantly identify as trendy, fashionable, and of course, a flaming homosexual.
His shoulder bag was at my eye level, and low and behold, he had the same exact one I had purchased and was now resting on my lap. When people hang out and we are wearing the same articles of clothing, I really don't give a damn. Who cares? We happened to buy the same thing (probably on sale) and happened to wear it at the same time. No big whoop.
Other people (typically people you see on Jersey Shore, douche bags, people over concerned with appearance and fashion, shallow people, and people I just generally don't like very much) get wicked freaked out by this and will often leave a party to go change, or distance themselves to opposite sides of the room so as to not look like you are together. Such as this primped little bitch standing before me.
He sees me eyeing his bag, looks down at my crouch (or course he would, how can you not? It is so impressive and all. Hell, I'm looking at my crotch as I type this) and sees my bag in my lap.
The little queen huffs, makes a sour, disgusted look at me and my bag, makes sure I see him look at my bag, and moves (MOVES!!) down the train to the other end.
I laugh out loud (I lol'ed. Literally) and continued reading about how a woman desires the knobby fibers of the celery root. I love people! It takes all kinds to fill a subway car. :).
Happy Commuting!

It is only funny when I do it.

Yesterday, as I was leaving work, I got onto the free LMA (Longwood medical area) shuttle. It takes you from the LMA to Ruggles station, all in all saving about a 15-20 minute walk. As per usual, we packed in like sardines. Usually when this happens I just stand and bare it. It's only about a 6 minute drive so I kind of zone out, or check out any of the hotties that happen to be on the bus today (or who happen to be jogging along the river way.)
As I'm about to enter my commuter zombie-like trance, I caught a whiff. For those of you who know me, I'm big into smells. I like trying to describe them as accurately as possible so you, the reader, get the full olfactory joy of what it is I'm experiencing.
This will be no exception in my case, but what I smelled was nothing other than a rancid Bologna fart. Pure and simple. I can't describe it any more acutely than that. It smelled like someone shoved a slice of Bologna up their ass, and then let out a little squeaker.
It was bad. I mean real bad. My eyes were watering, and I was nauseous. I tried frantically and deliriously to open a window, but they'd all been locked shut for the winter.
Seriously people?! Farting! In public?! Disgusting! Who does that? That is not funny.
As the bus pulls around to drop people off, I burst out of the doors in the comical cartoon fashion and all that was left was an outline of my shape in the closed door.
I had rushed down and jumped aboard the U.S.S. Orange line, and got a good seat near the door, but not near enough that I'd have to give up my seat to an elderly person or a disabled person. Don't get me wrong, I'm not evil. I give up my seat when the train is packed, it is just that those old traces of chivalry still live in me and I feel guilty when I don't give up my seat to a woman who looks older than I do.
All was well on the orange line. Typical crazies: angry teenagers who are upset about something someone did, religious knobs who sell Jesus or the flying spaghetti monster, and the occasional homeless person who takes up 3 seats. All was well, until Chinatown.
Someone got on from Chinatown carrying bags of what must have been garbage. I can only describe it as such. The bags were squishy, yet paradoxically crunchy, and they had the arresting, musty funk of trash cans left out in the humid June air. The sort of stink that attracts black flys in seconds.
It was like an affront to God. It was unholy, and the angels wept.
Unfortunately I was lazy and didn't get up to move. Curse my stupid lethargic ass!
Thankfully at North Station I was given a reprieve of the stink because I had to get off. The offending bags of trash had to be moved a bit to let people off, and where they were sitting on the floor was a glistening, rainbow colored film of putrescence.
Oh man, do I love riding public transportation.

Taxi Service

Good Lord.

Ok, here we go. I'm heading down to DC for work tomorrow, and my flight is at 7am. Technically, since it is a domestic flight and I will have no checked baggage, I can probably show up around 6:30, maybe even 6:45 and be ok. But I'm friggin' paranoid, so I want to show up around 6am. That way I'll be there, I don't have to be stressing if I'm going to miss the plane, and I can sit and enjoy a coffee from Dunkins.
The trip from Reading to Logan airport is about 20 minutes, maybe more if there is traffic. I'm not too worried about there being traffic at 5:45am on a Monday morning, but I'd like to give it a little wiggle room just in case. That means, I would love to leave my house at around 5:30am to get to Logan airport for 6am, for my flight at 7am. I know there will be a lot of sitting around, but I'd rather sit and wait for an hour with my thumb up my ass than be kicking myself in the balls because I missed my flight by 45 seconds.
Being the kind and loving boyfriend that I am (I just farted and repulsed my boyfriend who was rubbing my shoulders as I type) I figured that I should take a taxi rather than wake up Tim and have him drive me.
I google up some taxi services in Reading MA, and low and behold there are 14 of 'em! Christ! How many business people need a goddam limo ride to and from the airport?!
Ok, let's see. "Calculator" (names have been changed to protect the innocent) airport service. They have 4 excellent reviews, let me try them.
First try: ring. ring. Ring. RING. RING! RRRIIINNNGG!!! Fucking pick up the god damn phone! This is 2009! Who the fuck doesn't have a friggin' answering machine this day and age?!
I hang up. And because I'm a prick I immediately call back.
Second try: Ring. Ring. RINNG. RRRRIIINNGGGG! "Hello?"
"Uh, hi, how's it going?" - shit, what was I going to ask?
"Good, can I help you?" the man asks
"OH right, I need a ride to Logan airport from Reading MA tomorrow at 5:30am"
"Ok, let me call you back and see if we are available"
Fine. Take your time. In the mean time I decided to make some english muffins (from scratch!) and also make some chicken carbonara (from scratch).
He calls back. "Sorry, my guy's out sick, let me see if I can find someone else. I'll call you back" he hangs up. Leaving me very confused.
An hour later he calls back "Ah, well, actually I can't do 5:30, is 5 - 5:15 ok?"
You know, it isn't. I already have to get up super fucking early. Any earlier and I might as well just go sleep at the damn airport. "Let me call you back"
So I go to the second one on the google list.
First try: Ring, Ring "Hello?"
"Ah, hi, how's it going?" - Why do I keep forgetting what I'm calling about? Must be C.R.S.
"Good, good, can I help you?"
"Yeah, I need a ride for tomorrow at 5:30 am..."
"Actually" he interrupts "I'm out on a porch enjoyin a beer after the Pats game, you mind calling my wife? It's a family business?"
"Hahhahaha, um, sure, what's the number" - he gives me the number and I politely hang up.
What the hell, I love family businesses. More likely not to drive like an asshole because they only have one or two cars. I figure. So I call the wife.
"Hello, first rate limo service, how can I help you?"
"Ah, hi, how are you?" - Obviously too much mercury in the water.
"I'm fine... do I know you?" says the wife.
"Probably not. I need a ride tomorrow morning at 5:30am to Logan from Reading MA"
"Oh, ok, let me check ::Pause:: yup. we can do it. That'll be $75. That ok?"
"I ain't payin' for it. Sure it's fine with me"
"haha, ok, see you 5:30 am"

Ok, because I'm such a good guy, I decide to call up "Calculator" and let him know I won't need his service.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. "Hello?"
"Oh, hi, it's me" - Like we've become best friends and I know him.
"How's it going?"
"Yeah, I'm not gonna need the ride, thanks anyway!" I say, chipper as a bird.
"Oh ok, no problem. Sorry I've not been getting back to you quicker. I just got out of the hospital. I had ah... what'd I have? Oh I had a herniated umbilical cord. Yeah. I almost died, I've been tied up for about 2 weeks. My son came over and said 'We gotta get you to a hospital'. He took me and the doctor said 'If you'd come in on Monday (this was Sunday), you'd be dead! So I've been healing up from that. I could barely sit, let alone lay down! It was wrapped around my small intestine. It messed me up!"
Ok. For those of you who say I give out too much information, you need to call up "Calculator" and talk to this guy. King of TMI. Seriously. My mouth hit the table when he was telling me this. My jaw still hurts at dropping so far. Really? Do I need to know this?! Good lord!
I sat there just saying "Oh, wow, oh my, wow, ok, huh, wow, ok". Finally he paused and I said "Well, I hope you feel better" and hung up the phone. I'm still traumatized.

Sweet scents from a cigar shapped dispenser

Riding the Orange Line yesterday, a man jumps on at Back Bay station, and he's all in a tizzy. He throws his bag down on the ground, and starts assessing himself as though he's been shot. I think nothing of it: I myself have found the need to frantically search my person to insure that I am indeed of sound body. Usually after I've walked through Dudley Square or any place in Dorchester.
After this man, this very frazzled, very tanned, very middle aged, very grey haired man finds that he has no extra holes in his body, he pulls out of his bag a metal cigar tube. He then uncorks it, and pulls out a small spray bottle.
Energetically and with all the enthusiasm of a man clawing at your shins while you are holding his head underwater with your foot, he starts spraying himself. All over. Everywhere. On the back of his neck, the top of his head, his hair, his shirt, under his shirt, his pants, in his crotchel region, his shins, his butt, and then his feet. He then sprays his hands and rubs this stuff all over his face.
At first I thought it was strange. I smelled nothing. Not even a waft of scent. I was starting to think that he was just spraying himself with water when all of a sudden it hit me.
It was... all I can do to describe it is use a really long analogy that will waste not only my time in writing it, but your time in reading it.
It was like an old Greek woman named Nicola who has emigrated to the united states from her hometown on the Island of Lesbos. She has lived here in the U.S. for 35 years with her husband Yurgi. They run a small dry cleaning and tailoring shop over on Elm St. Two years ago Yurgi developed lung cancer, probably from the chemicals at the dry cleaners. The two couldn't afford the treatment, and so Nicola watched Yurgi slowly fade away as the cancer ate his body up. He died a painful death 3 months after diagnosis. Nicola continued to work the dry cleaning store, only to fall slowly behind in work. Eventually the bills piled up (Yurgi dealt with the finances) and her store was forced to close. Bank notices and collection calls hound Nicola for weeks, until finally she receives a foreclosure notice in the mail. Distressed, Nicola goes to the bank, pleading for help. The nice young man who is handling her case says that he can only afford to give Nicola one more month. Satisfied and placated, Nicola leaves the bank.
Only to be smashed into by a runaway bread truck.
That's how bad it hit me. Soberingly awful and with forced tears in my eyes. Fer Christs' sake dude, fucking spray that shit elsewhere. I've heard of cologne showers, but goddam! The fucking orange paint on the train was peeling. I'd rather you shower yourself with urine because then I'd understand you aren't sane! Damn! It still haunts me!

The Reaping!!!

This post was to be put up in August of '08. It ties in the fact that I had spent $76 on tomatoes the previous spring. It's been hanging around in the limbo that is my unfinished blog post section. I think it's funny, so read it.


It has begun! The reaping of the tomatoes!!! But not without peril... read on!

My coworker Corinne came up to me one Friday and asked "Hey, how are your tomatoes doing?"
"Fine, little wet" I said.
"Oh that's cool. Seems everyones tomatoes are getting screwed over this year because all the rain has cause a fungus to kill them all. Apparently it was the same one that started the Irish potato famine all those years back. Good to hear yours are doing well! You could sell them as locally grown and make a fortune because there is no competition!"

We chuckled and then went on our way. Later that night when I went home, I noticed that some of the roots on my tomato plants were looking very weak, and I had to dump excess water out of several of the pots.
Fuck. I was having just fine luck up until Corinne jinxed me. Thanks a bunch sweetheart!
So I did what any good, impatient, and pissed off man did: I ignored the problem.
Tim was a little more conservative. "Do you think we should move them in?" he asked.
"NO! They are fine, just keep dumping out the excess water from all this rain".
Apparently Mother Nature was having her period on my tomato plants. She was ruining them!!!
No to worry though, I only lost about 1 of the cherry tomatoes, and 4 (Out of 6) of the roma tomatoes.
Sure am glad I can make that $76 dollars is spent on them stretch out. After 3 weeks of constant rain and retarded determination of dumping out the excess water in the apparently undrainable pots, we had a nice sunny day so I decided to exam more closely the tomatoes.
All of them had almost no roots. I don't know how they were still standing up, but sure enough just like France, they were still around. Well that too harsh for my tomatoes. They never surrendered to anything. Lousy cheese eating surrender monkeys.
Anyway, there were a few roma tomatoes and probably 15 cherry tomatoes. All in all, I walked away with some very bitter, sour, 2.5lbs worth of roma and cherry tomatoes.
Holy fuck did I savor those terrible bites of tomato sauce that I made from the harvest. They tasted like your socks smell after you jog 5 miles. Acrid and milky.
Oh well, I didn't give in when they were being drown daily in rain, I sure as hell ain't giving up when they are "rippend" and "ready to harvest" (those terms used loosely).
I made a sauce and chocked it down. Mother Nature, you see what I do for you? Anyone else would have given up; not me with my stupid tenacity.
Stupid, stubborn tenacity.

Gay Valhalla Part 2

So before I forget what fun I had, I'm gonna just jot what Tim and I did for the rest of the week at Ptown down.
Sunday night we saw Hedda Lettuce, she is a funny, green bitch! She sang such marvelous songs as "Botox Face" to the tune of "Poker face" by Lady Gaga, "She's got a fanny pack" to the tune of Justin Timberlake's "She's bringing sexy back" and also my personal favorite, "You can't drink with a dick in your mouth". Tim and I sat close to the stage so we could get a good view of the action. In retrospect, it's kind of a bad idea to sit up close to a drag queen when she's preforming. You inadvertently wind up "participating" in the show. I was deemed the "Water Bitch", which meant I had to hold her water bottle and whenever she said "Water, Bitch" I had to hand it to her so her parched manish lips and deep voice could be quenched. She was such a hoot that I bought her CD. If I can figure out how to put stuff up, I'll put up her song "You can't drink with a dick in your mouth".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4BJtGatuBQ is Hedda's "Botox Face"

We went to the beach a few more days and got our crisp brown on. Fun times!

We had a romantic, rainy dinner at a wonderful restaurant where you can actually color with crayons on the table! I tried to compete with the people who were sitting next to us, but their artistic talent beat out my autistic talent. Oh well, I still had fun!

We went shopping! I bought an hour glass for myself and my friend Anthony. Now I can literally watch my life slip away one grain of sand at a time.

I bought a cupcake from a stranger on the side of the road! As I was eating Tim's cupcake (the guy was named Tim) I thought "Fuck, I could make a better cupcake than this! This tastes like a goddamn hastily done box mix with a pepto bismol colored, jackass cream frosting decorated by caffeinated-Parkinson's-patient cupcake! Fuck, I want my 2 dollars back!
I saw Bob the queeny judge from "The next food network star!". He was vacationing in Ptown! Tim and I went to a cool little bar that was located across from Purgatory (the bar, not the plane of dead unwed mothers, unbaptised babies, homosexuals, Jews, the Irish, Ronald McDonald, and shopping at the grocery store on Saturday. Not entirely evil, but not good enough to get into Catholic heaven) that served some killer drinks. It was pretty nice! It was classy and all the twinky trash gets turned away at the door. We learned about this place from the nice guy behind the counter at the leather sex toy bear shop. He was nice and told us we should check it out so we did.
Anyway, Bob. I saw him across the room, and I thought "Do I bowl with that guy? I think I do, I should say hi, he looks familiar". The question as to how I knew him was answered when we bumped into some of my gay bowling buddies. I asked them who he was, and drunken Jim McDonald (in between gawking at Tim and doing his best to seduce him infront of me "Heyyouguisschwantohangoutschometime? ::seductive heavy lidded eye implications placed here:;) said "Oh that's the guy from the next food network star".
AH-HA! I knew I knew you, ya big queen!
So I hemmed and hawed all night about going to say hello and get a picture from him. I finally figured "Hell, the guy only weighs about 90lbs. If he gets upset that I want his picture I'll push him down, take his drink, and leave. Maybe urinate on him to exert my dominance over him."
I pulled Tim over to where he was standing and I tapped him on the shoulder. He is somewhat famous, what with being someone who is on a sub prime cable show for about 10 minutes at a time, so I became nervous.
"Can I get a picture of you?" I asked. Not Hello, not "Hey you look like a silver fox". Can I get a picture of you. That's one for the annuls of time you smooth talker.
"Sure!" and he turned around and Tim snapped a photo of us. He then asked me my name, and he said "Nice to meet you! I'm Bob! Have a nice night!".
What a nice gentleman. There will be photo's to come.
Now we come to the section of "Why we cut our vacation short by 1 night".
Thursday night into Friday morning, a terrible front had moved in. It decided to dump 1 inch of rain and have gusting, icy cold blasts of air rush at us all night long. The wind and rain were so loud we couldn't get to sleep. Tim and I were just laying there, on our slowly deflating aerobed, watching the tent vibrate back and forth, just wondering and waiting for the thing to collapse in on us.
Tim, in his meek voice, asked "Do you think we'll be safer in the car?" to which I promplty replied "We're safe here, nothing'll happen. Just go to sleep". I'd used the tone of voice that my Father reserves for my Mother when she asks him to pull over and ask for directions. Obviously I knew where I was and I knew we would sort of be safe.
About 20 minutes went by, and Hurricane CockBlock decided to pick up the pace and punish us like I punish a toilet after spicy Thai/Mexican fusion food: Horribly and with lots of gaseous shit flying around.
I decided to do what all men in my situation would do: Ignore it. That is until I pulled the covers up around my chest, and felt icy cold fingers of wetness grasp my toes. The bottom of the blanket was completely soaked in water.
This tent. This muther fuckin' tent. This army-surplus, government job, slap dash, economical, insect attracting, limp dick, made in Poland out of a goddamn sieve, fucking tent... was leaking.
Not just a little water. No, why have a little water when you're camping? Go for the whole experience. It was a goddamn bathtub of water. Our tissue box was floating. No lie. I wanted to cling to the deflating airbed to use as a life raft, but of course it failed at that like it failed at keeping my fat ass off the floor. I reached for our camp-lamp and put my foot down only to hear "Splash" and feel ankle deep water.
Innumerable curses flashed through my head. Some in languages that I didn't even know. I didn't need to turn on the lamp because the rage in my eyes was illuminating everything around me in a deep red glow. Tim said "Wow".
At this point: I. Have. Had. Enough.
"Let's get in the fucking car" I said to apparently thin air. As soon as I had said the word "Let's", all I saw was Tim's outline in cartoonish ghost form, and then I heard the car door slamming shut. I will be honest, it didn't take me that long to get there either. We spent the rest of the night sitting semi-upright in his warm, lovely Honda Fit. The trees kind of looked like really tall people in the gloaming, and it is no strange reason why I dreamt that we were driving through a crowd of people very slowly.
The next day, we both agreed that it was time to pack up our soaking belongs and head home. The weather forecast for Friday into Saturday was more of the torrential down pour. Sadly and with heavy hearts, we loaded up the Lela (Tim's car) and we headed home. Back to the oppressive real world. And work. FML. This is where the depression sets in.
We hit no traffic because we were leaving the cape when everyone was heading towards it. We stopped at Christmas Tree Shop, and bought a bunch of stuff that we don't need and I am pretty sure we haven't used yet. Such is the nature of that store. You go in not needing anything, and when you leave you are filled with items that you still don't need. Sort of like the casino, you go and lose money, only it isn't as satisfying.
So we made it home, unpacked all our stuff to let it dry out, then sat around and watched TV. All in all we had a great time camping!
By the way, we have a great Tent for sale. $75, OBO!

More Commuting Fun!

Today I consumed a record 5 cups of coffee before I left for work. The commuter rail wasn't so bad, until we pulled away from the Malden T stop. Then I had to pee. Badly.
I was afraid I was actually going to piss myself. Nothing puts a cramper on your day like walking around with moist underpants from letting a little urine flow. Trust me, I know.
So, thankfully, we arrive at North Station, and I book it to the bathroom. I'm pretty sure I pushed a few nuns and children onto the tracks, but in my haste I couldn't stop and see lest I let a little golden shower out.
I made it to the urinal, and let loose. It was one of those pees that feel better than sex. Honestly, I was a bit winded and I swooned at the urinal after I was done.
The man next to me I noticed finishing up, then he reached up and did a heavy grab onto the urinal flush bar. It was a very full, manly handshake to the flush.
I didn't think anything of it, because I was too busy zippering up. I turned around, and went to wash my hands, but stood aghast. Every one of the sinks was overflowing because they were clogged, and people were furiously pumping the handsoap dispensers to no avail. Not even the trace scents of soap were inside these empty and dry dispensers.
I decided to forgo the hand washing and whipped out my trusty purell bottle. I always carry some. I ride the damn T! If I didn't have purell with me, I'm pretty sure I would have caught malaria, syphilis, dysentery, E. bola, and a whole host of "social" diseases.
I noticed that the man who was having a moment with the flush bar look at the sinks, then just walk out. He was standing by the bathroom when I came out, and for some reason I had a stroke of kindness.
"Would you like some Purell?" I asked.
The man looked at me as if I asked if he would like me to spray him down with whale piss then follow it up with powdered chicken shit.
"What? No, I don't think so" he said.
Right. Because my offering you hand sanitizer is gross. Never mind the fact that you were just touching your crusty, gonorrhea infested crotch, then the chlamydia infected flush bar, and then didn't wash your hands because the sinks were too gross for you. You nasty bastard.
Ten bucks says he's on his way to work at some Sysco or Aramark food service, tossing salad with his hands, or slicing deli meat for the lunch rush. Come to think of it he did look like the guy who makes my sandwiches at the B.I. Great.
Commuting is fun!

Vacationing in the Gay Valhalla, Recounts of Camping in Provincetown Part 1.

Tim and I just got back from our wonderful week-and-a-half trip to Provincetown. A lot went down, so I'll recap the best parts.

Tim and I decided that the best way to beat the traffic would be to head down on Wednesday morning (7/15/09). We packed up Lela (the name Tim gave to his Black Honda fit. Interestingly enough, Lela means "Night Beauty" in some foreign language. Can't remember which one...) and headed on down to Ptown.

Tim had made plans to visit his Grandmother (not gramma, heaven forbid we adopt a more social and loveable term. That is beneath us and menial. Pedestrian even.) and Grandfather (not grampa) who live in an antique salt-box home in Wareham. Being the good gay boyfriend I am, I made a berry pie to shove down their diabetic elderly throats.

We met up, visited with them for a while, put up with Grandmothers nudges on Grandfather ("I won't name any names... but someone at this table ::roles her eyes at her husband, Eddy:: EDDY! is a real fool - is something that she said while at the table) left the pie, flew into the car, and tore ass on down to Ptown.

Tim and I usually stop in Orleans to pick up some food stuffs at Stop and Shop, mostly because the Grand Union (Also known as "The GOO" by Ptown residents) food store in Ptown is kind of run down and disgusting.

I happened to run into my cousin Eve and her three children. We chatted it up for a bit, and then as we parted ways, she said "Be sure to stay away from the nude beaches!" and then made a creeped out face.

Ok, I will forgive her for this statement. She has kids; she has to look out for them and in doing so will remain away from said nude beaches. Tim and I, however, do not to my knowledge have any children. I'm not saying that there haven't been times when I got a few to many margaritas in me and I wound up puttin' Mr. Happy someplace he shouldn't have gone, but I'm sure I don't have kids. I'm digressing, where was I?

Oh, right, after my cousin said "Stay away from the nude beaches!" I promptly asked...

"Why?" and made a face back... but she didn't see that, and we continued on with our shopping.

We grabbed some cartons of juice, some cereal bars, and a box of cereal (pretty much anything that wasn't perishable) and headed back on the road.

We got to the camp site around 6pm, and then set up a new, lovely, awesomely huge tent that Tim bought from someone on Craigslist. This thing is huge: it has 3 rooms, one of them being a screened in porch. A goddamn luxury-liner of a tent! Then headed into gay mecca downtown Ptown.
For those of you who have never gone to Ptown, it can be described as this:

Very Liberal, Very Open, and Very Fun.

It was like when Harry Potter went to Hogsmeade, the completely wizard village. He didn't have to hide the fact that he was a wizard, because everyone else was a wizard too. So too does this apply to Ptown. Wizards... I mean Gayness everywhere. Human Rights Campaign stickers on every window, rainbow flags and stickers on every stoop, door, window, and building, and same sex couples holding hands on the street. Drag Queens run wild in the streets, calling everyone a bitch and being cunty up and down the street. Muscular men wear next to nothing, and big bearish and hairy men wear practically nothing. Lesbians put on their best flannel, strap on their fanny pack, and let their mullets down. Fantastic times.

For my straight friends who read this, imagine all year you are couped up and surrounded by gay people, and though it is accepted you still kind of get the feeling that nobody likes having your being straight rubbed in their face. Then for one week a year you go out to Straightville and it is ok to let your straight flag fly and be yourself. Oh, wait I have a better analogy.
Being in Ptown is kind of like being able to take off a really tight sweater you've been wearing all year, and you are free to be comfortable.

So here Tim and I are. We arrived in the middle of "Bear Week" which means that there is probably not going to be any young twinks running around (pretty much what Tim is) and instead there will only be big, hairy, bearded gay bears running around (pretty much what I am). I turned a lot of heads and felt pretty :).

Thursday night Tim and I walked around Ptown and took in the sights and all that good stuff. I got messages from my friends Patrick and Matty saying that they were going to be arriving at 10:30am or so and we should hang out.

Tim immediately sensed danger in this. "You know, tomorrow is going to be a perfect beach day... we should have them come to the beach and then walk around Ptown later." I said we'll see what they wanted to do.

Sure enough what they wanted to do was be confusing as hell and not get their shit together, but little did I know of this.

Tim and I find them on the streets of Ptown, perusing the streets and shops and men. That's fine, what the hell. The only problem was that it was turning out to be a gorgeous day, and the weather man said there wouldn't be that many coming up and to enjoy it while it was here.

Tim had a look of forced indifference at what we were going to do, but behind his veiled and poorly disguised nonchalance was a boiling sea of rage and frustration. I know this mostly because I spend a good chunk of time with him, and when he gets this look on his face, you should tuck your tail between your legs and slip quietly into the kitchen.

Patrick had met some of his friends that had rented an apartment for the week in Ptown. We shopped around with them, and then around 12pm, we decided to get some lunch.

"Ok, let's all head over to the Lobster Pot" said Patrick's friend.

Tim and I had set a budget for the week, and we were saving our big eat out dinner for our anniversary which fell later in the week. Grand. These flamers want to eat a 30 dollar-a-plate lunch. I looked at Tim and he just shook his head "no".

"Ok guys, have fun there, we are gonna go to the Portuguese bakery. They are pretty cheap." Luckily Patrick and Matty wanted cheap too, so the 4 of us headed over and ate there. Patrick was really nice and bought us lunch!

After lunch, we headed over to Patrick's friends apartment. There, these older (40 years old+) bears were there lounging by the pool. It was ok, but the leathery sack of a man that Matty was hitting on was constantly eye fucking Tim, so Tim and I decided to go back and get our swimsuits and go swimming at this pool where we know no one.

After reading what I just typed there, that totally makes no sense. A stranger is mentally banging my boyfriend, so we decide to go take of more clothing and go swimming in front of him. Hmmm. That may have lead to the confusion later...

We came back after changing, jumped into the pool and swam around for a bit. Then the weirdest thing happened. Matty and the overly tanned rawhide jockstrap bear decided to go make some "cocktails". Yes, infer everything you want here. Tim and I were kind of left swimming in a pool surrounded by complete strangers. At a strangers house. Were we knew no one. We decided to leave and go get a snack.

Now that I look back upon it, we kind of abandoned Matty. But then again Momma said to not take candy from strangers, and here Matty was eagerly eating a lollypop from a shifty looking fellow in the back of a van from no windows. I was sure he'd be fine.

We eventually met up, decided to go to the Tea Dance with everyone, and have a good time.

The Tea Dance. How can I describe it? Let's just say it isn't "Family Friendly".

We arrived, payed the 10 bucks cover fee, and waided into a sea of large guts, hairy bodies, scantily clad hotties, old leather daddies, twinks, jocks, computer geeks, drag queens, and the cluster of confused English Socialites who actually thought there was tea at the tea dance.

We had a good time! There was drinking, cruising, perusing, grouping, dancing, touching, and pretty much any other adjective you can apply -ing to. The dance went from the hours of 4-7, and it was wicked fun! After it was over, we all drunkenly shambled around commercial street in Ptown.

Matty, this time, bought us dinner! Burritos! Yum! While we were sitting eating our burritos, the urge to pee crept up on us all. There were only two bathrooms, and you had to go to the front counter and ask for a key to go use the bathroom. I asked, and the man said that the key was out.

Well, we couldn't find the damn key, so Matty took measures into his own hands and went pee in a little alleyway. I played goal keeper in that there were all these children running around and I kept directing them away. These retarded little meat sacks found nothing entertaining about the damn dark alleyway 10 minutes before, but of a sudden they can't stay away.

You know what? I should have let them go down there. What the hell? If their stupid parents haven't taught them about what happens in dark alleyways to people, then it is their own fault. Though it is Ptown... the kids probably would have been swept up by a Drag Queen and accessorized.

I finally found the key after seconds of looking and relieved myself in the bathroom. After I got out, Tim, Matty, and I met up with Patrick (he went to eat with his friends) and hung around at those strangers house again. We were there for a while, when the guy who rented it said "Patrick can I speak to you?" and stepped aside.

Immediately, Matty, Tim, and I stood up to get ready to leave. In saying "Patrick can I speak to you?" he really said "Ok guys, get the fuck out. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here".

Tim and I were getting kind of tired, and were thinking of going to bed, but Matty and Patrick were going strong. We wanted to be with both of them, in case they needed a place to stay and decided to stay on the floor of our tent.

We went to the crown and anchor, and hung around with a bunch of gays having a beer dancing to Lady Gaga (the singer, not the drag queen... although now that I compare the two the similarities are striking). The night began to wear thin with Tim and I: There is only so much you can see of your friends trying to pick up men before it gets a little tiring.

I asked Patrick where he was staying, and he said that he would be staying with his friends later on in the night. I asked Matty, and he said that he didn't know. Patrick pretty much said that we shouldn't worry about Matty, he'd be alright.

I wasn't too worried. It was warm out and I'm sure there were dry places around if he couldn't, um, persuade? someone to let him stay with them. Maybe persuade is the wrong word. Convince? No... trick? Defiantly not. I dunno, but I'm sure he would be fine.

We didn't implore him, and instead drifted back to camp and promptly feel asleep on our under-inflated air mattress. More to come in the next posting!