Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Dotard whines pants-wettingly about the media 25/8

Sadly, rudimentary spelling of the word still escapes him.

Oh, C4 pre-workout energy drink: 

We are finally reunited after my months-long system cleanse from your mysteriously electrifying, limb-shaking, skin-tingling powers. I have missed your Robitussiny attempt at blue raspberry flavor and the preternatural semi-opacity in which you hide your unholy alchemy. But you are now back in my life on your new rotation into my morning workouts, your possibly emasculating niaciny chemicals are coursing through my unwitting veins ... and my shoulders are somehow the only part of me covered in flop sweat. Welcome home!

In related news that will impress exactly nobody but me, as of this morning I am officially deadlifting 5x10 sets of 185 lbs. Rowr!


Good morning!

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

It’s funny because it’s true

I am now in the temporary possession of a well-worn hockey stick and a Cedar Rapids RoughRiders jersey -- just like in my senior picture!

If you're wondering exactly WHY I'm now in the temporary possession of a well-worn hockey stick and a Cedar Rapids RoughRiders jersey just like in my senior picture -- because of course you are -- you're just going to have to come see the Orchestra Iowa Holiday Spectacular pops concert at the architecturally extravagant Paramount Theatre this weekend to find out. It's guaranteed to be a Christmas touchdown!

Get your tickets right now this very minute by clicking here.

I’m a bigot

I have an attorney who’s not a kidfucker.

The weather in Alabama today bodes well for Roy Moore because it’s supposed to dip into the teens


Sunday, December 10, 2017

I’ll take Creepy Souvenirs My Grandma Brought All The Way Back To North Dakota With Her From The 1893 Chicago Columbian Exhibition, Alex

Oh Deer

Meet Oh, the newest member of the low-budget Deer family I am apparently now collecting in the fauna division of my holiday flora (which would be random shapes and sizes of pine trees) and fauna (which would be Oh Deer and his be-antlered brethren Hey, Mo, Fa, Spi, Bor, Won, Shud, Over, Doah, Truthor, Firefi and Fulgencio) collections.

Please try to tear your eyes away from the Kountry Krafts wallpaper border (which is not to be confused with Bor Deer himself, obvi) before they burn in their sockets; it will be gone and the wall will be painted a rich blue just as soon as I decide which rich blue to use. Which won’t happen until after I finish naming Sue, Turpen and all the rest of my Pine family.

Without so much as a kiss my foot or have an apple

White Christmas is the dumbest, plot-hole-iest, staggeringly-implausible-storyline-iest movie ever made -- and I adore every second of it. I used to host a party every year in Chicago and invite only the friends I knew were able to shut up for 120 minutes so we could all enjoy its ridiculous awesomeness together in peace. And then I usually watched it again on my own. And maybe one more time. But now my DVD is buried in a box in my storage locker ... and I’m thrilled beyond belief that I’m -- as we speak -- finally about to see it on the big screen.

All that said, it still drives me NUTS that Rosemary Clooney runs (well, clomps in four-inch stilettos) away from Bing Crosby in a self-righteous fit over a laughably stupid misunderstanding that she could easily clear up with a simple question and then boards a train with a little satchel in which she's packed all her clothes, wigs, makeup, gowns, those white sequined oven mitts she wears in "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" plus four of the Vermont dancer boys. And then she happily -- yes: happily, despite the loathing she had for Bing's appearance on TV that was so toxic it prompted her to sneak away from Vermont in secret -- watches Bing's appearance on TV, suddenly has a mis-misunderstanding revelation, sneaks back to Vermont in the dead of night with her sensible orthopedic Army-issue oxfords in tow and somehow absorbs all the "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army" choreography out of thin air from some secret backstage rehearsal room in that drafty barn that apparently a cast of 1,000 people had mysteriously never even known about.

But those gowns!

And don't get me started on that stupid "Sisters" number -- it sure gets a LOT of mileage for having only one verse and an enormous dance break where Rosemary and Vera basically just stand on stage and smile dewily at Bing and Doofusface while presumably the rest of the audiences watches and thinks they're being somehow entertained by all that standing around.

But those gowns!

And Bing Crosby sings “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” after chugging a quart of buttermilk and Rosemary Clooney’s and Vera-Ellen’s “ugly” brother is actually totally cute when they show Bing and Doofusface his picture and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT “MR. BONES” SONG?

But those gowns!

And then Vera-Ellen — who does the entire movie in funnel-collared outfits tailored to hide whatever the hell is wrong with her neck — descends from the sky in her tearaway Ostrich Barbie outfit and executes some wicked nerve taps WITHOUT EVEN WEARING TAPS.

But those gowns!

And the general is clearly on laudanum binge in the attic of his hotel-theater as every U.S. war soldier past, present and future swarms all over the entire property and fills every hotel room not already taken by the swarm of singers, dancers, directors, and costume and tech crew members, and when they all finally surprise him they seat him at the table of honor behind a three-foot-tall cake that completely blocks his view of the show that they put together ESPECIALLY FOR HIM TO SEE.

But those gowns!

#SundayShowTunes: Sweeney Todd

Think about it!
Lots of other gentlemen'll
Soon be comin' for a shave,
Won't they?

Think of

All them


Saturday, December 09, 2017

Photoshopping in a cat as the Cowardly Lion is too self-congratulatorily meta and makes this whole thing ridiculous

It’s a yellow brick dud. I give it one bluebird.

True fact from the front lines of tonight’s bitterly cold Holiday DeLight Parade:

It is impossible to march, smile, wave, execute an occasional chaîné and maintain a credible façade of a paragon-of-masculinity dancing lumberjack when you have a full-diluvian runny nose. But at least my new button stayed on.

Technically, I’ll be a LumberJake 

I’m going to be a traditional Dancing Christmas Lumberjack in one of Cedar Rapids’ very few lighted parades tonight, which means you’re going to come watch the time-honored holiday tradition of the Lighting of the Dancing Christmas Lumberjack, right? Of course you are.

(Truth be told, I’ve been needing to sew a button back on my red plaid shirt for a while now, so I’m really only doing the parade to force myself to catch up on my mending. So if for no other reason, you should come watch the parade to see my newly reattached button. (It’s the second one down.))

It’s so cute that he’s finally learned the SPELLING of “smart”

ADDENDUM: Apparently the stupid old fuck WASN'T lying for once about his crowd size. But I’m still leaving this post up to retroactively mock him for the many previous empty rallies and inaugurations that he pathetically bragged were full. Plus I want to think I contributed to one of his epic meltdowns. Plus I’m making some fake news that he can for once tell the truth about.

This post is a public service on SO MANY LEVELS.


Friday, December 08, 2017

That’s on you!

I came late to this tiresome, dick-wall Don’t Blame Me I’m Just The Innocent Messenger Who’s Condemning You To An Eternity Of People Like Me Innocently Trying To Totally Not Call You Evil And Pick A Fight With You blatherfight on Twitter, and I’m always hopelessly unable to not poke the bear in these situations so I had to weigh in:

As my punishment for this thoughtful, nuanced “chat,” I’m now sitting in a slippery-floored Taco Bell wallowing in mystery meat and regret as DeBarge not-at-all-homosexually whimpers his way totally-heterosexual-dude-bro-convincingly through “Who’s Holding Donna Now” (which has — surprisingly! — aged way worse than you’d expect) on the Muzak after just getting a call from the mechanic who’s replacing my brakes to tell me he found a hidden problem that’s gonna double the cost of the replacement.

But hey — that’s on me!


I’d forgotten about this post

I’d forgotten about this day, this episode, this helpless despondency ... probably as soon as it melted into the ocean of some-better-some-worse days, episodes and helpless despondencies that I’ve navigated my way through over the last decade. I’m coming up on the one-year anniversary of starting THE med cocktail: the one that—while still not perfect—has kept me overwhelmingly functional and present and foundationally able to live and participate and just BE. I’m thankful for the pharmacology, I’m thankful for the determination of my family, I’m thankful for the understanding and support of everyone around me ... but it’s KILLING me that I didn’t proofread this before I posted it, and though it’s a perfectly preserved time capsule of a day and an episode and a helpless despondency, it’s taking everything in me not to go back and edit it today.
This is the face of near-catastrophic bipolar depression. This is also a brain dump of a Facebook post that may or may not be a shameless plea for affirmation or an embarrassingly disjointed documentation of my current inability to generate linear thought. I haven't decided yet. Because I haven't written it yet. And I don't know where to start.

I fell over getting out of my car this morning at work. I opened the door, grabbed the frame to pull myself up and immediately lost all sensation of the direction of gravity, spinning to my left, rolling against the rear door and hitting my head on the door frame on my way to the ground. I've felt a little off-balance all week since my doctor doubled one of my meds on Monday but this was the first time I went full-pavement.

My right hand is slowly losing its ability to function. Last week I couldn't push the button on the key fob to unlock my car door. Last weekend I couldn't hold on to a tube of chap stick hard enough to pull the cap off. Last night I couldn't pick anything up with my chopsticks at the restaurant where we celebrated my brother-in-law's birthday. This morning -- after realizing I was plummeting faster than I could manage to control at work -- I couldn't pull the key out of the ignition when I got home.

I have no idea if any of this is related to being bipolar, changing meds or something entirely unrelated, but it's the easiest to explain.

My depressive episodes are mostly about fogginess (I get lost physically and mentally, I forget stuff like things I promised to do or why my parents are gone for the night) and abject despondency (everyone I know hates me, I don't care if I live or die). Fortunately, I've been doing this a long time and I can look at it all objectively -- no matter how acute or systemic or visceral or urgent the feelings are -- and know with slightly foggy certainty that none of it is real and it will all pass and if I can just find a blanket and a dark corner and a couple of uninterrupted hours I'll be emotionally drained but highly functional.

I'm a 48-year-old man who after a 15-year advertising career in Chicago moved home to Iowa ostensibly to care for his blind father but more as it turns out to be cared for as a mentally ill person by his parents. On paper, I hate everything in that sentence. In reality, I'm currently sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree with both my parents and Bitch Kitty and I'm so thrilled I get to share so much of my adult life with them and that alone helps me rebound when I spiral out of control.

It has taken me over two hours of intense concentration to write this. But I'd already napped for five hours and writing this gave me something relatively constructive to do instead of stewing in self pity. I know I probably spend way too much time on here talking about being bipolar but it helps me clear my head and organize my thoughts and in some ways make myself accountable for my own mental health. And it's even helped me bond with a number of you who have confided in me about your own struggles with mental illness. You call me "brace." I call myself "unfiltered." But if any of us finds value in my ramblings, it helps compensate for the fact that I've probably scared away every eligible gay man in Linn and Johnson counties.

600 paragraphs ago, I said I didn't know where this post was going. Almost three hours later, I don't have a clear recollection of where it wandered to wind up here. And I'm not going to proof or edit it so when I emerge from this episode I can maybe see how the depressed me kicks through the brambles and strings together thoughts. In the mean time, I have my blanket and dark corner and I'm finally sleepy again. For those of you still with me, thank you for your friendship and support and kind words. And good-night.

Flashback Friday: Celery in the Bathroom Edition

I loved what I did with that long-ago bathroom. The paint color was called “celery,” so it provided built-in roughage in case you needed it during your bathroom visit. But we all know that at 49 years and 20-too-many pounds, I’m not posting this picture to talk about long-ago bathroom paint colors. I’m posting it as a PSA warning against using white grout in a small room with heavy humidity. It is a BITCH to keep it looking pristine and white. And scraping it out and replacing it with more white grout is both another bitch AND a trump-stupid idea.

You’re welcome.

Thursday, December 07, 2017

The Christmas Crap Chronicles

I know that boring old pictures of Christmas trees are both boring and old, but I dragged up a full three generations’ worth of Christmas decorations in jumbles of boxes and bags and bins from the basement last weekend in my one-son crusade to make my poor mother help me figure out what we wanted to keep and what we just needed to get out of our way while it all still had value at Goodwill, and as of tonight, the last of the give-aways are given away, the last of the nicely stackable decoration-storage bins are stacked neatly on the shelves of the newly-far-less-cluttered basement storage room, and we all have a lovely, unobstructed view of our lovely boring old Christmas tree.

(That dime-store-clearance angel at the top is in grave danger of meeting an accidental fiery death when nobody’s looking though. But you didn’t hear that from me.)


FUCK. Not only am I unexpectedly forced to endure the surprise hell of an off-the-approved-spring-and-fall-calendar public-radio fund drive, but IPR just played a snippet of this nightmarish unmusical confection as a stealth-attack fade-out from its forced-jovial banter about the best name for the distinctive holiday color of the mug incentive that nobody on this or any other inhabited planet wants to receive.

So I’m out.

Happy birthday to my awesome brother-in-law

and father to my children. Well, technically, they're not MY children but I love them more because I used to buy them candy on the sly when they were much younger because THAT'S WHAT UNCLES DO. Oops ... where was I? Oh, yes: My brother-in-law has helped raise two decent, thoughtful, informed, involved kids (one of whom is co-authoring a play celebrating cultural and human diversities as we speak and the other of whom is in college as we speak studying political science so he can improve our country and world), obsessively power-washed his driveway on every day that ends in y, missed a few big sportsball games on occasion so the rest of us could watch musicals populated with frolicking men in ill-fitting tights as a family, and volunteered to climb the high, scary, pants-wetting ladder so I could stay safely close to the ground on the low, scary, pants-wetting ladder when we painted his house. Most importantly, he has always, without fail or even slightly crumbling resolve, shooed the entire family out of his kitchen so he could do all the dishes -- even after the 14-course state dinner we hosted for Angela Merkel just because we enjoy saying her name -- and thus saved me from having to do dishes, which I hate more than folding laundry or watching Donald Trump do that anus thing with his lips. So everybody call my brother-in-law at work today and sing Happy Birthday in long, fermata-ed whole notes so he can really savor the experience. And buy him gift cards from Michaels because that place gives him hives and I think if he could just buy some dried branches and styrofoam cones without using his own money, it could be like a gateway drug and he could conquer his fears and start making pipe-cleaner snowmen skating merrily on oddly shaped mirrored ponds to give as Christmas gifts or maybe Epiphany gifts for those of you at the end of the alphabet.


One person's decorative items are another person's hideous projectiles. That's why all my decorative items are made of lightweight, non-threatening, not-at-all-gay-sounding papier-mâché.

Tuesday, December 05, 2017

I vaped! Or however you spell it

Now I’m going to ride that can-do momentum all the way to installing this TV wall mount that I bought on my way to vote. Or maybe I’ll just take it out of the box and at least make sure it’s compatible with the TV. Or maybe I’ll just post a selfie with the box as a note to myself to remember to maybe start thinking about doing it someday. Or maybe I’ll just look for funny memes on the Internet. I’ve already accomplished a lot today what with all that voting and stuff. I should probably relax and take it easy the rest of the night. Or week. Or until the next time I have to vote. I’m exhausted just from typing all of this. Does anyone have any Oreos?

Unhealthy. Unappetizing. Unnatural. Revolting to everyone with good judgment. Plus covered in mysterious swampy goo.

Chokingly dry office cafeteria dessert or trump administration metaphor?

Sunday, December 03, 2017

The trees are spooky, but at least those crisp pinafores are on point

You know how Dotard McFailureFailureFailureLoser keeps obsessively bleating about “bringing Merry Christmas back” from wherever it never went? A smart person who wanted to make it look like Christmasy stuff was something he was actually capable of thinking of might remember to kinda maybe put Jesus or even Santa in his White House decorations instead of using bleak pagan treesons.


We just had our first music and choreography rehearsals for the Orchestra Iowa holiday pops concert. And we’ve now discovered an interplanetary cosmos of music—holiday or otherwise—that lives in an unexplored dimension far beyond our mortal understanding of the allegro-legato continuum:

Kill me now

It’s not every day you get to say adductor and post pelvic images online—much less have a relevant reason to brag about the amount of weight you just squatted—but I just added 10 pounds to my squat weight—I’m up to 215, baby!—and in the middle of my third set I felt a sharp pop in my left rear adductor that all but sent me toppling to the floor. (And if you’re a man who’s ever had an adductor injury, you know that its close physical proximity to your kill-me-now pain zone means that its crippling pain instantly radiates directly to your kill-me-now pain zone, which can literally make you beg to be killed now. Kill me now.)

So until you kill me now, I’m now gingerly hobbling—and lord-knows-how popping the clutch as I drive—through the rest of my evening until I decide how serious this injury—which is not uncommon for me but never at this intensity—is. I apologize in advance for any near-future lateness.

Fun bio-vocabulary fact: An aDductor is a muscle whose contraction moves a limb or other part of the body TOWARD the midline of the body while an aBductor is a muscle whose contraction moves a limb or part AWAY from the midline of the body. Abductor has the same etymology as the concept of abducting a person by taking him or her away from something. Kill me now.

When you have no fireplace but you have a clever gay

And a crooked lampshade.

I’m not interested in your petty jealousies

My grandmother made this. In the nursing home. With a beer bottle. Two decades ago. It's a family heirloom. DO NOT JUDGE.

#SundayShowTunes: Once On This Island

But you will make it through
'Cause I am liking you
And whatever you need
Mama will provide!

Saturday, December 02, 2017

Mom just told me she sent a Christmas invitation in Comic Sans

So this is as far as I’m going with the tree.



Why am I still up at 1:46 am watching violent car-crash compilation videos on my phone? Why are there so many car-crash videos in the first place for there to be endless best-of car-crash video compilations? Is having car-crash cams on your dashboard a thing now? And how is it that you can hear all the gruesome car-crash sounds in these videos but you never hear a peep from the drivers and passengers? Not even an oops or an oh, dear. Does nobody scream anymore in the face of flesh-rendering death? THIS is why I’m lying here awake all night.

Friday, December 01, 2017



Flashback Friday: Beauty Within Edition

Starmites. Probably the stupidest script I've ever slogged through in a show. And the lyrics were just a few circles of hell closer to not totally sucking. But the music. Oh, the music. It was higher than any bro-dude should be biologically capable of singing, but it was catchy and harmonious and soaring and I got the privilege of belting way above my range with two mega-tenor friends as we sang backup to our sexy and hopelessy heterosexual Space Punk on stage for a whole month of holiday performances somewhere in the mid-'90s. Plus with two of my favorite rockstar singers bringing their oh-my-god-those-voices awesomeness to the female leads, I was truly humbled to don my blue superhero leotard and gel my hair to the heavens every show and raise the roof with this mighty chorus.

Despite my complete denunciation of the book and lyrics, if you ever get a chance to see (or be in!) Starmites, I do recommend you do it. The show has a lot of heart. And some fun, silly humor. And a full-company contrapuntal gospel number in Act II called "Reach Right Down" that will blow you against the back wall with its belty, joyful, transcendent powers.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Sheep may safely graze

Oh, you do NOT want to know my beliefs, you pussy-grabbing, puerile, belligerent, lying, corrupt, treasonous, arrogant, half-wit dotard. That I can tell you.

Asses, asses and more asses

Read all about these asses and their asses here

I find myself having a difficult time caring about these two self-absorbed asses and what they're about to face, but I am worried that the evangelical American Taliban will blow this story into a rallying cry around this "proof" that all gay people are perverted degenerates who brazenly commit "religious insults" (because -- for the purposes of this one specific news-cycle outrage -- the American Taliban will suddenly become VERY concerned about the cultural sensitivities of foreign religions) and then dotard will opportunistically climb on board to get points for hating gays AND punishing them -- though, as always, he'll have zero influence on anything to do with their punishment or anything else in the world for that matter -- and his shit-drooling minions will be emboldened to exhibit even more hate toward even more people in this pervasively toxic political environment he and his mouth-breathing orbit continue to breed, grope and propagate.

Happy pawlidays!

Bitch Kitty is holding fort in the storage boxes (red is for Christmas!) as we fill the house with holiday crap. I mean magic. As we fill the house with holiday magic.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

I was so cute! What the hell happened?

It’s so weird that Grandma put a '74 on this ornament when she painted it because I’m 32 years old now so I wasn’t even born until sometime after 2000. Or something. But it’s too late to fix it because she already glazed and kiln-fired it. And now it’s going to confuse my descendants for all eternity.

Steve King: Iowa’s Super-Awesomest Politician! 

(*applause* *chants of “Go, Steve!”*)

You can tell by the way he uses numbers instead of two- and three-letter words that he always has his fingers (ew) on the pulse of the way we all talk in the national dialogue, yo. Plus it saves his valuable time so he can focus on representing us all with racist hate stuff! Plus it saves on pixels so it’s good for the Internet’s bottom line! End net neutrality! End AA!

(*applause* *chants of “Go, Steve!”*)