A bleached linen skirt may be cool and breezy on a hot summer day, but without a slip underneath it, it's gonna scream LOOK! THERE'S A BLACK THONG UNDER ME!
Possible solution: a flesh-colored thong
Better solution: with your figure, granny underpants
Either way, we shouldn't have to start our day with your undergarments screaming at us in all caps.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Saturday, August 06, 2005
30 races!
(Give or take, depending on the thoroughness of my record-keeping.)
When I first started running, a friend told me he always saves his racing bibs and writes his time, the weather, whom he ran with, etc. on the backs of them. He said it's a great way to track your running progress and know what factors may have contributed to especially good or bad finish times. So I started doing it too.
And today, when I finally got around to recording the notes on the backs of my bibs from races in (ahem) late June and early July, I got out all my bibs (at least the ones I hadn't lost) and spread them out to see how many I had.
And it made aperfect rectangle!
Look at all the pretty colors! They almost make the shin splints and tendonitis and nagging pain worth it. Pretty ... colors ...
As I was looking for a good (read: fast) example of backer notes to take a picture of and post here, I discovered that I had NOT, in fact, accomplished much in the name of timing progress over the last 10 years of running. While I was making progress in distance (a 5K to a marathon in 10 years), my times have constantly hovered in the 8.5-to-9.5-minute-mile range. And my gooey hips have remained vigilantly, defiantly gooey. So I can at least claim consistency.
Little-known fact for those of you who don't run: When you pick up your bib and your race packet the day before a race, you always get four complimentary saftey pins. FOUR. Because three would seem cheap and five would be too showy. I've often wondered what lucky fuckers get stuck counting out sets of four safety pins to dump into thousands of race packets in the days before a race, and how fulfilling they must find their volunteering activities to be.
In any case, I have this strange compulsion to save EVERY safety pin I've ever received. And I sometimes clip them into little four-safety-pin sets that—if you squint really hardand drink a bottle of perfume first—kinda look like cute little metallic sheep. Or guppies. Or afghan hounds. Or ... um ... wow—I just realized how pathetic my safety-pin collection and I must look right now.
Then again, what animal-loving softie couldn't resist this adorable tableau of a mommy safety-pin guppy leading her five safety-pin guplets on a little swim across a shiny sea floor:
And people tell me I need a hobby.
When I first started running, a friend told me he always saves his racing bibs and writes his time, the weather, whom he ran with, etc. on the backs of them. He said it's a great way to track your running progress and know what factors may have contributed to especially good or bad finish times. So I started doing it too.
And today, when I finally got around to recording the notes on the backs of my bibs from races in (ahem) late June and early July, I got out all my bibs (at least the ones I hadn't lost) and spread them out to see how many I had.
And it made a
Look at all the pretty colors! They almost make the shin splints and tendonitis and nagging pain worth it. Pretty ... colors ...
As I was looking for a good (read: fast) example of backer notes to take a picture of and post here, I discovered that I had NOT, in fact, accomplished much in the name of timing progress over the last 10 years of running. While I was making progress in distance (a 5K to a marathon in 10 years), my times have constantly hovered in the 8.5-to-9.5-minute-mile range. And my gooey hips have remained vigilantly, defiantly gooey. So I can at least claim consistency.
Little-known fact for those of you who don't run: When you pick up your bib and your race packet the day before a race, you always get four complimentary saftey pins. FOUR. Because three would seem cheap and five would be too showy. I've often wondered what lucky fuckers get stuck counting out sets of four safety pins to dump into thousands of race packets in the days before a race, and how fulfilling they must find their volunteering activities to be.
In any case, I have this strange compulsion to save EVERY safety pin I've ever received. And I sometimes clip them into little four-safety-pin sets that—if you squint really hard
Then again, what animal-loving softie couldn't resist this adorable tableau of a mommy safety-pin guppy leading her five safety-pin guplets on a little swim across a shiny sea floor:
And people tell me I need a hobby.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
When you just know
I was leafing through an old New Yorker on the bus recently when I stumbled on a review for an opera at the Lyric that I almost attended. As I skimmed through the glowing descriptions of artists I’d never heard of and epic story arcs I’d probably never encounter in real life, a name suddenly jumped out at me: A guy I’d actually gone on a date with two years earlier—a guy who was trying to make a career as an opera singer—was actually reviewed in the New Yorker … and the critic liked him!
I’d first met him in a bar soon after I’d moved here. He was handsome and charismatic … and wearing leather jeans on a hot summer night. Sexy leather jeans. He was all smiley and chatty, but I could tell he was a bit of a playa—though we had a lot in common and I enjoyed talking to him.
He was a friend of a friend, and we kept bumping into each other off and on over the next few years. And one day he finally asked me out to dinner. And I said yes.
We chose a popular little Mexican place in the heart of Boystown and had a very nice chat over chips and salsa and various Taco-Bell-on-nicer-dishes foodstuffs.
And it was somewhere between the last bite of enchalidas verdes and the first mouthful of sopapillas that it hit me. The waves of goosebumps … the rapid heartbeat … the back-of-the-neck heat … that undeniable feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you just know … beyond all doubt … that you have food poisoning.
Yes, I was on a nice date with a nice guy and I literally threw money on the table and bolted out the door on him. And after an iffy cab ride home, I spent the next 24 hours never more than 10 steps away from the toilet, alternately lying naked on the cool tile floor and crawling deliriously toward the kitchen to find some Gatorade to keep myself electrolyted (electrolit?).
And then—total moron that I am—I decided it would be a good idea the next day to take a 5-hour road trip with some friends to a little weekend getaway we’d been planning for months. In a car. With close proximity. With what we will euphemistically call a still-jumpy tummy.
And when we got to our little getaway, the only bathroom was mere steps away from the family room area where we all hung out. And I didn’t bring any matches.
But we survived, and myeuphemism jumpy tummy didn’t kill anyone—though it didn’t help generate any close friendships either.
And the date? He was pretty understanding about the food poisoning, so there were no hard feelings. But when I found out he already had a boyfriend, he never got a second chance at a start-to-finish dinner.
I’d first met him in a bar soon after I’d moved here. He was handsome and charismatic … and wearing leather jeans on a hot summer night. Sexy leather jeans. He was all smiley and chatty, but I could tell he was a bit of a playa—though we had a lot in common and I enjoyed talking to him.
He was a friend of a friend, and we kept bumping into each other off and on over the next few years. And one day he finally asked me out to dinner. And I said yes.
We chose a popular little Mexican place in the heart of Boystown and had a very nice chat over chips and salsa and various Taco-Bell-on-nicer-dishes foodstuffs.
And it was somewhere between the last bite of enchalidas verdes and the first mouthful of sopapillas that it hit me. The waves of goosebumps … the rapid heartbeat … the back-of-the-neck heat … that undeniable feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you just know … beyond all doubt … that you have food poisoning.
Yes, I was on a nice date with a nice guy and I literally threw money on the table and bolted out the door on him. And after an iffy cab ride home, I spent the next 24 hours never more than 10 steps away from the toilet, alternately lying naked on the cool tile floor and crawling deliriously toward the kitchen to find some Gatorade to keep myself electrolyted (electrolit?).
And then—total moron that I am—I decided it would be a good idea the next day to take a 5-hour road trip with some friends to a little weekend getaway we’d been planning for months. In a car. With close proximity. With what we will euphemistically call a still-jumpy tummy.
And when we got to our little getaway, the only bathroom was mere steps away from the family room area where we all hung out. And I didn’t bring any matches.
But we survived, and my
And the date? He was pretty understanding about the food poisoning, so there were no hard feelings. But when I found out he already had a boyfriend, he never got a second chance at a start-to-finish dinner.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Cleanness envy
I just looked at a brand-spanking new condo, which came complete with a range of desirable features:
• pristine countertops
• unblemished woodwork
• gleaming bathroom fixtures
• air conditioning that doesn’t drown out the TV
• bathroom tile that doesn’t look like it was stained with the blood of the innocents
And now I find myself looking at my four-year-old condo with a marked level of disdain and resentment, because its amenities would have a hard time finding their way into a glowing multiples listing:
• smudgy walls
• mousy-blah countertops with stubborn stains
• slightly spotty carpets
• a selection of dusty fingerprints
• not enough room for 40 pair of shoes
And I have a bad case of cleanness envy.
It’s not helping that the new condo's cleanness is bigger than mine, with higher ceilings and more square footage.
But my cleanness, for all its shortcomings, does have better water pressure. And at 24 stories up, it definitely has a better view. But damn, the thing gets dusty—especially since it’s so old.
Two weeks ago at my friend Bill’s going-away party, I took one look at the host’s deck and felt immediately inadequate. His deck was HUGE and totally tricked out with nice chairs and a grill and even a tent canopy. Best of all, it was shaded by big tufts of mature trees and it provided beautiful views of the city. Then a few days later I was at a co-worker’s condo for a client barbecue—and HIS deck was not only as big as my whole condo, but it offered breathtaking views of the city. He definitely had the biggest deck by far, and it even had upholstered furniture and little tufts of grass growing in square pots to make it seem less overwhelming.
I have a deck, too, but it’s one my whole building uses. It’s nice and big—and very sturdy—but when so many people have been on it, you never know how clean it is. I hardly ever use it.
Besides, with big decks come big bills. And while I think my bills are pretty huge, I can’t even imagine how big the bills are that come saddled to those guys’ big decks. I’d think I’d have a hard time enjoying my big deck if I had huge bills weighing me down. Even if I had friends over to sit on my big deck on a sunny afternoon, the weight of those bills could really undermine my enjoyment.
Fortunately, a man cannot be defined solely by extent of his cleanness, the size of his deck or the weight of his bills. (I’d brag about how much escrow I have built up, but I’m handling my own escrow because I don’t trust where the banks would put it. Besides, I don’t want to sound vulgar.)
• pristine countertops
• unblemished woodwork
• gleaming bathroom fixtures
• air conditioning that doesn’t drown out the TV
• bathroom tile that doesn’t look like it was stained with the blood of the innocents
And now I find myself looking at my four-year-old condo with a marked level of disdain and resentment, because its amenities would have a hard time finding their way into a glowing multiples listing:
• smudgy walls
• mousy-blah countertops with stubborn stains
• slightly spotty carpets
• a selection of dusty fingerprints
• not enough room for 40 pair of shoes
And I have a bad case of cleanness envy.
It’s not helping that the new condo's cleanness is bigger than mine, with higher ceilings and more square footage.
But my cleanness, for all its shortcomings, does have better water pressure. And at 24 stories up, it definitely has a better view. But damn, the thing gets dusty—especially since it’s so old.
Two weeks ago at my friend Bill’s going-away party, I took one look at the host’s deck and felt immediately inadequate. His deck was HUGE and totally tricked out with nice chairs and a grill and even a tent canopy. Best of all, it was shaded by big tufts of mature trees and it provided beautiful views of the city. Then a few days later I was at a co-worker’s condo for a client barbecue—and HIS deck was not only as big as my whole condo, but it offered breathtaking views of the city. He definitely had the biggest deck by far, and it even had upholstered furniture and little tufts of grass growing in square pots to make it seem less overwhelming.
I have a deck, too, but it’s one my whole building uses. It’s nice and big—and very sturdy—but when so many people have been on it, you never know how clean it is. I hardly ever use it.
Besides, with big decks come big bills. And while I think my bills are pretty huge, I can’t even imagine how big the bills are that come saddled to those guys’ big decks. I’d think I’d have a hard time enjoying my big deck if I had huge bills weighing me down. Even if I had friends over to sit on my big deck on a sunny afternoon, the weight of those bills could really undermine my enjoyment.
Fortunately, a man cannot be defined solely by extent of his cleanness, the size of his deck or the weight of his bills. (I’d brag about how much escrow I have built up, but I’m handling my own escrow because I don’t trust where the banks would put it. Besides, I don’t want to sound vulgar.)
Saturday, July 30, 2005
All grown up
For the last five years, I 've had a flimsy (yet handsome) card table in my dining room:
And why did I live with such ghetto furniture for so long? It's not that I'm cheap (well, not totally cheap)—it's just that my dining room is small, which limits my selection, and I never really found anything I liked enough to make a commitment.
But that all changed this morning. Last weekend I stumbled on a great dining room set with all the criteria I was looking for: no bigger than 42", round with a leaf so I have room to host emergency state dinners, sturdy ... and not terribly expensive, since I don't plan to live in this shoebox much longer. And it was delivered this morning (soon after I finished my first 13-mile run of the summer, he added parenthetically in a burst of shameless self-promotion):
I'm not WILD about the look (all those horizontal slats = way too much dusting), but it's fine for now. And the blond finish seems to fit in with the cacophany of other wood finishes in my dining room.
And finally, at 37 years old, I'm gonna be able to sit at the grown-ups table. Yay for me!
And why did I live with such ghetto furniture for so long? It's not that I'm cheap (well, not totally cheap)—it's just that my dining room is small, which limits my selection, and I never really found anything I liked enough to make a commitment.
But that all changed this morning. Last weekend I stumbled on a great dining room set with all the criteria I was looking for: no bigger than 42", round with a leaf so I have room to host emergency state dinners, sturdy ... and not terribly expensive, since I don't plan to live in this shoebox much longer. And it was delivered this morning (soon after I finished my first 13-mile run of the summer, he added parenthetically in a burst of shameless self-promotion):
I'm not WILD about the look (all those horizontal slats = way too much dusting), but it's fine for now. And the blond finish seems to fit in with the cacophany of other wood finishes in my dining room.
And finally, at 37 years old, I'm gonna be able to sit at the grown-ups table. Yay for me!
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The lazy blogger
Instead of posting real, thoughful, imaginative content, he just sends you to other people's clever sites and counts on earning points through the transitive property of cool hyperllinks.
Today's site: stuffonmycat. Stuff + cats = awesome!
Today's site: stuffonmycat. Stuff + cats = awesome!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The purging
I always keep a to-get-rid-of pile in the corner of my bedroom, where I slowly accumulate things I’ve decided I’ll never wear again. I typically wait until the pile gets big enough to fill a shopping bag, and then I take a trip to my friendly gayborhood Brown Elephant, where I drop everything off and return to my slightly roomier house with an always-in-style receipt that I dutifully file in my folder of tax write-offs.
This weekend, though, I played General Sherman and conducted a take-no-prisoners march through my sea of pants, shorts, jeans, shirts, shoes and even underwear—and managed to unload a good 150 pounds of stuff I haven’t worn (or shouldn’t have worn) in years.
Here are all my doomed possessions spread out on my bed:
And here, dear friends, is an embarrassing march through some specific items in my Shopping Hall of Shame:
Nothing says I kiss my sister on the mouth. With tongue. faster than a string tank. ESPECIALLY a string tank scooped so severely that it doesn’t even cover your nipples. While I might not have had the presence of mind to leave it in the discount bin where I found it five years ago, I at least had the presence of mind to never wear it.
Clockwise from the top left: Short-sleeve button-up shirt decorated in newsprint and bold blocks of primary colors. Purchased with my employee discount at the department store where I worked during the summer of 1985. It could not be more ’80s if it had epaulets and butterfly sleeves, which, thankfully, it didn’t. Mickey Mouse baseball shirt. Purchased in the mid-1990s to celebrate a promotion at my last job. Back when I was muscular enough to wear an extra large. Short-sleeve button-up shirt decorated with little cartoon men in red underwear and blue bowler hats and carrying briefcases. You can see their nipples. Purchased the summer of 1988 in Buffalo, New York. The guy I was “dating” that summer purchased one to match, if I remember correctly.
Clockwise from the top left: Shorty-short short shorts, ostensibly for running. I got them in trade when I did some free-lance writing for a gym I belonged to around 1992. The managers were too freakin’ cheap to pay me in cash. I was too freakin’ stupid to never wear them. The sock. Yes, the sock, International Male’s celebrated jockstrap without pantylines. (For the record, either I have some freakin’ huge manly parts or the damn thing doesn’t do anything to hold any man’s boys in place. Or both.) Dish towel reading “Oh, goody. More dishes to wash.” It was a gift, people! Shiny, stripey, kinda seethrough sleeveless shirt from the house of Hot Spice. Purchased three years ago with the approval of Mark. Never worn.
Jean shorts, the hallmark of a society on the decline. Or at least a society not opposed to the idea of incestuous polygamy. But you don’t know the half of it: These jean shorts aren’t even a respectable name brand. They’re Merona. From Target. And I had five pair in various colors, including sage, sand, white and black.
And you thought jean shorts were humiliating. From the top left: Black pleather jeans. Bought for $35 (on sale!) at Nordstrom three years ago. Worn once—to a showing of Cabaret. Gray snakeskin vinyl jeans. Bought for half price at a going-out-of-business sale last year. Never worn. Gray parachute-material jeans. Same story. (If that clerk was smart enough to sell me two pair of loser-ass jeans, why was he going out of business?)
And that, my friends, is enough embarrassment for one day. Please keep your derision and mockery to yourselves.
This weekend, though, I played General Sherman and conducted a take-no-prisoners march through my sea of pants, shorts, jeans, shirts, shoes and even underwear—and managed to unload a good 150 pounds of stuff I haven’t worn (or shouldn’t have worn) in years.
Here are all my doomed possessions spread out on my bed:
And here, dear friends, is an embarrassing march through some specific items in my Shopping Hall of Shame:
Nothing says I kiss my sister on the mouth. With tongue. faster than a string tank. ESPECIALLY a string tank scooped so severely that it doesn’t even cover your nipples. While I might not have had the presence of mind to leave it in the discount bin where I found it five years ago, I at least had the presence of mind to never wear it.Clockwise from the top left: Short-sleeve button-up shirt decorated in newsprint and bold blocks of primary colors. Purchased with my employee discount at the department store where I worked during the summer of 1985. It could not be more ’80s if it had epaulets and butterfly sleeves, which, thankfully, it didn’t. Mickey Mouse baseball shirt. Purchased in the mid-1990s to celebrate a promotion at my last job. Back when I was muscular enough to wear an extra large. Short-sleeve button-up shirt decorated with little cartoon men in red underwear and blue bowler hats and carrying briefcases. You can see their nipples. Purchased the summer of 1988 in Buffalo, New York. The guy I was “dating” that summer purchased one to match, if I remember correctly.Clockwise from the top left: Shorty-short short shorts, ostensibly for running. I got them in trade when I did some free-lance writing for a gym I belonged to around 1992. The managers were too freakin’ cheap to pay me in cash. I was too freakin’ stupid to never wear them. The sock. Yes, the sock, International Male’s celebrated jockstrap without pantylines. (For the record, either I have some freakin’ huge manly parts or the damn thing doesn’t do anything to hold any man’s boys in place. Or both.) Dish towel reading “Oh, goody. More dishes to wash.” It was a gift, people! Shiny, stripey, kinda seethrough sleeveless shirt from the house of Hot Spice. Purchased three years ago with the approval of Mark. Never worn.Jean shorts, the hallmark of a society on the decline. Or at least a society not opposed to the idea of incestuous polygamy. But you don’t know the half of it: These jean shorts aren’t even a respectable name brand. They’re Merona. From Target. And I had five pair in various colors, including sage, sand, white and black.And you thought jean shorts were humiliating. From the top left: Black pleather jeans. Bought for $35 (on sale!) at Nordstrom three years ago. Worn once—to a showing of Cabaret. Gray snakeskin vinyl jeans. Bought for half price at a going-out-of-business sale last year. Never worn. Gray parachute-material jeans. Same story. (If that clerk was smart enough to sell me two pair of loser-ass jeans, why was he going out of business?)
And that, my friends, is enough embarrassment for one day. Please keep your derision and mockery to yourselves.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Not dead
Just very, very busy. Sorry for the paucity of posts.
While I haven’t been posting, I HAVE been doing lots of things. Interesting things. And some not-so-interesting things. For instance, in the last week alone I’ve accomplished all this:
• I worked two 13-hour days and one 21-hour day. That’s right: a 21-hour day. I left my office at 5:30 am on Friday. As the sun was coming up. It was like doing the walk of shame with your hair (and dignity and genital health) still intact. And then I had to be back at noon on Friday for a client call. And I’m STILL tired. And my workload has STILL not let up. ACK!
• I ran three miles on Monday. That’s it. I should be running 5–8 miles three times a week, but with this schedule I guess I’ll take what I can get. I did manage to squeeze in a nice 12-mile run on Saturday. In the rain. Which I love.
• I took a two-hour architectural boat tour of the Chicago riverfront on Tuesday as part of a company summer outing. I end up taking this tour one way or another every year, and every year it gives me more reasons to believe that Chicago is the coolest city.
• I totally copied this hot straight guy sitting with his wife and kids in front of me on the boat tour. He was obviously a runner, see, and his legs were not only lean and muscular and sexy, but they were shaved and tan. They looked totally hot, and since my legs are feeling kinda lean and muscular and sexy as I train for the marathon, I wanted in on some of that hotness and tanness. So I shaved my legs this weekend. And I put on two coats of fake tan. And now I itch like a woolen bathing garment.
• I went party-hopping like the vapid socialite I am. In the space of seven days I managed to squeeze in a good-bye party for my friend Bill in one of the funky-coolest apartments in Chicago (think Spanish art colony with a killer view), a birthday party for a guy I barely know, a small celebration of my 5-year Chicagoversary, a housewarming for some friends who’ve been renovating a grand old manse for over three years and finally moved in for good, and a client “barbecue” that ended up being a five-star catered outdoor dining experience in one of the modern-coolest condos in Chicago (think post-nuclear industrial loft with a breathtaking view of the Chicago skyline). I was invited to two more parties last week (hey, when it rains it pours), but even us vapid socialites need time to eat and sleep and shave our legs.
• I saw The Wedding Crashers (check out the younger lawyer in the first scene—he's from my home town!) and Batman Begins. The former was pretty good—and this guy is pretty hot in it—and the latter was AWESOME.
• I also went through 10+ years’ accumulation of my unworn clothing and ended up hauling a good 150 pounds of stuff in seven huge sacks to the Brown Elephant yesterday. It took me three or four hours to try on every pair of pants and jeans and shorts I owned, do a butt check and an embarrassing pleats check and an even-more-embarrassing fat-gooey-waist check—and I ended up sending over half of it all off to find a new home and fend for itself in the real world. And that was just the pants. I still have more shirts and shoes than most well-stocked department stores—all bought on sale, of course—and don’t even get me started on the coats and sweaters I haven’t worn since Dubya was fighting evil in Vietnam. Watch this space for all the embarrassingpleated pants pictures!
While I haven’t been posting, I HAVE been doing lots of things. Interesting things. And some not-so-interesting things. For instance, in the last week alone I’ve accomplished all this:
• I worked two 13-hour days and one 21-hour day. That’s right: a 21-hour day. I left my office at 5:30 am on Friday. As the sun was coming up. It was like doing the walk of shame with your hair (and dignity and genital health) still intact. And then I had to be back at noon on Friday for a client call. And I’m STILL tired. And my workload has STILL not let up. ACK!
• I ran three miles on Monday. That’s it. I should be running 5–8 miles three times a week, but with this schedule I guess I’ll take what I can get. I did manage to squeeze in a nice 12-mile run on Saturday. In the rain. Which I love.
• I took a two-hour architectural boat tour of the Chicago riverfront on Tuesday as part of a company summer outing. I end up taking this tour one way or another every year, and every year it gives me more reasons to believe that Chicago is the coolest city.
• I totally copied this hot straight guy sitting with his wife and kids in front of me on the boat tour. He was obviously a runner, see, and his legs were not only lean and muscular and sexy, but they were shaved and tan. They looked totally hot, and since my legs are feeling kinda lean and muscular and sexy as I train for the marathon, I wanted in on some of that hotness and tanness. So I shaved my legs this weekend. And I put on two coats of fake tan. And now I itch like a woolen bathing garment.
• I went party-hopping like the vapid socialite I am. In the space of seven days I managed to squeeze in a good-bye party for my friend Bill in one of the funky-coolest apartments in Chicago (think Spanish art colony with a killer view), a birthday party for a guy I barely know, a small celebration of my 5-year Chicagoversary, a housewarming for some friends who’ve been renovating a grand old manse for over three years and finally moved in for good, and a client “barbecue” that ended up being a five-star catered outdoor dining experience in one of the modern-coolest condos in Chicago (think post-nuclear industrial loft with a breathtaking view of the Chicago skyline). I was invited to two more parties last week (hey, when it rains it pours), but even us vapid socialites need time to eat and sleep and shave our legs.
• I saw The Wedding Crashers (check out the younger lawyer in the first scene—he's from my home town!) and Batman Begins. The former was pretty good—and this guy is pretty hot in it—and the latter was AWESOME.
• I also went through 10+ years’ accumulation of my unworn clothing and ended up hauling a good 150 pounds of stuff in seven huge sacks to the Brown Elephant yesterday. It took me three or four hours to try on every pair of pants and jeans and shorts I owned, do a butt check and an embarrassing pleats check and an even-more-embarrassing fat-gooey-waist check—and I ended up sending over half of it all off to find a new home and fend for itself in the real world. And that was just the pants. I still have more shirts and shoes than most well-stocked department stores—all bought on sale, of course—and don’t even get me started on the coats and sweaters I haven’t worn since Dubya was fighting evil in Vietnam. Watch this space for all the embarrassing
Friday, July 22, 2005
2:30 am on a Friday
I'm still wearing the pants, shirt, shoes and underwear (HA! UNDERWEAR!) I put on yesterday morning. BECAUSE I'M STILL AT WORK.
It's been like this for a couple of days.
I'm so groggy and unfocused I can barely keep my eyes open. And yet I'm supposed to be proofing one more concept board that gets on a plane in five hours and persuades one of our clients that we're just the alert, focused, endlessly creative team they need for a lucrative new initiative.
Fortunately, my dragon breath and my atomic pits and my swamp ass and the fact that I just said underwear (HA! UNDERWEAR!) are helping prevent me from falling asleep.
So ... very ... very ... tired ...
It's been like this for a couple of days.
I'm so groggy and unfocused I can barely keep my eyes open. And yet I'm supposed to be proofing one more concept board that gets on a plane in five hours and persuades one of our clients that we're just the alert, focused, endlessly creative team they need for a lucrative new initiative.
Fortunately, my dragon breath and my atomic pits and my swamp ass and the fact that I just said underwear (HA! UNDERWEAR!) are helping prevent me from falling asleep.
So ... very ... very ... tired ...
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
My two-year blogiversary!
I hate it when people do this, but now I'm doing it myself: I'm writing a post that says I don't have much to say today.
I just wanted to mark the anniversary of this thing that has let me get stuff off my chest, play around with writing styles and voices, tell stories, share information, and discover just how awesome—and occasionally rude—perfect strangers can be.
I may be quiet for a while; work, the marathon and some random personal things are demanding a lot of my attention right now. Plus, it's freakin' HOT here, and nobody likes to read stuff written by a sweaty blogger.
Be good while I'm gone.
I just wanted to mark the anniversary of this thing that has let me get stuff off my chest, play around with writing styles and voices, tell stories, share information, and discover just how awesome—and occasionally rude—perfect strangers can be.
I may be quiet for a while; work, the marathon and some random personal things are demanding a lot of my attention right now. Plus, it's freakin' HOT here, and nobody likes to read stuff written by a sweaty blogger.
Be good while I'm gone.
Monday, July 18, 2005
I hope there's a statue of limitations
Um ... hi, everybody. My name's ... uh ... Jake ...
Hi, Jake!
And ... uh ... I'm a statue molester:
Fortunately, I just learned I'm not alone in my perversion. And other people's photographic records are way more damning—and way funnier—than my little peek up Napoleon's robe.
Hi, Jake!
And ... uh ... I'm a statue molester:
Fortunately, I just learned I'm not alone in my perversion. And other people's photographic records are way more damning—and way funnier—than my little peek up Napoleon's robe.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Five years ago today
a thirtysomething fella named Jake stood in the middle of a charming little tree-lined Chicago street just off Lake Michigan and waved good-bye as his parents tooled off in their empty U-Haul toward what until that morning had been Jake’s lifetime home in Iowa.
Two weeks earlier, see, Jake had come to Chicago to visit a friend and watch the Chicago pride parade. He had thought it would be interesting to line up a job interview at a big-shot Chicago advertising agency while he was in town—you know: just for fun—and, surprisingly, that agency had actually offered him a job. On the spot. With moving expenses. And could he start immediately?
Jake got that “immediately” commuted to “in three weeks” so he could go home, catch his breath, quit his job, list his house, coordinate a move and try to make this abrupt, seismic shift in his life go as smoothly as possible.
One week after the job offer, Jake and his dad had gotten up at 3:00 am to drive into Chicago and undertake a one-day marathon to find an apartment he could move into a week later. Which was surprisingly harder than it had sounded. Securing an apartment takes a lot of time, and finding a clean, safe, decent apartment with no crack whores and maybe convenient parking at a reasonable price is not an easy task for people who don’t know where to look.
But it all happened. Jake quit his job, sold his house, found his apartment, sold three-fourths of his stuff so he could actually fit in his apartment, rented a truck, recruited friends to help on both ends of the trip … and suddenly there he was. Living in Chicago. Waving good-bye to his parents as they drove back to Iowa.
And then he climbed the steps to his new Chicago apartment, sat down among the piles of unpacked boxes, surveyed his new kingdom and thought to himself:
OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO?
But after a reasonable period of adjustment, Jake finally came to feel at home in Chicago. And over the last five years he’s made quite a mark for himself here: he’s revitalized Oprah’s saggy ratings, helped the Cubs win the Super Bowl and starred in three direct-to-Broadway smash hits. Plus, he’s managed to keep his job and upgrade from his tiny rented cubbyhole to a dee-luxe shoebox condo in the sky.
And, as the cliché goes, he still can’t believe it’s been five years since that sunny Sunday afternoon when he stood in the street, watching his folks drive away and suddenly realizing how different his life was about to become.
The moral of the story: Life goes faster and faster the older you get, kids, so pay attention and hold onto the memorieswhile you still have your mental capacities. Or else just take a lot of pictures.
The other moral to the story: Take a leap now and then. Change jobs. End an unhappy relationship. Move to a new city. Shave your balls. Paint something in a bold color. Buy the more expensive jeans. Say hi to a handsome stranger. Train for a marathon. Start a blog. Join a beach volleyball team. Do something outside your comfort zone. And then just wait—your life will very likely be a lot richer in five years because of it. Or else your balls will just be itchy.
Two weeks earlier, see, Jake had come to Chicago to visit a friend and watch the Chicago pride parade. He had thought it would be interesting to line up a job interview at a big-shot Chicago advertising agency while he was in town—you know: just for fun—and, surprisingly, that agency had actually offered him a job. On the spot. With moving expenses. And could he start immediately?
Jake got that “immediately” commuted to “in three weeks” so he could go home, catch his breath, quit his job, list his house, coordinate a move and try to make this abrupt, seismic shift in his life go as smoothly as possible.
One week after the job offer, Jake and his dad had gotten up at 3:00 am to drive into Chicago and undertake a one-day marathon to find an apartment he could move into a week later. Which was surprisingly harder than it had sounded. Securing an apartment takes a lot of time, and finding a clean, safe, decent apartment with no crack whores and maybe convenient parking at a reasonable price is not an easy task for people who don’t know where to look.
But it all happened. Jake quit his job, sold his house, found his apartment, sold three-fourths of his stuff so he could actually fit in his apartment, rented a truck, recruited friends to help on both ends of the trip … and suddenly there he was. Living in Chicago. Waving good-bye to his parents as they drove back to Iowa.
And then he climbed the steps to his new Chicago apartment, sat down among the piles of unpacked boxes, surveyed his new kingdom and thought to himself:
OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO?
But after a reasonable period of adjustment, Jake finally came to feel at home in Chicago. And over the last five years he’s made quite a mark for himself here: he’s revitalized Oprah’s saggy ratings, helped the Cubs win the Super Bowl and starred in three direct-to-Broadway smash hits. Plus, he’s managed to keep his job and upgrade from his tiny rented cubbyhole to a dee-luxe shoebox condo in the sky.
And, as the cliché goes, he still can’t believe it’s been five years since that sunny Sunday afternoon when he stood in the street, watching his folks drive away and suddenly realizing how different his life was about to become.
The moral of the story: Life goes faster and faster the older you get, kids, so pay attention and hold onto the memories
The other moral to the story: Take a leap now and then. Change jobs. End an unhappy relationship. Move to a new city. Shave your balls. Paint something in a bold color. Buy the more expensive jeans. Say hi to a handsome stranger. Train for a marathon. Start a blog. Join a beach volleyball team. Do something outside your comfort zone. And then just wait—your life will very likely be a lot richer in five years because of it. Or else your balls will just be itchy.
Friday, July 15, 2005
No longer a virgin
I’ve lived in Chicago five years (tomorrow!), and until today I’ve never even walked by the everyone’s-been-there-but-Jake Billy Goat Tavern.
But that just changed. I was all set to head out the door for my noon workout when a guy I work with convinced me that a belly full of grease and more grease offered FAR greater health benefits than a set of pumped-up pipes. (I do arms on Fridays because when I first set up my workout schedule many years ago I figured the pythons would help me meet guys on my weekend jaunts to the bars and I wanted them to look plump and juicy and inviting. But admitting that in my blog would just make me seem superficial and slutty, so I’ll just keep that bit of information to myself. Now I do arms on Fridays because I’m too lazy to come up with a different workout schedule.)
Anyway, we grabbed our trim-ish tummies and well-fitting pants and headed off to the land of cheezborgers and no Pepsi around noon. And it was just as fun as I'd expected. The guy behind the counter yells “cheezborger!” at you the moment you butt in (GET IT? BUTT IN!), and he upgrades you from a double to a triple if you look like a double won’t adequately smother your abs in a thick shroud of goo. And the cheezborgers are pretty good—especially because they’re served on lightly toasted, perfectly textured Kaiser rolls.HOW GAY!
The best part of the lunch happened as soon as we’d gotten our orders and sat down: A busload of tourists from Stripmall, Nebraska, descended on the place with their pleated shorts and their oversized polo shirts from Kohl’s and their fanny packs and their almost-mullets and their self-conscious little smiles because they had seen the Billy Goat Tavern on SNL way back when pleated shorts were actually fashionable and now they were actually IN the Billy Goat Tavern which meant that THEY WERE A PART OF TELEVISION HISTORY.
But we didn’t make fun of them or anything. Not too loudly, at least.
And once we’dpopped my greasy little Billy Goat cherry finished our cheezborgers and Cokes (I actually had a root beer, because I’m edgy and I don’t let no stupid TV show tell me what to drink), we waddled back to the office so I could blog about it all. And soon I’m running across the street to Nordstrom to check out their big-ass anniversary sale. Because that’s what the glamorous world of advertising is all about. Especially on a sunny Friday afternoon when a bunch of your meetings have been canceled. And you suddenly need to buy bigger pants.
But that just changed. I was all set to head out the door for my noon workout when a guy I work with convinced me that a belly full of grease and more grease offered FAR greater health benefits than a set of pumped-up pipes. (I do arms on Fridays because when I first set up my workout schedule many years ago I figured the pythons would help me meet guys on my weekend jaunts to the bars and I wanted them to look plump and juicy and inviting. But admitting that in my blog would just make me seem superficial and slutty, so I’ll just keep that bit of information to myself. Now I do arms on Fridays because I’m too lazy to come up with a different workout schedule.)
Anyway, we grabbed our trim-ish tummies and well-fitting pants and headed off to the land of cheezborgers and no Pepsi around noon. And it was just as fun as I'd expected. The guy behind the counter yells “cheezborger!” at you the moment you butt in (GET IT? BUTT IN!), and he upgrades you from a double to a triple if you look like a double won’t adequately smother your abs in a thick shroud of goo. And the cheezborgers are pretty good—especially because they’re served on lightly toasted, perfectly textured Kaiser rolls.
The best part of the lunch happened as soon as we’d gotten our orders and sat down: A busload of tourists from Stripmall, Nebraska, descended on the place with their pleated shorts and their oversized polo shirts from Kohl’s and their fanny packs and their almost-mullets and their self-conscious little smiles because they had seen the Billy Goat Tavern on SNL way back when pleated shorts were actually fashionable and now they were actually IN the Billy Goat Tavern which meant that THEY WERE A PART OF TELEVISION HISTORY.
But we didn’t make fun of them or anything. Not too loudly, at least.
And once we’d
Thursday, July 14, 2005
I take no credit for this:
All I did was find it in some long-forgotten folder, resize it and post it here.
And giggle like a naughty schoolgirl the whole time.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD
Go now and vote for the bottom left 2005 Chicago Marathon T-shirt option:
Go on! Vote! NOW!
When I wear my marathon shirt, I want people who see me on sidewalks, from passing buses, through the windows on the EL two cars away and even waving from my private Evita balcony to stop and say: THAT big homo ran a marathon? DAMN!
Last year’s shirt design was an abomination before all things right and holy—mostly because it looked gayer than a picnic on a Sunday afternoon:
But also because the words “Chicago Marathon” were so small and so dwarfed by the cheesy clip art that wouldn’t even get a passing grade in a kindergarten watercolor class that people who saw me wearing it would just think I had on my special shirt I wore for eating spaghetti or wrestling pigs or belly-sliding through shallow pools of industrial waste.
In welcome contrast, the bottom left T-shirt option for this year’s marathon is both jock-wannabe cool and readable from across a crowded discount furniture warehouse.
And really, if I sacrifice my knees, my hips, my social life AND my ability to regulate my own poop for a couple weeks in October, the least you can do is help ensure that some loser too cheap to pay retail for a recliner sofa will look up from the handwritten tag on a plaid Broyhill scratch-n-dent, grunt to himself when he sees my shirt and think:
Now THERE is a real man. (I wonder if this comes in a beer color.)
SO VOTE ALREADY!
Go on! Vote! NOW!
When I wear my marathon shirt, I want people who see me on sidewalks, from passing buses, through the windows on the EL two cars away and even waving from my private Evita balcony to stop and say: THAT big homo ran a marathon? DAMN!
Last year’s shirt design was an abomination before all things right and holy—mostly because it looked gayer than a picnic on a Sunday afternoon:
But also because the words “Chicago Marathon” were so small and so dwarfed by the cheesy clip art that wouldn’t even get a passing grade in a kindergarten watercolor class that people who saw me wearing it would just think I had on my special shirt I wore for eating spaghetti or wrestling pigs or belly-sliding through shallow pools of industrial waste.
In welcome contrast, the bottom left T-shirt option for this year’s marathon is both jock-wannabe cool and readable from across a crowded discount furniture warehouse.
And really, if I sacrifice my knees, my hips, my social life AND my ability to regulate my own poop for a couple weeks in October, the least you can do is help ensure that some loser too cheap to pay retail for a recliner sofa will look up from the handwritten tag on a plaid Broyhill scratch-n-dent, grunt to himself when he sees my shirt and think:
Now THERE is a real man. (I wonder if this comes in a beer color.)
SO VOTE ALREADY!
Monday, July 11, 2005
Miracle on 7/11th Street*
Today I entered blogging history.
Today I donned the Tiara of Validity.
Today I sat at the right hand of Blog the Father.
Today I won the Tour de Bandwidth.
Today I remembered to thank the Academy.
Today I upgraded to the pleather interior.
Today I moved on up to a dee-luxe apartment in the sky.
Today posted a load o’ crappy puns and hyperbole.
Today, July 11, 2005, a day that will live in nobody’s mind but my own, I crossed the 100,000 mark on my hit counter. And I’d like to thank you, dear reader(s), for getting me there—but my compulsive need to re-read and re-write every post over and over ad nauseam combined with my obsessive need to check for new comments every time I’m in the same room as a computer probably pushed my hit countera wee tiny bit prematurely into the six figures (seven if you count the comma).
In any case, please hold your applause. It’s easier to send congratulatory emails and order expensive online gifts with both hands on the keyboard.
*I tried to think of aless sucky more clever headline than this. Really I did. But I failed.
Today I donned the Tiara of Validity.
Today I sat at the right hand of Blog the Father.
Today I won the Tour de Bandwidth.
Today I remembered to thank the Academy.
Today I upgraded to the pleather interior.
Today I moved on up to a dee-luxe apartment in the sky.
Today posted a load o’ crappy puns and hyperbole.
Today, July 11, 2005, a day that will live in nobody’s mind but my own, I crossed the 100,000 mark on my hit counter. And I’d like to thank you, dear reader(s), for getting me there—but my compulsive need to re-read and re-write every post over and over ad nauseam combined with my obsessive need to check for new comments every time I’m in the same room as a computer probably pushed my hit counter
In any case, please hold your applause. It’s easier to send congratulatory emails and order expensive online gifts with both hands on the keyboard.
*I tried to think of a
Sunday, July 10, 2005
I woke up this morning
in the arms of a big hunka hairy manmeat.
Sadly, today is the last time anyone will wake up in those blue sheets. I've been washing them and putting them right back on my bed (which is way easier than folding them) for more than 10 years. But the poor things have been ripped and repaired so often they're looking more than a little ghetto. They're so thin in places you can read through them. And at some point this week some clumsy homo pushed a whole foot through them:
So goodbye, my faithful friends. I'll be sure to observe a moment of silence when I dump you down the trash chute today.
*sniff*
In happier news, Scarrie–The Musical was fun last night. The show is wickedly funny, the cast is loaded with talent—and with hotties of both genders. David is as delightful as his blog leads you to believe. And Andy was the best bitter, resentful, making-out-in-public-is-the-best-revenge one-night prom-chaperone stage boyfriend I've ever had. Ever.
And in far less interesting news, I'm curiously not very sore after yesterday'stwelve eleven-mile run. But I woke up with a mucho sexy wife-beater farmer burn to commemorate the event. My building also woke up this morning with no water in our pipes and no lights in our hallways or elevators. Seriously—the elevators work, but somebody had to hang glow sticks in them so we could see which buttons to push. It's kinda like living on the set of CSI: Miami, where even the morgue looks like it could burst forth in a sea of go-go boys and circuit queens at any moment. Unfortunately, none of them could take a shower because we have no freakin' water.
Oh, how I wish I'd pooped before I crawled between my holy sheets last night.
Sadly, today is the last time anyone will wake up in those blue sheets. I've been washing them and putting them right back on my bed (which is way easier than folding them) for more than 10 years. But the poor things have been ripped and repaired so often they're looking more than a little ghetto. They're so thin in places you can read through them. And at some point this week some clumsy homo pushed a whole foot through them:
So goodbye, my faithful friends. I'll be sure to observe a moment of silence when I dump you down the trash chute today.
*sniff*
In happier news, Scarrie–The Musical was fun last night. The show is wickedly funny, the cast is loaded with talent—and with hotties of both genders. David is as delightful as his blog leads you to believe. And Andy was the best bitter, resentful, making-out-in-public-is-the-best-revenge one-night prom-chaperone stage boyfriend I've ever had. Ever.
And in far less interesting news, I'm curiously not very sore after yesterday's
Oh, how I wish I'd pooped before I crawled between my holy sheets last night.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Last chance!
Tonight is Andy's and my one-night-only appearance in Scarrie–The Musical. Curtain is at 7:30. It's going to be EPIC. I'd hate for you to miss it.
Oh—and I reached a new marathon training milestone today: 12 miles! (Actually 11 miles plus two half-mile stretches of walking off a bit of heat stroke. This is the LAST time I start a long run at 11:00 am.)
And I have to say there are some freakin' HOTTIES wandering in blessedly little around North Avenue Beach. It's enough to induce an eating disorder and a bitter case of dysmorphia.And a little private time in the shower.
Oh—and I reached a new marathon training milestone today: 12 miles! (Actually 11 miles plus two half-mile stretches of walking off a bit of heat stroke. This is the LAST time I start a long run at 11:00 am.)
And I have to say there are some freakin' HOTTIES wandering in blessedly little around North Avenue Beach. It's enough to induce an eating disorder and a bitter case of dysmorphia.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
A bloody good time
So if you missed last month’s fabulous chorus show, you won’t have to wait until our next concert (in December!) to see my big gay ass on stage. Because this Saturday, for one night only (come on, big baby, come on!), I’ll be appearing with fellow blogger Andymatic in this fabulous musical restaging of the prommiest movie ever written:
Andy and I areheadlining starring passing out programs doing a custom-written celebrity* walk-on as gay prom chaperones. Gay prom chaperones who MAKE OUT.
* Our definition of “celebrity” here is less about the fact that we write mildly popular blogs and more about the fact that Scarrie–The Musical director David Cerda is skillfully flattering us into using our blogs for free publicity. I know what you’re up to, David—and I can always be bought with a tube of greasepaint, a follow spot and the opportunity to mash onstage with another married blogger. Always.
And to prove it, I offer the following shameless plug:
Break out your ruffled dickeys (HA! RUFFLED DICKEYS!), power ’fros and rayon halter dresses and join us this Saturday for the most promtastic, splatterific, man-on-mantastic piece of theater in the known universe. Because if you don’t come, we’re all gonna laugh at you.
Andy and I are
* Our definition of “celebrity” here is less about the fact that we write mildly popular blogs and more about the fact that Scarrie–The Musical director David Cerda is skillfully flattering us into using our blogs for free publicity. I know what you’re up to, David—and I can always be bought with a tube of greasepaint, a follow spot and the opportunity to mash onstage with another married blogger. Always.
And to prove it, I offer the following shameless plug:
Break out your ruffled dickeys (HA! RUFFLED DICKEYS!), power ’fros and rayon halter dresses and join us this Saturday for the most promtastic, splatterific, man-on-mantastic piece of theater in the known universe. Because if you don’t come, we’re all gonna laugh at you.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Stop! Killing! Me!
My niece and nephew get along better than the vast majority of siblings in the three- to six-year-old range. They are best friends and playmates about 90% of the time they're together—and my six-year-old nephew shows incredible patience when his little sister follows him around and emulates and worships him as though she were the Trekkie-under-a-restraining-order to his Leonard Nimoy.
So it's especially amusing—and sometimes alarming—when they act like normal under-10 siblings and start antagonizing each other. Like this morning, when the niece decided to chase her brother around with a pair of scissors.
And like the bad, irresponsible parents, grandparents and uncle we are, we laughed our asses off when the nephew, summoning all his passive-passive powers of persuasion, demanded at the top of his little lungs: Stop! Killing! Meeeeeeee!
So it's especially amusing—and sometimes alarming—when they act like normal under-10 siblings and start antagonizing each other. Like this morning, when the niece decided to chase her brother around with a pair of scissors.
And like the bad, irresponsible parents, grandparents and uncle we are, we laughed our asses off when the nephew, summoning all his passive-passive powers of persuasion, demanded at the top of his little lungs: Stop! Killing! Meeeeeeee!
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