Bitch Kitty is only half good at hiding

Oops! I took this selfie at the gym today and totally forgot to post it.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?

Anyway, it was arm day. And Lots Of Inspiration Day. Yowza. So you’re all caught up.

Now I must go to bed because I need to be rested up for the excitement of tomorrow’s Tony nominations. I totally hope they pick you.

Really, Behr: “Premium Plus Ultra Stain Blocking Paint & Primer In One” is an awfully long name for the shitty skim milk in your can

Two coats of your runny, drippy lies can’t even cover beige woodgrain.

Treasures I uncovered today in my storage unit, part two:

• My collection of tourist-trap figurines from my world travels that I figured I’d never find again among the bajillion unopened boxes I have yet to spelunk BUT I DID
• The glazed ceramic Eiffel Tower ring stand/change dish I have no business owning because I don’t wear rings or carry change but it’s charming and Francophiley and I love it so shut up
• A red Chicago Marathon cowbell that all the spectators jangled along the race route to keep us fired up or at least running in fear from all the crazy people jangling cowbells at us
• National Treasure, the American Da Vinci Code and my gateway drug to swooning over all things Justin Bartha
• MY HELLA COOL A CHORUS LINE BOOK
• Three stray unmatched socks I thought might possibly pair up with the pile of lonely, forlorn unmatched socks I’ve been holding onto for years just in case their prodigal other halves eventually showed up ... AND TWO OF THEM DID!

Treasures I uncovered today in my storage unit:

• Gershwin “Preludes”: A Festival of Sharps, Accidentals and Hand-Breaking Intervals
• Hy-Vee Hy Value Card from the dawn of the Dark Ages when barcodes and loyalty programs were first invented and scannable plastic key fobs were REVOLUTIONARY UTILITARIAN ACCESSORIES
• 2€ coin from my last whirlwind tour of London, Paris and Barcelona—the European economy and the very status of the UK in the EU have been in precipitous flux since I so carelessly brought it home a decade-plus ago and removed it from European circulation
• Hand-made What Would Fred Do keychain given to me as an opening-night gift by a long-ago Ginger in a long-ago Follies where we’d together looked for Astaire-piration as we choreographed our featured white-tie-and-marabou-trim number
• Adventureland pay stub from my living-the-dream summer of 1986 where I sang and danced up to 13 shows a day, 6 days a week for two-digit wages that even then were probably criminal
• Debussy’s “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum”: A Festival of Flats, Accidentals and Knuckle-Breaking Tempos
• Blockbuster card that’s laminated in plastic so thick it’ll outlast, global warming, thermonuclear annihilation, cockroaches and the trump family’s concurrent prison terms

We are going through TONS of clothes in an epic March to the Purge

which is supposed to be a Civil War reference but it’s not a very good one so if you don’t get it I’ll totally take the blame for making a not-very-accessible allusion but anyway Bitch Kitty has found one of our giveaway piles and decided to send everything remotely dark to Goodwill with a complimentary layer of white fur.

And I was so worried I wouldn’t get to post this meme again this year ...

t-t-t-tard-d-d-d-i-v-v-v-e ....

My tardive dyskinesia—the permanent, involuntary-movement-causing neurological side effect of my bipolar meds—is firing on all cylinders tonight. I’m shaking and twitching and lurching like a sloppy drunk swatting mosquitos on a pogo stick during an earthquake right now. But my week’s obligations are over, I’m finally home, and I’m gonna find a quiet room where I can just go and WIGGLE.

If you build it ...

This totally fascinating and totally hella-cool chart works its way in relatively chronological order from the Neolithic—which, OK, I guess counts as an architectural style—to the increasingly scattered subdivisions of Post-Modernism, which by most accounts we are currently at what will eventually called the very end of. The examples here from each style don’t offer anything more than a general idea of what features and details define that style, but honestly: What on earth do you really need to know about any of it beyond the fact that there exists a style formally called Blobitecture?

Don’t scream words like UNIVERSAL, FITS ALL BRANDS and REPLACES ALL STYLES in huge bold type at the top of your damn packaging

and then all-but-literally whisper 2” in brown-on-fucking-gradient-brown-on-fucking-beige on the bottom corner under the fucking blister pack with no context that might alert me to the fact that 2” is FUCKING IMPORTANT PURCHASING INFORMATION TO KNOW and not expect me to yell FUCK at you on my blog after I’ve torn my toilet tank apart and gotten myself covered with toilet-tank slime and finally gotten your poorly labeled flapper installed and THEN discovered not only that it was the wrong size but even that there are multiple sizes you should have made me aware that I should consider so I wouldn’t have to make two trips to the hardware store when there is no earthly reason this repair project should warrant two trips to the hardware store, korky.

PS: Your company name is stupid. And fucking LEARN HOW ADULTS CAPITALIZE.

Tiers of delicate bitsy-dot chiffon tulle flutter like wispy cotton-candy nothingness next to Ivanka in an ugly fucking dress

Back at the gym and putting the CUSS in concussion!

(I don’t know what that means either, but if you squint really hard it sounds totally badass.)

I seemed to have dressed myself in all red, white and blue—even with stripes!—today. So if you see me waving, it’s because I’m being friendly. Not because I’m a flag.

!

Three Easter pies can become infinity Easter pies with enough mirrors

Easter table carnage

I made a meme!

Happy #Memester!

I have more Extra Strength Tylenol in me than is probably healthy for my kidneys and liver

and my lingering deep headache makes me afraid to lie down for fear the pain will recalibrate its spatial orientation and intensify all over again, but I survived my first visit with a hot shower and a bottle of shampoo and I managed to keep my hair on point with only a fraction of product on only a fraction of my not-throbbing scalp, so I’m still a big boy.

Zested limes and denuded ginger roots look so sad and naked

But they sure make a peppy fruit glaze!

My family told me on no uncertain terms to NOT post these pictures, so challenge accepted!

The good news is I got our back deck and the grill and all the patio furniture (now christened Porch Song Trilogy) all scrubbed and cleaned and dried and set up for summer.

The bad news is the umbrella for the table didn’t get set up. It’s on a high shelf in the garage, see, so I set up our tall step stool in a place near one end of the umbrella. That place also happened to be directly under the surprisingly sharp and surprisingly hard end of the track for the garage door. Not noticing this troublesome placement, I bounded up the step stool at full force ... and hit my head so hard on the sharp, hard end of the track that I saw stars and all but collapsed to the floor where blood ran down my arm and the pain intensified so quickly that I actually started gasping and sobbing.

My poor dad—who is legally blind—ran to get our poor neighbor—who had to look at my bloody, swollen head without barfing—and together they decided to take me to the ER:

The other good news is I don’t need stitches, but I have an impressive lump and a possible concussion and a badass punk-rocker streak of blood in my hair:

The other bad news, though, is the stupid, mean, dumbass doctor won’t let me go to the gym for arm day. So I apologize in advance if you see me today with my lumpy red head and my saggy, deflated arms.

The other freaking awesome news is our freaking awesome neighbor climbed (carefully) up the (newly placed) step stool to get our umbrella down, and it was waiting next to the driveway for us when we got home.

Bitch Kitty is watching. Bitch Kitty is waiting. Bitch Kitty is plotting.

It’s probably best to sleep with one eye open.

Two days until #Memester!

#CurrentlyReading

My co-workers might be starting to suspect I’m gay

Also: My birthday doughnuts had rainbow sprinkles. But the doughnuts from my plate are all gone. I might need to go to the kitchen to get more.

30 YEARS AGO TODAY ...

I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

Welp. I’ve emptied the cat box and taken out the garbage for the last time as a 50-year-old.

So the bloom’s off THAT lily.

Facebook has reminded me that I’ve apparently begun commemorating the night before each birthday with a selfie next to the girls. So here we are again. Looking gay as a purse full of kittens.

What I want for my birthday, in no particular order:
• Less stuff
• Someone objective to help me have less stuff
• A hellfire-damning Mueller report
• A fresh start with a normal kitten
• One single little sentence in which autocorrect hasn’t Needlessly capitalized something
• Less stuff
• A bedroom that I’ve finally painted rich-people blue to cover its current state of urine-sample gold
• Someone to help me find the right shade of rich-people blue
• My old abs
• Lots of cake
• But without compromising my old abs
• A Broadway dance career
• Less stuff
• Abs

Our dumbass cat apparently now sleeps downhill

I just laughed waaaaay too hard at this ...

Dumbass bird flirting in 12 easy steps:

1. Throw selves against window
2. Leave smears of bird snot all over everything
3. Pretend not to see each other
4. Look at each other without getting caught
5. Move closer
6. DON’T GET CAUGHT LOOKING
7. Maybe pretend to be examining the snot or something
8. Move closer
9. Post selfie saying “Feeling cute IDK might rub some more snot all over this window LOL”
10. Move closer
11. Finally get caught looking
12. NOW WHAT? Don’t ask me—I can’t even flirt with a human without somehow embarrassing myself

Four days to #Memester!

What’s gayer:

that tonight I folded all my hoodies in (generally) the same size and stacked them to be put away for summer in the order of the rainbow, that I actually own hoodies in every color of the rainbow, or that I did it all while watching Fosse/Verdon?

Seven days of staring at my increasingly saggy, almost-51-year-old moobs in the hotel-bathroom mirror is MORE than enough for a man my age to endure

so for the first time in a week I’m back at the gym with a fresh dose of C4 Ripped Sport Explosive Energy & Cutting Formula pre-workout coursing through my veins and itching under my preternaturally sweaty skin and I have only two days to look like a 25-year-old supermodel so LET’S DO THIS.

I! AM! HOME!

Notes on an unexpectedly long visit to New York:

• The bustling, clueless-tourist crowds are exciting and almost amusing for exactly five days. Add two more against your will and they become murderously intolerable.
• You cannot go ten feet on any New York sidewalk without walking through a crowd of marijuana smoke.
• No matter what they’re wearing, New Yorkers just dress cooler than the rest of us. Even when they look ridiculous, they OWN IT.
• Hot, athletic men with perfect lats and well-broken-in T-shirts walk alarmingly fast in Hell’s Kitchen and make it frustratingly difficult to keep up with them and fulfill your creepy-old-stalker obligations.
• THE. ARCHITECTURE.
• I would drive myself to abject bankruptcy if I lived in such a vibrant world overflowing with theater, art, music and museums. But especially theater.
• tiny. bathrooms.
• I’m not much of a foodie and I’m trying to avoid fast food, and there just aren’t enough plain-old, boring diners to suit my proletarian needs.
• Apparently the cabbies are contractually obligated to yell FUCK YOU! at pedestrians and other drivers. But in a sexy Brooklyn accent.
• I love hearing and seeing the melting pot of languages and clothing and cultural indicators that you walk through every ten feet (between the marijuana clouds) everywhere you go.
• People lose their humanity and become mere obstacles on the narrow sidewalks. Nobody looks up to say hi or even meet your eyes. It is what it is, but if I moved there and didn’t know a soul it would make me feel profoundly lonely.
• Thankfully I do know someone there. I’ve known my friend Chris probably since kindergarten, and he and his husband and their futon graciously saved me the cost of a hotel when my flights got canceled.
• THE. ARCHITECTURE.

Five days to #Memester!