Feral's Tree House

So then

2012-02-14T20:37:00.001-05:00

While I’m waiting for my (really very mighty and powerful) bunnies to kick in, I'm also waiting for this hideously decorated day to finally gasp romantically and then crawl back into the crypt it emerged from this morning.

Oh.

Did you not know that I do not much enjoy Valentine’s Day? Huh.

Here... push the little button.

Happy Fckin' VDay

That’s the Screeching Felines. Pretty sweet.

Anyway... the sun has set. The day is done. Soon enough, people will cease with their otherwise incessant wishes for me to have a “happy Valentine’s Day.” Soon enough. Right.

I’m just going to keep telling myself that until it really happens. Then, I’m going to pretend it happened promptly, that I did not repeat that it will end soon enough like a mantra until it was just a rhythmic ululation of muffled vowel sounds. Yup... I shall pretend that it happened promptly, and be pleased.

Odd question: do people realize that not wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day is the surest way of producing happiness in me? Do they not realize that, once morning has ended, there really is little point to wishing me a happy day? Whatever.

Soon enough, they will stop and I will be pleased by the quiet.

There is compensation for enduring Valentine’s Day. There is. It’s a little on the new side. This is a reason to make a Very Big Deal about it.

Steak and BJ day.

Totally not kidding.

March 14th is now officially “Steak and Blowjob Day”. Simple, effective and self explanatory, this holiday has been created so you ladies finally have a day to show your man how much you care for him.

No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town; the name of the holiday explains it all, just a steak and a BJ. That’s it.

I bet there isn't even a color scheme for it. Why would there be? No fake lace, no satin hearts. That's nice.

Yup... the fourteenth day of March is Steak and a Blowjob Day.

Mark your calendars.

That does it

2012-02-09T22:33:00.000-05:00

It's cold.

More importantly, I'm cold.

I'm really cold.

The year had been shaping up very nicely. I had been enjoying the weather. At least, I've been pretty much completely content with the weather, which isn't at all the same thing as enjoying it, but that's what passes for enjoyment most days in the Tree House. Whatever.

I do not care for temperatures below freezing. I especially do not care for daily high temperatures below freezing. I don't. If I wanted something resembling that, I'd live somewhat closer to the arctic circle than I do. I don't, you know. Nope. I don't live anywhere near the arctic circle. This cold poop... it will not do.

So then...

It does appear that it is time to dust off my shockingly close to not imaginary mystical powers. Oh yes.

Let there be bunnies...fuzzy, springtime baby bunnies.

Not ice and snow... no. Not chattering teeth. There shall be bunnies.

Possibly accompanied by that weird, amber light that just doesn't seem to be all that possible when it's cold and vile.

Or not. There can be picnic hampers... and bunnies.

You do see what they're doing, don't you? Multiplying.

I hear it's been disappointingly chilly in Europe, as well.

Karnickel, I say!

So there.

Meme

2012-02-06T00:06:00.000-05:00

So I got tagged again. That’s fine. I don’t at all mind this game. It’s pointless, you know. Of course, there aren’t so very many games that do have a point to them. Nope. Show me a game that has a point to it... a real game, not some serious shit wrapped up in enjoyment. That’s a pill, not a game. That’s one of those bitter analgesics with a slippery, glycerin coating... the kind you had better just swallow quickly because that coating doesn’t work half so well as people imagine it does.

Whatever.

The challenge is posed: tell something about yourself that nobody knows.

Huh.

You know... the list of things about me that my readers don’t know is long. It’s very long. It’s monumental, this list. The proportion of items on the list of things you folks don’t know about me that is deliberately included is quite high. It is. If there’s something you don’t know about me, chances are I have no intention of you knowing it. I can be like that.

So, you know, can you be like that.

Oh yes... don’t think I don’t know about you. Don’t think that your own list (and a very long one it is, surely) of things I don’t know about you is anywhere near so long as you imagined it to be, as you planned for it to be. It’s not, you see, as long as you think it is. It’s just not. That’s because you aren’t as special as you think you are. You aren’t. You think you’re just special as all hell... unique. Huh.

Neither am I unique, in that ‘no one knows who I really am’ sort of way.

Nope.

Both of us are humans. I feel very comfortable with the notion that the number of non-humans reading my scribblings is zero. Whoever you are, whoever I am, there’s just a drab blob of overlap: we just aren’t all that individual.

Don’t get me wrong... you and I are just as different as can be. We are. My quibble is with just how much ‘as can be’ is. In the end, I find it’s less than most people imagine. In the end, I find it’s a lot less than most people imagine.

Whatever.

Something about me that you don’t know. Fine.

Once upon a time, very far away from here, I had a fondness for Japanese folklore. Mmmmmm... yes. I remember. I was mad for it. Today, I can’t remember any of it. That’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough. I remember remembering it, but I don’t quite remember. There’s this word, though.

Yurei

It’s a ghost, more or less. In my own head, it’s most assuredly a ghost. It doesn’t really matter what the Japanese think the word means. After all, they aren’t in my head. In my head, it’s a ghost... as in dead people.

They don’t have feet.

Folks who actually deal in such things (and they are rare) will tell you that the yurei do have feet. They have feet if they want feet.

Then there are the folks who not only don’t actually deal in such things, they actively scoff at such things. Those folks aren’t rare at all. They’ll tell you that yurei just don’t have feet, to the extent that yurei exist at all. Indeed, that’s how you tell when a painting of a yurei is depicting a yurei, and not something else.

Sure.

Yurei don’t have feet. They haven’t had feet in a couple of centuries, by my count. Maybe the yurei got bored with feet.

Once upon a time, very far away from here, I cared very much about whether yurei had feet or not, and they did not. It was long ago, though, as you might have guessed from the ‘once upon a time.’ Nothing recent was once upon a time, even though everything is.

It faded away... just like a yurei’s feet. I stopped caring. I stopped hunting kappa along overgrown riverbanks, too.

Have you ever done that? Hunt kappa, I mean... hunt them along an overgrown riverbank? They can drown you, you know. Oh yes. If you aren’t careful, they can do many nasty things to you. Once upon a time, I hunted kappa along the banks of a river. I never found any. That may be why the pastime faded away like a yurei’s feet.

Maybe.

It’s all just fuzzy memories of having once remembered something now. I do not hunt kappa. I do not concern myself with the absent toes of yurei. Not now. Now I’m old. Now I’m here, not very far away from here. Now, you’d think it doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t.

This is where the challenge is met. Rather, this is where I start meeting it. I had to do the setup first. You knew that. All my regular readers knew that. I just repeated it for no reason at all... because I’m like that.

Porn.

Mmmmmm. That will send the search engines into a frenzy. It will, too... Yahoo, especially. Whatever.

Porn. I said it again. I really am fond of pornographic images. “The Island of Beautiful Boys,” it’s called here in the Tree House.

I’m going to the Island of Beautiful Boys.

I don’t share my beautiful boys. I’m like that. All the odd creatures from Yahoo and Google and Bing (in that order) can just scurry off now. Porn, porn, porn. I said it, I like it, and I don’t have any for you. Be off.

I’ll be browsing my usual queue of likely images. These images are intended to be stimulating. They’re intended to arouse. That’s what they’re for.

I’m thinking, “This man is dead.”

The picture in question, you see, will be cropped at the knees. The fellow has no feet. He may have a lovely torso, he may have a curiously impressive allotment somewhat below his navel, he may be otherwise entirely engaging...

...except it’s a yurei.

There are a lot of yurei around these days. I don’t know why. If I were a superstitious fellow, I might suspect that something dire was afoot. I might.

It’s not like none of the men on the Island of Beautiful Boys have feet, but... damn, there’s a lot of handsome yurei on that island.

And I’m looking at the flawless skin and I’m thinking, “This man is dead.”

I do not find corpses engaging. I don’t find them to be arousing or stimulating in the least bit. No.

I find it odd. Thoughts of yurei were, once upon a time, commonplace, at least for me. That was, though, a very long time ago. Thinking about them now is just an intellectual exercise in history. Once, when I was young, I cared about such things. Now I am not young and I not only don’t care about such things, I don’t care about not caring.

Somewhere in my head, though, there is this fossil... a small void in the shape of a yurei. If I see a picture of a lad with no feet, I instantly think, “This man is dead.”

You shall probably leap to the conclusion that I have some issue with feet... a fetish, perhaps. No. I don’t find feet to be especially interesting at all. Their absence, though...

Ghosts have no feet.

The Island of Beautiful Boys is filled to overflowing with ghosts. This is counterproductive. The dead are not hot... not to me.

True, that

2012-01-29T16:12:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting here thinking about books.

I buy books. I do. Oddly, books are something that I don’t download. That, to me, just isn’t a book. There just aren’t any authors out there pining away because Feral downloaded one of their precious manuscripts for free. There aren’t. There isn’t even one of them. Neither are there any authors out there who are quietly contented with the small pittance (and it is both small and a pittance) they personally received because Feral paid to download one of their precious manuscripts. Books are made of paper. They have covers. That’s just the way it is.

I hear (and read about) folks carrying on about the new digital stuff. Huh. Whatever. These so-called e-books may well be the big new thing. I remember when eight-track tapes were the new thing. I remember when video cassettes were the new thing. I remember laser disks.

I had a laser disk player at one time. Isn’t that a kick in the rubber parts? It is. I had an eight-track tape player also. Let’s not go into video tapes. Everyone used to have video tape players, I think. Well... the truly poor probably didn’t. At the time, that was probably a hallmark of the truly poor: they didn’t watch movies on video tapes. The world is different now, obviously. Whatever.

I have a few of these so-called e-books. I do. Most of them are unread. They are all of the sort that were freely offered up to the universe. You know... that “give it away for free” thing that supposedly entices people to pay for more of the same. Huh. I’m up for that. Mind you, I tend to be firmly of the opinion that stuff is generally worth a little less than you paid for it.

I really do find that this is true. You have to pay your share of the “rent” on the store shelves. You have to pay your share of the “cab fare” that got the book to the store in the first place. The folks who print books... I have personally known several hapless drones whose profession was the creation of printed matter. They produced books. “That’s more than half cool,” I say. “No... it’s not,” they say. They say that; every single one of them has said that. There is nothing especially glamorous about working in printing plant. They get paid, though. In order to have a book, you have to pay your share of the not-very-big wages of the hapless drones. After that, there are all those editors and agents. Of course, there are authors, too. The authors are at the very bottom of the food chain. What you’re paying an author for a copy of a book is just absurdly small. It’s a pittance... a nominal pittance.

So sure... the price of a book is a tad over its value. You can disagree with me on that. I don’t mind. I separate most of the steps in the supply chain for books out from the value of the book itself. I think that’s halfway sensible. You might quite reasonably refuse to make that separation. Whatever.

If I’m not paying, if it’s free, then I still think the price is a tad over its value. In other words, the free thing is not only worthless, it’s less than worthless. It’s an indulgent allocation of hard-drive space. I’m inclined to rent space on my hard-drive; I am not inclined to let you squat there for free. If I do let your manuscript sit there for free... that is seriously indulgent of me. I’m not likely to do it at all, and I’m not likely to do it for long.

It remains that you have to pay if you want to curl up in bed with a book and read it long into the night when you ought to be sleeping. I do that... read in bed when I ought to be sleeping. I also pay for books. I don’t have any sort of e-book reader and I don’t want one. I like pages. I like covers. That’s why the few e-books on my computer sit there unread. I do mean to get to them. I do. I can’t curl up in bed with my computer, though. I’d have to read them sitting up. I’m rarely in the mood for that. When I am, I really do have more important (to me) things to be doing with my computer.

Which brings me (in a characteristically round-about way) to the point I had planned to make.

There I am, trolling through a bookstore. I’m stalking books. I’m a bit like Elmer Fudd in that way. “Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting books.” I’m in the section of the bookstore that houses the genre I prefer to hunt. You don’t, for example, hunt kick-ass space operas amongst the cookbooks. You just don’t. I’m scanning the authors’ names on the spines.

Most of the time, I’m looking for authors I have read and liked in the past. I like proven authors. It’s not that I like established, mainstream authors... no. I like authors who have written enjoyable books. “Enjoyable” means that I enjoyed it. It does not mean that you did. It does not mean that some reviewer did. It means that I did.

In that sense, offering me a book for free isn’t all that bad of an idea. I tend to fall in love with authors. Melanie Rawn, for example. Mercedes Lackey, Ursula LeGuin, Colleen McCullough.

Weird, huh? I don’t like female authors. It’s the voice. I don’t relate well to the female voice. That’s just me and it’s nothing anyone should take personally. I don’t care for female authors. Thing of it is, there are an awful lot of female authors on my overflowing bookshelves. There are. They’ve written things I’ve enjoyed in the past. I’ll totally pluck a Melanie Rawn off the shelf at the bookstore.

There are authors I’m allergic to. I won’t touch their books. It’s not that I won’t read them. No. I won’t, of course. It’s that I totally won’t even touch them. I’m not sure what solvents would cleanse my hands if I accidentally touched an Orson Scott Card. That extends to Orson Scott Card readers, as well. I have no inclination to touch even a fingertip to someone who enjoys reading Orson Scott Card. I wouldn’t support legislation to round them all up and imprison them, but I don’t plan on touching one of them. If I do touch them, I’m leaning toward acetone as the solvent of first recourse. Whatever.

Having plucked a book up, I look at its cover.

It’s weird.

I’m looking for beefcake. I like books with hunky dudes front and center. Mmmmmm. I do. I also like airships. Those are sweet. Dragons. A dragon on the cover is not at all a bad thing... but it has to be a kick-ass dragon. I don’t want some nasty lizard thing. I want a dragon. Give me a hunky dude with a dragon stooping at an airship on the cover and I will... oh yes, I most certainly will... leaf through the book.

Man-boobs will not sell me a book. The content needs to entice. The content needs to confirm the cover. If I open the book at three random places, there had better be mention of that dragon in at least one of them. There need to be airships inside. There need to be engaging fellows in there (with their man-boobs, not without). It really, really helps if the cover artist bothered to read the book.

Yeah. When I finish reading a book, I close the book. I look at the cover. If I can’t place the scene in the text where that cover illustration is taken from, I’ll be throwing the book in the trash. I’ll be remembering the author’s name, too. Yeah. And I won’t be buying their books ever again. I’m like that. It’s mean, I know. The author has no control over the cover. Still... trash, and the author of trash. Like I said, I’m like that.

If I encounter homophobia... that’s a deal-breaker. I throw a book away on the second instance. I don’t read homophobia. The “second instance” is important because, sometimes, homophobia is a relevant element in the narrative. That’s allowed. Homophobia exists, as sparrows exist. I don’t mind sparrows hopping around for no reason at all in a story. I don’t mind homophobia appearing in a story. Make it an issue, though, and you’re treading on very thin ice.

In the end, I’d have to say there is little point in offering me a book for free. There just isn’t. I might well read it. I might well like it. I might well fall in love with the author’s way of telling tales and proceed to buy everything in sight with the right words on the spine. I might well. It’s just that my purchasing decisions are made almost entirely on the ability of the cover art to induce a flight of fancy. Then, the text needs to feed that flight of fancy into something that will keep me up far later than is appropriate. Giving it to me for free... that won’t do that.

There is, by the way, something else that will keep me away from a book: stupidly sexist covers.

Muscled dude, airship, dragon... fine. Add barely draped damsel in distress and I’m out of there. That’s dumb. I don’t read Damsel in Distress tales and certainly not Hapless, Incompetent Damsel in Distress tales.

Drop the muscled dude and insert a woman. That’s fine. Really... it is. The airship and the dragon will carry my foray into three random peeks at the text. That woman, though... she needs to be doing something sensible. She needs to be doing something a person really would be doing on that cover. She must absolutely not be gyrating into some physically improbable pose whilst trying to entice me with her tits and ass simultaneously.

Have you seen these? There are blog posts ranting about the phenomenon. A guy with a sword on a book cover is, for some reason, allowed to just stand there looking like he knows what he’s doing with that pointy thing. A woman with a sword on a book cover is, for some reason, required to be twisted into some grotesque pin-up pose. I hate that. I just hate it.

Give me a fierce chick that looks like she knows what she’s doing with a sword. I like fierce chicks. Fierceness is inherently attractive. So is competence. Just as the guy is allowed to just stand there looking like he means business, so ought the gal be. The chain mail bikinis, by the way, are absolutely out of the question.

Seriously... beefcake has been used to sell books for decades. Does some sword-swinging, dragon-defeating hero need a stainless steel jockstrap? I mean, he’s otherwise naked. Not that I mind an excess of flesh. No. An excess of flesh is totally going to send me scurrying to the halfway point looking for... friction... in my fiction. It is. And if it’s there, I’ll buy the book. I’m like that. A chain mail banana hammock, though... STUPID. Not fun. Not engaging. As some curious prop in a more friction-filled interlude... why not? But sword-swinging, dragon defeating heroes don’t need metallic lingerie to be sword-swinging, dragon-defeating heroes. The heroines who swing swords at dragons don’t need metallic lingerie, either.

Not that I advocate fully clothed protagonists. I don’t. I just oppose inane armor.

I also oppose doing stupid things with cutlery. If you don’t have any idea what the sword-swinging, dragon-defeating hero and heroine are doing with those swords, don’t put the swords on the cover. Let the hero and heroine combat their draconic foe with something more sensible. After all... dragons? Swords? Really?

Real

2012-01-25T17:34:00.001-05:00

People have been vexing me of late. That's fine. Being vexed is something I'm good at. I haven't noticed any special skills at being inherently vexing in others of late. I do believe that it's more likely than not that my current vexation is something that originated with me, not someone else.

Whatever.

I have been yammered at recently about swords. Mind you, I'm fond of swords. I am. I have a couple. I like them. That's neither here nor there. I don't like them so much that I have any real plans of blogging about them.

Really... I see no sense in that. There are others who disagree. There are others who maintain blogs on pretty much nothing but swords. Fine. I see no sense in that (which is why I don't plan on blogging about swords) but the world is a remarkably large place. It's a fairly diverse place, too. There's ample room for people to chatter on about swords and I'm happy to let them do so.

Not that I could stop them if I wasn't happy to let them do so. No. I couldn't do anything of the sort.

But that's just a paradox in my own head that may not exist. I find, ineluctably, that intense, splendid diversity is a characteristic of the world. It pretty much goes without saying that there is diversity... except that it seems to never, ever, go without saying. We prattle on about diversity all the time, it seems. We do so even though diversity is as inescapable as gravity. I sincerely believe, as a matter of religious conviction, that there is almost certainly a blog out there devoted to everything. If there isn’t, there soon will be.

Whatever.

I'm not being vexed by swords. I'm not being vexed by a diversity (or illusory lack thereof) of anything. No. I'm being vexed by reality.

How very strange it is to have people toddling to the threshold of the Tree House looking for “real swords.” Huh. Or they come on a quest for “real katanas.” Some folks are earnestly seeking after “true katanas.”

I don’t have the inclination to fuss over the word “true” just now. Surely, at some point, someone has pointed out that there may be no “truth.” It is possible that there is no “true” anything. If not, then I’ve just done so. Really... truth may not exist. I wouldn’t know for certain. I definitely know that I just don’t care about truth enough to muster either a defense of or an attack on its existence.

But “real” is a different matter. It vexes me when people who seem otherwise entirely sane have difficulties with “real.”

Sweeties, listen: if you have trouble with whether something is “real” or not, you have a more than slightly important problem. As with all problems of more than slight importance, you should seek out assistance.

See that? It gets bigger if you click on it. I wouldn't bother doing that if I were you. After all, it's a rock. It's just some rock. A larger image of it couldn't possibly be of any assistance. I could be wrong, though, in which case the larger image does exist.

The rock is real.

It weighs thirteen pounds. I weighed it. Of course, the scale I weighed it with isn’t exactly the most delicate of instruments for determining mass. That number, thirteen, is not quite as real as the rock is. The concept of pounds... there’s a measure of unreality there. To someone more accustomed to kilograms, this notion of thirteen pounds might be vexatious. You could probably convert that thirteen pounds into 5.8967 kilograms if you wanted to. Whether this rock really weighs 5,896.7 grams, though, is not something I’d wager money on. There is, after all, a certain lack of reality to that entire thirteen pounds thing. The margin of error in grams may well be immense. Whatever.

The rock is possessed of a certain number of grams of mass. If I dropped it on your foot, there would be a noticeable impact. (Oh yes... you would notice at once.) Some physicist could almost certainly produce a quantified description of that impact. There’s an equation, after all—something about mass and acceleration. If I just dropped the rock, the acceleration would be a function of gravity. You could look that up.

You and I both know, however, that we don’t especially need a physicist’s opinion on the matter: it would hurt.

There’s a doctor’s blog where I could probably get a very cheerful response on the medical question of whether the bones in your foot would break if the rock dropped on your foot. That fellow would probably also quite happily quantify the pain I imagine would surely come from this occurance... at least in terms of the likely prescriptions. Some kinds of pain warrant the administration of stronger drugs than others. I doubt, for example, that you’d have much success in wheedling a morphine drip out of this unhappy encounter with a rock.

The rock is real. If it fell on your foot, the consequences would be unpleasant.

There are people who believe that nothing is real. Huh. The pain from the rock landing on their foot—it’s just as illusory as the rock that caused it, you see. I don’t follow the thinking. I’m happy with “the rock is real.” The pain would be real, also. Such things are, in my way of thinking, to be avoided. I’ll not be dropping that rock on your foot. I'm a nice guy that way.

Did I need to say that? Are you reassured?

You needn’t be. What you see there is not, in fact, a thirteen-pound rock. It’s not. It’s a digital image of a thirteen-pound rock. I could count how many pixels of pretty colored light your monitor is reproducing it at. I could. That would be boring, useless, and more than slightly dumb. It’s enough that it’s not a rock, it’s a picture of a rock. You aren’t confused by that, though... I’m sure of it. The rock, while real, is here; you are not. You're safely somewhere else, looking at a digital image of the rock. You are in no danger of having this particular rock dropped on you. There's a layer of unreality between you and this rock that makes you quite safe. Were that layer removed, were you here with me, were that rock physically able to fall on your foot, you'd still be safe because I don't plan on dropping the rock on your foot. The layer isn't removed, you're not here, and the rock just plain can't fall on your foot, whether I'd drop it on you or not. Sometimes, no matter how real a rock is, it's not real enough. This is the case here.

So then, katanas. Specifically, “real” ones.

What is “real?”

Never mind what a katana is. The folks who come by the Tree House to vex me clearly already know what a katana is because they’re looking for a “real” one.

What is “not-real?”

Fake? Counterfeit? Imaginary? Illusory?

I’m very comfortable with the idea that a picture of a katana is a picture, not a katana. It’s not even a fake katana. A picture of a katana isn’t a katana at all.

Fine.

The sword moves through the air. It does so with a certain amount of speed. It strikes something. The thing (let us, please, imagine that this “thing” is a rolled-up reed mat) is cut through.

Is that not real enough?

Totally serious and not catty at all, swords are for two things: sitting around looking cool as shit, and cutting things.

The looking cool as shit part... I don’t think they’ve quantified coolness. I do think that pictures of swords are just about as good at looking cool as shit as actual swords are. There’s an enhanced coolness to the three-dimensional object, though. There is a certain “something” to the mass, the surface textures. Fine. Whatever. All of that is more than moderately subjective. There’s nothing “real” about the subjective. No amount of “realness” in a sword will salve your ego if you don’t like the sword. No lack of “realness” in a sword will dull your enthusiasm if you find that it just plain looks cool as shit.

Cutting things... that can be demonstrated. It can probably be quantified. I might even go so far as to say that it surely has been, but I won’t go that far. Really, though—cutting is a binary thing. The sword cuts or it doesn’t. Certainly, some skill at moving a sword through space is called for. It’s a totally bum rap to malign a sword for not being able to cut when the fault is with the wielder. Some swords, however, just don't cut well, if they cut at all.

There are physical attributes that affect a blade’s ability to cut. Any reputable sword dealer will freely admit to whether their products are suitable only for light cutting or whether they will be useful for heavy cutting as well. Most sword fanciers of my acquaintance find that the dealers are too conservative by far in these estimations. Most sword fanciers of my acquaintance find their light-cutters do heavy cutting just fine. Yeah. They also complain about rolled or chipped edges. They whine about bent blades. Sometimes, they even imagine that their comparative lack of skill was to blame. Light-cutters are likely to suffer when used for heavy cutting. Heavy cutters don't suffer from heavy cutting. This is why they are said to be suitable for heavy cutting. Whatever.

Swords aren’t actually for cutting firewood. They’re for cutting people. You know that’s true. Cutting people is frowned on. You know that’s true, also. Cutting things with swords... you can find any number of videos on YouTube of people happily doing just that — cutting things, and not people.

Cutting things with swords is more than slightly fun. I think it makes far more sense to cut things with swords as a recreational activity than it does to chase some inflated ball around a meadow. I dislike chasing balls. I’m also not fond of meadows. I think it’s the height of absurdity that people would do so for enjoyment. I also find it absurd that people would puff themselves over their imagined skills at ball-chasing. Why ever would you do such a thing? Chasing balls around a meadow... piff. Then, there are all those people who watch such activities on television. They follow the ball-chasing exploits of their favorite ball-chasers in the news media. Odder still, the news media eagerly provides the tales on a daily basis. Imagine.

But then, the exploits of the assorted thing-cutters on YouTube are, I think, worth watching. Not being able to replicate their activities, I do find that I garner some measure of enjoyment from appreciating their accomplishments. Swords are for looking cool as shit and for cutting things. Swords actively engaged in cutting things are an order of magnitude cooler.

Do the ball-chasers set their inflated balls on mantelpieces? Are there special ball stands for displaying them? Can the ball-chasers incite envy with a rack of eight balls laid out in a stately array? Do you clean and oil an inflated ball? Can that activity be ritualized? I wouldn’t know. I don’t fancy inflated balls.

Swords, though... the cutting on display in YouTube videos is almost all light cutting. Most all of the swords marketed by reputable dealers are suitable for light cutting. Heavy cutting, though, is the province of cutting people. That activity is frowned upon. Cutting people is not a recreational activity. Wanting a heavy-cutter is more than slightly odd. It’s also a little sinister. I know of no manufacturers of mass-market heavy-cutters. There doesn’t seem to be a market for it.

Heavy-cutters have, however, been a staple of sword-making in the past. “Cutting things” didn’t used to mean chopping water-filled beverage containers. Miyamoto Musashi did not, I’m fairly certain, carry around swords of the sort that are widely sold today. Musashi’s swords were not forged with snipping rolled mats in two or water bottle cleaving in mind.

This sort of sword is still made today. They are expensive. They are works of art. As it happens, it’s that “art object” thing that allows them to be possessed at all. Lots of places have very strict rules regarding weapons, you see. A sword specifically designed for heavy cutting, for cutting people, is the sort of thing many governments would prefer you not carry around. They’d prefer you not have them lying around, either. That’s why you have to look far and wide for an art object that (almost by coincidence) approximates a good, old-fashioned, weapon. Many of these swords are antiques. After all, there have been times and places where cutting people with swords was not frowned on quite so sternly as today. There have been times and places where a "light-cutter" would be a little (not a lot) more absurd than chasing an inflated ball around a meadow. A great many swords were made back then—what with people-cutting being popular —and many of them are still around. It's been awhile, so they're antiques.

If you’re looking for a “real” katana, you need to get over yourself. Almost all of them are real. Some of them are complete crap. That’s a quality issue, though. A crappy sword is real. Proper crapitude is a spectrum, though. Quality works that way. There’s not some bin labeled “crap” that all the crappy swords come out of (or ought to be deposited into). There are crappy swords, not so crappy swords, barely crappy swords, not at all crappy swords, and then there are those swords that fill in the constellation of “good.” Whatever.

It’s the same with orchids, you know. There are crappy orchids. You can buy them in grocery stores when the weather is fine. You can subscribe to “orchid of the month” schemes where some enterprising fellow will send you a plant every month. They’re affordable. They’re pretty enough. They’re most assuredly “real” orchids. There are, however, orchids that cost somewhat more than your car. There are. There are more orchids that cost less than your car but more than your entire wardrobe for this month. That’s because orchids occupy a spectrum of crapitude. A crappy orchid may well be exactly what you want. After all, they’re inexpensive, as a rule.

Ferns... there are ferns that will cost you a month’s rent (at least, a month of my rent). There are ferns that are weeds. I’ve been paid to rip ferns out of the paving stones of a greenhouse. They were just as real as the expensive ones. The doomed ferns were, as it happens, of a species that will cost you more than the price of a lunch.

Price is not very real. Whether a fern or a rose or an orchid is a weed... not real at all. Whether something is crappy or not depends entirely on your standards of crapitude. I’ve seen people discard as garbage things that I would happily pay large sums for. I've seen people spend vast sums on antiques that are currently nonfunctional garbage. Crapitude is, without question, not real.

Not real in the way that the rock is real.

Is the rock a good rock? Good for what? Is it a high quality or a low quality rock? What standards are we arguing about? Is it an expensive or a cheap rock? I picked it up off the ground. It cost me nothing. Someone picked the Hope Diamond up off the ground too...I bet they did. Plucked it right up out of what passes for dirt. Feel free to wrap as many layers of dreams and delusions around the rock as you wish. Be contented with your imaginings. Underneath all of that, the rock is real. Seriously... do not fish around for a "real" rock.

All rocks are real.

Except for the fake rocks. There are fake rocks made of polystyrene and the like. There are also synthetic rocks.

I am vexed. People come to me looking for “real.” Better to come asking after the “not real.” Most things of value aren’t at all real. Quite a few of the things we value highly aren’t real. In the end, though, the things we value most highly are very real—as real as rocks.

I get questions

2012-01-19T03:47:00.000-05:00

What was Rich Merritt's porn name?

Again? Still? OK... fine. IMDB is your friend. So is Google.

Is Rich Merritt dead?

Why would he be dead? No... as far as I know, he's not dead.

Is Jeff Stryker dead?

Hold up... why is everyone fixated on whether people are dead or not?

Anyway, last I heard, he's still not dead. He looks good, too. I mean... he's a year younger than I am. I'm as old as fossilized shale. That means that Mr Stryker is one year younger than fossilized shale. Or something like that.

What's the difference between exacerbate and exasperate?

Really? Seriously?

Sweeties... they're completely different words. Not making this up: the first one means to make a situation worse and the second one means to vex.

Oddly enough, the word 'aggravate' can be used for both meanings. Isn't that a kick in the rubber parts? Yeah... I thought so. Whatever.

I got taken to task in another missive for being 'mean' about just this topic recently. Huh. I hadn't meant it to be mean. Looking back over it, I don't find that I was mean.

Read this carefully: you get to choose which words you use when communicating. You do. I very strongly recommend that you choose from among the words you know. That's not mean.

Use the words you know.

It's true that there are just oodles of words in English... words that you might even have heard of. That's fine. Sweeties, listen for a change. Just because you heard the word 'exacerbate' somewhere doesn't mean you're somehow obligated to use that word in a sentence. You're not. You don't ever have to use the word 'exacerbate.' You can get through life just fine without it. The same thing goes with 'exasperate.' I can think of no reason at all why someone should be required to use the word 'exasperate' in a sentence.

I mean... totally serious here... you get along without the word 'vex,' don't you? Of course you do. When's the last time you said "Go away, you vex me"? You've probably never said something like that. You don't need to ever say "you exasperate me," either. You can (and almost certainly already have) get along just fine saying the things you want to say with the words you know.

There's a second half to communicating with words. The person you're communicating with also has to have a reasonable understanding of what the words you've chosen mean. What point is there to saying "you vex me" when the person you're talking to doesn't know what 'vex' means? There isn't one, Sweeties. There just isn't.

And if you don't know the difference between 'exacerbate' and 'exasperate,' your intended audience probably doesn't either.

I'm serious about this. Those two words have something in common apart from being able to be replaced with the word 'aggravate.' Yup... you probably shouldn't use them at all. Lots of people can't define either word, so using the words is a waste of air.

Now stop asking me about those words. You're aggravating me. Asking again will just aggravate the situation. Then there will be aggravated aggrivation.

We can't have that.

Overheard on the Street

2012-01-17T21:26:00.000-05:00

So... I'm laying in bed. I'm pretending that I'm asleep. That would be because I get up at a most unsavory hour of the morning. This is not by choice. Oh no--I would prefer to be retiring at that hour rather than arising. Whatever. I'd prefer that it be more or less quiet while I'm trying to decieve myself into falling asleep.

There's this voice.

It's a loud voice, a male voice, and a decidedly hostile voice. It certainly does not fall anywhere near the "more or less quiet" category.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fucking kill you."

That's what the fellow said. He seemed to mean it, too. You might want to re-read that with explamation points added. I didn't put any exclamation points there because I hate exclamation points. Also, I'm pretty sure those words aren't normally uttered without the exclamation points being assumed. But sure... see, it seemed to me that the fellow clearly did mean what he said. He had a very earnest voice.

That's a reason for a moderate amount of concern. Just a moderate amount, because he just plain wasn't addressing me. Then there's the fact (and I find that it really is one) that the fellow just wasn't all that focused, despite the clear level of passion being expressed. See... saying you're going to kill someone doesn't advance that agenda one tiny bit. To the contrary: it's a counterproductive strategy. Seriously... hollering about how you're going to fucking kill someone does injury to no one (apart from making it difficult for me to sleep) and gives your opponent the perfectly reasonable motivation to preempt your declared intentions with actions of their own. Do consider the possibility that someone might decide to shoot you after you yell "I'm going to fucking kill you."

Anyway.

The voice is immediately followed by another.

This voice is also loud. It's a female voice, however, and the voice's flavor is one of annoyance rather than hostility.

"Shut the fuck up. You ain't going to kill nobody. Now get in the car."

Yup.

My mom might as well have said, "Put the cat down. You're going to school. Now get in the car."

Whatever.

There are the sounds of two car doors slamming. A car drives away. It remains more or less quiet for the duration.

"You ain't going to kill nobody. Now get in the car."

I don't quite know what to make of it. I do know that this anonymous woman is obviously a bad-ass.

I'm going to be telling people to "get in the car" all week now. I'm like that.

Just Saying...

2012-01-08T02:46:00.000-05:00

I don't make this stuff up. I don't.

I don't have either the time or the energy to make stuff like this up. Really. If I had the time and energy to make stuff up, I'd be off writing my novel. I really and truly would be. That's just the case.

Whatever.

Look here, you:

Exacerbate It means "to make a situation worse."

Exasperate It means "to annoy."

These are not the same word. They're barely similar. True, they do both begin with the letters EXA. To exacerbate the situation, the fourth letter has the same sound in both words. Even more exacerbating is the fact (and it is one) that the third syllable in both words contains the vocabule 'er.' Oh yeah... and they rhyme. Fine... I guess they're somewhat more than "barely similar." They're a whole freaking lot similar.

Whatever.

They are not the same word. They just aren't. I find it exasperating as all hell when these words are mixed up.

Here's a New Year's Resolution for you (assuming that you refuse, as I suggested earlier, to stop grubbing after meaningless sums of money). When you're pissed off, just say so. When something is likely to make a situation worse, use those words.

See... if you really can't tell the difference between 'exasperate' and 'exacerbate,' I think it's likly that your listeners or readers can't tell the difference either. Communication is what words are for, after all.

Really.

I'm not making that up.

Alas, a meme

2012-01-06T22:17:00.001-05:00

You know how I can be about memes. Oh yes... I can be compulsive about memes. Whatever.

The rules:
1) Find out the song that was #1 the week you were born.
2) Find that song on YouTube.
3) Post that video on your wall without shame.

Yeah. Right. "Wall," here, would refer to the Tree House. I'm told the word "wall" properly refers to some Facebook thingie. Huh. I don't do that. Neither should you, but why ruin a perfect record by listening to me? But... really... I do not approve of participation in Facebook. Here would be a stellar example of why. Whether you care at all about my approval is, but of course, entirely up to you. Whatever.

The "without shame" part... doesn't that just go without saying? I mean... really... I was a wee bairn at the time. I was super-tiny. You could say I was a superhero and that my superpower was being frightfully wee and helpless. I had nothing to do with this song being #1 back then. My parents probably share a morsel of guilt on that score, but I am blameless.

Did I mention I looked like a hideous lizard? No? I did look like a hideous lizard. Most of my readers (what with them all being such stylish and educated persons of inestimable quality) already knew that. They knew that because all babies, and most assuredly in the first week of their lives, look like lizards.

I was babbling about the week I was born (if you'll recall) and the meme wants to know what song was #1 that week.

Yeah. Fine.

Something about this song makes me want to scream "no" at the top of my lungs.

Weirdness

2012-01-04T03:12:00.003-05:00

So then

I was off to the hardware store. In itself, that doesn't make me feel all that butch. Thing of it is... I was off to purchase bolts.

Bolts, I tell you.

Here in the Tree House, that most assuredly counts as "butch." Manly things, those bolts are. You put things together with bolts. Conveniently, that's what I had in mind... more or less permanently reassembling a broken piece of necessary equipment. I needed a carriage bolt to do that. Now, needing a carriage bolt doesn't exactly cause the manliness seismometers to scratch wild lines on slowly scrolling rolls of paper. It's not like I was off to buy plumbing fixtures.

I've done that, you know... purchased plumbing fixtures. I did so most recently at the very hardware store in question. It's a nice hardware store. I've purchased replacement door knobs, dead-bolt locks, the prize-winning goose-neck for my kitchen sink.

"You fixed the kitchen sink?" That's what the spousal-unit said.

"Yup," says I.

"Well, aren't you butch?"

"Oh yes... I am He-Man."

This wasn't a kitchen sink. It wasn't plumbing at all. It was, however, something that required a bolt. Bolts are inherently butch. Needing bolts is even more butch. Bolts are not, however, anywhere near as manly as plumbing fixtures. That's just the way it is.

Whatever.

The broken article in question had been fastened with a right nasty-ass rivet. I despise rivets generally. They have their place. I prefer them in armor. Armor is butch. Rivets... those are just part of the armor. Rivets aren't butch. In fact, rivets are at their best when the rivet heads have been shaped into flower blossoms... just not butch. Rivets aren't anywhere near butch enough to assemble something serious. Armor, you see, used to be serious business but isn't anymore. I don't use armor every day. I don't use armor out of necessity at all. Armor couldn't possibly be of any importance to me, apart from being butch... and five different kinds of cool.

The nasty-ass rivet broke. Rivets do that when they've been used for something serious, something you use every day, something that requires butch fasteners. You shouldn't use rivets for such tasks... you just shouldn't. They break.

It didn't so much "snap." It's not like the thing broke in two. No... the inadequately mushroomed end of it just sort of pathetically disintegrated, transforming the marginally useful rivet into a completely useless peg. It happens... which is why you just don't use rivets for serious things. When you do use rivets, get pleasant, pretty rivets with flower-shaped heads. Rivets are decorative first and useful second. They aren't butch. Butch is useful first and decorative second or third.

Remember that.

The thing should have been assembled with a nice, butch, bolt. Since the thing was important, I figured replacing the broken bit with something appropriate was in order. Very regrettably, the entire event began late in the evening on New Years Eve.

Brief New Years Eve rant:

Do not come whining to me about your "work ethic." You don't have one. You don't feel like working in the vicinity of midnight on December 31? I see.

You can't possibly work on January 1? Huh. Imagine.

What's this, you say? When a holiday like New Years falls on a weekend you feel cheated and so refuse to work on January 2, as well? Even after you pulled this exact same stunt last week over Christmas?

Nope... no work ethic whatsoever.

Piffle, I say. The sentimental cretins shut down the entire town for three freaking days... again.

Whatever.

I did survive. It was onerous, but I managed. The obscene disruption of New Years having passed, I toddled off to the hardware store (where they, apparently, had decided to return to work) to get my bolt.

As a rule, when I find I need a bolt, and then find that I don't have any bolts, I prefer to buy more bolts than I need. That way, you see, something insane like everyone deciding not to go to work when I need a bolt won't interfere with what is... really... a simple repair job. I was at the hardware store to buy four bolts. Obviously, the bolts would not be useful without nuts to fasten them, so I was there to buy four nuts also.

They sell those things individually. That's just crazy. I was prepared to buy a whole box of them. They're usually one-pound boxes.

Seriously... if half a kilo of bolts and half a kilo of nuts can't solve your problem more or less in perpetuity, then your problem does not require bolts at all.

They didn't have that, though. Sigh. I am old and growing older. They used to sell those by the pound. They used to come in a barrel (really). You scooped them out with a real scoop into a paper bag. You paid for them after the bag was weighed... what with them being sold by the pound and all. After that, they came prepackaged in one-pound cardboard boxes. That's fine... a pound of bolts is more butch than a single bolt is.

Now, at the local hardware store, they're sold individually. Whatever. I'll live with just four bolts. After all... I only actually need one today. I'm just buying four because I just will not have the pathetic lack of a work ethic prevalent in these parts interfering with my life in this manner. The nuts are sold individually as well.

Being numerically challenged, I counted out the carriage bolts three times. I counted out the nuts four times... if threading each nut onto its respective bolt counts as counting it a fourth time. Its not at all butch to return home with an inappropriate number of nuts for your bolts. You have to take care with such things because a bolt without a nut isn't useful at all. Besides... while bolts are butch, they're not at all as butch as plumbing fixtures. Screwing up something simple like counting all the way to four... with your gloves off... totally negates any butch points you might earn by deliberately buying bolts for a specific purpose.

Alas, I am not so butch as the fellows who deign to work in hardware stores. I'm not. I lack a beer belly. I have no "plumbers' butt." I am bereft of anything resembling a beard. The three fellows who deigned to come into work today at the hardware store... they all had beards and plumbers' butts and beer bellies. They weren't at all decorative (although I know people who favor such appearances). They were, however, eminently butch. Oh yes... it's the plumbing fixture thing. That, and the power tools. Butch fellows, these... I don't deny it.

"You've got galvanized nuts here."

Ah... the sort of butch that can spot the difference between galvanized and not galvanized at a glance. Huh. Not that I didn't know that the nuts were galvanized while the bolts were not... I did. I'd have preferred galvanized bolts, but I could find any. Asking for them... that's just not butch. Ask anyone. It's not. Bolts are butch, but they're not plumbing fixtures and you have to take care not to erode or abrade any of the butch off of them if you want any butch credit to remain sticking to you when you get home.

"I see that," says I.

"Well, the non-galvanized ones are cheaper," says Mr Has Almost As Much Hair In His Ass Crack As On His Chin.

I look at him. I'm afraid I was making a face. I can't help it sometimes... I'm a catty bitch at heart. I may be able to replace the goose-neck on my kitchen sink, but I'm just plain a catty old queen (with an ever-growing emphasis on 'old') deep down. Oh yes, Sweeties... I was giving him a look.

"They're probably only six cents," says Mr Has Almost As Much Hair In His Ass Crack As On His Chin.

Yes.

You see, a galvanized nut costs something like seven cents. Four of them... that's getting up into the neighborhood of Twenty-eight cents. Why... I might save all of four pennies if I wander back over to the aisles and seek out the elusive non-galvanized nuts. Alternatively, I could do something daring like wander back over to the aisles and seek out the even more elusive galvanized carriage bolts.

But it's $0.04.

And I'm making that face. All pretense at butch has evaporated.

"Sweetie, it's four cents. I don't have any interest in saving four cents."

He shrugs and rings me up.

Whatever.

I scurried home with my bolts. I popped that little fucker right into the offending hole, threaded on the nut, and tightened it down.

With a pair of pliers, not a socket wrench.

"It's fixed," says I.

"Already?" The spousal-unit clearly does not believe that something so vital as bolting a serious piece of equipment can take so few seconds.

"Yup," says I.

"Well, aren't you butch?"

The Moral of the Tale (because there is one)

It is, I am told, the custom to make resolutions at the beginning of the year. Huh. I don't do that. I just don't. I understand, however, that the sentimental fops who just don't feel like working these days do make such resolutions.

If it's not too late, I have a suggestion.

I'm totally serious here and not being catty at all.

Knock this shit the fuck off. Just stop it. Stop scrabbling after pennies.

Really? Four pennies?

I've given it thought: there just isn't anything I would do in exchange for four cents. If you want me to sweep four cents up off the floor, I'm going to charge you $10.50 for that. While I'm at it, I'll probably sweep the entire floor... what with sweeping up the four cents probably creating a clean spot.

Just knock off the penny-pinching. You're not being frugal; you're being annoying. Really... I'm not making this up... if you save four cents every single day this year, you'll have $14.60 in your pocket next January. I just don't think that's worth the effort required to scrape four pennies out of the universe every single day. Most of you won't manage to get out of bed on several of those days, so we're not even really talking $14.60.

Just knock it off.

Let there be Rats

2011-12-23T20:46:00.004-05:00

So... there were no rats last year. This created a small amount of a stir. The Spousal-Unit wants the Rats put up this year.

OK... that sounds like a fine compromise. There are, you see, no lights. There's no tree, no stockings, and the Tree House is utterly divest of the customary brick-a-brack associated with the season. I'm liking that. I can survive a return of the Rats.

Editor's Note: Warning! Unvarnished, seasonally induced sentimentalism follows. Use in moderation, and please, don't drink and drive.

Charlie Brown [yelling]: Isn’t there anyone... who can tell me... what Christmas is all about?

Linus: Sure, Charlie Brown. [walks to center stage] Lights, please....

I don’t believe in God. And if I did believe in a God, it certainly wouldn’t be this Jesus/Yahweh character that gets so much press. I do, however, celebrate Christmas— properly pronounced ‘Kissmass’ at our house—and I’ll tell you why.

My husband/partner/boyfriend and I both grew up as some manner of brat: him with the Army; me with a certain newspaper corporation possessed of great evil. Between us, in the course of our lives (82 years, in sum), we’ve moved house 78 times. Our meeting and marriage didn’t break the habits of a lifetime: 12 of those moves have been in our (almost) 19 years together.

A very long time ago, we came separately to the same conclusion: that one place is everyplace, and everyplace is the same place. But if you’re not from anyplace, where exactly is home?

Concomitant with the still-potent impulse to wander, both of us likewise still occasionally get an unreasoning urge to ‘go home,’ even knowing that there’s really no place on a map that reasonably fits that description.

The schmaltz and ardency that powers an American Christmas only serves to exacerbate such notions. But thence is also where I find the truth of the matter. It’s a Capra-esque, corny truth, perhaps, but hey, if you want bloody Proust, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

Happily, I don’t have to look that far afield— or suffer through 40 pages describing exactly how a Frenchman falls asleep— to stumble upon my home. You see, there’s a former Army brat who loves me; and I love him. As the years pile on top of each other, we come to realize that we’ve been together and loved each other for nearly half our lives.

So then, in effort to curb my rampaging, slightly embarrassing, inner Jimmy Stewart, I’ll just end with this: when I feel that need to go home, I need only look to the left on the couch where he sits, swigging strong coffee and chomping on M&Ms... and see where it is.

That’s what Kissmass is all about, Charlie Brown.

Thank you for you patience. We now return you to our regular, snide programming, already in progress.

Just saying...

2011-11-28T19:47:00.000-05:00

I'm reading the news. I do that. I see this.

Cain's lawyer, Lin Wood, issued a statement on his behalf, drawing a distinction between this case and the earlier three women.

"This is not an accusation of harassment in the workplace – this is not an accusation of an assault - which are subject matters of legitimate inquiry to a political candidate. Rather, this appears to be an accusation of private, alleged consensual conduct between adults - a subject matter which is not a proper subject of inquiry by the media or the public," Wood said.

" Huh," says I. That seems an odd way to reframe the discussion. It seems a very odd way to me, indeed. See... I did some reading elsewhere, too.

TITLE 16. CRIMES AND OFFENSES
CHAPTER 6. SEXUAL OFFENSES
O.C.G.A. § 16-6-19 (2008)
§ 16-6-19. Adultery

A married person commits the offense of adultery when he voluntarily has sexual intercourse with a person other than his spouse and, upon conviction thereof, shall be punished as for a misdemeanor.

"Huh," says I. The allegations (and they are totally that... unproven allegations) may not be "a proper subject of inquiry by the media or the public," but it seems to me that the State of Georgia, technically, finds they're a proper subject of inquiry by the police.

Just felt I ought to toss that out there.

Not that I really expect any law enforcement agency in Georgia to take a special interest in the allegations.

For what it's worth, the previous entry in the statutes looks like this:

O.C.G.A. § 16-6-18. Fornication.

An unmarried person commits the offense of fornication when he voluntarily has sexual intercourse with another person and, upon conviction thereof, shall be punished as for a misdemeanor.

Dear World

2011-11-24T00:17:00.000-05:00

Hi.

Once upon a time, a really long time ago (it was, too), I was at my ever-lovable Borders store. Yup. I was there, and I was buying books. I used to buy a lot of books from Borders. That was my bookstore of choice. Really.

Mind you, I detested the café. I detested the concept of the café. I worked assiduously to avoid even seeing that dreadful café. Whatever.

This was, as I said, a long time ago. There is no ever-lovable Borders store in my town now. If memory serves, there aren’t any Borders stores anywhere now. Huh. Whatever.

See—a long time ago, the chipper cash register jockey said, “And can I have your email address, please?” Yeah.

Historically, the answer to that had been “When I get one, sure. Since I don’t have one, that will be a great, big NO.”

Historically—sure—that was the case. This time, however, I did have an email address. This time, I just gave it to the chipper cash register jockey. I was naïve and foolish back then. I blame my youth at the time. I have recovered nicely from that bout of youth, but I’m not entirely sure the symptoms have completely cleared up. Whatever.

Children, listen to an old man: when someone asks for your email address, 99% of the time, the answer should be either “no” or “no fucking way.” Totally serious.

I began to get electronic missives from Borders. I got them daily. I sometimes received three of them in one day. During the month of December, I got between three and seven a day, every day. It went down to just two or three a day in January, then settled back into its routine.

I quickly grew to hate those vapid epistles. Then, I grew to hate Borders. I adjusted the spam filter to treat the rubbish accordingly. But you know that just didn’t work. No. I have a morbid obsession with spam. Sad, but true. I simply must examine the contents of the festering dung heap that is my spam folder. I want to see how much there is. This is how I know that Borders continuously sent me email for years. This is how I came to hate Borders with a passion excelled only by my contempt for that abominable monstrosity of a café.

And then they went bankrupt.

I was pleased about that. I had taken to assigning a penalty to them: I’d not even consider shopping in what had once been my ever-lovable Borders store for thirty days after receiving one of those vile little bits of electronic harassment. I did realize that the tempo of Borders’ mailings combined with my petulant penalty to produce what amounted to a boycott. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I never shopped at Borders again. Then, they went bankrupt. I was pleased.

“Serves them right, the filthy spammers.” That’s what I said to myself. I don’t miss them.

You would think it would be over. You would. It’s not. No.

See—that email list that I foolishly entered myself on—Barnes and Noble bought that.

I don’t much like Barnes and Noble. I’ve been in one. I don’t like the place.

First, there’s the café thing. I mean—really—the local Barnes and Noble has this utterly reprehensible cross between a mall food court and a high school cafeteria built right into it. The thing is huge. Why would you cross those two wretched phenomena in the first place, and then why would you make the sad and miserable mutant big? The thing is impossible to ignore. It is. The café at Borders—I totally detested it and I totally ignored it. The monstrosity at the local Barnes and Noble is impossible to ignore. I couldn’t do it, anyway. Whatever.

Second, there’s the books thing: there just didn’t seem to be very many. It’s odd. I felt like I was in Monty Python’s Cheese Shop sketch the last time I was there. Sure—they have a computerized book-findy thing. You know what it told me? Oh, sure you know.

“Nope... don’t have it. We can order it.”

Funny. It said it was a bookshop on the sign outside. Whatever.

Can it be that shop keepers of every type and description are ignorant of the fact (and it surely is one) that I am entirely capable of ordering anything that they might claim to be able to order? I can do that. I can do that from where I sit. I’m quite good at it. I’m probably better at it than the shop keepers are. I’m probably better at it than the shop keepers can imagine being. Perhaps I exaggerate—I do that. I do, however, have some wicked Google-fu skill going on. I do. If I can’t order it, it’s likely it either doesn’t exist or isn’t for sale. That’s all there is to that. Piff, I say.

“I can order it.”

Next, they’ll be telling me they can masturbate, too. Whatever.

Barnes and Noble sends me email. Yup. They’re more polite about it than Borders was. They just spam me once a month or so. Huh. I suspect they just don’t realize that the thirty-day ban applies to them, too. That would be why I didn’t rush right over the last time they emailed me—because I won’t go there if they email me. That, and that damnable prison cafeteria—and the stupefying dearth of printed matter.

When Barnes and Noble goes bankrupt, you do realize that I’m going to say, “Serves them right, the filthy spammers.” I am. Then, I’ll totally go on about that horrible edible substance dispensary.

I could, I suppose, shop at Books a Million. I could.

Except that I won’t.

One day, unable to shop at a nonexistent Borders (plus, I totally would have been still boycotting them at the time because they were utterly addicted to spamming me), and unwilling to subject myself to the insufferable experience that is B&N, I went to Books a Million. I went there to buy a book—what with it being a bookstore and all.

That place used to be a Walden Books. I used to avoid Walden Books because, every single time, the cash register jockey would launch into this inane sales pitch for their damn book club card.

I don’t want their damn book club card. I don’t believe the claim that it will save me money. If it does save me money, I don’t believe the amount would be a fair price for the marketing data the card collects. Pay me a fair price for participating in your marketing research and I’ll totally consider it. Otherwise, I’m just not interested in playing. The reason I’m at the shop is to exchange currency for goods—a book, for instance.

Bookstore, book—consumer, money. This is not a difficult equation. It never used to be. I don’t know why it is now.

Everyone wants me to have one of those damn cards. Piff.

“You’ll save money.”

No, actually, I very strongly suspect not. I suspect that this card is worth substantially less that I would pay for it. That would be less than nothing, since the cards don’t cost anything. I find that most of the things that are free are valueless. I find that all of the free things that require persistent sales pitches are much, much worse than valueless.

So yeah—I tended to avoid Walden Books. Books a Million, if memory serves, obtained that particular patch of retail real estate in the same Götterdämmerung that subdued the giant that was Borders. Huh. Say it isn’t so.

On my very first visit to the renamed shop (it differed in no perceptible way from the previous incarnation), I found the book I had intended to purchase and made my way to the cash register jockey. This part of the exercise was simple. It usually isn’t in bookstores these days. Usually, bookstores these days don’t actually have any of the books I’m looking for. They had it, though. This was a positive development.

Why do the employees at such places ask if they can help you find something?

The books are all prominently labeled. They’re on shelves, and the shelves are all prominently labeled. There are freaking signs hanging from the ceiling supplying yet more prominent labels. It really isn’t difficult to find anything in a bookstore—providing the book you’re looking for is actually there. If it’s not there—then, of course, the difficulty level rises considerably. The ability of some shop clerk to be of assistance plummets simultaneously. It does. They really cannot be of any meaningful assistance. It is necessary to be able to read. It is further necessary to be able to comprehend the language in use. Once you have those two things covered, you’re pretty much good to go. If you can’t read, or can’t read the prevailing language, it is kind-of silly to be haunting a bookshop. It’s only half as silly as asking someone if you can help them find something in a bookshop, though. Whatever.

I found my book. I found it before the shop clerk could ask that perverse question.

The clerk did ask it. Oh yes. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Sure. Why not? I’m looking for the cash register.”

That was mean of me. I know. After all—the cash register was in plain view. It was. But then, the signs are hanging from the freaking ceiling. The letter ‘O’ on one of those signs is bigger than my head. The letters announcing the dedicated purpose of each stack of shelves must be four inches high. The spines of each and every book (without even one exception that I noticed) were all emblazoned with everything I could possibly need to identify each and every one of them. The system may well be incorruptible. As proof, I offer up the book in hand. I found it, and I found it promptly. I intended on paying for it.

Because the tale is about shopping, not shoplifting. Whatever.

I’m in line. That’s not all that accurate, because there’s only one poor fellow ahead of me. Two people does not a line make—especially since the reason there are two people there at all has nothing to do with the presence of the two people. That doesn’t sound right, but that’s what it is.

The fellow—he wants to buy a magazine. Just the one. I can tell this because he has one magazine. He’s holding a ten-dollar bill. Many magazines do still cost less than ten dollars. You’d think that would be a simple thing. You’d think that, and you’d be in error—very grievously in error.

“Do you want to sign up for the card?”

“Do you want to sign up for the magazine club?”

“Do you want to sign up for....”

I’m afraid I really did say, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” aloud. I hadn’t really meant it to be aloud. It just sort-of bubbled out. Three sales pitches? Three? It’s a cancer, and it’s metastasized.

There’s no need to be in line for that. I absolutely am not going to stand in line listening to that, only to await my turn to listen to it again. I just won’t do it. I set the book down and left. I’ve not been back. Nope. That just is not something that will ever happen.

I read today that Books a Million isn’t faring all that well. Perhaps it’s the troubled economy. Perhaps.

Though—straight-up truth—there just aren’t any economic reasons why I don’t buy books. There certainly are reasons I don’t haunt any of the larger book dealers in these parts. Oh yes, there are. Some imagined fiction that I’m not buying books, though—not true.

There are no cards, no clubs, no special deals that need sales pitches at any of the small vendors I frequent these days. Nope. They have my email address, too. Odd thing, that. They don’t send me any email. How peculiar. They just happily accept my currency in exchange for their books.

Wow. What a concept.

Those big booksellers—when they say people aren’t buying books, I think that might be more accurately phrased “people aren’t buying books from them.” Yeah. ‘Cause I totally still buy books. There are heaps of the things. The spousal-unit teases me about them. Whatever.

o hi

2011-10-29T21:34:00.001-04:00

Note to the World:

OK, really it's just a note to those critters I'm prone to calling "media types," and very especially the presenters that pass themselves off as "weathermen."

Did you know that weathermen used to be actual weathermen? They did. The maps they used were just chock-full of arcane meteorological symbols and the like. They knew what they were about in the old days. Not like today. No. Nothing like today.

I've been told (which means it may not be true) that what passes for a weatherman today has just everything to do with their ability to stand in front of a green screen, gesture vapidly toward images that aren't really there, and to talk.

Huh.

I never valued that sort of thing in the old days. But then, in the old days, weathermen told me what the weather was going to be like over the next few days. Get this... my younger readers will totally NOT believe this... they were also right more often than they were wrong. Isn't that just a kick in the rubber parts?

Some may remember that the spousal-unit used to work in television news. He did. Whatever. That means, what with me being the reciprocal spousal-unit, I was on speaking terms with the weatherman at the station. I was, too. He was cute. He was very personable. He was... really fucking wrong.

Seriously.

After I noticed this, I started keeping records. (I'm totally like that--freakish, I know, and few people consider it one of my more endearing qualities.) After ten days (and it was, too--precisely ten) I went to him and I said, "Boopsie, you are remarkable."

"You aren't going to go on about how cute I am again, are you?" says he.

"No," says I. "I was planning on congratulating you on a really astonishingly perfect record at weather prognostication."

"Perfect, you say?"

"Oh yes. I've been keeping score. Your weather forecast has been substantially wrong the last ten days in a row. You're batting 1000--not that being perfectly wrong is all that impressive."

"I'm not wrong all the time," says he.

"Ah-ah-ah," says I. "When you say there will be frost at night and the low temperature is no fewer than ten degrees above freezing, you're wrong. When you say 'partly cloudy' and it's raining, you're wrong. When you say 'It will rain' and it's sunny enough to warrant sunscreen, you're wrong."

"Huh," says he. "Well, I just read what the Weather Bureau sends me."

"The Weather Bureau sends you fantasies, half-baked fables, and lies," says I. "Doesn't that bother you in the least bit?"

"No," says he.

Whatever. Fair is fair. It didn't bother him. He's allowed to not be bothered.

The part about the Note to the World: When a Nor-Easter is approaching, do mention that fact. Do not, under any circumstances, say "There is a slight chance of snow." See--that's just not true. That's a lie. Lying is wrong, you know. Nor-Easters do not entail a "chance" of snow. That's like saying an earthquake "might" have shook the ground. Earthquakes, by definition, do cause shaking. Nor-Easters dump snow, and almost always outrageously ostentatious amounts of it.

There is damage. Considerable damage. Not, mind you, that I have anything to complain about. I don't. I have escaped the Nor-Easter unscathed. More than a few people have not. I should point out that the damage is considerably greater in this particular vicinity that that which was produced by the alleged "hurricane" that bore down on the poor and fragile Tree House not all that long ago. That, you may recall, produced a scoff-worthy paucity of damage. That, you couldn't possibly have failed to note, was much trumpeted and bally-hooed. Oh, the hurricane is coming! The hurricane is coming! Oh, the hurricane is here! The hurricane is here! Oh, the hurricane made everything wet!

This Nor-Easter was not scoff-worthy. It was a pale and flaccid thing, as Nor-Easters go, but that's like saying a tiger was not especially surly.

Dear, kind, sweet weathermen, do trouble yourselves to find out what a Nor-Easter is, how to identify one, and then--oh yes--mention the damn thing.

I look out the window. I see fantastical quatities of snow falling at a prodigious rate. I say, "Holy crap! That looks like a Nor-Easter!" Turns out, that's exactly what it was... not that anyone mentioned the fact prior to the event. No. They said, "There's a good chance of snow tomorrow."

The hell, you say.

Whatever.

Heavy Sigh

I have to ask: what the holy fuck is up with the bread and the milk and the eggs?

I live in a "bread and milk" zone. For those very fortunate and blessed people who have no clue what I'm talking about, a bread and milk zone is a region where, when faced with imminent snowfall of any magnitude, a significant proportion of the populace scurries forth and purchases absurd quantities of bread, milk, and eggs.

When I say "absurd," I mean as much as eight times the normal consumption of those foodstuffs. EIGHT times. Yeah. Now, when I say "eight times," I really do mean per capita, for the entire region.

What are they doing with it?

Do not tell me that it's a rational response to the threat of being snowed in. That doesn't much happen here. I, for example, purchase groceries roughly every four days. I've been known to go an entire week without disrupting the household. Never once, in the last twenty-five years, has access to food been a problem for as many as four days. It just hasn't happened.

One day--sure, that's happened.

Two days--you've got me there. It is entirely possible that, every three years or so, someone living in this region may have to make do with what's in their pantry for two whole consecutive days.

Three days? Uh-huh. That happened--once.

Once.

Four days? That's not happened. It just hasn't. I do believe that it may be physically impossible for strictly meteorological events to disrupt my utterly routine scavenging for food.

Attack by zombies--sure. I can see that causing trouble. Rampaging hordes of rabid macaques--you betcha. I'm not going out when there are rampaging hordes of rabid macaques around. But--um--that's not weather.

There really is no need for this farcical carrying-on.

But the farce of it all is not my point here. No. You see, today I observed two combative episodes--fisticuffs, if you will, fighting, nay, BRAWLING. I have personally witnessed people coming to blows over bread, and I saw it happen twice.

Sweeties. Listen to the wrinkly old queen: bread really isn't something to be fighting over. It's just not worth it, not even when faced with the impending arrival of a Nor-Easter. I see little to be gained in brawling in the streets over loaves of bread when faced with attacking zombies or rampaging rabid macaques, either, but because it's snowing? Puh-leeze.

But, yeah. They do this when "snow" is even mentioned in the forecast. They don't wait for something impressive like a Nor-Easter. They don't wait for blizzards. Nope. A few centimeters ("a few" meaning two or three of those pesky little centimeters) of snow sends the denizens scampering like lemmings to every commercial source of bread in the area. They don't even necessarily wait for the freaking snow. I've seen them hording bread at the utterance of the word alone, with no actual white substances falling from the sky at all. Mind you, when real, honest to goodness snow is falling, it's a right and proper stampede to the grocery stores.

It's totally freaky-weird and I would very much like someone to enlighten me.

What the holy fuck is up with that?

Special Bonus Observation:

White bread. They eschew whole wheat for some reason.

I've Been Ill.

I know, it doesn't show. Golly, thanks. Whatever.

I have--sick as the proverbial dog. It was (still is, actually) a sinus infection. Sinusitis, they call it. Yeah. Doctors are odd birds. "Itis" more or less means "infection." Them doctors, they got themselves some book-learning, they do. They want to be calling that shit "sinusitis." Whatever.

It really hurts.

I will be well pleased to never, ever, experience this particular phenomenon again.

But yeah--going away.

Says the physician: "I could give you some antibiotics, but it probably won't make it get better any quicker."

"No?" says I. "Then I shan't buy any of your nonfunctional antibiotics."

Seriously: why do I pay someone to tell me that it will go away in three to six weeks? Why don't I just wait three to six weeks to see if it will go away? Oh yeah, that's right--I don't have me any of that book-learning and I might be wrong.

Not that I recall having been wrong recently. Confused, yes. Wrong--not to my recollection. Whatever.

Feeling better. Not wanting to do it again. Not planning on giving any more money to physicians until I see blood, puss, or exposed internal organs. That's all there is to that.

Doctor-Dudes: when next I see you (may it be never again), there shall be blood, puss, exposed internal organs, or (ideally) all three simultaneously.

Yeah. Bloody, pussy, and exposed internal organs is definitely a reason to see a physician.

A few things

2011-10-12T12:45:00.001-04:00

Take a look.

Fully justified text? Really? Who does that? Whatever.

I happen to like fully justified text. I'm just not used to seeing it--certainly not on notes applied to rocks.

There really should be a comma (not a period) between the words 'A-list' and 'more.'

'Republican,' in this context, requires capitalization. The word 'republican' with a lower-case initial letter means something rather different.

That last sentence is just rubbish. There must be a comma after the word 'back.' There must be another one after the word 'pathetic.' Motherfucking is just one word now, not two. You may, if you insist, hyphenate it. It's just plain not two words.

Then there's the utterly bizarre usage of the word 'twink.' It's freaking me out. It is not customary to pair the word 'nelly' with the word 'twink.' It's entirely ordinary to refer to 'nelly queens.' The 'nelly twink,' however, may not exist. The Peanut Gallery tells me that twinks can be nelly, as opposed to butch--not that the word 'butch,' when applied to twinks, means quite the same thing as when it's applied to anything else on the planet.

The word 'twink' has changed over time. At one point, the word referred to a male below the age of 18. Currently, the word refers to youths between the ages of 18 and about 20. It is possible for individual twinks to retain their twinky looks beyond the age of 20, but it's really very uncommon. It is more typical for 19-year-olds to find that they've just plain twunked at some point. More than a few people find that twinks are just adorable. No sensible person ever thinks a 27-year-old is a twink, however. That's just not possible. Some people, on the other hand, do not care for twinks. Some people find that twinks arouse no passions other than the urge to feed the half-starved, skinny, little things a sandwich. The word 'twink' is not used in a pejorative fashion. Twinks are, you see, generally understood to be a valuable, marketable commodity. Where they are not seen in this way, twinks are viewed as something worthy of (and in need of) a certain amount of nurturing. "You pathetic, motherfucking twink" is as sensible an utterance as "you pathetic, motherfucking puppy." This odd missive would be much more sensible if the word 'twink' were swapped for the word 'queen.'

But... justified text? Really? What's next... drop caps?

Another thing.

A question for the general public: when faced with a locked shop door, a sign that reads "CLOSED," and a sign which lists the business hours of that shop, including the fact that the shop really is closed on both Saturdays and Sundays, which part is unclear?

I'm serious.

I mean... the place where I work is closed on Saturday. As it happens, that does not mean I have that day off, because I don't. I have a wholesale order to make up on Saturday. So... sure... you folks can see me in there.

But... "CLOSED" really does mean you don't get to come in. It just does. I don't much care that you just want some trivial little thing and then you'll be on your way. I don't much care because, whatever trivial little thing you happen to want, it just isn't there.

There is nothing for sale on Saturdays. Nothing at all. Even if there were products for sale (and there aren't), there isn't any money in the place. I can't make change. I have no place to put your payment. The nifty electronic cash register thing... it's just not turned on. Also, for some reason, the damn thing has a key. There's no key. It's just plain impossible to accommodate even the simplest consumer request. That, you see, is why there are two signs that clearly indicate that the shop is closed. It's a good thing, too. After all, under those circumstances, what would be the point of being open at all? There isn't one, so the shop is closed.

More things.

Do you people bathe? I'm being sarcastic there because I totally know that you don't.

When you have finished tugging on the locked door, you folks press your faces and hands against the glass to peer in at me. You leave slime trails like a grotesque pack of slugs. What's up with that?

Seriously... no sarcasm or hyperbole in that bit... I just want to know: is it some kind of ointment that you imagine to be beneficial in some way? Which commercially available solvents remove it from the glass? It's really, really difficult to remove. Generally, I'd have thought that your usual ammonia-based cleaners would work just fine. They do, too... on the hand prints of the school-aged tots that scamper by during the week. Ammonia won't remove your adult slug trails. You folks produce some sort of secreted resin that doesn't dissolve or wipe off.

Not kidding.

Last thing.

We get tourists.

That's not entirely a good thing. I can't imagine what possesses a tourist to come, of all places, here. But they do. Whatever.

Did you know that German tourists are the best of the lot? They are. They're really very pleasant people.

Now, I have something going on with my face. I just do. I kind-of wish I knew what it was so that I could take steps to eradicate it, or otherwise diminish it. It seems that, given a crowd of people, I am the most approachable. I get approached by people all the time. I'm a bit of a foreigner magnet. It's weird, but true.

The pleasant French couple hails me from their car. "Where can we find the downtown? There are galleries there?"

This takes place entirely smack in the heart of downtown, so I say, "Congratulations, you have arrived. You are downtown. The galleries are all around you."

They were, too.

The odd British family... the accent suggested the more northerly bit of England... wanted to confirm some directions they had received. Some unkind soul had printed up some tourist map indicating that a particular landmark was on Such-and-Such Street, and that was demonstrably not true. I have no idea why the creatures who go to the trouble to induce tourists to come here don't just print up accurate directions. Why would you say a building is on Such-and-Such Street when it's really three full blocks to the East of that street? It's nonsense.

But Germans.

The nice German man wanted to know why it was that the local ethnic group is said to speak German when they... well... don't.

Simple enough: "They came from Rhineland-Pfalz," says I.

"Ah...Thank you very much," says the man.

"That was about 300 years ago, though," I say.

"Of course, of course, thank you," says he.

Very sensible, well-informed people, the general run of German tourists are. I kid you not: the American tourists can't manage simple answers to simple questions. Americans should be nice and stay home... and well away from me.

American tourists are prone to asking "Why don't they just speak English?"

I mean... seriously... surely the answer to that is "Because they don't want to."

Oh

2011-08-28T12:13:00.000-04:00

Hi.

Yeah.

It's been awhile. Whatever.

I poked my head out of the Tree House this morning. I did. I don't usually do that...what with the world being so very uninteresting. Still... you know... folks riled themselves up into such a foaming lather about the weather. I kind-of sort-of thought that perhaps I should poke my head out and take a gander at the widespread devastation I was promised.

I mean... really... the Talking Heads went on and on (and on) about the widespread devastation. They began some two days ago or so, continued on without ceasing, and reached just such a howling crescendo last night that I just said "Fukkit. I'm going to bed."

But yeah. They promised me widespread devastation.

So I poked my head out of the Tree House this morning to have a timid and tremulous peek. I mean... it might be Zombie Apocalypse or something like that.

There are leaves on the street. The sidewalks are moderately moistened.

When I say "leaves on the street," I really don't mean anything resembling a carpet. There are some leaves... some, not a lot... and they're on the street... as opposed to being connected to trees. Two of the clots of leaves were still connected to twigs.

I know, I know... wee festoons of leaves still connected to twigs are diagnostic of "wind damage." Technically, that really is damage. I mean... If I had a bonsai on the porch and it were missing one of those clots of leaves, that would be distinctly unpleasant. It would. I don't have any bonsai, though. I just don't. Also, all the stuff on my porch is still there. Nor is there any foreign stuff there, such as might have been cataclysmically transported by winds bringing the widespread devastation I was promised.

Let me tell you something.

Right... feel free to run for the hills. I'm used to it.

So then... Bradford pears.

You shouldn't plant that tree. You just shouldn't. They were very. very popular at one time. That's why there are so many of them to be seen here and there (very especially here.) They're pretty much a cliche on account of that, and that's a perfectly good reason to refrain from planting them. They're the tree version of capris. You just aren't going to be wearing capris without eliciting comment. Neither should you plant Bradford pears without eliciting comment. Whatever. These trees... they do not have a very satisfactory shape. While they bloom, the season is shockingly short, the flowers unimpressive, and their scent is more properly described by the word "stench" rather than the word "scent." OK, fine... that's one of my exaggerations. Really though... no sane people claim that Bradford pear blossoms have a pleasant scent. You'll note (it's completely true) that no perfumes advertise their proud possession of this odor.

These are trivial vices. While any one of them is ample reason to avoid this tree, and all of them are a most excellent excuse to do so, none of them are necessary. They are trivial vices.

Bradford pears are fragile. They're in the Lombardy poplar category of fragile. On top of that, they're just designed poorly. Think weeping willow, only fragile. Right. See... if anything happens... anything at all... a Bradford pear will fling an entire limb to the ground. Should the world produce evidence of drama... Bradford pears have been known to split into two, casting largish wads of tree to the ground. I suspect the things may be rigged to explode in some way. They almost never fall apart into tiny pieces, though. They fall apart into very large pieces. And they do fall apart.

We're not talking about lightning strikes here.

What is under discussion is a tree that can probably be reduced to log wood by a ring of seven-year-olds chanting some doggerel about breaking trees.

Bradford pears are too fragile to be planted in human company. They just are.

Now, there is a point to this. I know you don't believe me and you know that I just don't care. Whatever.

All the Bradford pears (and there are a lot of them) are intact.

The only way that's possible is if there were no weather events of any level of noteworthiness in the last forty-eight hours. That's just plain true.

So then... should anyone have been troubling themselves over how my poor, wee Tree House fared through the widespread devastation wrought by the Dreadful Tempest from Hell, I must report that all is well and untroubled. While there is a lingering dampness here and there, along with what might be termed 'litter,' there is nothing resembling a puddle and no bits of detritus that could not have more credibly been deposited by a drunken orgy of squirrels.

Seriously, Sweeties... every precipitation event this summer, EVERY one of them, produced more interesting artifacts.

I don't even get to play in puddles.

I have not been blown to Oz. No falling trees have crushed my domicile. The streets have not been transformed into canals.

Oh... and I am not without electricity. That kind-of went without saying, but I thought I'd toss it in there.

Tunes for Wednesday

2011-06-21T03:11:00.001-04:00

Even though it's totally not Wednesday... what with it being Tuesday and all.
Court Yard Hounds, Ain't No Son

The Promise Ring - Best Looking boys

I have to say... the line "When I first met you I said, 'My god, get away, you smell like fish heads'" is one of the better lines ever.

Girlyman - Maori

A Note to Passers-By

2011-06-17T18:54:00.000-04:00

More than a few folks stop by the Tree House because Google sent them here. That's fine.

It is... really.

I don't care how people come by my scribbling. I don't care how long they stay. I don't care how many pages they read. I'm told some people do care about such things.

Huh.

I'm not one of those people.

But.

Seriously.

Guys... and it is the guys... you're freaking me out just a little bit.

While I'm not at all responsible for the occasional eccentric wasting time at the Tree House (really... y'all do that all by yourselves) I do cringe just a little bit when I learn that a visit to the Tree House has been a complete and utter waste of more than two seconds.

I mean... those are two (or more) seconds that you just aren't going to get back.

Here's a helpful hint:

(It really is helpful. Totally serious.)

When you're using Google to look for something of a pornographic nature, it really is a Most Excellent Idea to use Google Image Search. Really. I mean... images... Image Search... they're made for each other.

I am confident that, should folks take to doing so, the Tree House will no longer appear in their searches. And that really is how it should be... because no matter which curious words you append to the word 'porn,' it just isn't here.

It's not.

I'm serious.

Another helpful hint:

If you're typing a phrase into Google, you really should consider using quotation marks. Like so:

" "

You'll want to put one at the beginning of the typing and one at the end of the typing.

Yeah.

Two thirds of my traffic would evaporate if folks would do that. I'm not kidding.

If you don't do that (use quotation marks in a Google search for a phrase) then you'll get all manner of peculiar occurances of the individual words, regardless of where they might occur on the page.

Yeah.

See... no matter how many times you search for hairy teenaged sex orgies on Google, there just aren't going to be any of those here at the Tree House... not even if you type hairy teenaged orgies in a tree house.

But then, if you employ the first Helpful Hint in conjunction with the second Helpful Hint, you wouldn't be loosing those precious moments.

A note to folks who are NOT passers-by, but who are here on purpose:

Yes... Take any three nouns or adjectives out of "hairy teenaged sex orgies in a tree house" and people really have come here looking for that.

Now that I've gone and written this post, I suspect even more of them will do so in the future.

That's vaguely sad.

Yeah. Friday

2011-06-17T00:09:00.000-04:00

NOT MYSELF TONIGHT (ANDER STANDING MIX)

It's My Life/Confessions (Brian Cua Tribal Mix)

We Will Rock You [Bruno Ramos Amend Private Mix]

Stick

2011-06-14T21:03:00.002-04:00

Jay Brannan, Ever After Happily

Jay Brannan, Half-Boyfriend

Jay Brannan, Fuckin' Perfect

Poke, poke, poke

2011-06-10T08:47:00.000-04:00

I put up a Lady GaGa tune last week. Or so it has been said. No. Actually, I put up a Luis ErRe tune last week. That's the way I see it. It's something verging on blasphemy these days, but I'm not all that fond of Lady GaGa. It's true. The only song she's done that I like straight up is that one about boys. This is, I very strongly suspect, because there are so few remixes of it. That's a pity. I'm really certain that a fine remix of this tune would rock my world. Whatever.

Alejandro (Ander Standing Club Mix)

Bad Romance ERICH ENSASTIGUE

More sticks... poking

2011-06-08T00:34:00.006-04:00

I like me some Amy Ray.

Seriously. Not everyone can rock a pair of plaid trousers. Or a mandolin. Bitchin' song, too.

Let It Ring

Driver Education

And this one is for the pet straight-boy. He says to me one day, "Have you ever heard of a song called 'Rural Faggot?' I wanna hear it." Yeah. He said that. He's sweet, that one. Well then... I have heard of it. It's a good song.

Rural Faggot

Poetry

2011-06-04T08:19:00.002-04:00

I read that stuff, sometimes. I do. Like this one:

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

That's by Mary Oliver. She wrote it in 1990. It's called The Summer Day..

"What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life" would be, in my opinion, one of the more fabulous strings of words in the English language.

One could do far, far worse than reading Mary Oliver.

Better than getting poked in the eye with a stick

2011-06-03T20:18:00.001-04:00

So... I get complaints. Fine.

Why don't you post any music anymore?

Whatever.

It's a Luis ErRe kind of day.

Lady Gaga - Alejandro (Luis Erre Universal Club Mix)

Kynt - Adrenaline (Luis ErRe Universal Mix)

MorA' - Crashin' (Luis ErRE Remix)

So... a meme

2011-04-27T22:36:00.001-04:00

I'm your huckleberry.

Snag the first 50 songs from the year you turned 18 off of Pop Culture Madness.

That would be this year.

Bold the ones you like, strike the ones you dislike, italicize the ones you know but don't care one way or another, and leave the ones you don't know as plain text.

Umm... yeah. OK. Thing is, I don't much like any of it. I'm not 18, you see. Many of these songs would benefit from a banging remix. In case anyone has missed it, I did not just say something good about any of these songs. We're just going to follow the instructions for my views on these songs when I was 18.

Note that I was young and foolish when I was 18.

~~1. Y.M.C.A. - Village People~~
2. I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
~~3. Don't Stop Til You Get Enough - Michael Jackson~~
4. We Are Family - Sister Sledge
~~5. Old Time Rock and Roll - Bob Seger~~
6. Hot Stuff/Bad Girls - Donna Summer
7. Good Times - Chic
~~8. Escape (The Pina Colada Song) - Rupert Holmes~~
9. Aint No Stoppin Us Now - McFadden & Whitehead
10. September - Earth, Wind and Fire
11. Born To Be Alive - Patrick Hernadez
12. My Sharona - the Knack
13. Heart Of Glass - Blondie
14. Knock On Wood - Amii Stewart
15. After The Love Has Gone - Earth, Wind and Fire
16. Shake Your Body Down To The Ground - Jacksons
17. The Rainbow Connection - Kermit (the Frog)
18. Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' - Journey
19. The Devil Went Down To Georgia - Charlie Daniels Band
20. One Way or Another - Blondie
21. Ooh Baby Baby - Linda Ronstadt
22. Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? - Rod Stewart
23. Boogie Wonderland - Earth, Wind and Fire
24. Love Ballad - George Benson
25. Rise - Herb Alpert
26. In The Navy - Village People
27. Ring My Bell - Anita Ward
28. Got To Be Real - Cheyl Lynn
29. Shake Your Goove Thing - Peaches and Herb
30. Take The Long Way Home - Supertramp
31. We've Got Tonight - Bob Seger
32. Babe - Styx
33. Fins - Jimmy Buffett
34. You Decorated My Life - Kenny Rogers
35. Sultans Of Swing - Dire Straites
36. Disco Nights (Rock Freak) - G.Q.
37. Heatache Tonight - Eagles
38. She Believes In Me - Kenny Rogers
39. Video Killed The Radio Star - the Buggles
40. Pop Muzic - M
~~41. Hold The Line - Toto~~
42. H.A.P.P.Y. Radio - Edwin Starr
~~43. Crazy Love - Allman Brothers Band~~
~~44. Highway To Hell - AC/DC~~
45. Street Life - Crusaders
46. Don't Bring Me Down - ELO
47. My Life - Billy Joel
48. You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth - Meatloaf
49. Roxanne - Police
50. Good Girls Don't - the Knack

He Said What?

2011-04-26T08:53:00.000-04:00

He said:

I resign out of the firmly held belief that a representation should not be abandoned because the client’s legal position is extremely unpopular in certain quarters. Defending unpopular clients is what lawyers do.

Yeah. That's John Clement. He's been in the news lately, and if you don't already know what law firm he resigned from and the circumstances leading up to that resignation, then you just aren't interested. That's fine--you're allowed not to be interested in the news. I'm more than halfway uninterested myself.

But.

Seriously, in a country ruled by law (and that ought to be all countries), you really do get to be represented by an attorney. It doesn't matter what you've done, what people claim you have done, how pissed off people are about what happened, didn't happen, or what fantasies people have.

Yeah. I've noticed that folks get the most pissed off about their own fantasy lives. That's weird--getting upset over something that only exists in your imagination. It's psychotic, I think, but since it seems to afflict the overwhelming majority of people, I guess that makes it "normal," not "psychotic." Whatever. Note to world: it is helpful to have reality-based perceptions. Trust me on that one.

But totally--you get a lawyer, even if you're unpopular and even if what you've done is unpopular.

We're talking, though, about defending the Defense of Marriage Act against law suits in federal court, though. This is an Act of Congress. This "unpopular client" is the House of Representatives. You know--half of the statutory rulers of the freaking country.

No matter what polls say about politicians (and they often fall behind dentists in the unpopularity sweepstakes), the Government just doesn't qualify as an unpopular client and a law just doesn't qualify as an "unpopular legal position."

Seriously... if a democratically elected Government is to be linguistically equated to murderers and rapists in need of defense, you just aren't talking about a democratically elected government; you're talking about some kind of twisted dictatorship.

Some folks might well call the Government of the United States a "twisted dictatorship." I think that view does an injustice to the definitions of the words 'twisted' and 'dictatorship.' There's just no foundation for such a view--not with so many examples of twisted dictatorships to illustrate what both 'twisted' and 'dictatorship' mean.

I think it odd--passingly and wondrously odd--that an attorney employed by the House of Representatives should have such a view. It boggles the mind.

We have to Mirandize the House of Representatives now?

OK, fine.

You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.

Bah. That's just silly.

It's been quiet

2011-04-13T23:56:00.000-04:00

I know. You could say it's been "too quiet," but that wouldn't at all be true. It just wouldn't.

You will, of course, have to excuse me. Alright -- you don't actually HAVE to, but I do have an excuse.

My mind has been blown -- and in that TNT kind of way. It leaves a rather dizzy feeling not unlike having taken too much over the counter cold remedy. Whatever.

So... there's this fellow.

He's what some folks are prone to calling a "yuppie." That, however, stands for Young Urban Professional and means something quite different that people imagine it means. That hardly matters, because when I say you might well call this fellow a yuppie, I'm quite certain that you'd agree that he owns a car, and a nice one. He also owns a house, and a nice one. He's dressed in nicer duds than I own, too. Of course, none of it's paid for -- not yet. All of this is because he has a job that pays considerably (and I mean just heaps and heaps) more than mine does. All of this is for no apparent reason whatsoever, as will promptly become clear.

This fellow leans in close and conspiratorially says (in conspiratorial, hushed tones that aren't quite a whisper), "What's the REAL difference between the sliced and the unsliced bread?" He looks expectant, as if he's about to get the skinny, the real dope, the insider's inside scoop on what the REAL difference between the sliced and the unsliced bread is. In other words, he's entirely serious, totally in earnest, not even a wee little bit kidding.

Now -- what, in the name of a good fuck, is that all about?

I suppose one could just say that one is sliced and the other is not. One might also say that one has been placed in the slicing machine (the Freddy Kruger Blades of Doom -- they're way cool) and the other has not. I mean -- that is the difference. The only difference. Really.

And isn't that self-evident? Of course it is, Sweeties.

Mister Suit doesn't want to hear that. He wants to hear the REAL difference.

Why does this guy have a tie that costs more than my entire wardrobe?

Anyway.

When one of those charming folks from civilization next engage me in conversation -- they do that, you know, on account of them existing and visiting this strange backwater -- I shall not be able to defend my fellow denizens even a tiny bit.

The USians -- they have a reputation for being.......... what's the word? ...... ah yes: stupid.

The civilized folk, they like to imagine that there must be something explicable about this situation, that some system or other needs to be tweaked and then all is well. Yeah. In civilization, they like to imagine that all people are pretty much alike and that none of them are... you know... STUPID.

With regrets, dear civilized co-travelers, this is not true. We have a new winner of the glossy, not at all silk, blue ribbon at the Stupid Fair. The previous winner had been, "You know, I don't think I believe in DNA."

Yeah. That boggled my mind. It did.

But -- totally serious here -- "What's the REAL difference between the sliced and the unsliced bread?" takes the freaking prize.

Mysterious civilized visitors from other (very foreign) lands, when traveling through the amusement park, keep your heads, hands, feet, and other assorted body parts within the vehicle at all times. Ideally, take photographs from a distance.

Consider deploying unmanned drones for that photography.

In other news, I got a much more seemly question.

Which is that Junior Vasquez tune that goes "you can never have too many hats gloves or shoes?"

Huh.

Now, I'm just not the sort of fellow you want to be harassing with "name that tune" games. I'm totally not -- I don't usually know the answers.

This time I do, however. That's a banging tune.

There are others I like better. It's the Junior Vasquez part. It's not that I don't like Junior... I do like Junior. He's sweet. Also hot. But I consider his music tame. That says nothing about his music and plenty about me. I like wild, crazy music that makes the villagers think the post-apocalyptic barbarians are storming the gates.

I like me some boom.

I find Junior is just fine when a wee smackerel of thumpa thumpa is called for, but it's not boom and I like me some boom boom.

But... the shoes bit is good. I've even mentioned it in the past as an example of good remixing.

Note to the universe: when you say that a song could benefit from a remix (something that is nearly universally true), you aren't saying anything even minimally good about the song. A proper remix ends up with a fine song regardless of the quality of the original sample.

Ab Fab (I Am Thin And Gorgeous) is a fine example. Seriously -- the sound bytes from the show Absolutely Fabulous the tune contains aren't even music. This is pretty much straight-up Junior.

Saying a song could benefit from a remix is a catty, back-handed way of saying the original song is worthless.

Mail Call

2011-03-19T19:05:00.000-04:00

So... a reader writes and wants to know about my swords, the tangs in particular.

Okey-dokey. It's not like I was just asked to drop trou, just pop a handle. I can do that.

First question: "What do the tangs look like?"

They look like this:

That embiggens, by the way. If it isn't obvious, that's the wakizashi on the bottom. When I said it had but one peg, I was totes serious. Not that this is a problem -- it's just the case.

Second question: "Do they have signatures?"

Why, yes. Yes they do.

This one also embiggens, though it's not so humongulous as the first. I note that the two inscriptions contain the same characters. I don't know what they say so don't ask. Being one of those critters who has banged on metal with chisels in the past, I can say that I really do think they were made at different times or with different tools or both.

Third question: "Are the signatures put on with an electric engraver?"

No. They clearly have been made with a chisel.

Last question: "Were the handles hard to take off?"

That's a trick question. When I took them off to take the photos, no. It wasn't at all difficult. The first time, however -- it was different.

The simplest and most efficient way to put a handle on a sword of this style is to tap the handle onto the tang and then drill the peg hole or holes directly through the entire assembly. That way you get properly positioned pegs. The lacing totally does not interfere with the pegs because its not like they couldn't see exactly where the lacing was when they drilled the holes. It's not traditional, but I heartily approve.

When you drill metal, steel in particular, you get this burr. It's on both sides of the hole, but the one on the "exit wound" can be spectacular. I know, having drilled metal on more than a few occasions. Wood does that, too, but being completely different from metal, you get splinters, not a burr. The most spectacular thing about metal burrs is the efficient way they can rend flesh. Oh yes. You need to watch that.

Now, when you drill said hole through the handle and then insert the pegs, as was clearly done in the case of both of these swords, that burr is still in there. It's probably lying between the peg and the wood of the handle. When you go to remove that handle -- it will be difficult.

I used a nifty little wooden mallet and a nifty wooden block to tap the handle off. It worked just fine. There were bits of metal galore, especially in the case of the katana (having twice as many holes as the wakizashi). All that poop has to come out. I had a handy bottle brush of just the right size. Lucky me.

You want to knock those burrs off with a file. That's not at all difficult. It doesn't even have to be all that neat or thorough. After all, the tangs do have mad file marks all over them on purpose.

The handles come off with an appropriate amount of resistance now. It's not a traditional, custom fit, but then... that level of woodworking skill really does cost money.

So there.

Whoah -- headrush

2011-03-16T19:48:00.002-04:00

Totes real, and apparently totes common.

I did not know that. This does not surprise me.

Service ribbons were ubiquitous during my childhood. Everyone had them. I had them. (Really.) I have no idea where mine came from. I doubt they were what people call "real," what with me not being a member of any organizations that awarded such things. This did not keep me from having all manner of uniforms. Of course I had ribbons. I had some outlandish medals, too. The 'rents gave them to me. I don't know where parents got such things back them. Certainly not Walmart, on account of that joint not existing.

This particular service ribbon didn't exist then either.

It started in 1981 and was retroactively awarded to everyone who qualified for one at the time. Yeah -- whatever.

I moved out of the house some years prior to that, and with the change in environment came a distinct and actually quite enjoyable dearth of ribbons. I never saw this one.

Now some altogether too creepy people of my acquaintance might say, "But Feral -- what about all those uniforms you allegedly peeled off in your youth."

Ah. Those. There's no freaking "alleged" about those. Nope. However... only some of those uniforms were from the Army, and all of them were prior to 1981. The rest were Navy and Marines.

Just a point of fact: it is my experience that, once you peel the fruit, Navy is hotter than Marine. Your mileage may vary. Why would it not?

And why -- someone tell me why -- is it easier to find a Navy boy 1000 miles from saltwater than it is to find a real, live, rendition of GI Joe?

Whatever.

This ribbon is fairly easy to qualify for -- as I define 'easy.' No doubt some poor soul who did not qualify for one is pounding her or his keyboard in outrage and indignation because my definition of 'easy' just isn't appropriate. Whatever.

Now... I'm sure this is just me. I'm sure. But... look at the damn thing.

Just what do you imagine you must do to get such a service ribbon?

The mind boggles.

Especially when the drab, sparrow of reality pecks out the eyes of the flamboyant peacock of imagination.

Reality just isn't what it used to be.

I should award such service ribbons. I should.

Stuff

2011-03-15T17:06:00.000-04:00

So... I was wandering about the Internet and I came upon a nifty set of informed comparisons between Germany and the US. It was by a German now resident in the US.

Huh.

Now... I've traveled a wee bit in Germany. Lived there for a time, too... but not so much; I was wee.

But I like memes, and this smells like a meme. Here goes:

* In Germany, most public spaces, restaurants, and offices are full of smoke. (Recently, some improvements can be observed.) People habitually throw cigarette butts on the ground.
This used to be the case in the US as well. I remember quite clearly being able to smoke in grocery stores while shopping, smoking in cinemas (though it was technically illegal), and smoking in high school. Ash trays were provided in all of those places. The theaters had them in the lobby, where smoking was permitted. The prohibition in cinemas originated in the days when the film stock used was practically a low explosive. There had been heinous fires. Film stock was later made out of much more sensible materials. The sight of the smoke illuminated by the light from the big projectors is iconic for me. It's absence these days is one reason I rarely ever go to the cinema. That, and the puny screens. Cinemas used to BE something in the US. But then I am aged.

* In German restaurants, asking for free water with your food is frowned upon and uncommon. There are very few water fountains in public buildings, something ubiquitous in the U.S.

This is true -- and freaky weird. In places with chronic water shortages, however, you may be refused a glass of water. More commonly, you will not get one unless you ask for it. That's during drought conditions, though. Normally the water is just there. Larger restaurants employ people with the solitary function of refilling water glasses. Thinking about it, that's just a freaky weird as not getting the water at all.

* In Germany, when you have eaten in a restaurant, taking the leftovers with you is typically frowned upon; they are thrown away. In the US, it is customary to ask for a box.

Meh -- not so true. You WILL be asked if you want a box. In cheaper restaurants, this is routine and they quite expect you to say yes. They may even protest if you say no. However, in nicer restaurants, wanting a box is cheap. They'll ask, but you'll be expected to decline. It's not uncommon for a fine restaurant to not have the boxes.

* US restaurants usually stop serving food at 10pm, some already at 9pm (except junk food joints). In Germany you can eat till midnight.

Closing at 9pm is odd, but it happens. Eating till midnight though -- you can do that, but such places are odd. My town has but one such place that I know of. It's freaky weird to want to dine after 9pm in the US. If people were inclined to do so, more restaurants would stay open that late. They're that mercenary. Folks just won't do it, though, so the restaurants don't stay open -- because they're that mercenary. Eating is done between 6pm and 8pm, with a peak at 7pm of 7:30.

* Everybody claims that beer is better in Germany, but it's not really true. Almost all German restaurants and pubs are in the pocket of some brewery and may only serve one type of beer; in a US restaurant you usually get a choice of 10-20 different beers.

True, true, all true. Ten to twenty different beers is a sign of a poor establishment. A good one will have many more than that. A restaurant that prides itself on the quality of its drink might have 100 different beers, or more. Some of them, I am told, are excellent.

* In the US, when you enter a restaurant, you have to wait for a waiter to seat you; generally you cannot freely choose your table. In Germany, you just sit down wherever you want.

You can't choose your table in most restaurants, this is true. You do just go sit wherever you want in a diner -- unless it's busy. You have to be seated so that there is some order to the work apportioned to each server. Mind you, if you have a strong preference for a table, you can generally have it if you ask for one.

* In the US, foods are often served in a way which makes it impossible to eat them in a civilized manner, for instance tremendously huge hamburgers, too long French fries, and muffins. As a result, people eat with the fingers and require an inordinate amount of napkins.

Yup -- but these foods are intended to be eaten with the fingers, hence their size. If you are expected to eat with silverware, it will be on the table. If it isn't there -- the silverware is attached to your wrists.

* Waiters in US restaurants have a habit of coming to your table while you are eating or while you are talking and interrupt you with "Is everything OK?". Sometimes they even try to start a fake conversation.

It's uncanny, isn't it? The "while you are eating" part is just a coincidence. They are required to do this. If everything is NOT Ok, then this really is the time to say so. No one is going to give your complaints much attention if you do not. That "fake conversation," though -- that's real. They are trying to be friendly and personable. If they did not, in fact, want to hear your responses, they wouldn't have asked. They aren't required to have conversation with you and most will not do this.

* Bottles with crown caps in the US can always be opened without a bottle opener, by simply turning the cap. In Germany, you need a bottle opener.

You used to need a bottle opener in the US -- that was just ages ago. Germany really ought to switch to the nifty twist caps. Incidentally, there were not a few tough guys back in the old days who would twist off the old style of cap with their hands anyway. They were the same people who lit matches on their jeans. My uncle did so a few years ago while visiting Berlin. He thought the "antique" bottle caps were very entertaining. He didn't say he lit a match on his jeans in Germany, though I know he did so as a youth.

* In Germany, TV shows start at varying, strange times. In the US, all shows on all channels always start on the full hour.

Some start on the half hour, but I'll agree that most do not.

* The US uses absolutely brain-dead bank notes: all denominations have the same size, feel and color. (The American Council of the Blind sued the government over this, and won--nothing changed.) Furthermore, the largest denomination is only $100.

The larger denominations were discontinued in 1969, though existing ones are still legal tender, as far as I know. They were made in $500, $1,000, $5,000, $10,000 and $100,000 denominations. The notes ARE absolutely brain-dead. That the largest denomination now circulated is only $100 -- yeah. Sweeties, do NOT expect to be able to actually SPEND anything larger than a $20 bill. People will be extremely suspicious of the authenticity of one of those portraits of Benjamin Franklin. Those might be usuable in a grocery store where your purchace might reasonably amount to somewhat more than $100, but few shops are willing to make change for one. Large purchases are customarily done by credit card. Even larger purchases are customarily done through cashier's checks, personal checks, or bank loans, not cash. Paying for something like a plane ticket, hotel room, car, or house with cash is going to cause very unpleasant suspicion. Seriously -- only criminals want to do such a thing. There really is no purpose served by US banknotes over $100. I'm pretty sure no one noticed when they stopped making them.

* German jelly donuts contain a lot less jelly than American ones.

Have you noticed how fat folks are in the US? Yeah. German pastries in general are TOTES amazing. If you are accustomed to German pastry, do not trouble yourself with the US version. Unless you are in the southeast. Krispy Kreme donuts are one of the perfect foods. I greatly miss those.

* In the US, apartments or houses for rent or sale are commonly advertised with a large sign in front of the house. In Germany this isn't done: you have to find the address from ads in newspapers, on the internet or from real estate agents, which is annoying.

All those ads exist in the US as well and it is VERY common to employ them when looking for an apartment. Some places ARE only advertised by sign and if you are fussy about neighborhood -- that's a good addition to your quest. Many places, however, are not advertised by sign. Now -- houses for sale -- those always have a sign unless it's a costly mansion. Costly mansions do NOT have signs. A Realtor is the most efficient way to locate either, regardless of advertising.

* Most US bookstores have coffee shops and armchairs and are open till 11 pm, also on the weekends. Most German ones discourage browsing, don't offer coffee and close at 8 pm, and don't open at all on Sundays.

Only if Barnes & Noble and Borders count as "most." Otherwise, this is NOT so. Now, those two big chains are very common, and they are as described. A bookstore that is not one of those two firms, however, is likely to be open from 9am to 5pm like most other businesses. The Sunday thing is somewhat rare also. This coffee nonsense -- that's like taboo in bookstores generally. The big chains did it to some success, but food and drink are not normally allowed in places where the merchandise would be damaged by them.

* Cheerleaders, high school girls cheering and dancing in short dresses for the boys' sport teams, actually do exist in the US. I had always thought they only exist on TV, just like the laughter in the background of soap operas. But no: girls actually do want to be cheerleaders. To Germans, the whole setup is ridiculous, sexist, and degrading.

Cheerleaders DO exist, in enormous numbers. University teams have them also. Often, each team will have their own set -- the basketball cheerleaders, the football cheerleaders, I've seen soccer team cheerleaders. So do professional teams, as I recall. Freaky wierd, I know. Few people believe that anything other than a football team cheerleader is a "real" cheerleader. This is not to say that the whole setup isn't ridiculous, sexist, and degrading. It is, and a great many people in the US find it to be so.

* In the US, prices are always stated without sales tax, so you never know in advance how much you actually have to pay.

We do the math in our heads. Seriously. There is no sales tax on food in any state so far as I know (that's raw, unprepared food). Many states don't charge it on clothing either. Six cents on the dollar is typical. That's not hard to calculate. Many people carry calculators for that. There are also laminated cards (or there used to be) that had tables that would show the tax.

* Americans have a strange obsession with the points of the compass. Frequently inside a building you will find signs like "This elevator is out of order. Please use the one on the North side of the building." How am I supposed to know where North is? Why can't they just tell me where the elevator is?

I found that freaky wierd in Germany. What do you MEAN you don't know which way is North? Are you in some way incompetent? I am perpetually aware of compass direction. I'm facing South right now. This is made easier in many places by the US obsession with orienting roads to the compass points.

* By contrast, German highway signs are unusable for foreigners (and many Germans) since they eschew points of the compass entirely. In order to navigate on German Autobahnen, you need to know the relative locations of all cities in Germany. The signs won't say "B1 East" and "B1 West", but instead "B1 Richtung Bochum" and "B1 Richtung Unna" and you are supposed to know that Unna is East of Bochum.

Now, now -- lots of places in the US have streets named after the nearest town they lead to. A road will have different names from either direction. If Unna and Bochum were towns in Pennsylvania, it would not at all be odd for Unna to be at the end of Unna Pike and Bochum to be at the end of Bochum Pike, even though both lay on the same road. No signs will make mention of the compass direction. Were these two towns very near or on an interstate highway, there might well be an I-1 East and an I-1 West. Or North and South. Note that I-1 East might well run more or less North-South, only trending toward the East or West slightly, or at some point much further down the highway. It is possible in the US for Unna to be due South of Bochum and yet the two towns would be connected by an Interstate Highway labeled East or West. It drives people nutso.

* Germany is famous for orderliness and cleanliness, but Imbissbuden (snack stands) and public toilets are often pretty disgusting.

Ahem. Do NOT expect different conditions at such places in the US. Smart folks avoid both -- ESPECIALLY the public toilets. If you must, try to use the Men's facilities. The Women's facilities are FAR worse. Oh yes. It's true.

* Everything is bigger in the US than it is in Germany: people, meal portions, coffee cups, cars, houses, cell phones, beds, refrigerators, squirrels.

Only the fox squirrels. Fox squirrels are freaky HUGE. I know cats smaller than a biggish fox squirrel. Grey squirrels are the SAME size as European squirrels. Flying squirrels are smaller than European squirrels generally are. They don't have those insane Mr. Spock ears, though. Nothing in nature has those insane Mr. Spock ears. Except maybe lynxes, which are very rare. All that other stuff is true. One thing about the refrigerators, though -- you can buy a German style refrigerator. You can. University students use them. You can get one cheap when they graduate in late spring. Do NOT raise children with one of those, though. In the US it is expected that you will pretty much hoard food. Child services will not believe you when you say you go shopping more than once a week. If Germans shopped for food in the American fashion, they would need much larger refrigerators.

* In the US, you pay income taxes to the federal government and separately to your home state; in Germany only the federal government collects income taxes. Every American pays income taxes on their world-wide income, no matter where they live or where the money was earned; in Germany you only pay income taxes on the money earned in Germany. (Americans living abroad are not even allowed to give up citizenship to avoid paying U.S. taxes.)

You can give up your citizenship -- it just takes doing. The US is like that (they're really fond of tax money). Note that the state governments in the US fill most of the roles of the federal government in Germany. In the US, a constitutional amendment was required to allow the federal government to tax income at all. Not a few people would support having that amendment repealed.

* When you rent an apartment in the US, the stove and fridge is normally included; in Germany you often have to bring your own.
The stove is required in most states or the residence is not inhabitable. Refridgerators are usually there also, and in some states they, too, are required for habitability. I've rented places that I had to buy a refrigerator for and thought it mighty odd. But yeah -- a rental property without a stove is called a hotel room.

* German kids are afraid of big dogs, American kids like to pet them.

Only some of them. Most children of my acquaintance are completely terrified of large dogs. I did note while in Germany that there aren't many of those -- big dogs. Add dogs to the "oversized" list in the US.

* Germans think that natural yellow egg yolk looks "unhealthy" and pale and prefer their egg yolk orange, which is why German farmers feed their chickens orange pigments.

This is also true of US residents of a certain age. The "natural" yellow egg yolk is a product of food poor in lutein and zeaxanthine. Where I'm from, healthy chickens eat lots of corn, which contains those. Chickens who eat mysterious industrial substances lack the pigment to produce properly colored egg yolks. The US fixation with yellow-tinted chickens extends to the skin of birds for consumption. Pale chicken skin is considered decidely unwholesome and people will buy only chickens with yellow skin. That's older people -- young folks have probably never seen a chicken.

* Graffiti is of higher quality and more colorful in Germany, where it is sometimes viewed as approaching an art form; in the US it mostly consists of simple taggings and is almost always seen as a law enforcement problem.

Yeah -- US graffiti blows. There was some nice stuff in the New York area in the 80s, though. Art graffiti is trying to make a comeback in the US -- but it is still seen as a law enforcement problem.

* At funeral services in Germany, the casket is closed; in the U.S. the deceased gets make-up and clothes and the casket is open.

Gross, is it not? We take photographs of the corpse also. That's even more grotesque.

* In Germany, if they see police, people often think something is wrong; in the U.S., if they see police, people usually feel safe (except for many blacks who may have had bad experiences with police before).

Ummmm - no. No one feels safer. If the police are there, something quite unpleasant is going on. Better that nothing be going on and the police are absent. Additionally, it has been my observation that US policemen are very poor shots. They tend to let 40 or 50 bullets fly (when there are a lot of them) but fewer than 10 will hit the intended target. It is not safe to be anywhere near a policeman. You run a high risk of being accidentally shot. Then there's the entirely regretable, often lied about, always covered up or quickly forgotten tendency for policemen to be corrupt, and to a degree that belongs in the cinema. Indeed, it's often portrayed quite realistically in the cinema. Nope... no one with any brains feels safe. They think something is wrong.

I really did take a poll

2011-03-02T16:26:00.000-05:00

It wasn't all that. I imagine that if you click the picture thingie, you'll be whisked off to someplace you can take said poll yourself.

Maybe it's a survey.

Whatever.

While I was taking it, though, I kept wondering what the point was. I mean... I could have produced the results off the top of my head. I don't really think of myself as being preternaturally self-aware. I mean... I'm not preternaturally anything. I'm really quite ordinary.

Then there's this thing. I was sitting on the couch with Nigel. Nigel was sitting on me. I am the cat's couch. He prefers to sit on me to sitting anywhere. Actually, Nigel prefers sitting on me to doing anything but eating. It must be a close thing -- Nigel does more sitting on me than he does eating. Whatever. There was a thing. Here it is.

The girl was sitting just over there. She has her own favored seat. We had been talking. Says she: "You're really fucking gay. Did you know that? I mean -- gay."

Tone of voice matters here. She's sweet, the girl is.

But -- yeah. Totes.

There are brighter flames, but no one needs a survey result on whether I'm really fucking gay or not.

And I'd think that would be true of most people. I mean... are there folks out there who take this survey are are surprised by the results?

Not that I Told You So...

2011-02-19T15:47:00.000-05:00

But... yeah. I did.

So I'm at the bakery and I'm doing things to dough. I'm not baking, because I'm not at all a baker. Bakers bake and I don't do that. I do things to dough. There is a baker... he bakes the dough after I've done things to it. Whatever.

And Boopsie comes rolling through. He does that. It's odd that he should do that -- come rolling through the bakery -- but it's part of his charm.

"Oh... just kill me now, Somebody."

Seems Boopsie is not having a good day.

"What ails you, Boopsie?" says I.

I say this because it is pretty much required. Not so much that it's socially expected (and it is) but because Boopsie really will piss and moan until his complaints reach an intolerable crescendo that obliges someone to make just such an inquiry. Boopsie is like that (as are a shockingly large number of people) and I find it's best to just avoid the unpleasantness and ask.

I don't do it because I'm nice. That's a vicious calumny. I'm not at all nice. I fake it fairly well, however.

"I hate men," declares Boopsie.

Ah.

Men.

Being one of those, I can quite safely vouch for our less than enjoyable aspects. We have them. Saying "I hate men" isn't entirely daft... it's just overly petulant.

Really.

As a man, I can also vouch for our over-all cuddlyness and general charm. We can be sweet. We're like dogs that way: cuddly, charming, can be sweet. You wouldn't really want to be without us but we really will pee on the couch or chew up the slippers or otherwise provoke you into screaming "I hate men."

Whatever.

Boopsie, you may recall, "needs" a boyfriend. He does. He said so just two weeks ago or so. Scroll down past the pretty pink orchid and see if I'm wrong. (I'm just not, you know.)

Boopsie, you may recall, satisfied this "need" for a boyfriend. He did. He did so by deciding that breathing and male were the only two pertinent qualifications for being a boyfriend.

Yeah.

And now Boopsie has had the occasion to "hate" men.

I'm going to say it now: Boopsie is quite mad. He's nutty, bonkers, not right in the head. Tetched, loonie, quite possibly psycho also come to mind. Boopsie is in good company, I fear. Some days it seems to me that everyone is quite insane.

That does not at all auger well for me. No. But then I quite like men. They're cuddly, charming, are really good at scratching certain itches... all around handy things. They also don't puke as much as dogs do... as a general rule with copious exceptions.

"Boopsie," says I. "This boyfriend of yours... is he still breathing, is he still male?"

"I should have specified that he not be an asshole," Boopsie says.

"Well, decide where men who aren't assholes are likely to be found and then go there," says I.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," says I. "But really, Boopsie... consider adding literate to the job description. Consider adding a great many things you really do find to be required. You can't just decide that a breathing male is adequate and then complain about how breathing males are inadequate. It's cruel."

"I'm cruel? Me?" shrieks Boopsie.

Oh yes.

Yup

2011-02-05T10:23:00.000-05:00

Did you think you were going to escape having orchid pictures inflicted upon you?

No?

Well... that was clever of you.

In other news, my friend (one of them, anyway) came bouncing into the bakery recently. He did.

"Guess what, Feral. Guess, guess guess."

"I couldn't possibly," says I. Nope. I really couldn't, either.

Then the other shoe falls. Ker-thump.

"I got a boyfriend!"

Oh what fresh gay hell is this, now? That's what I'm thinking. It's not at all what I said (not that I'm not prone to yelling just that at the top of my lungs because I am) but it is what I thought. "How special," says I.

"It is, you know," the friend says in all seriousness.

Now... this would be the self-same friend who ejaculated that he needed a boyfriend not that long ago... the one who seemed oblivious to the notion that one might (just might) have to actually do something to make that happen.

"Usually boyfriend shopping takes somewhat longer," says I. "All serious shopping takes somewhat longer. Deciding on a pair of shoes takes longer, fer fuck's sake."

"I just did what you said to do," says he. "It worked, too."

"Oh... I know it works. My not-at-all-patented formula for boyfriend hunting most assuredly works. I'm just wondering... that part about Step 1... the part where you decide with some specificity what it is you want... you didn't by any chance stop at 'breathing,' did you?"

He cocks his head. "And male. Breathing and male."

So... on Thursday, the day after Groundhog Day... if you by any chance heard a monumental sigh... that was me. I might be wrong on this point (I very often am), but I do suspect that sigh went 'round the globe twice.

Yeah.

Note to the masses: "breathing" just isn't a sufficient resume for a boyfriend. Certainly it helps... not-breathing is very counterproductive. It's just not enough, though. It's just not. It will lead to all manner of difficulties down the road. This "anyone will do" thing... that requires monumental effort to make it work.

Monuments... they tend to be large. Really large. Hence, "monumental."

Ice

2011-02-02T16:06:00.000-05:00

Yeah.

I'm not from here. I get that. I'm not especially "from" anywhere. That would be an experience I lack... something that sets me apart, ever so trivially, from others. Of course, while trivial, it also leads people to conclude that I'm sociopathic -- something which I'm pretty sure is just not true.

It's not so much the "not being from here" that irks people; it's the "not being from anywhere." Or perhaps it's really my own puzzlement at the whole "being from somewhere" thing. I mean... for me... it's just not normal, natural, or even especially desirable to "be from somewhere." I don't have a hometown and I don't understand people who do have one... but whatever.

There is ice. Not so much ice. I'd be more comfortable describing the ice in terms of millimeters rather than in fractions of an inch. We'll call it "two" ... not that I've measured. Suffice it to say that it's just not impressive ice. I'd not have expected any local response to the ice. I certainly had no response... other than to photograph it.

When you photograph the ice here about it has the tendency to look the same as every other time you've photographed it. I did that, you know. It's true: root around in the archives and you'll find a sparkly orange be-dazzlement of light flashing off of ice. Yup. On the very same tree. That ice was substantially thicker than this. This ice... it's more of a glaze than a coating.

It's gone now, by the way. I took that photo many hours ago, back when it was still dark. Not that it's not dark now, because it is. The photo just wasn't taken during this particular fit of darkness and couldn't be taken now... not and have any ice in the trees.

You'd think, however, that this transient glazing of ice was mentioned explicitly in some sacred text as a harbinger of the end of the word.

Oh yeah... folks went a trifle nuts.

They're bread and milk freaks here. I just don't get that. I toddled off to the local marketeria to get some coffee on account of I was unacceptably low on coffee and (being quite addicted to coffee) this just cannot stand. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the ice. The ice was entirely coincidental (and substantially not in evidence as I traipsed off to the marketeria).

Note that "marketeria" just isn't a real word. It's one of my more annoying affectations. You'll live through it, I trust.

There wasn't any bread at the marketeria. Lots of empty bread shelves, but no bread. Ditto with the milk cooler: it had been divested of anything resembling contamination by milk or milk products.

Yes, Sweeties: the local freaks bought up the cream as well as the milk.

I have jokingly speculated that there is some sort of secret ritual involving the consumption of mass quantities of french toast. Otherwise, what the fuck are they doing with all that bread and milk? Surely they have bread and milk locked away in their kitchens left over from the recent snow. I mean... it's totally not like they didn't descend on all places bready like locusts because they did.

I just don't get it. I've lived here for over twenty years and I just can't get used to the phenomenon of the vanishing bread and milk. Nor can I get over the locals' very peculiar relationship to all things frozen.

They carry on here. They do. They carry on as if they were residents of Fiji and all this freakish ice came out of nowhere to... well... end life as they know it. They carry on as if this sort of thing didn't happen last year, or the year before, or the year before that.

This sort of thing has, after all, been going on for the full three centuries of this quaint little burg's existence. It has. I'm not kidding there.

And it's not like this region has recently experienced some massive influx of immigrants from someplace tropical. Oh no. These people grew up with annual deposits of frozen matter just as their parents and grandparents did.

I asked, I did, of one of the older residents about the milk. I was wondering if the psychotic bread and milk thing happened back before there were cars. Did Grandpa have to hitch up the horse to the old buggy to hoard bread and milk at the first hint of impending snow?

Grandpa did not, as it happens, hitch up the horse. Grandpa walked to get the bread and milk.

Huh.

Anyway... Wee Orchid is unimpressed by the ice. Of course, it's far more likely that Wee Orchid is unaware of the ice.

The Selaginella is doing nicely, as well. I'm quite surprised by that. My own response to such weather is to closet myself away with orchids and Selaginellas (and towering bananas) and ignore the whole thing. Certainly I have to minimize my interaction with the bread and milk locusts. They can't drive their automobiles in snow or ice either.

Snow

2011-01-26T16:58:00.000-05:00

That's not quite the view from the Tree House. It's not... not quite. The Tree House is a bit higher than that. OK... it's more than a bit higher. I should not at all like to climb the distance between what you see here and what I see out my window.

Or would see out my window if looking out the window was more practical.

I would not have thought the wee orchid would be blooming this time of year. I'd have thought it would be... oh, I don't know... somewhat later in the year. Still, there you have it.

The other window in the Tree House isn't all that much more of a tenable situation. It's just not.

Of course, having to peer around a banana really is my idea of looking at snow.

Not that that kept me from scurrying outside to take that first picture.

One More Time Around The Block

2011-01-25T07:03:00.000-05:00

Wherein I Answer Questions

How do you interview someone on homosexuality?

By asking them questions.

Which questions would depend on just what it is you want to know. That's how it works, you see: you want to know the answer to a question so you ask it.

Now, there really is a trick to this. There is. See... Gay folks have been asked the same freaking stupid questions over and over and over for decades now. Those questions tend to be annoying in the extreme... partly because of the repetition but mostly because of the shear stupidity of many of these questions. Some of them are shockingly offensive. Whatever. I did, however, say there was a trick to it. There is one: don't bother.

So far as I can see, the only rational reason why people would ask the same stupid questions over and over and over again for decades is they aren't listening to the answers. If you don't plan on listening to the answer to a question, there's little point in asking it. So don't. That would be how you interview someone on homosexuality... leave them in peace and quiet.

Now, were you to plan on actually listening to the answers, then just go ahead and ask the questions.

How can you be gay and republican?

It's fairly easy. There's this peculiar myth flouncing about that the Democrats are some sort of Gift To The Gay People. It's just not true. I know more viciously homophobic Democrats than I do Republicans. That may well be due to some insane sampling error so don't take that to heart. Still, I know more Republicans than I know Democrats (Republicans are quite common hereabout) and yet I know more viciously homophobic Democrats than I do Republicans.

The problem here seems to be something I call "Europe-envy." It seems to me that Democrats wish the US were something resembling a European state. Thing of it is, the US was founded in explicit contradiction to the concept of the European state as it existed at the time and remains so to this day. The US is not a state; it is 50 of them. "State" does not mean "province." The Democrats seem to me to be of the view that the two words are synonyms... which does not at all reflect well on them because the two words aren't at all synonymous. Some people care a very great deal about the distinction there. Don't worry about it too dreadfully much: wars have been fought over far more trivial issues.

Why are there so many gays in (Place X)?

Chances are, there aren't so many Gays... chances are you're just a nasty homophobe and any Gays at all counts as "so many."

In the redacted place in question, the number of Gays is one tenth of a percent above the national average. I mean... really... that's not so awful many. This one-tenth of a percent bump almost certainly represents a very casual migration from the rural hinterland of said place. The countryside does not lend itself to gaiety. Many quite urban areas also fail to lend themselves to gaiety and so these areas also suffer from emigration to other places.

The Williams Institute crunched all those numbers some years ago.

I suppose things may have changed since then, though I doubt it. Generally speaking, an absence of Gays correlates to overall unpleasantness. If Place X really does have more than 4.1% Gays, Lesbians, and Bisexuals, then it's probably a pleasant place to live. That's been studied (though I feel no interest in looking up the citation). When I say "pleasant place to live" I do not mean "lends itself to gaiety." I don't. I mean it's a pleasant place... for just everyone. Now, such places do lend themselves to gaiety. They do. You've heard that peculiar rumor, right? The one that alleges that Gays have demanding standards and exquisite taste? Sure. Whatever.

Now, the creepy question one should be asking is "Why aren't there any Gays in (Place X)? Oh yeah. Places without Gays are quite dreadful hell-holes. That would be why the presumptively natural incidence of 4.1% has eroded: what with all those demanding standards and exquisite taste, Gay folks tend to pack their bags and head for somewhat more glittery, rainbow-enhanced places. Yup... no Gays is like not being able to hear birds. Have you ever been somewhere where there were no birds?

Creepy.

Wherein I Hand Out Advice

Yeah. First up is the teenager.

"How do I keep my teenager (a boy) from going through socks so quickly? He's awfully hard on socks."

Ouch.

Mind you, this is known: teen-aged boys have what might be termed "stink-foot." It's true so don't bother denying it.

"Oh... not my teenager." I hear that shit quite often. I do. Sure. And then I generally get around to fielding some variant on the stockings issue. Though... it's not usually so grisly.

Keep them from going through socks?

Seriously?

Deep breath. (It's just Feral going not-so-quietly-crazy over here.)

I went to the grocery store the other day. I do that. That's because that's where we keep the food and... I'm prone to eating from time to time. Silly habit, I know, but it keeps me alive. Whatever. They sell socks there. While that might seem odd (I mean... food... socks... they don't seem all that natural a conjunction) I'd expect to be able to buy socks at a grocery store. Funny thing... I can. Imagine.

They cost $5.96. I suppose in the Philippines that's a large sum. I'm told it's almost a day's wages. That's another issue altogether. The teenager with his stink-foot who goes through socks lives here. The $5.96... that gets you six pairs, not just one. Nope.

At that price, you can pretty much call the socks disposable. Let the kid wear a pair, then throw that nasty thing away the next day. Use tongs... I'd not advise touching them because I have no idea why the used socks of stink-foot teenagers can be leaned against a wall. I've seen it: that is totally not one of my flights of hyperbole. Nope. Teenagers do evil things to socks... things that belong in a science-fiction horror movie like "Aliens."

Cue the inevitable quotations:

"Looks like some kind of secreted resin."

"Nobody touch nothin'!"

Yeah.

I mean... there is no need whatsoever to worry about something that costs one dollar. Really. Teenagers are expensive but their socks aren't part of that equation. Use tongs if you must, but launder the socks with some regularity. From time to time, remind yourself that you really can afford to just buy brand new ones each day... they're at the grocery store.

If you're fussing over something so trivial, you shouldn't have kids. Fixations on such trivialities lead me to believe just vile and uncharitable thoughts. Perhaps you see your child as some sort of intolerable burden.

Yeah. Knock that shit right the fuck of and buy some freaking socks.

Be advised that I'm pretty sure that grocery stores are not the most economical source of socks. Nope. I suspect the socks at grocery stores may just be a tad over-priced. I suspect you can get far more than six pairs of socks for $5.96 if you shop around.

"I need a boyfriend."

Really? That's not good. I mean... it strikes me as a symptom of something. See a doctor, preferably a psychiatrist. They may have a pill for that.

I'm more than half serious here. Boyfriends are the cause of all manner of drama and some small amount of tribulation. Boyfriends are not at all the solution to any problem I can conjure a mental image of. Really.

Now, that may be due to a lack of imagination on my part. I doubt that, but it's remotely possible. So let's just discard that bit of advice (no one takes it anyway) and move forward.

"Where have you been looking?" ask I.

"Looking?" parrots my woeful interlocutor. "What do you mean, looking?"

I think we've found the problem.

Boyfriends do not spontaneously materialize. They just don't. My friend has not been looking at all... not anywhere. Yet, he thinks he "needs" a boyfriend.

So I rattle through Feral's not-at-all-patented four-step process:

Determine with some specificity what you want.

Determine with some specificity where what you want is likely to be found.

Go there.

Be the boyfriend you expect to be.

All four steps are equally important, though I find people do the most slouching with Step 1 and Step 3. I've yet to meet anyone who even tried to do a fair effort at Step 4, but that's a bit of a double-bind. I mean... if you are inherently a dishonest and manipulative cretin, who am I to argue about all the false behaviors people immediately trot out when they're boyfriend hunting? Yeah... whatever.

Nope... you really do have to go looking for one. You really do have to look in a reasonable place. You just plain have to know what it is you're looking for in the first place.

As for that last bit... if you can't just be yourself then I don't know what help there is for you.

Of course, the bit of psychiatry I recommend right of the bat still applies. I mean... "need" is a foul word. You need?

Just ouch.

New

2011-01-01T16:57:00.000-05:00

That's a favorite around the tree house... it is. Especially poor Basil. Of course, Susan has her fans, but being assaulted by bears... that's just tops. All the nieces have this in book form. Indeed, all the wee critters of my acquaintance have it.

Huh.

Do I have to say that I am NOT responsible for this state of affairs?

Fine.

I'm totally not responsible for this state of affairs. It just happens that, entirely by coincidence (really), all of my sibs and minions share my taste in children's literature.

Titus flying into bits is a huge hit amongst the wee ones. They have no taste. Basil... totes.

Anyway... 'round about now I'm supposed to be wishing everyone a happy new year. Imagine. I'll not be doing so. (Surprised?) Here's the thing (read this ever so carefully): Wishes don't make things happen.

Got that?

I mean... you folks do realize that if my wishes were of any material significance whatsoever that a really very large, metallic asteroid would have struck the planet years ago. It would... had wishing been able to make it so. Then there's all the really quite dismal plagues and other devastations.

Nope... I think I've pretty much demonstrated that wishing is somewhat less effective than a tinker's damn... not that there are all that many tinkers about, or that they've been damning anyone lately... whatever.

Picture Time

2010-12-25T20:10:00.000-05:00

If you'll strain your brain, you may recall that I had mentioned (more than just in passing) that I had purchased some swords. Yeah. I did. Now, that was Thing Five of a great many Things in the Omnibus Post of Doom: one of my more word-intensive rants. Whatever. I totally get that more than a few people completely phase me out when I go on a tear. That's fine.

But... I did say.

Some people, I am told, do not care for swords. Huh. There are, they say, people with no fondness whatsoever for sharpened bits of cutlery of any sort. "The hell," you say. Yup. I've been told this is so. Incomprehensible, I know (to be sure), but these creatures not only exist, I'm told they're quite common.

Well.

Should you be one of these creatures, do run off and play with whatever it is that could possibly be more entertaining than a sword. Don't trouble yourself further.

So then... the swords. This escapade was not without some trifling bit of drama. No. As dramatics go, it wasn't all that. Still, it seems untoward to say the escapade merely induced a little anxiety because... no, Sweeties... it was full-fledged drama, just not fledged with outlandish plumage. Nope: it was drab, sparrow-like drama, but drama nonetheless.

I am an old-fashioned sort. I like the Internet just fine... I do. I just don't let it play with my money. I prefer my money to be played with by what are now considered antiquated institutions. The Internet is, I find, a most excellent shopping aid. Oh yes. Most excellent. It advertises, but in reverse. I quite dislike (yea... even hate and loathe) advertisements of the usual sort: some beastly and synthetic imitation of a somebody extolling the virtues of this, that, or some other thing that I couldn't possibly want (not even a little bit). The reverse sort, where I root around and find merchants perfectly willing to indulge one of my flights of fancy in exchange for currency, that I like. I mean... it's not like I don't want stuff. I do want stuff. I'm what some people call a tad psychotic about wanting stuff on occasion. Finding it, then getting it is what I call a good day.

But we're going to be communicating by mail, this merchant and I. Yah. "Snail mail," I think they call it these days. Rumor has it that communications via Internet are covered under wire fraud laws. Huh. I don't know anything about that. The mail fraud laws, on the other hand... those are old, and there are institutions set up to prosecute those who use the US postal system for fraud. Seriously... show me a merchant who will not use the US Postal service and I'll show you a merchant that I immediately suspect of engaging in fraud. I really, especially dislike being defrauded.

We're also going to be using the banking institution of my choice, more often than not, this merchant and I. It works like this: I write out a cheque, the merchant deposits the cheque, our respective bankers fuss over the details. Then I get my stuff. I surely would not expect to get my stuff before the merchant gets his money. It'd be nice if the exchange could be simultaneous, but I haven't come upon a way to do that yet. Don't take cheques? Some merchants don't take cheques. That troubles me... it does. It reflects a fundamental distrust in the very foundation of modern commerce. Not that I'd not understand because I would understand. Oh yes... I know lots of folks who have a well-founded distrust of all kinds of underpinnings of civilization as we know it. I can do money orders. First choice would be Postal money orders and second choice would be Western Union. Why not? That particular institution might even be considered medieval. What's not to like? But I just don't do business with merchants who only take credit cards.

I mean... seriously... Henry VIII might be borrowing money from bankers to buy swords (I think he may have done more than occasionally) but that's just not a reason to borrow money in my book. Not going to do it. Period. Money is illusory enough, and bank cheques are pushing the illusion a bit far but not so far that I can't grasp it. Credit cards: those are as evil as coupons and for the same reason: it's unregulated counterfeit money. It's bad for the economy. I stick with "real" money... not that money is "real" at all. Whatever.

In addition to sharply limiting my shopping options (though avoiding people I believe to be fraudsters and scam artists at best is hardly an unwelcome limitation), my admittedly quirky approach to shopping is also uncomfortably slow. I get that.

It took a hair under a week for my mailed missive to reach my merchant. I expected that: the USPS was mediocre prior to 2001 and quite promptly after 11 September became nearly intolerable in that way that some drunken, dotty old uncle is nearly intolerable at family gatherings: this is to say completely intolerable, but technically minimally tolerable because you've gone and tolerated the intolerable because you're fond of the old coot. Whatever.

It took my merchant a full week to decide I had, in fact, sent him the equivalent of US currency and not some piece of paper that resembled such a thing. Fine: it took my own bank one day longer to notice the same thing.

So that's two weeks. I can live with that. Normally, UPS takes 3 or 4 days (with the grave caveat that Saturday and Sunday are not, by any stretch of the imagination, to be considered "days"). Yeah. Normally.

They didn't. No. They took eight. Now... that's way beyond my endurance. Four days is fine, but eight is not fine. No.

I had, in fact, spent a most surly day at the bake-shop mentally composing the really very stern (edited down repeatedly through the stages of threatening, obscene, hostile, and harsh) missive I was going to send my chosen merchant regarding this escapade.

However... upon my arrival home to scurry off to do just that, I could not help but lay eyes on my much expected package propped up where I could not possibly miss it. The spousal-unit did that. He's sweet that way. It was still freezing cold from sitting for... oh... eight freaking days... in one or another conveyance of UPS.

I mean... eight days is reasonable if the package comes from California and has to cross an entire continent and two mountain ranges... not to mention a more than slightly impressive river that, last I heard, was missing one or possibly more slightly vital bridges. (We're ignoring the fact that UPS owns airplanes because... oh yes, Sweeties... airplanes can circle the freaking planet in eight days so surely it was trucked.)

I had ordered something from South Carolina, after all... not California. I'm still more than half boycotting California. South Carolina... that's totally just three days... maybe only two. Seriously.

Then I look at the package: It came, in fact, from California. Whatever. Eight days is not satisfactory but it will do, since my package did travel much, much further than I had anticipated. After all... I have my package. Not, mind you, that I did not promptly scour the Internet for evidence that this unexpected third party had, to even a trivial degree, supported California's Proposition 8. I'd have sent the package back, in that case, swords or no swords. The verdict came back "not guilty" so all is well and I have swords and am well pleased.

That would be this sword on the top and this other one on the bottom. For their price, they aren't bad at all. Nope.

The wakizashi, at least, does differ from the manufacturer's description in one respect: it most assuredly does not have two pegs, one bamboo and the other brass. It has but one peg, a brass one. That's fine. I think the two-peg thing is silly.

The hamon (which is what I was properly buying) is right nice. This is the shorter sword. The katana has a nicer hamon, but... the Kaze Katana has been reviewed more than occasionally on the Internet... and excessively harshly. There just aren't that many pictures of the Kaze wakizashi out there, though.

I'll grant, the ito does bear a striking resemblance to shoelace. It may even be shoelace. The problem isn't so much that it's not silk... it's the weave. I can live with that, though. I can. I'm even going to get to handle these swords with what might just pass for wild abandon without fussing over whether I'm going to get the ito dirty or not. Besides... I get to spend many months, maybe even years, plotting on just what I'm going to re-wrap them with. The options for shopping are... just dazzling.

While others have found less than pleasant scuffs and scratches on their new blades, I have not. The polish... well, let's just say that a proper polish on a katana costs $800 (it does) and I totally did not spend that much on the pair of them. I'd not have expected more. I am, however, quite likely to improve matters. The hamon will be much better for it.

The only real issues are the tsuba on the katana is loose and both the tsuba and the fuchi are loose on the wakizashi. That can be dealt with, however.

But there's this word: yokote. In theory, that would be a transverse line on the blade just short of the tip, the angle where the plane of the tip meets the plane of the blade. I say "in theory" because these blades have no such angle. Nope. That's just scratchiness on the tip... scratchiness that just cries out for polishing out. That being done, there won't be a line there at all. That would be because these blades don't have yokote, they've just been made up to look like they do. And we're not talking drag queen make up here. No. Maybe Halloween costume make up. Sure. Folks have called this a "fake" yokote and that's just way too charitable by far. This isn't fake... it's an imitation of fake. Fakery suggests a counterfeit, a more than passable attempt to approximate the real thing. This is... those steel-brushed stenciled hamon-like designs they used to (and, regrettably, still do) put on nasty-ass stainless steel thingies.

I can understand not having a yokote. A sword is allowed to not have one. Soon enough, these swords will look like they don't have one rather than looking....

They just look scratched up this way. This is misplaced effort. They should stop doing that.

Not, mind you, that I don't like my swords. Oh no. I've been far too busy cooing over them for that. I mean... I got them on Wednesday afternoon and here it is Sunday morning.

There remains, however, this issue of drop-shipping. I do not approve. When a merchant says "I have this thing," I quite expect that to be literally true. This is not at all the same thing as saying "I expect to be able to procure this thing." No. I don't need mysterious third parties in my meager business relationships. I can just go to the third party and give him my money directly. If I'm going to pay a middleman (and I surely do not begrudge middlemen their pay), I quite expect that he will have actually done something. Phoning my snail mail order in to California does not count as "something" in my book. No. I mean... $50 for a phone call? Seriously? I'll not be paying that again.

So then... as a reward for your patience, have a picture of a fat kitty.

Look... no swords of any sort. Just an 11 kilogram kitty.

So Here Then

2010-12-24T19:44:00.000-05:00

The Dreaded Interview With a Gay Person

2010-12-07T16:09:00.000-05:00

I trip over bizarre interview requests quite often. They're bizarre because they just don't have any questions in them. That's... well it's a funny way to run an interview. This one had questions. Imagine that.

And here I pretty much habitually answer questions. Isn't that convenient? Whatever.

Bam

1. When did you turn gay?

I did not ‘turn’ Gay.

2. Were you born gay?

Why, yes. Yes I was.

3. Should gay people be accepted?

The short answer is ‘yes.’ The real question is ‘can gay people be accepted?’ You can’t have an answer from me on that one. You need to go ask some straight folks about that. For what it’s worth, in the aggregate, I just don’t see too much evidence that the answer to the real question is ‘yes.’ There are some bits of primatological evidence worthy of inspiring a bit of hope. There are. But Sweetie... if you need to delve into primatology for what ought to be a sociological question, you have a very, very big problem.

4. Were you abused as a child?

It depends on how you define ‘abuse.’ Really. Sexually abused? No. Physically abused? I happen to share that distinction with approximately 33% of my male peers and 26% of all my peers. Physical abuse is disgustingly common. Dead serious: look at a male, any male, in the US: one in three chance he was physically abused as a minor. Not. Kidding. Emotionally abused? Well, yeah. I don’t want to even think about the statistics on that one. I witness serious emotional abuse of minors every single day, and that’s just in walking around.

5. Why are parents always the last people to know their kid is gay?

Are they? I don’t find that they are. I find that “I always knew” is the more common response. Now, if you’re fishing around for why they seem to be the last a Gay kid comes out to... kids seem to save the things they care about most for last. They also seem to save the things that frighten them the most for last. But no... if a parent or two are the last people to know their kid is Gay, they’re probably more than a little on the stupid side, more than a little self-indulgent and prone to substituting their own fantasy life for reality, and more than a little bit assholes. But that’s just my opinion (rooted firmly in experience). It’s nothing to take seriously.

6. Do you think you’ll ever regret being gay?

Regret it? Oh... never. Never ever. Seriously. If I had a choice in the matter, I’d choose Gay. I don’t, so I’ll settle for never regretting it.

7. Were you ever attracted to the opposite sex?

Nope. Does that surprise you? I’m Gay. I’m male. That means I’m attracted to males generally. Now... think about that just for one minute, Sweetie. Males. Show me a female who looks like a male and I might think her cute. This has happened twice. I’m what I consider to be old, so that’s not at all saying something for the cuteness of baby-dykes with cute haircuts. I find that members of the opposite sex have unsightly bulges in places there ought not be bulges (and when I say unsightly I mean shaved-dog’s-ass ugly). I also find they’re distressingly squishy. Squishy is not attractive. Nope. My immunity to the imagined charms of females ought not trouble anyone. I’m told (and I’m convinced it’s true) that many not-Gay people find the opposite sex to be just enchanting.

8. Maybe you haven’t found the “right person” of the opposite sex yet?

No... I’m quite convinced this imaginary “right person” just doesn’t exist. Besides... I found the right person of the same sex. The spousal-unit would be seriously put out by this entire line of questioning. Theoretically, however... were you to find some woman that had broad shoulders, pecs of doom, a washboard stomach, a monstrous penis, and thighs bigger than I am... a stature of 6’2” would be handy... I’d give that a whirl. Thing is... I’m pretty fucking sure I just described something more than a little on the male side (and something in the heavyweight class of college wrestling, to boot). I don’t think there really are all that many women with monstrous penises and pecs of doom. Call it a theory.

9. How do you know you’re gay if you haven't had sex with anyone? (have you?!)

Here’s the thing: having sex is not at all the same thing as wanting sex. It’s just not. Knowing whether or not you are Gay is a simple matter of introspection. I suppose it’s possible you aren’t capable of introspection. There may be disorders that preclude introspection. Or not. I know plenty of really miserably virginal Gays. They’ve not had sex with anyone at all. They’re not at all happy with that state of affairs. They want to... does ‘hide the salami’ ring a bell? Yeah. Whatever. They want. It’s not a question of doing. It’s a question of wanting.

10. What’s it like to be gay?

Like a handbag full of rainbows, Sweetie.

Should that answer seem too flippant for you, then I'm afraid you'll have to answer the question "What's it like to be straight?" first.

Omnibus Post of Doom

2010-11-30T14:48:00.000-05:00

First things first:

some questions that have been littering my desk.

Were gay men incarcerated in Auchewitz?

Yes.

If the question is more along the lines of "only in Auschwitz?" then the answer is most assuredly no. There were many more camps in addition to Auschwitz; some of them are far more relevant to the query. Indeed, almost all of them are more relevant to the query. I suppose my hang-up here is over the word "incarcerated." See... Auschwitz is more readily associated with the word "exterminated" than it is with the word "incarcerated." Those two words really aren't the same thing.

Is Jeff Stryker gay?

As I recall, he is not.

At least you didn't ask if he was dead, though. I tire of being asked if Mr. Stryker has died. (I understand he still remains among the living.)

Some of the people employed in Gay pornography are Gay. That's moderately surprising. Pretty much all of the people employed in Gay pornography have been so employed because of ability and willingness to do the work and (more than occasionally) because of certain assets they bring with them. It would be peculiar and immoral for it to be otherwise. Ability and willingness ought to be all that's required in any occupation. Additional assets are a fine thing to bring to the workplace but insisting on them as an employer isn't all that prudent. Some employers might get away with truthfully claiming to have a superlative staff but all of them just can't. Some people are, in some way, quite special, but you can't go expecting all people to be quite special because... well... then there wouldn't be anything special about them. While it's a line from an animated children's film, it's entirely and self-evidently true: if everyone is special then no one is.

In any event, being Gay isn't really all that much of an asset in Gay porn, you see. It's hardly necessary. Now... were a lad to be so remarkably and resolutely heterosexual that he was just plain unable to perform any reasonable function in that trade... well... that would be a disqualification for employment. I would have to say that heterosexuality is often, if not always, considered by many to be a positive asset, however. Unfortunately, the market is a bit saturated with straight boys doing Gay porn of various calibers, so it's not that much of an asset. Still... being Gay in Gay porn is considered by more than a few people to be of negative value.

Really... even today... if someone is performing in Gay porn the odds really are that he's straight, not Gay. This would be an example of the definition of the word "counter-intuitive."

Second things second:

I've been ruminating.

There was this study. There was. It's not all that... not that it's nothing because it's definitely not nothing. Thing of it is... it's a small study. Small sample sizes just aren't that good a thing. Of course, large sample sizes can be unwieldy as all get out.

Anyway... the study... you can read about it in the press release or you can rummage through JoeMyGod's blog post on it or you can read the paper.

Pffft! What was I thinking? Yeah... right... I'll just tell you about it because you and I both know you're just not going to do any such thing.

There are these 78 kids (39 girls and 39 boys)... they've been answering all manner of entertaining questions for years. Also, they all have Lesbian parents. Cool, huh? No worries... it gets a bit better.

None of the adolescents in the study reported having been physically or sexually abused by a parent or other caregiver. Got that? None, zero, not one. What of it? One adolescent did report having been verbally abused. One is not zero... in this case one is 2.6% or so.

Now there's this thing: the U.S. Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency prevention’s National Survey of Children’s Exposure to Violence. It's a bit old, but it found that the lifetime rate of physical abuse of adolescents by parents or caregivers was something on the order of 26.1%.

If the children of Lesbians resembled the children of the population at large (which includes all manner of straight folks) then you might reasonably expect that 20 of these 78 adolescents might, at some point, have ticked the little box next to "yes" when asked anonymously if they'd been physically abused. Why not? A great many kids really do answer yes to that question... some 26% of them. The statistics for boys on this score are worse than those for girls and... small sample sizes be damned... it really would be reasonable to expect that 13 of the boys in that study would report having been physically abused. They didn't.

Strangely enough (I find it exceedingly bizarre) there's something else they didn't find any of in this study of the adolescent children of Lesbian parents: adolescent Lesbians. True, over 18% of the girls said they were bisexual, but not one baby dyke in the lot. Huh. The boys in the study flirted with the national averages for adult Gays... pretty much spot-on when you consider how many percentage points one individual response would shift everything.

Huh.

Third things third:

Hello. How are you? I am fine.

There.

Yeah. Whatever.

I was traipsing down the street the other day and this fellow hailed me.

Now... that's strange. Crazy people (mostly schizophrenics) talk to me on the street. We have a lot of those. Lately they've been quite nice. I dislike being accosted but greetings or informative rants, provided they are reasonably brief, aren't what I'd call disruptions. Besides... it's not like crazy people ask to be crazy. Trust me on that one: I know. Whatever. Crazy people talk to me on the street from time to time but not-crazy people very rarely ever do.

This fellow who hailed me wasn't crazy. At least no professional has ever claimed so and neither has anyone of a more amateur bent. He used to be a co-worker and now he works somewhere else and so do I. Anyway, there's this stream of questions. Where have you been? How have you been? What are you doing now? How are you?

Yes, yes, yes.

So it struck me that I hadn't really stopped by the Tree House in a while. I blame creaky bones. Tree climbing isn't much my thing and I'm not getting younger by any means. My life is really quite boring and there's nothing to relate. Boring is quite good, you see. I have a most piquant dislike for change and so I find boring to be positively blissful... in comparison to change.

So. Things have changed, surely.

Nigel is still shockingly stout. He seems well adjusted if a little sedate. I suppose weighing 11 freaking kilos will do that... make Kitty sedate. Still, he has a most awesome pounce and is prone to attacking certain of his cat-toys with vigor and a little malice. The abode seems overlarge for him: he travels through it only when he has a complaint (which he delivers with a decided lack of imperiousness). Otherwise, he prefers one room. Maybe it's the stairs.

Or not.

He's discovered that my room (a place he ordinarily shuns) is a most excellent retreat from the wee bairn. It is, too... most excellent.

Which brings me to the next point in this tour of highlights: there is a... what's the word? Ah yes... female. There's a female living in the house these days. There isn't really all that much exciting about that. She has proven to be far more helpful than disruptive. This is to say both that she has been most assuredly helpful. Oh yes. Also there is an unquestionable degree of disruption. After all... she has a wee bairn who visits regularly. Five-year-olds are... what's the word? Ah yes... that would be "disruptive." The one outweighs the other in a manner and to a degree that produces something that passes for contentment.

Fourth thing:

I have yet another new job. Yes, yes, yes... I was all a-twitter about being promoted not too dreadfully long ago. Funny thing: promotion does not mean anything in a company that goes bankrupt. Very conveniently, I was able to do something about that in a timely manner. That's always pleasant.

The words for what I do used to be "baker's boy." I don't know if that's what they call it these days. I suspect not. Still... I'm not in the least bit what is meant by "a baker." I do work in a bakery. I do things to dough. I do not much play with ovens. Certainly I do nothing resembling baking. I bake nothing. I do things to dough before they are baked. I also do trivial things to bread after it's baked. More often than I would like, I sell bread to people... or try to. I have remembered just what it is about the general public that I don't like: they are unlikeable.

Not a people person. Nope.

I also have a belated and new-found respect for waitresses. Don't get me wrong: waitresses are still the primary source of evil in restaurants, but I no longer work in one of those places. Nope. I am waitress-free. However, it now has become clear that waitresses (apart from being evil) also have been shielding me from the full brunt of the wickedness that is the general public.

I am not at all sure what possesses a shopper at a bakery to insist that one of the staff scurry off to some other business and make an order for them to pick up at some later time. I mean... really. That's a personal assistant. If you want things like that done for you, you should hire a personal assistant. Totally serious. You should not ask me to do that. I won't, you see. Now... were you to want some bread... funny thing, that... I work in a bakery; we sell bread. That I can do.

I also work a great deal more than I'm accustomed to... and at just an unseemly hour of the morning. Totally serious: I go to work earlier than I used to go to bed back when I toiled away in restaurant land. That's not at all pleasant.

But then that's why they pay me. I've said it many times and I'll not stop repeating it: it is customary to pay for that which is pleasant and customary to get paid for that which is less than pleasant. Not that I dislike my job.

Goodness no.

Apart from the predawn nonsense (even in summer), the place is very nearly drama-free. As far as I can tell, the sorts of drama common in restaurants just physically cannot happen in a bakery.

Except for the customers.

I'd not have thought that the transactions at a bakery were all that difficult to grasp. Exchange currency for bread. That doesn't seem all that hard, but then that must just be me because... oh my... far too many people have just astonishing difficulty.

At a bakery? Really?

Yup.

Freaks.

But... yeah. I make a hefty chunk more money doing things to dough than I had previously. That's a whole lot better than being poked in the eye with a stick. And spending it... let us not forget the wonders of spending money. He who said that money can't buy happiness totally did not know how to shop.

Thing five:

Notwithstanding freakishness, I "pulled the trigger" on a sword today. That's of more than passing note. This "pulled the trigger" stuff... it's a household term that infests our vernacular. There are things that one thinks about, there are things that one considers, there are things that one seriously considers, and then there are things that one "pulls the trigger" on. Buying swords is one of them, surely. After all, how many swords could one possibly need? "Need" set aside, its just not something that one purchases all that often. There's a difference between shopping for a sword and buying one. I bought one... hence, "pulled the trigger."

I'm going to totally ignore the fact (and it surely is one) that there are millions of people who just have no interest in having a sword. Whatever.

The sword itself isn't even the interesting point (though... it's a sweet-ass sword and I'm looking forward to its imminent arrival). Nope. It's that I decided to buy one. It means the phenomenon known as "The Disruption" has passed.

Yup. My life got disrupted in a most unsavory manner and to a decidedly lamentable extent about ten years ago and now that reversal of fortunes has gone and reversed itself... thanks to the bakery (freaks aside). This is a good thing... though not that good. It's of interest to me, though. I definitely notice a change in my standard of living that allows for sword purchases. It's not something I often get to do.

I bought a sword back then, too... sixteen years ago, that is. I smugly note that, in the intervening time, no one has died or bled on account of that sword nor has any property damage occurred. I still have it, so all the histrionic hand-wringing that certain people evinced about it being stolen and used to cause harm or to cause serious injury (or worse) to me was errant paranoid speculation unsupported by reality. I expect my new sword will have a similar career: it's going to sit around looking sweet-ass and making me quite content. Whatever.

There are nifty calculators out there on the Internet that will tell you what a certain sum of money in 1994 is in today's currency. Similarly, they'll tell you what a certain price today would have been back then. I think that's neat... particularly since I'm really quite uncomfortable with the task of doing so without the calculator. As it happens, the sword I'm in the process of acquiring costs less than the one I already possess once the prices are adjusted for inflation. That's of note because I'm of the view that my new sword is just worlds better than the one I already have. Oh yes. Oddly, the chief reasons I still have the old sword is that it's not at all worth giving away and I just can't picture a prudent and appropriate way to dispose of it. You just don't lob swords into a convenient trash can. At least in my reality you don't.

I don't at all like my current sword. To a great extent, that's because a whole lot of irredeemable trash was marketed as something of value in the 90s. The equivalent of the sword I'm in the process of purchasing really was available back then... for a considerable price. The market for swords is vastly different today than it was sixteen years ago. Normally, I dislike change. This time, I'll let that pass.

Thing the sixth:

The whole sword thing brings up another point: I find I really dislike people. Wait... no... the bakery brought up that point. Still, the sword thing brings it up too... independently. Yuck.

See... it's not what you'd call an expensive sword. I have no need for an expensive sword, though there are expensive swords that are both worth their price and far above my interest in buying. Given the choice between a sweet-ass sword and a car, I'm afraid I'll pick the car. Choosing between a sword and a refrigerator is somewhat different. I have a refrigerator, you see. That's the price range under discussion. Back in 1994 you might have been able to find a sword that cost somewhere in the vicinity of the price of a meal for two in a casual bistro. You certainly can today. Yeah.

Did you know you get what you pay for? You more or less do. Cheap is... often not all that desirable. Cheap swords can be problematic in many ways and I just don't want one. That's what's wrong with the sword I already have... today it would retail (fairly) for somewhere around $20. It would be worth that much, too. Had I paid that much back then... that would be good. You don't always get what you pay for, you see, but if you don't pay for it, you surely won't get it. Swords require a certain amount of shopping.

I'm prone to seeking out opinions. I want opinions on retailers. I want opinions on manufacturers, I want opinions on specific products. I do. And I pursue them with some diligence. Some might call it fanaticism. Whatever. I even seek the spousal-unit's view. I'm like that. There's a price at which I won't spend the money without his approval. This is a practice I think everyone ought to engage in habitually. What that price is really will vary with who you are. For me... it's $500. That get's me two swords, not one. Since I'm talking about a katana and wakizashi en suite, that's sensible and it means mid-range: there are more expensive swords and there are cheaper swords. I can't afford the one and I can't abide the other.

I showed dear spousal-unit a picture of a pair I had (almost) settled on. They were mid-range as well, if less expensive. He says, "OK. Is it going to make you happy?"

Isn't that sweet? He cares if I'm happy. I think it's sweet. Whatever. Then I say, "then there's this." I switch to the other tab on the trusty web browser.

"Oh," says the spousal-unit. "Oh my."

"Does that mean you don't like the other ones?" says I.

"The other ones look trashy."

Yup. That's what he said. It's somewhat comforting to know that my personal inclination to add $100 or so to what I planned on spending met with the spousal-unit's approval. I had already decided that I wanted the more expensive ones. The whole point of the exercise was to obtain swords that would, once and for all, be satisfactory, and that triggered the requirement for spousal approval. Besides... he has much better taste than I do. It's unfortunate in a way that he cares so for my happiness. Really. I mean... he should have said, "No, dear... those look trashy" when he first saw them. Fortunately, I know him quite well and had alternatives already to hand.

For those in a similar position... rooting around on the trusty inter-web for mid-range sword opinions, the spousal-unit says that Masahiro swords look trashy in comparison to Cheness swords. This should not dissuade prospective purchasers of Masahiro swords. No. They look to be fine things and I was considering them. Cheness costs more. I needed the spousal-unit's approval on that degree of price increase. I got it. The spousal-unit also rejected Ryumon and Hanwei on similar grounds. His view of the trashiness factor directly paralleled price: the more costly examples were less trashy to his eye than their inexpensive counterparts.

It was the curve. Should someone from Hanwei, Masahiro, or Ryumon be rummaging about looking for feedback, it was the curve. The spousal-unit finds that swords whose curvature approximates a simple arc from a circle look "trashy." It's not that good a thing when the spousal-unit calls something "trashy." I, for instance, just won't subject him to the sight of a pair of swords sitting in a rack day in and day out if he thinks they look trashy. Gracious, no. I would far prefer that he says something like, "Oh... oh my. That's a sweet-ass sword."

I sought other opinions as well. Fortunately, those are abundant on the Internet. I was able to read, for example, that the Hanwei Raptor series was a superior choice (and cheaper.) Yeah. See... the spousal-unit said "Absolutely not. That's not coming into the house." Not that I was planning to. No. I sought opinions, found I disagreed with them, and that's that. Should someone else have a spouse who thinks the Hanwei Raptors have a pleasing appearance... that's not a bad value. Go ahead and buy it. I'm just not going to pretend that anything Hanwei sells is equivalent in any way to anything that Cheness sells. They just aren't: The spousal-unit doesn't make nice sounds when exposed to Hanwei and he does when exposed to Cheness and that's that.

Now... no one else is married to my particular spousal-unit (pretty much by definition). Much that is good and wholesome doesn't meet with his approval. Since I am married to my particular spousal-unit, his approval means a good deal here in the Tree House.

I really do dislike people. (That's the point that's being elaborated upon, in case you've forgotten.) Some of the opinions out there about this or that manufacturer really aren't grounded in reality and yet are presented as if they were. That's... nuts. What you like is what you like and a great many things really are allowed to be disliked. That's not what's floating around out there, though. No.

First there's the collector snobs. Yeah. See... antique katanas from Japan are certainly a something. They are bought and sold and collected. That's fine. "Katana," however, just isn't a term of art for those thingamabobs. "Nihonto" is, but katana isn't. Not in vernacular speech. Get over it. By no means should anybody ever seek or pay heed to the opinion of one of these critters (nihonto collectors or aficionados) on anything other than nihonto. These critters are most offensive in those circumstances and offensive in a manner and to a degree that does them no credit whatsoever. I think it might be better to never engage one of them socially on any topic, but I won't go so far as to recommend doing so. No. Just consider that it might not be the best idea.

Then there's the sword-jockeys. Ick.

Ummm... I'm going to go with the social embargo on those critters. Just ick. "Sword-jockeys" are folks who not only have swords but also cut things with them. This activity is not, itself, objectionable. No. I heartily endorse it for those with the prudence to wield sharp objects and the sense to do so without causing unintended damage or injury. It's fun. I quite like it.

But...

Let's say a question is put to the peanut gallery: What (or which) sword is best suited to a beginner who is loathe to damage a sword due to inexperience? The answer to that question is most assuredly not "get experience." Certainly experience is a good thing. Certainly a sword can be damaged by inexperience (and with no small amount of risk). The questioner is quite aware of that and wanted to know what or which sword would best resist the sorts of heinous errors a beginner might inflict on it. The answer is a through-tempered spring steel model. It's not that they're infinitely forgiving, it's that they're more forgiving. While it is true that any sword can be damaged by inexpert use, some are far more likely to be seriously damaged by it than others and this is exactly the point the hypothetical questioner was making a query about. Repeating the impetus for a question does not pass for answering it.

Also, learning how to properly use such a thing really is a most excellent idea. You could say it's required (though I won't).

The question isn't about the value of experience... it's about specific durability. Never, ever answer a question about one subject with an answer from another... no matter how important the other answer might seem to be.

Then there's this positively delusional fixation sword-jockeys seem to have for their particular favored manufacturer. That's nuts. You're going to get snobby over the low to medium-priced manufacturers? Really? That's an activity usually reserved to the high and very high-priced stuff. I'll totally let you puff yourself over a fifteen hundred dollar sword and I'll totally let some proud possessor of one of the three thousand dollar jobs out-puff you. I'll even grant pride of place for puffery to the people with the twenty and thirty thousand dollar swords. After all, there really are swords that cost more than cars and there really are swords that surpass the customary market values (some people call them 'priceless' but that means something that's not too different from 'worthless.')

But puffery over a $50 price difference? You don't get to puff over $50 or $150. When a sword is under $500 you're obviously not talking about nihonto and you aren't even coming close to talking about what more than $1000 will buy. Snobbery on the low end of the market is just absurd.

I don't like unwarranted snobs. They're grotesquely abundant. This makes me much less than happy. I find I don't like partisans of any stripe. It hardly matters if the example at hand is a snit-fest about whether Hanwei is in some way inherently superior to Cheness, though since both companies have good reputations and make fine products (for what they are) there is no reason whatsoever to get into a snit over one or the other. Of late it seems I'm surrounded by people who absolutely insist on getting into high dudgeon over the most absurd trivialities.

What might be taken for a seventh thing but isn't really:

Take fluoride in water. I have developed an allergy to people who have firm opinions on this topic. They seem to me to be... well... quite insane.

Some places fluoridate their water supply; most of North America would be an example. Some places do not do so, and most of Europe would be an example of that.

Seriously, people: any claim you might make on either side of a debate on fluoridation would, if in the least bit accurate, be clearly demonstrable. If fluoride is such a wondrous thing (the arguments for that position are just grotesquely specious) then the lack of it in Europe will conveniently produce ample statistics illustrating the point. It is a fact (seriously) that the statistics just don't illustrate anything of the kind. If fluoride is such a heinous thing (and there are some seriously cracked pots making these claims) then surely some statistical illustration of the horrors wrought on the peoples of the Western Hemisphere could be brought to light. I'll not be holding my breath while someone looks for it.

Truth be told, since water fluoridation does cost money and since the supposed benefits of fluoridated water are so difficult to demonstrate, it seems to me the world will not come to an end if some district declines to continue doing so. Since the impropriety of water fluoridation is likewise so difficult to demonstrate, I'd not expect very many miraculous cessation of complaints (apart from dental fluorosis in children) to arise from declining to spend the money on the chemicals.

I expect such nonsense in topics like religion (or the lack of it). Those people have been just bat-shit crazy for years and years. I've grown used to it in the now absurd positions taken by Democrats and Republicans. Rumor has it that the Green Party is more sane in Europe and the South Pacific than it is in North America but... I especially need to find me a talisman that wards of Greenies. Nope. Religion and politics firmly remain on the list of disallowed topics in polite conversation.

But menuki?

For the love of a good fuck! How can someone, in complete seriousness, object to a sword only on the basis of its less than pleasing menuki?

Fuck me with a Q-tip.

Children... listen for a change.

Katanas come apart. They're supposed to come apart. It's true you aren't supposed to play with them like Tinker-toys in that regard; habitual dismantling of a katana is not good for the fit of the tsuka. They do come apart, however. You really are supposed to store them in shirasaya. If you don't like the menuki, replace the fuckers. Ditto for the tsuba. You could, if you wish, redecorate your sword seasonally and pop a lovely autumnal ito on the thing when the maple leaves turn colors. That wrappy shit... it comes off and really ought to be replaced from time to time (though seasonally is a little... excessive).

Complaining about the fittings on a sword is like complaining about the shoelaces in a pair of shoes. Complaining about the blade... that's different. If you don't like the blade then you don't like the sword. The fittings... those are replaceable and have always been replaceable and really ought to be considered inherently replaceable because... they just are.

Yeah.

Deep breath.

The real seventh thing:

I was in a cafe the other day. I do that from time to time... mostly to get coffee while out and about. That would be where they sell coffee when you're out and about: in cafes.

A 'mo friend (a gentleman of an age that I assiduously refrain from drawing attention to, what with him being what we all consider more than a tad old) was sitting, as is his wont, with his much younger protege. By protege I mean just that. It's totally not something else. He sees me and says (as he will), "Oh look, it's Feral. Let's ask him what he thinks. He has opinions about just everything."

Yeah. Guilty as charged. Except... surely everyone has opinions about just everything. At least everyone alive. I'm open to the possibility that the dead have few, if any, strong opinions. Whatever.

"What fresh hell is this?" says I (because one can never quote Dorothy Parker too frequently... especially when they just walk right into it).

"Oh, Feral, you're an attention whore and you know it."

"Am not," I insist. "I am a slave to strong coffee and a righteous, god-fearing blueberry muffin. There are very few things on Earth more important than a fine cup of coffee and an excellent muffin. I'll thank you to leave me to them in peace and I will enjoy them in almost complete silence... like I always do."

"We were talking about the 'It Gets Better' things," says my friend. I'm standing there considering calling him an old hag and beginning to pine for my muffin.

"Oh.... let's not and say we did. My muffin calls. How about let's not and then say no more at all."

"That's the sort of thing you'd be into, don't you think?" continues my friend.

"Ummm... no," says I.

"Well, what do you think? Does it get better?" This from the waifish protege.

I sigh. There's just no escaping the waifish protege. He's waifish. I have very little immunity to waifs. "Be warned," says I. "My opinions are known far and wide as lengthy, voluminous, and prone to exceed the average person's attention span by a very good bit."

"What do you think?" the wee one repeats. They are like pit bulls, these youngsters. They just aren't all that easily guided onto pleasant topics like what may very well be a perfect blueberry muffin.

So I say, "In fairness, I offer you a choice between the short answer and the long version."

"Both," he says. The little bitch.

"Then no. The answer to your yes or no question is no. The longer version really does depend. What is meant by the words "it," "gets," and "better?"

"Huh?" says he. The wee ones are a lot like dogs. They cock their heads to one side when confused by anything more complicated than a blueberry muffin. I quite like dogs. The wee ones are unlike dogs in one very important respect: a dog will let you eat your muffin in peace in exchange for a small portion; the kids won't.

"How old are you, Sweetie?" says I.

"Fifteen."

"Oh dear. Did you know I have a houseplant older than you? I have two such plants really. It's almost disturbing."

My not at all young friend says, "You've kept two houseplants alive for more than fifteen years? That says a great deal about you. You must be a very caring person."

Quick aside: to properly appreciate my older friend, you must understand that he's basically a gravelly-voiced Harvey Fierstein. In fact, I suspect the actor may have appropriated the accent from my friend.

"Whatever," says I. I turn to my younger acquaintance. I say 'acquaintance' because, properly speaking, he's someone else's problem and I only incidentally ever lay eyes on him. "Fifteen is troublesome. That's high school. High school is not real. High school is artificial. It's also quite a wretched place. In due course, you shall no longer be in high school, whether it's because you graduate or stop going. Once you stop going to that place, all of the unpleasantness associated with that place pretty much comes to a dead stop. The world is not at all like high school. In that respect, it does get better."

"Are you sure?" says he.

"Oh yes. I'm sure," says I. "There's more. Do you wish to hear it?" He does that bobble-head thing with his head. Puppies would nod in just that way, were puppies prone to nodding their heads. "Fine. Normally there's little point to saying this, but you aren't done growing yet. Most importantly, your brain isn't done. It's busily working on it, but it's not done yet. You don't have the full apparatus for thinking."

"I don't?" says the waif, who obviously thinks I've just said something unpleasant about him.

"Not yet, Sweetie. Your brain has a most impressive setup for processing emotions. One thing you do with consummate skill is feel. You also remember quite nicely. The two work well together; you have a great deal of feelings about everything you learn. What you aren't so good at just now is putting the things you know together in ways that will let you understand them. Right now, you think in ways that make adults say 'what the hell were you thinking?' alot. In fact, they probably add, 'You weren't thinking.' That would be because what grownups call thinking isn't something teenagers do very much of. You feel about things. You're very, very good at that. As you get older, you will get better and better at putting things together. You will think about things in addition to feeling about things. You'll even do less feeling; you'll be thinking instead. It's called 'growing up.' You with me so far?"

The kid does that cute little frown thing... the one they do when they're trying very hard to think with an inadequate apparatus for doing so. It's quite shocking how resilient the brain is. It can actually do a half-decent job of thinking just by processing emotional responses. "You mean when I get older I won't feel so bad about things?"

"That is exactly right," says I. "Right now there are things that make you feel bad, or frightened, or sad, or angry. Everything, really. When you get older this will not be the case. In that sense, it really and truly does get better."

"But you said it doesn't get better," the wee one says.

Clever boy. Mind like a sponge, that one. "It depends on what 'it' means. Your ability to deal with all manner of things will get better. If 'it' means the things you don't deal with so well... those have been around for a while. I suspect they'll remain. People got bullied when I was in high school. They got bullied in the very same way. No one did jack shit about it then. People get bullied today; nothing gets done about it today. It does not get better. It ought to... I think were people to try to make it better it would. They just won't try. It does not get better. You'll just grow up."

"How old are you, anyway?" the youngster says.

"Old enough that, when I got my driver's license, I was obliged to physically demonstrate the manual hand signals for signaling a turn. This was because not all cars had those blinking lights. New ones did, but the older cars didn't. In a car with no turn signals the driver was required to give a manual signal to other drivers. It is my understanding that, while the hand signals remain the same today, you shall not be required to know them when you get your license."

"Is that true?" the wee one says to my older 'mo friend.

Being a gentleman (and more than moderately guilty of the charge of being a caring person) I step in and say, "No, Sweetie... Just no. It would be indelicate to suggest that Boopsie here has any knowledge of antique cars."

"Thank you," my friend says with much pomposity. "But I'm sure I couldn't remember quite so far back into ancient history as you can, Dear."

"It's true, Sweetie," I say to the youngster. "I graduated high school thirty-one years ago. I was your age thirty-four years ago." The boy's eyes widen at the spectacle of such immense numbers being used to describe time. "Some things have changed since then. High school seems to me to have gotten worse, not better. You will surely be better at dealing with difficulty next year than you are today. The year after that, you'll be better at it still. Eventually, you'll have grown right out of it. Also, the only places you'll find anything resembling high school are prisons and the army. You should avoid both."

"I told you this was just the sort of thing you'd be into," my friend says.

"Absolutely not," says I. "No. Just plain no. Telling kids to just stick it out and wait years for them to grow into being able to deal with intolerable situations is not the sort of thing I'm into. In fact, it touches on being evil."

"Really," the old friend says.

"Really. If your young friend here finds himself in a situation that needs getting better, then you had damn well better get your ass in gear and fucking make it better right now. If not, then I'll give it a shot. He should not be waiting five or ten years. He may be on the young side but you... well you just aren't. No one thinks you're too young to know the solutions for his problems. You do know them. If not, then I may well. But don't you dare tell him he has to just wait. You make it better.

"Yes Sir General Feral Sir," says my friend.

"That line works better if you say it just a tad more butch," says I. I turn to the youngster. "Should you find something that needs getting better, do tell someone. It's very likely that something can be done about it. Really."

Thing the last:

Whoa... long post. But I did say it was the omnibus post of doom. I did.

Ouch

2010-09-25T20:42:00.000-04:00

So there I am... minding my own business (and I was, too).

“How did you do that?” she exclaims.

“Do what?” say I.

“Make him listen to you,” she says.

“Umm... I’m pretty sure I did no such thing, but, on the off chance that I might actually be guilty, what the holy hell are you talking about?”

So she explains... at length. All becomes clear (explanations are like that, when they’re done properly). It’s the fourteen-year-old.

Now... little kids are little kids. Rug-rats, ankle-biters, vile little vermin: they’re perpetually-leaking sacks of unspeakable goo. Have you noticed? Kids leak goo from just about every orifice... possibly every single orifice. I can’t bring myself to count them up for possible exceptions on account of the unspeakable vileness of the goo we’re talking here. There may be species of kid goo I’m not yet acquainted with and I surely want to remain ignorant on this score. Oh yeah... one can never go wrong avoiding unspeakable goo. It’s not so much that I don’t like kids. I like them fine in very tiny doses. After that, they really must go far away. To my perpetual regret, kids seem to like me well. I don’t get that. Vile, sticky, gooey things. Ick.

Little kids metastasize. Not much liking kids, I’ve paid only enough attention to them to dodge flying gobbets of unspeakable goo and come up with ever more creative ways of avoiding them. However, at some point, they metastasize. By the time they’re twelve years old they’re thirteen different kinds of freaky. People think I’m kidding. Piff! They think I’m kidding about the unspeakable goo, too. No. Not kidding. Kids leak goo almost constantly. There is always some manner of effluent and about half the time it just plain stinks. Some kids are less stinky than others, but those tend to be the germ-ridden ones. Veritable fountains of plague.

Did you know that successfully avoiding children is a most excellent preventative for influenza? It is. Whatever.

Nope... not kidding... thirteen different kinds of freaky. It has been my observation that youngsters drop a flavor of freaky each year (if all goes well... often all does not go entirely well). This means that one might expect a thirteen-year-old to be twelve different kinds of freaky and a fourteen-year-old only eleven kinds of freaky.

The fourteen-year-old was the subject under discussion and he is (oh yes) a full eleven kinds of freaky. This makes him a freak. Pretty much a total freak. I mean... how many flavors of freaky does it take to make a freak? Just one, Sweeties. Just one. When I say he’s freaky (and really... no one disagrees with me on this specific point: he’s freaky) I mean he’s just not human. He’s some kind of alien. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s a fine little alien. It’s just that, when compared to an adult human being he’s some eleven different kinds of freaky and that can (oh yes... it can) be trying.

There is a bright side to the fourteen-year-old. There is: he’s not twelve. See... thirteen different kinds of freaky is far worse than eleven kinds of freaky. This freakishness just isn’t something to complain about. Unspeakable goo is something to complain about and teenagers are comparatively free of goo... comparatively. Freakishness is something to consider when trying to communicate. I very strongly recommend that. The fourteen-year-old is not a reasonable human being. No. The fourteen-year-old is a freak eleven times over. This is not going to go away any time soon. The situation will improve, surely. Next year he’ll have dropped down to ten flavors of freaky. Ten may be better than eleven and it’s just a world better than twelve, but it’s still pretty fucking freaky. Never mind that we aren't going there just yet: he's not fifteen. Nope. It's eleven fun flavors of freakishness for us. Yippee.

He’s not going to be anything resembling “normal” for a good while. You have to realize that. Do the math. Twenty-five. When he’s twenty-five years old it’s quite likely that he’ll not be at all freaky. He may not be pleasant or cuddly, but he’ll be a plain old ordinary human being and not some alien freak. That’s not today. Today he’s an alien freak with eleven Technicolor varieties of freakishness in a kaleidoscopic array that boggles the mind. Get over it. I really do prefer to limit myself to eight or nine kinds of freaky. That’s a lot to take on. If I had my druthers, I’d stick to three kinds. Twenty-two-year-olds are just the ornament of the world: I quite like them, and I find their three highly-polished kinds of freaky quite charming (though goo tends to make a strong reappearance around then and some of it is quite unspeakable... almost worthy of a four-year-old.)

The fourteen-year-old is not twenty-two. On the bright side, this means I have never once seen him vomit. This is not something I can say of any other twenty-two-year old of my acquaintance. Piff! I know one twenty-two-year-old who did serious (and quite scientific) experiments on adjusting his diet and alcohol intake to produce the most spectacular vomit. His findings were... unspeakable. Oh no... never ever imagine that I mean something else when I use the word “freaky.” Three kinds of freaky aren’t eleven kinds of freaky but they really, truly are freaky. Oh yeah. The fourteen-year-old does not vomit, nor does he deliberately augment his natural vileness in any way. This is a good thing... something to cherish while it lasts.

So I say, “I didn’t get him to listen to me. He’s eleven different kinds of freaky and there’d be no point.” You do remember that the subject of this diatribe is how I (allegedly) got the fourteen-year-old to listen to me? Yeah.

I just don’t know how it is in other countries. I don’t. I doubt it’s much different. I can’t say whether speaking a language other than English would make a difference. I doubt that, too. The freaky freakishness of teenagers seems to me to be universal. Whatever.

Through a peculiarity of birthday, the fourteen-year-old is in Grade 8. He’s not in high school. English is his first language. People imagine that he speaks English. I can see how they make that error because he does... after a fashion. Most people adjudge eight-year-olds competently fluent.

The fourteen-year-old has to take English class. This should (really... it should) be the first clue. Do you know why you have to take English classes? That’s right: to learn English. Do you know who has to take English classes? Aha! Think it might be folks who don’t fucking speak English? Yeah. Therein lies the problem here. The fourteen-year-old does not, in fact, speak English. Sure... most people adjudge him fluent in it and jabber away at him incessantly but most people are just as dumb as a sack of hammers. The fourteen-year-old most assuredly does not speak English.

I’ve seen his English homework. I have. It contains lists of vocabulary words. They aren’t particularly splendid words, either. They’re really very basic words. He does well enough with them because he’s a bright fellow but... most sincerely seriously, Sweeties, he has some serious gaps in his vocabulary... gaps that are being addressed in the customary fashion and at the customary pace. Trust me: they totally aren’t going to be letting him get out of taking English for just years and years. The reason teenagers have to take English is because they don’t fucking speak the language yet. They’re in process. “Learning” is not at all the same as “learned.” It’s just not.

So... people jabber away at the fourteen-year-old and wonder why he doesn’t appear to listen to them. There’s a really, very good chance he hears just fine. Thing is, he’s still going through his vocabulary lists.

“Oh. Why didn’t they just say so?”

That’s what I usually get. Some not-so-very-old person asks the really-far-older-than-is-comfortable person a question, I answer it, and that’s what I get. Seems grumpy old grown-ups really have very little better to do than to jibber inane syllable strings and then have the temerity to be perturbed when their pronouncements fall on deaf ears. This happens a lot with the fourteen-year-old.

“What’s ‘acting out’?” says he.

“It’s jibber-jabber,” says I. “Doesn’t mean jack squat. It’s just noise. Does someone think you’re acting out?”

“Yeah.”

It’s just shocking how much sullenness a fourteen-year-old can pack into a single syllable. It's not shocking that the fourteen-year-old is sullen. Oh no... that's one of his really quite banal flavors of freakishness and it passes for normal in teenagers (not that the dear little freaks are anything resembling normal). No... it's shocking how expressive one syllable can be. So we go over the whole drama. As usual, the psychiatric term had been misused. So I say, “They meant to say ‘misbehaving.’ I could tell you what ‘acting out’ means, but they were using the phrase wrong and there’s no point in bothering.”

He purses his lips, scrunches up his forehead, and then about four seconds later says, “Why didn’t they just say so?”

“They thought they had,” says I. “But they need more work on their vocabulary lists.” The misbehaving isn’t such a big deal. Once translated into proper English and words the boy knows... there were no protests of innocence, no denials. “Misbehavior” was far milder a word than the fourteen-year-old would have used. He had deliberately done that which he did and his intent was something more along the lines of a criminal act. Being fourteen and all, his execution was sufficiently faulty that he was not successful. That, and his plan of action really couldn’t have been rationally associated with the desired outcome. Fourteen-year-olds are like that... freaky.

So we talk about how his little misadventure didn’t work. We did not talk about how it wouldn’t have worked in the first place because that would be... dumb. It didn’t work and that’s all that’s needed. Why do something that doesn’t work? That’s dumb. It’s useless. Especially when this misadventure has been tried over and over again and just never has worked... not ever. Not even once. That’s totally useless. Try something else.

“Yeah. OK.”

The fourteen-year-old knows the word ‘useless.’ He uses it very often... daily, even. He uses the word ‘dumb’ as a synonym. He even comprehends this peculiar notion that doing something that demonstrably does not produce the desired result repeatedly is just dumb. So he stopped. Now... this is a good thing, a thing that all manner of adults have been trying to persuade the lad to do (or stop doing, as the case happens to be).

And that’s how I got charged with “make him to listen to you.”

I didn’t, you know. “Make” him. He just did. He listens to just everything. Lots of it is just gibberish to him, though. And can I just say how very (very) annoying it is to have to sort out the incompetent babbling of middle-aged, college-educated professionals? The fourteen-year-old has a rapidly growing but rudimentary vocabulary. He just does not do well with oddly-used figures of speech and he has no hope of sorting out erroneously-used jargon.

This is not to say that the fourteen-year-old doesn’t have issues. He does. He’s some eleven different kinds of freaky. Everyone likes to list the things that are wrong with him and it’s the worst of the gibberish. There isn’t all that much wrong with him... not apart from being fourteen. He’s kind-of stuck with that for the rest of the year.

So... anyway... A NOTE TO SO-CALLED GROWN-UPS: use age-appropriate vocabulary if you plan on addressing teenagers. Better, don't address teenagers at all. That works far better than you'd think it does. Whatever.

So Then

2010-08-18T04:27:00.000-04:00

I get questions. I do.

It's weird as fuck. Well... in truth, it's far weirder than fuck because fuck just isn't all that weird. It's one of those pointlessly meaningless turns of phrase, that. I'll just back up off of that one. I'll say it's passingly strange. It is, too... strange. I get questions.

Like... get this... folks seem to be just keen as all get out to know the name Rich Merritt used when he performed in film. Huh. When I say "keen" I mean on the order of roughly 100 inquiries per month.

You know... being just old as dirt (older than most commercially available dirt) I remember the 90s fairly well. I do. Porn is much nicer these days than it was in the 90s... never mind the 80s. It just is. I can't fathom any sustained interest at all in what truly could pass for antique porn (though kind people will call it classic, not antique). There are one or two (or three or four) names that stand out. There are. After all... it's not like porn in the 90s was without interest because... it's true, this: porn is practically a freaking synonym for interest. Oh yes. Still... there must be over 100 marines doing porn of more recent vintage. Why the interest in porn from over a decade ago?

Think about that word... decade.

That's a creepy word. Whatever.

Once upon a time there was a series of books for fine, upstanding Christian youth. There was. Still is, actually. They're quite well-known in upstanding Christian youth circles. They are. They were written by a Mr. Bernard Palmer.

I can see how some people might be unaware of the series. Not everyone fits into the category of upstanding Christian youth. Indeed, more than a few people would never wish to have themselves characterized that way. Whatever. I'm old as dirt so have a very handy way out of that one: no one classifies me as a youth. Nope. No one classifies me as a Christian either, leastwise no one who knows me. It's rather difficult to be a (retired) priest of a non-Christian religion and be confused for a Christian. Just as I might suspect, no one especially does, either. That's convenient. But how might a hoary old pagan like myself have any acquaintance with these books? I'll tell you, Sweeties.

I have friends. Quite a lot of them. I make that my business some times. I think that a worthy habit. One should have friends and (far more importantly) be a friend. More to the point, I have Gay friends and that, I think, makes all the difference. It's a subtle difference to be sure, but subtle differences can be transformative. Think of it as the difference between H2O and H2O2... what's one wee little atom of oxygen? Why... practically nothing. Still, I absolutely do not recommend ignoring the difference. H2O2 is a poor substitute for H2O. Totally serious. Whatever.

I know Gay people and I know straight people and I just don't treat them all that differently. People like to imagine that I must (on account of me being a Gay Separatist and all) but I don't. Whatever. Gay people do the "friendship thing" somewhat differently. We more or less have to and have always had to. I wouldn't go so far as to say that we're better friends (that has been said, just not by me, at least not recently). Nope. Just different. We share experience in ways that straight people just don't. That's true. My straight friends have told me so and I'll trust them on that one. They know what they're like better than I do. Besides, I've seen.

So... having known just scads and scads of young Gay people from Evangelical and Pentecostal backgrounds over the years, people who very much need good friends, I've absorbed a great deal of experience on that score. Oh yes. The straight Evangelicals of my acquaintance (some of them are refreshingly non-toxic) are quite amazed.

"How is it you're not a Christian after all these years?" they ask. They do, too. Something like twenty times they've asked.

Huh. How is it I can have been "witnessed" to by countless upstanding Christian youths and not have been thusly persuaded to become a Christian? Well, Sweeties... the question is its own answer. They were witness to all of it, not just some of it. I've heard. Oh yes. I know the color and scent of evil. I want little to do with it. I spend my time trying to patch together something resembling healthy people out of the wreckage that drifts ashore from that sea. Flotsam, I think it's called... possibly jetsam. I don't much have the heart to dissect human wreckage to that degree. Whatever. "Ye shall know them by their fruits" it says in Matthew. I've seen their Gay children and I know them. I know them well enough.

It's strange and stranger... this difference between straight culture and Gay culture. People think they actually have secrets. They think I don't know what goes on. They think no one would tell me. They told, Sweeties. Long, grisly conversations, long bemused conversations, long earnest conversations... they told, and told over and over again.

But yes... I know about Danny Orlis. That fits somewhere in between the bemused and the earnest and nowhere near the grisly. I don't quite recommend the books, but neither do I think them harmful in themselves. One should take care what sorts of people one gives one's money to, though. There are used bookstores. I like used bookstores.

I thought the whole Merritt thing was quite the hoot. For myself, I refuse to believe it was a simple coincidence. Nope.

It's still casually amusing. Mind you, more than a few of the pet teenagers found it to be hysterical. They laugh and laugh. Mostly they laugh at what the marketplace thought was sexually stimulating back in the 90s. Alas, judgment goes both ways. These hollow-eyed starving youths... year after year... grasp and root and chivvy every grain of their past they can get. I feel quite strip-mined some days but that's alright. I did it in my own turn just as they now do. It's one of our subtle differences: we trade oral history for oral current events and are enriched beyond imagining or calculation... even if it is sometimes heartbreaking.

Porn is much, much more interesting these days than it was in those days.

Today is a bit of a day for me

2010-08-04T01:00:00.000-04:00

Some time ago, back when I was young and spry, I decided to marry. Yup. I did. I was twenty-four years, six months, and thirteen days old that day.

Today I can say that that peculiar arrangement that I called a marriage is, itself, twenty-four years, six months, and thirteen days old. That means my silver wedding anniversary is coming up, not that this should trouble anyone over much. There's still plenty of time for shopping. More importantly, however, that also means that I have spent one half of my life in this marriage.

Huh.

Way back then (twenty-four years seems a lot to me) I was who I was. "Who are you?" is one of the two questions I find interesting. "What do you want?" is the other. I don't think there are any other questions of interest, but then I don't think there are all that many questions that aren't some variation on the two interesting ones. I was who I was back then: the sum of all that had gone before. Ask the spousal-unit: I was odd. Whether I'm still odd is open for debate. I know lots of folks who would surely say "Oh yes... he's an odd one." Whatever. Today I am not at all who I was back then. Nope. Today I remain the sum of all that has gone before. Thing of it is, half of that sum has been spent with my husband. The other half wasn't.

Technically, tomorrow and the next day and the days after that will be a trifle more interesting than today. They will. Today half of my entire life has been spent with the spousal-unit; tomorrow more than half must be thusly allocated. That will be novel. I'm looking forward to it. But I have a fondness for tipping points. Usually you only get to see them in retrospect... unless you've been paying attention. Today is such a point: half here, half there.

Interogotories

2010-07-03T16:42:00.000-04:00

What is the real essence of being a gay?

Huh.

You know... that's just not an interesting question. I'm frightfully confused by people who can't tell the difference between gay and straight. I mean... it's freaking self-evident. I'm also confused by people who just can't wrap their wee little brains around the concept of "bi." There are bisexuals in the world.

There are two fundamental characteristics (you can call them essential if you want to... or not) to being what some people indelicately refer to as "a gay:" Sexual desire for people of the same sex and a lack of sexual desire for people of the opposite sex. If both of those things aren't the case for you then you just aren't "a gay."

I know a fellow or three who would take exception to that. They seem to think they can call themselves whatever they want to. They can, too. So can I. I can claim my cat is a dog if I want to... that just won't make it so. That's what you call a delusion. I don't recommend being willfully delusional.

Now... this really is not an interesting question. That it's not interesting does not make it not fundamental... it most assuredly is fundamental... it's just not interesting. All the interesting characteristics of Gay people arise as consequences of that fundamental difference. These consequences are quite common... ubiquitous, even... but they aren't essential. An essential characteristic is definitive, shared by all members of the stated class. Guys who want to have sex with guys instead of gals are Gay. Ditto with gals who want to have sex with gals instead of guys... they're Gay too (though not too many of them use that word.) Everyone else just isn't Gay; they're something else. Theyr'e allowed to be something else. They're even allowed to make up their own word for whichever flavor of 'something else' they fancy.

What happened to "Boyfriend Monday?"

Nothing happened to it. No one has brought me any puzzles in boyfriending lately. Were someone to bring me a puzzle in boyfriending I would most likely offer my opinions (for what they're worth). I might save it for a Monday and I might not... I've been fickle lately. But no one wants my advice on boyfriending these days and I'm totally fine with that.

What's the mission of your blog?

Ummmm... it hasn't got one?

Sweetie, read closely: it's typing. It doesn't have a mission and it doesn't need one. It's a place where I jot down the occasional thought and fling it out into the world where most anyone can see it.

If you think Pride Season starts on May 21, when do you think it ends?

Hold up... back right the fuck off of that "think" crap. I don't "think" Pride Season starts with the anniversary of the White Night Riots followed by Harvey Milk's birthday... that's when I start it. There's a difference. I end my observation of Pride Season with the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots... June 28 and 29.

Fiercefully?

Yes.

Don't let anyone browbeat you into thinking that 'fiercefully' isn't a word. It most assuredly is a word. It's a very old word. Folks haven't used it with any regularity for a good long time... centuries, actually. Whatever.

It's a proper English word.

Lots of folks might also point out that it's probably not the word you want to use. They're likely right.

Generally speaking, when someone has the inclination to use the word 'fiercefully,' they really want to use either 'fiercely' or 'ferociously.'

There is a difference between being fierce and being fierceful. There is a difference between doing something fiercely and doing it fiercefully. If you don't know, don't understand, or cannot grasp the difference... use fierce and fiercely. Really. I'm up for living life fiercefully though. It's not that I don't value fierceness (because I totally do). It's that I value fiercefulness more (and that's saying something, seeing as how I already value fierceness.)

People should try somewhat harder to remember that English is a remarkably fluid language. English has absorbed vast blocks of words from any language that didn't run fast enough. Then there are those paroxysms of word fabrication. Periodically, novel words just start getting used. It seems to me that English cannot abide the unnamed phenomenon. If there is a thing, there must be a word in English for that thing. After that, usage makes it so.

Fiercefully... really.

Ummm....

2010-06-28T18:49:00.000-04:00

I would like to propose to the entire worldwide gay community that they cancel gay pride events until we have marriage equality. All those thousands of people who go to gay pride, those are bodies that could put on a shirt and go into the neighborhood and tell their story. We should wait until we have equality to have our party. In the meantime we volunteer the same passion and air miles and participation and really channel that same participation into our fight for equality.

That's not me. Oh no... that's Reed Cowan. He proposed that, not me.

Now... I'm hardly what you might call "the entire wordwide gay community." Nope. I'm just me. Speaking as "Just Me," however, it's hardly difficult to respond.

NO.

The proposal is rejected, the request denied.

Pride is just one party. It has its purpose and its reasons. True, some Prides encompass more than one day... whatever. Pride Season as a whole isn't that much more than a single month (and few people stretch it beyond the month of June, even though I think they ought to.) In any event, it hardly cripples efforts to accomplish this, that, or any other thing.

It seems every year someone hops up on the soapbox and starts declaiming about how Pride ought to be this or that or turned to some pet cause or other. Lots of people get it into their heads to subvert Pride. They see all those people and start scheming how they can snatch the crowds up for their own uses.

Yeah.

Whatever.

I note that no one has yet had any measure of success.

Here's the deal: if you want to throw a party, send out the invitations, put some music on, and see how it turns out. If not so many people turn up, don't go casting covetous eyes on someone else's party.

The world doesn't work that way.

Oh Boy

2010-06-27T22:35:00.000-04:00

Let's break down gay stereotypes by wearing rainbow thongs and feather headdresses on glitter-covered floats.

Huh. You know... I like sarcasm. I do. It's right up there with Swiss Meringue and chocolate in my list of "Best Things Ever." I'm not so fond of errant stupidity... or blinding arrogance. Whatever. Given the shocking abundance of stupidity and arrogance (often both wrapped up into one grisly packet) it's really a Very Good Thing that Swiss Meringues are so very easy to make.

Consider, if you will (just for a moment... it doesn't hurt all that much), that someone wearing a rainbow thong and a feather headdress on a glitter-covered float is engaged in some activity other than breaking down gay stereotypes. Think that might just be possible? It was a trick question, Sweeties. Of course it's fucking possible.

Believe it or not, this "break down gay stereotypes" shit just doesn't figure very high on the "Things To Do" list of some people. I, for example, have absolutely no inclination to do anything of the sort. Nope. Not me.

Now... this glitter-covered float nonsense:

You forgot the naked or nearly naked glitter-covered go-go boys. Those make a float. Rainbow thongs are OK (if you must... I do realize that nudity just isn't legal in some jurisdictions) but the feather headdresses are only appropriate on really very large, well-muscled go-go boys and that's a problem.

In my experience, the really very large, well-muscled go-go boys can't dance all that well and a go-go boy that can't dance isn't very... go-go. The best go-go boys are the medium-sized, moderately-muscled sort (or out and out twinks). Feather headdresses do not look right on small people... only large people. Headdresses are positively forbidden on twinks.

So... you wear the headdress and let the go-go boys wear glitter and mineral oil. The world will be a much, much better place for it. Seriously.

Also... the music. I'm wanting E-Thunder or Ander Standing. I just am. You need the boom-boom. I'm getting right sick and tired of all the limp-dicked music this year. "Boom" does not mean "bang" and it certainly doesn't mean "whack," "clack," or (for the love of a good fuck) "tack." A drum track should not be indistinguishable from the ticking of a large clock. That's obscene. "Boom" means "boom."

Boom-boom should shake windows. Ideally, it should shatter windows but I'm not holding out any hope for that.

So it goes

2010-06-09T12:52:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine is dead.

That's an oddly comforting sentence... what with that nifty little "is." It's not in the past tense. I have to, you see, grow accustomed to using the word "was." Like this:

'Berto was the first friend I made online. Entirely coincidentally, he was the first of my online friends to up and die. I'm fairly certain 'Berto's thoughts on that would be, "Whoo-hoo! FIRST!" He could be like that. I'm not feeling all that 'whoo-hoo' about it.

'Berto and I disagreed quite often. Indeed, we disagreed rather spectacularly at times. Eight years of spectacular disagreement is the sort of thing that changes your life, so the termination of all of that comes as a less than welcome change. I don't much care for change and I certainly don't care for this one.

Still... all people die. No exceptions. 'Berto's death is hardly surprising. Oh no. That he delayed it until this year is the more surprising bit. To say he had been "quite ill" for some time is a tad of an understatement. Seriously.

One day, some time ago, 'Berto toddled into an emergency room. Says the physician: "What the hell are you doing alive?" Yeah. Lucky for me (and... sure... 'Berto) the physician was quite the handy tradesman (NOT something I have the pleasure of saying about physicians very often). One coronary arrest, two strokes, and a pulmonary embolism later, 'Berto is back to a somewhat diminished routine and we all got to enjoy his observations and commentary for another year and more. "Enjoy" might not be the right word for "all" of us. I quite enjoyed 'Berto. There were others who found him more trying than did I. Whatever.

But no. It is no surprise that 'Berto died. It's surprising that he lived. Here, too... whatever.

'Berto was loud. He was raucous. 'Bombastic' isn't really a word I would apply to him because he was more often than not just livid. Rage was an emotion that was close to his heart. That, and indignation. 'Berto was shockingly skilled at being indignant. You could say (and I shall do so) that 'Berto loved being pissed off. He spent a great deal of time doing so and talking (more than occasionally shrieking) about it. His outrage was a trifle distracting and, in conversation about this, that, or some other event that has tweeked his pique, I (or others) would have the occasion to point out some observation about the event that he had missed and indignation would blossom into high dudgeon. 'Berto was very, very good at outrage. This would be because he had so much practice... what with the world being so very outrageous. 'Berto had a lot to be pissed off about and he ranted against it all.

And now it's quiet. He was 'under the weather' for three days and then he died... on 6 June (or so I'm told). This matters because the first three days were just 'Berto not feeling well. This has happened just dozens of times over the eight years that I've known him. The last three days, though... that's the silence of being dead, the silence that just isn't going to stop.

Sometimes a young hooligan traipses down the street and snatches at the flowers in your flower box. We have no shortage of young hooligans in the neighborhood of the Tree House and I've seen: sometimes the hooligans rip off wads of foliage and sprinkle bits of your flowers along the sidewalk and sometimes the whole plant is ripped free. There's this gap in the flower box, a hole where there used to be a plant.

The world has a hole in it now. Lots of people miss 'Berto... enough that there's going to be a headstone and a memorial service when a more proper version of summer reaches the mountains 'Berto called home. In itself, this is a fine thing and a testament to the kind of person 'Berto was. Like most Gay men, 'Berto had little use for what people generally called "his family." 'Berto assembled a new family, one far more worthy of the name than that other assemblage of creatures. There are those who might worry that those creatures might haul the pitiable remains of a fine man back to some wretched place and bury them under some cross. 'Berto would surely be counted among them, were he alive; this is not something he would have wanted. Indeed, it's something he would have raged for weeks, even months about. It's almost certainly not going to happen. His friends are taking care of all that.

There's still this hole, though... a hole where 'Berto used to be. No hooligans caused it. There's no umbrage here. A man with an illness died of that illness as ill men have often done. He left a hole, when he died, 'Berto did... a great big hole made entirely out of silence.

Folks who knew 'Berto can remember him as they will, but I have one wee, tiny suggestion:

Make some noise.

It's too quiet. There must be ten thousand things that 'Berto would be wailing and cursing about right now (were he able to wail and curse, which he is not). The silence just will not do.

Make more noise.

Happy Pride Season

2010-05-20T22:32:00.000-04:00

My calendar has this thing called "Pride Season" on it. It's not printed there or anything... it's just there. Something like it occupies a swath of late spring for most of the people I know. For me, Pride Season starts today.

There has been some subtle persuasion for me to start Pride Season a tad earlier but it's not working. May 17 was the International Day Against Homophobia, you see. That's fine. It's not like I didn't note the passage of the International Day Against Homophobia because I did. I just don't consider it part of Pride Season. All decent people oppose homophobia and you just don't get to apply the word "decent" to yourself if you're homophobic. You also don't get to declare yourself "not homophobic." Oh no, Sweeties... you need references for that shit. No one cares how many times a homophobe can deny being a homophobe. I'm too cranky to start Pride Season with the International Day Against Homophobia. I class it with Mother's Day... there's nothing wrong with it, plenty right with it, and I observe it, but I won't call it part of Pride Season.

Nope.

I start Pride Season with the White Night riots.

That was 31 years ago.

Tomorrow shall be the anniversary of Harvey Milk's birthday. I shall be celebrating that, as well. There was a marked contrast between the two days thirty-one years ago and there properly ought to be a marked contrast between the two anniversaries.

And so it goes

2010-04-30T01:27:00.000-04:00

Mmmmm... someone went and did something that very closely resembles giving me a promotion. They did. Not that I'd call it a promotion, or even that I've especially been promoted. No. I mean... I'm totally still a hapless drone in what most people really would consider a wretched and dreadful environment. Yup. That's me. But... ummmm... yeah.

I get to have all manner of interaction (verbal and otherwise) with the other hapless drones. Yup.

And I get to say the "Ancient spirits of evil" thingie. That's always a good time... saying the "Ancient spirits of evil" thingie. I do a half-decent Mumm-ra.

Can't do the squealing at the end, though. Nope. See... back when I was a youngster, had someone told me (quite truthfully) that I shouldn't smoke because smoking would surely impair my ability to do the wicked cackle at the end of the "Ancient spirits of evil" thingie, I'd likely have quit smoking. Likely.

Whatever.

The gig comes with a 50% pay increase, and that's just a whole lot better than getting poked in the eye with a stick. Alas, in exchange for that moderately transformative pay increase I shall have to interact much more closely with that species of wickedness known as servers. Ick. Ah, well... that's what the "Ancient spirits of evil" thingie is for.

Minus the admittedly cool-ass chortling at the end 'cuz I totally can't do that.

I'm just going to screech instead. I imagine that sounds far too much like Divine in an acid-influenced remake of Night of the Living Dead for comfort... which is fine.

Oh Dear

2010-04-22T18:26:00.000-04:00

So there I was, wandering the Internet and more or less minding my own business (if wandering the Internet can properly called 'my own business') and... wham... I get smacked by this.

Here's some more support. If guys like it so much and think it's so hot, how come we don't see much of it in gay male porn (and we don't)?

Yeah.

Ummm... we're talking about facials, here. Facials. There's a freaking name for it. Now... I've seen more than a few facials in Gay porn. I have. I'm fond of porn. Not so fond of facials, but there you have it. They exist in Gay porn, they're common in Gay porn... I might even go so far as to say they're ubiquitous in Gay porn. But... while I'm fond of Gay porn, I'm by no means an expert in Gay porn. Nope. I look at what I like and in the process pass over all manner of things I don't much like. I don't go looking for stuff I don't much like and facials just aren't all that.

So I do what I usually do in this situation: ask the Peanut Gallery.

"Don't see much of facials in Gay porn?" the Peanut Gallery says. (The incredulous facial expression is, if not priceless, then really very expensive.) "Someone's either on crack or has never seen Gay porn."

"Well," says I. "How common are they? I know I've seen them more than occasionally and I would say they're common, but I don't root around very deeply."

"I've got one word for you: bukake," the Peanut Gallery says.

Oh yes... I know that word. It's one of those words that sneaked into English because English didn't have the decency of offering up a handy word for something so folks just snatched up the Japanese word. I have a recipe for bukake cookies (they have royal icing on them, not something else).

He continues: "Were you to go to one of the niftier porn aggregators, I bet you'd find at least three instances just right there."

Huh.

Now... I didn't think that was true. It has been my casual observation that cum shots in general aren't much featured on the free promotional offerings out there. You're expected to pay to see that sort of thing... that's my observation. But this is something that can be tested. I hop off to one of the niftier porn aggregators (because it's not like I don't know where to find one of those because I do) and I go on a facial hunt.

The Peanut Gallery was not entirely correct: while there were at least three instances, more accurately there were nine. Nine is "at least three" but it's also three times as many as three. This was just in thumbnails... I didn't bother to follow any of the links to see if facials were in the offing at the destination. I strongly suspect more than a few were, but it's sufficient that there were nine just in the thumbnails.

This, Sweeties, does not qualify as "we don't see much of it in gay male porn (and we don't)." It doesn't.

The original topic of discussion wasn't some gnarly thing like "my boyfriend wants to cum in my face and I don't want him to." No. If that were the topic, then certainly one needs to have a gentle, honest, and detailed discussion about what both parties do and do not want. That wasn't the topic, though. The topic was why does it seem like so many guys want to cum on their partner's face?

That's the thing of it: "seems."

Porn is not a depiction of sex. People like to assume that it is, and I can see why they imagine such things, but it's not. It's art. It may not be "high art," though some of it is, but it's surely artifice. That which is being done is being done for the medium. It's a visual thing (except for when it isn't) and that which is depicted has to be visible. That's just the way it is. That which is visible is surely visible. That does not make it desirable, comfortable, or even practical. It's surely possible, and it's definitely visible because... well... you're seeing it.

But... umm... trust me on this one: there's a very good chance that some act depicted in porn has been so depicted because someone thinks it's hot.

There are people who think cumming on someone's face is hot. There are people who think having their face cummed on is hot. That such a thing appears in porn has no bearing on how many people think such a thing is hot. After all... there's a lot of bad porn out there... porn that just isn't hot. They intended for it to be hot (to at least somebody) but intentions just don't always count for much.

The last inquiry to the Peanut Gallery was "Is this demeaning?"

Now... anything can be demeaning. I can not have sex with you and you can find that demeaning. I can make my own sandwich for lunch and you can find that demeaning.

Says the Peanut Gallery: "No. It's hot."

It bothers me (it does) that I live in a world where someone can seriously say "If guys like it so much and think it's so hot, how come we don't see much of it in gay male porn (and we don't)?"

We do see it. We see quite a bit of it. Some guys certainly think it's hot.

I will grant you that there is no evidence here that guys "like it so much." There's only evidence that pornographers think guys might like it and that including it will not be so off-putting to those who don't like it to affect sales.

If you want to know what guys actually like, you'll have to go ask them. A survey of porn just isn't going to supply that answer.

But... fuck me with a Q-tip! We don't see much of it in Gay male porn?

Ahem.

That's just not true.

Wherein I answer more questions

2010-04-20T20:02:00.000-04:00

What do you call a man who takes care of himself but is not gay?

Ummm... Closeted?

OK... just kidding. Well... half-kidding. Maybe less than half. Call it 20% kidding. Whatever.

Fop, ninny, popinjay, coxcomb, and dandy all have the general sense you're looking for, but you want the last one... "dandy." The others are all generally pejorative.

About a decade ago a neologism sprang up... "metrosexual." It means a man whose appearance and lifestyle approximates stereotypical attributes of Gays. I've never liked the word. It seems an ill-lettered remix of the word "dandy." That, and it just doesn't mean anything sensible. There are several very different stereotypical ways of "looking" Gay and only one of them approximates what people mean when they say "metrosexual."

Seriously, folks... English has just a boat-load of words, a most extensive vocabulary. If you don't know the word for a particular thing, this is a reason to go learn some new words. You don't just go making up neologisms. Of course, that is pretty-much exactly how English got its most extensive vocabulary. (Though snatching some handy word from a foreign language is easier than making up neologisms and has a fine and distinguished history.)

So... metrosexual. While I don't approve of the word, it's not like it doesn't enjoy wide usage because it does. I hear it quite often. That, and I've heard the most ominous portent of doom... the shortened version. Oh yes... "metro." As in, "Him? No. Just no. He's WAY too metro."

Now... I note this peculiar usage of the phrase "takes care of himself." This suggests to me that my interlocutor might be unaware that the phenomenon is also called vanity and is commonly thought to be a preoccupation of the pathetically insecure and a sign of a deeply flawed character. Whatever. Before you go using the word "metrosexual" in a self-referential sentence you should know (I'm serious here) that the word is NOT less perjorative than "dandy" or "fop." The shortened version is considerably more pejorative. I'd go with "dandy" myself, not that I come anywhere near being one or even being confused for one in dim light by a drunken audience.

Here's a better suggestion: throw out the product. You just don't need it. If it takes you more than five minutes to dress you just aren't doing it right. And stop calling primping and preening with five (or more) different lotions, potions, and unguents "taking care of yourself." It's not. It's just primping.

Twat: Midwest. Cunt: West Coast. What's East Coast version?

I have consulted the Peanut Gallery. Believe it or not, the Peanut Gallery has extensive experience of the West Coast, the East Coast, the Deep South, and the Midwest. The Peanut Gallery considers itself expert in the subtleties of vernacular English, but then they would because they're like that.

Alas, the Peanut Gallery disagrees with your premise in its entirety. "Twat" is not any more used in the Midwest than elsewhere and it is not much used in the first place (indeed, the Peanut Gallery suggested that this may be more common in British usage and in the US may be a comedic appropriation). Also, the Peanut Gallery insists that "cunt" is by no means more popular in the West than elsewhere. The Peanut Gallery agrees, however, that the word "cunt" is commonly heard on the East Coast. So... the East Coast Version is "cunt" just like everywhere else (though there are any number of quaint synonyms, most of which also enjoy nearly universal usage for comic effect).

Now, I should point out that only vulgar and stupid people use this word. Note that I did not say "vulgar or stupid." No. This word is generally a sign of extremely dim intellect as well as vulgarity. I have never heard the word "cunt" used to describe anything with any accuracy. Seriously... if you call something a cunt it really ought to be, by some stretch of the imagination, cunty. If you don't know what that's like, then you need some field work. Go out and find a friendly one and do some exploration. Or stop using the word.

If a gay man falls in love with a girl how will he behave?

Limerance is temporary and quite normal. It goes away, for good or ill. It's a phenomenon rooted in uncertainty... generally speaking, the longer the uncertainty persists, the longer this unpleasant phenomenon persists. Limerance is characterized by obsessive, intrusive thoughts and fantasies that often interfere with a person's normal day-to-day function. The intense desire for reciprocation is typically accompanied by a fear (or terror) of rejection. Depression and mood swings are not uncommon in limerance and you should seek professional help if these continue.

Now... if this question comes from a girl who imagines a Gay man has fallen for her... this is remotely possible but unlikely. Very unlikely. Additionally, there probably aren't going to be all that many clear signs. Note that all the signs of limerance I mentioned are internal events. It is rare to have any knowledge of another person's fantasy life. You just aren't likely to know whether this fellow has been having obsessive thoughts about you all day and all night and all day. Nor are you likely to know whether or not this fellow is afraid you will never return his feelings. Indeed, the shyness that accompanies limerance can be paralyzing and counter-productive in the extreme and it's going to work to minimize your awareness of any manifestations of limerance. Limerance is notorious in this regard: it can carry on for some time (causing considerable distress to the person experiencing it) in complete secret. In fact, that's the Number One sign: you don't know about it. Not unless you have Amazing Psychic Powers (and if you had Amazing Psychic Powers you'd not be asking questions.)

You should know that many Gay men are quite comfortable around women and enjoy their friendship and company. It can be nice socializing with other people without all the fuss and drama associated with sexual attraction. Please notice that Gay men are sexually attracted to men, not women. (That would be why we call them Gay men.) If some Gay man has started paying attention to you and spending time with you and asking you to accompany him to various events... this means he likes you as a person, enjoys your company, and does not care for solitude. He's looking for a friend; he has not fallen in love with you. All this "paying attention" stuff... that's a sign of friendship in Gay men, not a sign of having fallen in love. Straight boys might play it that way (but I doubt it). Gay boys don't. They just don't.

Now... if this question comes from some Gay man who imagines he has fallen for some girl... I've observed this happening from time to time, almost always in the young. Some glimmer of fondness for a woman mushrooms into full-blown limerance. Fine... whatever. In my experience, this has proved to be little more than an unpleasant psychological manifestation of a man's disatisfaction with being Gay. Perhaps you like this person and have gotten it into your head that this is your ticket back into the bosom of straight culture. It's not, but my saying so isn't going to affect your choices one way or another. Run off and find out if your love is requited or not. If it is, good for you. If it's not, get over it.

Thing is, you've gone and asked how your behavior will be if you've fallen in love with a girl. Really? You're asking? Falling in love is falling in love and limerance is limerance, regardless of your orientation. In a nutshell, if you have to ask, you just aren't in love. I've never (and I do mean never) met a man who was confused about whether or not he was in love. He may be reluctant to actually say it, but he's not in the least bit unsure about his state of mind. Being in love is not something you'd fail to notice or misidentify as something else. It's a very noticeable phenomenon.

I get questions

2010-04-16T10:24:00.000-04:00

Do Gay people say they're HIGH-class?

I very often get questions about how to interview Gay people. That seems odd to me. I'd not have thought there was such a demand for interviewing Gay people, but there you have it. I less frequently get questions from straight folks about how to behave when among Gay people. I'd think that'd be more common, but it isn't. I find that odd also. Whatever.

And then I get questions like this one. Fine. It comes from India.

When interviewing Gay people, do go over your questions and ask them of yourself... in the same way. When socializing among Gay people, do consider how your behavior might appear to you were it engaged in by those around you instead.

This is not the sort of question one ought to ask... it's likely to cause offense. It's also wretchedly imprecise. I have very little clue what "HIGH-class" is intended to mean.

Do people from India say they're HIGH-class?

See what I mean?

Not good. Don't do that.

If gay sex were accepted all men would be gay.

Ummmm... no. That's not at all true.

I've known a great many straight men over the years. That shouldn't be too surprising, what with straight men being so very, very common. One of the key things to understand about straight men is that they really are more than slightly fond of women. By "fond" I mean "attracted to." I wouldn't want to go and say they were "fond" fond of women... as in actually like them. I haven't found that to be the case very often. Nope. I've met so many misogynistic men over the years that it's really much easier for me to say that I've met perhaps five men who weren't misogynistic. Misogyny is nothing like Gay... not that there aren't Gay misogynists because there are... but these two words aren't the same thing.

See... straight men get kind-of hot and bothered by women. Weird, I know, but it's true: women turn them on, make them horny, fill their heads with distracting notions... about sex. That, Sweeties, is why we call them "straight men." It is. We don't call them straight men because they have a shoe deficiency, don't know how to shop, have no dress sense and even fewer manners (if you can imagine it). We call them "straight men" because words like "bazooms" and "badonkadonk" mean something quite special to them. They can't help themselves... it's not like orientation is something you can change. The straight guys are just stuck with this female-attracted stuff and nothing is really going to much affect that.

What does the word gay mean to a homosexual?

Whoa. Head rush.

Let me ask a clarifying question: ARE. YOU. HIGH?

Right then. In common vernacular usage, the word "gay" means "characteristic of, or pertaining to, homosexuals (generally male, but occasionally both male and female)." It is very (and I do mean very) widely regarded as a synonym for "homosexual" to the degree that "homosexual" is generally thought to be inappropriate in nearly all uses.

So... lay off the drugs for a while because they're totally interfering with your ability to interpret language and that's just not a good sign.

I'm not a Lesbian but want a relationship with a woman.

Mm-kay. Go get yourself one then... a relationship, that is. I think I might go a little easy on the "I'm not a Lesbian" shit, though. That might be misinterpreted.

You're better off with a more affirmative position. Try "I'm bisexual and I want a relationship with a woman." I think that might just work better than this "not a Lesbian" crap.

I mean... listen to yourself. You want a relationship with a woman. You're not a Lesbian. Do you actually think that makes you straight? Seriously?

Entirely apart from any identity issues you might have (and I do believe I smell the piquant aroma of identity issues), this is just practical advice. I've met more than a few Lesbians and somewhat fewer bisexual women and... trust me on this... "I'm not a Lesbian" just does not strike me as being a particularly good ice-breaker. I think it may be up there amongst the very worst pick-up lines ever. I'm serious here. I think you'll have much better luck with "nice legs... what time do they open?" than with "I'm not a Lesbian but...."

Now... this advice does not apply to my male readers in a similar situation. Paradoxically, "I'm not gay but I want a relationship with a man" would work pretty fucking well as a pick-up line... for a Gay man. Just sayin'.

Tax Day

2010-04-15T02:41:00.000-04:00

It's that day and later on I shall be scurrying off to the post office to send all manner of little bundles of disclosure to all manner of jurisdictions. Seems everyone wants their little piece of Feral. Whatever. I'm told (often) that I really ought to be indignant. Seems I ought to be out protesting the heinous and profligate piracy of the federal government.

Huh.

Now... I prefer things to be sensible. I do not approve of foolish, hare-brained schemes that just won't work. I hardly think bonfires of money are called for in much of any situation (least of all a certain Spring-time sensation of chilliness). Neither am I amused by pathetic half-measures and symbolic gestures... like that seventeen cents President Obama's administration snagged for the old 'mos.

Really. Not kidding. The Feds went and coughed up $0.17 for each and every homo over 60. Not being over 60 and all, I shan't be getting my seventeen cents. I'm not exactly broken-up about that. I mean... a dime, a nickel, and two pennies? Why don't you just fuck me with a Q-Tip? Or not.

Nope. I prefer sense in government spending. It's not that I disapprove of government spending because I don't. The problem with a dime, a nickel, and two pennies is that it just isn't going to do anything. Notifying the recipients would cost more than that. I'd heartily object to spending the postage to notify the over-60 'mos of their forthcoming bundle of esteem and thoughtfulness from the government.

Anyway... it's tax day and time to drop off my little contribution, though that's not at all accurate. The government has already seized my little contribution and now it's time for me to file my claim for getting part of it back... on account of the government is a tad more zealous at snatching my money than it is at spending it sensibly. When all is said and done, I shall have provided to them precisely $769.25. Mind you: "when all is said and done" really does include the Social Security tax and the Medicare tax. I didn't leave those out. When I say I paid $769.25, I mean it... not that I went and did something totally weird like include the cigarette tax. That's different. Not that the end figure would be all that disheartening if I went and did something idiotic like that.

I don't see that as all that unreasonable. I'm feeling decidedly not indignant. Now... were the feds to go and do something humane like recognize my marriage... I'd not have paid the $769.25... but they're not humane and I'd never claim such an outrageous untruth with a straight face. Nope. Not me.

But I'm not at all feeling tense about paying taxes.

And I'm not at all noticing some Obama-induced tax increase. I'm not seeing it. I don't scrutinize such things closely (because I really don't think $769.25 is all that burdensome) but I do believe my taxes have gone down, not up. Whatever.

This whole subject came up the other day (it was last weekend) at work. Work is such an amusing place. There are Republicans there. Oh yes. They think they pay too many taxes. There are Libertarians there. They think they pay way too many taxes. There are Democrats there. They think they pay too many taxes but they know the rich just don't pay their share. Then there's me. I amuse the assembled masses. I do. Partly that's because I'm just plain amusing (in a catty sort of way) but in this case it's my peculiar politics. I'm a Gay Sovereigntist. This confuses folks to no end and I'm not at all sure why.

The subject of taxes came up and most everyone was keen on hearing my take on it.

"The thing you have to understand," says I, "is that you owe me money... quite a lot of it. You're intransigent debtors."

"We owe you money?" says the head Libertarian.

"How much money?" says the head Democrat.

"Let's call it $50,000," says I. "That's a very common figure in settlements of this nature and it's eminently reasonable."

"Fifty thousand for what?" says the Republican.

"Well, for starters, the way your people have treated my people in the public schools for as long as anyone can remember. Harassment cases of that sort tend to be settled for 50 grand. Then there's that proclivity your people have for discriminating against my people in housing, employment, and public accommodation."

"Let's not forget Don't Ask Don't Tell," pipes in the Democrat.

"Or the Democrats who created the policy," I add. "But no... why forget that? Or the fact (and it is one) that my family has been obliged to overpay on federal taxes for nearly 25 years. Your people owe my people $50,000 each and you've not paid up."

"You don't seriously expect to get that, do you?" says the Libertarian with his most patronizing Libertarian tone. Have you noticed how patronizing Libertarians are? Whatever.

"No, Sweetie," says I. "You've missed the point entirely. There are almost thirteen million of us. Do some math: your people owe my people well over 600 trillion dollars. That's a lot."

"I'll say," murmurs the Republican.

"It's some 44 times the GNP of the country. You don't have it. You're not going to get it. Don't pretend that I don't know you have other things to spend your money on... expensive things. You do. You owe me money and you can't pay. This colors our entire relationship."

"There aren't 13 million homos," says the Republican.

"What?" says I. "If your debt gets slashed to 22 times GNP you'd pay it? Hell... make it four times GNP. You still don't have it. You're deadbeats.”

There's quiet in the kitchen, then the Libertarian says, "Fifty thousand really is a fairly small settlement... as such things go.”

“Just the sexual harassment claims would be three times that... at least,” says the Democrat.

“The wrongful death suits you’re on the hook for tend to run into the millions,” says I. “Fifty thousand seems quite charitable to me.”

So... sure. Compare your dreadful and outrageous tax burden to what you owe.

My seat

2010-04-07T14:41:00.000-04:00

Or at least it was my seat. It's now well-occupied by someone else, making it fairly self-evidently someone else's seat.

For Your Consideration

2010-04-03T12:14:00.000-04:00

Seems diversity training doesn't work. Huh. Who knew? Actually, that's not quite the whole thing. No. Not at all surprisingly, however, when you examine the situation, it's more or less the whole thing.

Now a few social scientists are taking a hard look at these programs, and, so far, what they’re finding is that there’s little evidence that diversity training works. A paper published last year by the psychologist Elizabeth Levy Paluck of Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School and the Yale University political scientist Donald Green comprehensively surveyed the literature on prejudice reduction measures and found no empirical support for the idea that diversity training programs change attitudes or behavior. Similarly, a 2008 literature review paper by Carol Kulik of the University of South Australia and Loriann Roberson of Columbia University found that, on the question of changing behavior, there were few trustworthy studies - and decidedly mixed results among those. And research by a team of sociologists on more than 800 companies over three decades has found that the best diversity training programs make little difference in who gets hired and promoted, and many programs actually decrease the number of women and minorities in management.

I've been practicing not being negative these days. I have. So there's a tad more.

What worked much better than even the best training, the researchers found, were more structural measures: minority mentoring programs, or designating an executive or a task force with specific responsibility to change promotion practices.

Huh. Structural measures seem to work. Who knew?

Though, really, it would be better to run off and read the whole thing rather than just take my word for it. Not that just taking my word for it is entirely a bad idea.

Questions

2010-03-30T00:05:00.000-04:00

What is it tyranny?

Mmm-kay. I'm your huckleberry.

My interlocutor on this one is a passer-by from Bolivia, so I'm going to go with the answer "tiranía." I am.

Now, I realize that this might just not be good enough. Fine.

Una forma de gobierno en la que el gobernante ejerce un poder total o absoluto, no limitado por unas leyes, especialmente cuando lo obtiene por medios ilícitos.

How's that?

Now... I'm just going to back slowly away from the keyboard and totally NOT wonder why someone would ask me that. I mean... surely there are dictionaries. I'm quite certain there are dictionaries. Make that absolutely certain.

What's a druther?

Ah... now that's a question that warms the heart. The thirteen-year-old asked me that one.

Have I mentioned recently that thirteen-year-olds are something like twelve different kinds of freaky? Probably not. Well... they are. You can call it Thirteenitis if you want to. I wouldn't... too many syllables, but you can. It's a vile ailment characterized by some twelve different kinds of freaky. It's rarely fatal but (sadly) not very treatable. The most effective recommendations are bed-rest and plenty of fluids. While there is no cure for being thirteen, the malady really does resolve itself in due course.

So... what's a druther?

This was just the finest question I'd fielded all year (not an auspicious year, this one... it does not bode well). What's so special about druthers? I'll give you a hint: it's what they're not.

Junior clearly had heard someone utter the phrase "If I had my druthers." So I say to the lad: "Do you want the long answer or the short one?"

His eyes instantly shoot open in horror and he fairly squeals, "The short one! SHORT!"

Fine. I can do that. No one really believes that, but I can.

It's a choice. More importantly, it's a choice you don't really have.

Junior does not look convinced. "That doesn't make sense."

I shrug. "If I had my druthers, all your questions would be about harmless things like weird words. That means I would chose for you to ask only questions about words, but I don't have that choice and often your questions are about much nastier things, and I answer those anyway."

"Oh," says he. "Me too."

Yup. Bed-rest and plenty of fluids, Junior. This thirteen shit eventually goes away all on its own.

What's a good gay date movie?

Aha! It really is Spring now. Why... this is more fun than seeing the first robin (which, very strangely, hasn't happened yet).

Right. Think about this for a second.

It's a date. You're Gay. You're off to the movies.

Seriously Sweetie... just pick a movie you think you'll both enjoy. Alternatively, ask your date what movie he'd prefer to see. Which movie isn't all that important. Your company... that's going to be the deciding factor, not the movie.

Have fun.

Spring

2010-03-26T15:24:00.000-04:00

So... the cherries have bloomed and the daffodils are up. Spring. I'd expect to be flooded with boyfriend issues. That's usually one of the signs of Spring as well. Alas, no... instead I get politics.

Fine.

Note to the assembled masses: boyfriends are a lot more fun than politics.

Whatever.

Does a constitutional republic benefit gays?

It depends.

The chief strength of constitutional republics is the protection of individual rights by constitutional law. Thing is, that constitutional law really does have to protect the rights of Gays in order for this virtue of constitutional republics to be of any benefit to the Gay people. There are constitutional republics that do not protect the rights of Gays and that is no secret.

There is nothing inherently beneficial to the Gay people about a constitutional republic.

Consider, if you will, but one benchmark: whether Gays may marry. There are a few countries that quite sensibly recognize marriages between Gays. These would be the countries nominally ruled by King Albert II, Queen Beatrix, King Carl XVI Gustaf, Queen Elizabeth II, King Harald V, and King Juan Carlos I. Why... it's as if Gays were real people in those countries or something. For those democracy addicts who just aren't all that up on their reigning monarchs, I refer to Belgium, the Netherlands, Sweden, Canada, Norway, and Spain. Those countries are constitutional monarchies, not constitutional republics.

One can argue about whether South Africa is a constitutional republic or not. Certainly South Africa is not a constitutional monarchy and certainly Gays may marry in South Africa... on account of their specific mention in South Africa's constitution. With the possible exception of South Africa, there just aren't any constitutional republics where some imagined benefit to the Gay people exists to the trivial extent of recognizing a simple familial contract.

This is not to say that there is some special virtue of constitutional monarchies. Nope. I doubt very much the monarchs have anything to do with it. That 'constitutional' part probably enters in. Probably.

No particular form of government is of inherent benefit to the Gay people. I don't much care which political bandwagon you've chosen to ride on. What is of inherent benefit is political power. Without that, you get no benefits that aren't handed you like indulgent morsels to a begging dog. Without that, the indulgences may be withheld just as easily. I'm inclined to think that the ideal form of Gay political power is autonomous sovereignty. I'm also not quite stupid enough to think that's the only form. Limited power is still power. It's just limited.

The Gay people are benefited by government to the degree that they have power.

Now, were one to go about setting up an autonomous Gay State, I'd recommend a constitutional republic. They have their uses. Any benefit to the Gay people such a state might produce would flow, however, from Gay political power, not some superstitious fondness for ballot boxes. You totally want several Gay people in on writing that constitution. I’m serious.

Nigel

2010-03-21T20:45:00.000-04:00

This is Nigel.

Nigel labors, somewhat, from a certain excess of corpulence. He does.

This is not to say that he's fat. No. Not that he isn't fat... it would just not do to call him 'fat.' That would hardly be charitable and certainly not dignified. Nigel is, however, a whole lot of cat. Yup. Kind-of in that "Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ on a crutch... someone let a cougar in here!" kind of way.

No doubt he has some dubious tale of woe to tell. No doubt. For now, he's been trying out various lurking places where he might contemplate whatever it is that cats contemplate in peace. Nigel has been less than successful in this regard. Seems he doesn't quite fit in most of the places he'd prefer to lurk. Yeah... on account of a certain excess of corpulence. Not that I'm saying he's fat or anything. Nope. Wouldn't do that.

Sharing

2010-02-24T02:59:00.000-05:00

Typography from Ronnie Bruce on Vimeo.

Obituary

2010-02-21T14:17:00.000-05:00

His Royal Highness Prince Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Kitty Sweetie died early Friday morning following a lengthy illness, a palace spokesman said in a brief announcement from His Highness' primary residence. "The prince was a dynamic and bombastic cat who cast a very large shadow," the spokesman said. "It's taking us all some time getting adjusted to his absence."

The funeral, shrouded in secrecy, was held Saturday at an undisclosed location. When asked why, the palace spokesman said, "His Highness has bitten a great many people. We thought it best to handle this matter privately, thus avoiding the indignity of mass protests."

Reaction to news of the prince's death in the neighborhood of the palace was mixed.

"Dead? Are you sure? He's really dead? Thank God. Now I can sleep safely at night," said one passer-by who declined to be named.

Another man, upon learning of the prince's passing, screamed, "We're all going to die! Don't you understand? That was no cat! Now he's freed from all physical restraint. No one is safe!" The man ran off before he could be identified.

The palace was quick to dismiss rumors that His Royal Highness Prince Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Kitty Sweetie's last words were a threat against General Alexander Haig. "This is nonsense," the spokesman said. "The prince only deigned to acknowledge the existence of truly famous people. I doubt His Highness knew the general existed. In any event, the prince spent his last days being rubbed under the chin. The prince's final words were, in fact, 'more chin.'"

The palace also denied persistent claims that Prince Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Pussy Kitty Sweetie had plotted to snatch and eat Madonna's red string. "As I have said, His Highness only deigned to acknowledge truly famous people. He had no interest in Ms Ciccone's red string. He did express admiration for the dress Lady Gaga wore at the recent Brit awards. His Highness never mentioned Ms Ciccone or her string."

Wherein I answer my mail

2010-02-20T14:49:00.000-05:00

What are some of the big issues that come between gay couples?

Huh. I thought about this one. I did. 'Big' issues. Have I mentioned recently that the spousal-unit and I have never fought? We haven't. Not in the way I see others (that would be straight others) fight. We just don't do that. Now, after our own fashion, we have disagreed quite strongly on occasion. Three occasions, actually. Sex, sex, and money.

Yeah. Sure. Gay couples probably deal with issues surrounding sex and money. As in, 'how much' sex, 'what kind' of sex, 'with whom' sex. Also as in 'your money,' 'my money,' 'our money,' what gets spent by whom and on what and at what time... that gnarly stuff.

I'm guessing straight couples do that, too. I suppose they might be 'big' issues. Whatever. There just aren't any big issues that I imagine probably would pop up with a Gay couple that probably wouldn't pop up with a straight couple.

Expect for that 'straight people' issue. See... We've had people decline to rent us an apartment because we weren't straight. That was a bit of an issue. I know folks who've been charged substantially higher rents because they weren't straight. I suspect that doesn't much come up with straight people, though that's just a guess. Then too... my current landlord is well pleased to have lucked into two 'mos. He is. He's declined to raise our rent on that account. Isn't that sweet? It happens. When some straight couple complains about how I pay less than they would, I'll just cry them a river and say, "I know... I know... it's just wretched." Not that it's illegal at all. It's not. Now... should someone want to pass a law against that sort of errant discrimination against straight people... go ahead; make my day.

Apart from the sad prevalence of straight people who are assholes (there's a lot of them), there just aren't all that many issues that this particular Gay couple face.

Are there any polish gay men?

Whoa. Head rush. Have I mentioned that sometimes the questions I get make me dizzy? They do. Some times. Whatever.

Yes. There are Polish Gay men. There are quite a few of them.

There. I said it.

Is Merv Griffin gay?

Mr. Griffin is dead. Has been for a while now. I just don't see a lot of reason to discuss Mr. Griffin in the present tense.

Are certain couples prohibited from marrying in Kansas?

Why do folks keep asking me questions about Kansas? Huh. You know... I'd ordinarily say that being from Kansas is a fine reason to move somewhere else. Yeah. Except... I have a wee bit of personal experience of Kansas. Yeah. I think the public at large would be best served if the folks from Kansas refrained from traveling... at least from traveling very far. I, at least, have no intention of ever disturbing their peaceful contemplation of their landscape.

As for the question... 'prohibited' is a frightfully harsh word. Lots of folks get married in Kansas. That is, they get a marriage license and then get married. Kansas will not give a marriage license to people who are cousins, people who are already married (and not widowed or divorced), people who are of the same sex, or people under 18 who do not have the requisite permissions to get married. Oh... and apparently, if at least one member of the couple is under 15, a judge has to rule that it's in the minor's best interest to be married at such a tender age. Huh. I'd not have bet money on that one. If I had a prurient bent of mind, why... I'd go and look up how often that comes up. But I don't. Damn peculiar that they'd even consider such a thing, though... damn peculiar.

Yeah. Now... 'prohibited' means there's a law against such things and there's a criminal penalty attached to violating this prohibition. I'd recommend (quite strenuously) against messing around with those age issues. I suspect there may be one or two criminal penalties lurking about. Otherwise... no... they just don't give you your license. Not that this is an especially big deal. Last I checked, Kansas also recognizes common law marriages. If you're going to go and do something like that (which is eminently reasonable), why bother with licensing at all? That seems a bunch of government make-work busy-body fuss to me. But that's just me. I mean... were I to say, "You know, I think I'll charge people $50 for something that would be completely free of charge if they didn't waste my time about it," I'd have to admit that I was being sarcastic and trying to punish people for wasting my time. Huh. I might be onto something there.

Fun and Games

2010-02-19T03:07:00.000-05:00

Argh! I've been attacked by my inner geek.

I'm a fan of RuneQuest. (You can tell by that capital Q.) I used to be a huge fan of RuneQuest. Then I got older. I was more prone to never-ending adulation back before I got older. Whatever. That I'm not such a huge fan these days as I was in those days is more a measure of what I mean when I use the word 'huge' than it is a measure of... well... not liking RuneQuest because I totally like RuneQuest.

Once upon a time (back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, to be sure) I was perched on the end of the straight roommate's bed. Yup. We were playing Mr. Gygax's little contribution to modern civilization and I was (yet again) complaining bitterly.

"How could I possibly have missed? I'm standing right here, like so. He's standing right there, like so. I swung a freakin' ax at him. There's just no way I didn't hit him. I can see not hurting him, but there was totally at least a 'clang' there."

The straight roomie shrugs and says, "What can I say? He has a better armor class than you do. You missed."

Harumph.

Straight roomie offers this in consolation: "Have you ever heard of RuneQuest? They work hits and damage separately. Now, are you going to sulk or are you going to try to hit the orc again?"

"I'm going to do both, Sweetie," says I. "I shall both sulk and smite the orc. I may even smite the orc sulkily."

Yup. I had hair back then, and there was totally a hair-toss thrown in at the end. (As it happened, said orc was, eventually, cloven mightily by a freak roll of the dice.)

So anyway, that winter various and sundry folk asked me what it was I wanted for Christmas. I told each and every one of them "A game called RuneQuest." That was my strategy back then: tell them all the same answer. That way, the chance of one of them coming through was maximized. It worked a whole lot better than trying to cleave an orc in plate mail. This was how I got my first copy of the game now called RQ1. I promptly wore the damn thing out (it happens) and went back to fetch another (with my own money this time.) What I found in its place was what they now call RQ2, it being the second edition and all. Fine. It was different, which wasn't that much of a travail. My brother and I played that game for hours and hours and hours when I was home from uni.

"Are you two boys still playing D&D?" my mother would, on more than a few occasions, whine.

"Puh-LEEZE," we'd both say in unison. "No one is still playing D&D because they changed it to AD&D. Besides... we're playing RuneQuest."

Alas, I came home from uni one summer without said game. "This will not do," says the brother. "No. It will not do at all. This shall not stand." Some hours later he reappeared with this box he had purchased. "Now... PLAY."

Little brothers can be that way. I'd recommend against acquiring little brothers but... you're unlikely as all fucking hell to get a choice on that one. But yeah. They can be like that.

So I leaf through the rules of what is now known as RQ3 (it being the third edition).

"Huh," says I.

"What?" says the brother with severe suspicion.

"They added sorcery."

Brother utters a repetitive series of grunts that might be transliterated as "Ga. Ga. Ga-ga. Ga-ga-ga." Yeah. Translated into English, it more or less meant "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod."

Then I add, "And they seem to have done so more or less along the lines I had been thinking."

"YESSSSSSSS" the brother screams.

Thereafter we spent many, many, many hours finding out that it's really quite difficult to play a beginning sorcerer in RuneQuest if you don't know what you're doing. Really quite difficult... not that this stopped anyone from giving it a go.

Every now and then (it happens) I encounter various and sundry gripes about 3rd Edition RuneQuest sorcery... all centered around how really quite dreadful the whole thing is. Apparently it's entirely unplayable, this RQ3 sorcery stuff.

Huh.

The brother could do it. So could the spousal-unit. So could the brother's best friend. So, too, could three college roommates.

RuneQuest is, among other things, a social game. If you want to play some quirky rogue ax-swinging freak with no attachments to anyone outside himself, run off and play one of the games suited to such things. AD&D will do. If you want to play a sorcerer, particularly a young and inexperienced sorcerer, in RuneQuest, you need a whole heaping lot of companions and (conveniently) you'd have them in a sensible campaign. When your character is much older, wiser, and more kick-ass, said character will still have them (more so) in the form of his own students and apprentices in addition to the horde of former "classmates" and mentors your character will have retained from his youth.

Sorcerers in RuneQuest learn through the apprenticeship system. There are almost always other fellow apprentices. There is always the master sorcerer. There are almost certainly what you might call 'journeymen' sorcerers taught by the same master who still work for, with, or are otherwise associated with the master. These journeymen may well have apprentices of their own. Your beginning character can call them 'cousins' if that pleases. A sweet little teen-aged apprentice just isn't going to be traipsing about unattended. So... yes... apprentice sorcerers aren't all that good at any number of things. They just aren't likely to kill a dragon all by their little lonesome. They just aren't often all by their lonesome. Think "The Godfather." RuneQuest sorcerers are not all that different from fictional gangsters. Apprentice sorcerers have hunted dragons in my campaigns. There was just the one dragon (of the large, fire-breathing lizard variety, not some mystical beast). Alas for the dragon, there were more than 20 apprentices of various disciples of one aged (and totally kick-ass) wizard. The kids did just fine, once they got it through their heads that the goal of the exercise was to work together.

Second: do not try to play an incompetent sorcerer in RuneQuest, expect to succeed, and then bitch about how unplayable they are. Sorcerers need high INT and high DEX. They just do. You can get by with a quibble or two about how "16 is substantially higher than average." Yeah. It is. Average characters make for very bad sorcerers. "Substantially higher than average" will get you substantially better results. My players have all decreed that INT is paramount. Eighteen is a fine place to start. Seventeen will do. Most of the fellows (and all of the gals) were quite certain that 16 just does not auger well for a sorcerer. Less than 16 was a reason to apply oneself to swordsmanship. What can I say? While very few spells really need an intensity above 16, very few players in my campaign could resist casting them. DEX is less of a deal because it can be trained up. Oh yeah... you totally want to be training that shit up (at least in my games.) Seriously: the opposing wizards (and why would there not be wizards in the opposition?) have certainly done so. POW... do not be distracted by POW. You can get more of that. Thinking of POW as some immutable, precious resource is not such a good idea. High POW is, of course, convenient. Your character should make some efforts to acquire it. And, for sure, get over the preciousness of POW and enchant some shit. You can pump a spell up over your free INT with a matrix enchanted with a reasonable number of levels of intensity. An intensity 5 Palsy matrix can be nice: if you have a Free INT of 18 you can cast an intensity 23 Palsy spell on that dragon and that has a fair chance of being not such a stupid idea. Of course, sneaking within 10 meters of a dragon really does strike me as utterly daft, but hey... players have made the attempt and been pleased by the results.

Third: you need muscle. It hardly matters if you have some doughty fighter or three hanging around or it you carry some pointy thing on your own account. Many a sorcerous character in my campaigns have opined in one form or another, "At a certain level of expertise and after a certain amount of time all magical duels transform into fist-fights." The first player to make that observation had armed his earnest wizard with a staff for bonking, a hefty dirk for poking, and still ended up rolling around in the dust pulling hair and gouging eyes from time to time. Missile weapons are lovely things, as well. With all that lovely range manipulation sorcerers get to do, you'd think that'd be just the ticket. It is... at high levels. Ten meters though... Sweeties, your apprentice sorcerer can throw a rock twice as far. This means you need a bag of rocks and the wisdom to know when magic just isn't a good idea. A crossbow... that blows a bag of rocks right away. Three doughty fellow-travelers with crossbows... even better. You still need a bag of rocks, though. You never know when a bag of rocks might come in handy.

Fourth: Damage Boosting is a good idea. Don't play with intensities of 1, 2, or 3. Go for 6 or 7 or 8. Seriously. You don't roll dice on Damage Boosting 8: that's just 8 points of damage (plus the damage of whatever you cast it on) and you get to do it over and over and over for... oh... ten minutes. Sounds like a plan. While you're at it, do your doughty companions a favor and cast it on their weapons of choice. Totally true anecdote: a sorcerer character once cast just this spell on a serving wench's broom. Said serving wench proceeded to stave in most mightily all the generic bad guys in the tavern. Yup. Damage boosting 8, broom stick, unarmored thugs, much cleaning to do afterward, sorcerer barely lifted a finger. Palsy is hardly the stupid spell it appears to be. Of course, you have to cast it at an intensity of 4 or so. There's the problem of hitting an arm or a leg (and who doesn't bitch about hitting an arm or a leg? Damned Missile Hit Locations) but... seriously... you do not want a palsy spell to overcome the hitpoints in your chest, abdomen, or head. Why... that could very closely resemble something fatal. Whatever.

Fifth: You absolutely want spell matrix enchantments. Sure: they can be taken away. Sure: you want to have some favored spell memorized. Don't go too nuts on that, though. Go for the matrices. You'll be wanting the Free INT. Most players ultimately settled for memorizing no spells... they had matrices for all of them. They wanted every shred of Free INT because... for sure... you never know when you might just absolutely, positively have to let off a magical conflagration that makes witnesses say, "Holy shit! I can't believe he just did that."

Sixth: If you manage to win, do remember to "take their stuff." One player of mine characterized the campaign du jour as "wandering around the countryside, picking fights with assholes, killing them, and taking their stuff." We did Griffin Island at one point; thought it might be fun. Unleashed some kick-ass experienced characters on it. Super-duper baddy Halcyon Var Encorth (if I remember correctly) did not survive the experiment. His "ugly stick," a staff with all the Tap spells enchanted into it, was promptly pronounced "mind-bogglingly dumb" by the player who lifted said stick from the bad guy's corpse. Yup. But that didn't keep the player from using it, nor any of the other bits of loot. Always go for the loot (unless you have some reason not to). So long as you keep winning, your opponents' nifty Weapons of Doom are just the lottery.

Me: "A man you think looks like a wizard mutters 'I've had just about enough of you' as he pulls an ominously glowing green crystal from his robe."

Player 1: "Dibs on the crystal!"

Player 2: "No way! I can see it too!"

Me: "Do either of you actually say those things?"

Player 1: "No. I say, "Eat poo, Wizard!' Then I unleash the intensity 7 Palsy I keep in my magic jar."

Me: "Just to be sure... the magic jar you got from that Death Cultist awhile back?"

Player 1: "Of course. The other jar has skin lotion in it."

Player 2: "Since I knew he was going to do that (because he always does that), I'm going to wait to see what effect the spell has. If it puts the wizard down, I'm going to run and snatch that crystal. It matches my wardrobe."

Yup. Squabbling over the booty before the fighting really starts. Fun times.

Nope. The players all loved RQ3 sorcery so well they abandoned all the other magic systems entirely.

Skating, then

2010-02-06T21:08:00.000-05:00

I've been surviving the Snowpocalypse just fine. Normally I shun all things icy when surviving vile inundations of nasty white goo from the sky. Sure. It works, kind-of. I just had to poke my head out of hibernation to point out that those strange fellows who want to "butch up" figure skating... or make it "mainstream" (don't you just love that cute, euphemistic use of the word 'mainstream' instead of 'de-fagged?) need to be able to do this first:

Yeah.

After that, they need to be able to do this:

Why not?

Then, they can traipse merrily across 50 meters of hot coals well-peppered with red-hot nails. Then they can butch up skating.

On the other hand, they can just go play hockey and leave figure skating to real men.

Hate Crimes

2010-01-29T16:41:00.000-05:00

Lots of folks find the occasion to ask me about hate crimes. Specifically, they want to know what the penalty for one is. I trust their curiosity has little to nothing to do with planning on committing one. Anyway, that much ballyhooed federal hate crimes bill notwithstanding, crime and its punishment is pretty-much a state matter in the US. You need to go and commit a crime in a federal jurisdiction in order for it to be a federal matter (which it surely is... in a federal jurisdiction).

Hate crimes generally aren't proper "crimes" in a lot of places in that there just isn't a sentence handed down for one. I might even go so far as to say "most." The underlying crime is the crime; the hate crimes charge is an aggravating factor. The penalty for the underlying crime is bumped up one degree of severity. In the more heinous crimes... the ones we just love to scream "hate crime, hate crime" about... there's just not much to it. There's just not a lot you can do to the penalty for murder. That tends to be quite harsh to begin with... right up there at the top of the scale.

Here's an example. In Florida, a couple has been charged with attacking a man. More to the point, the police have determined that it is also a hate crime. Now... to be very clear... "charged" does not mean "guilty." Accusations, no matter how inclined we might be to believe them, just aren't evidence of guilt. There needs to be a trial. I offer no opinion about who actually did what; the example is just in the charges.

First there's the hate crime bit.

§775.085 Evidencing prejudice while committing offense; reclassification.--

(1)(a) The penalty for any felony or misdemeanor shall be reclassified as provided in this subsection if the commission of such felony or misdemeanor evidences prejudice based on the race, color, ancestry, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, national origin, mental or physical disability, or advanced age of the victim:

1. A misdemeanor of the second degree is reclassified to a misdemeanor of the first degree.

2. A misdemeanor of the first degree is reclassified to a felony of the third degree.

3. A felony of the third degree is reclassified to a felony of the second degree.

4. A felony of the second degree is reclassified to a felony of the first degree.

5. A felony of the first degree is reclassified to a life felony.

(b) As used in paragraph (a), the term:

1. "Mental or physical disability" means that the victim suffers from a condition of physical or mental incapacitation due to a developmental disability, organic brain damage, or mental illness, and has one or more physical or mental limitations that restrict the victim's ability to perform the normal activities of daily living.

2. "Advanced age" means that the victim is older than 65 years of age.

(2) A person or organization that establishes by clear and convincing evidence that it has been coerced, intimidated, or threatened in violation of this section has a civil cause of action for treble damages, an injunction, or any other appropriate relief in law or in equity. Upon prevailing in such civil action, the plaintiff may recover reasonable attorney's fees and costs.

(3) It is an essential element of this section that the record reflect that the defendant perceived, knew, or had reasonable grounds to know or perceive that the victim was within the class delineated in this section.

See? The penalty gets bumped up the scale by one level of severity. That last bit is important, too. You have to prove a hate crime charge... not just claim it.

Our example begins with a charge of Simple Battery.

§784.03 Battery; felony battery.--

(1)(a) The offense of battery occurs when a person:

1. Actually and intentionally touches or strikes another person against the will of the other; or

2. Intentionally causes bodily harm to another person.

(b) Except as provided in subsection (2), a person who commits battery commits a misdemeanor of the first degree, punishable as provided in s. 775.082 or s. 775.083.

Yeah. Note that this actual and intentional touching can be a problem for a lot of people. This is illegal in a lot of states, you see. You don't go touching people without their permission and then claim there was no battery because you didn't punch them, you touched them. Whatever. You'll also note that it's a first degree misdemeanor. The penalty for that is "a definite term of imprisonment not exceeding 1 year" and a fine not to exceed $1,000. So far so good.

With a hate crime enhancement, the first-degree misdemeanor would be penalized as if it were a third-degree felony. That's "a term of imprisonment not exceeding 5 years" and fine of $5,000. You can call that "increasing the penalty by five" if you want to, but that wouldn't be all that accurate because the penalties are maximums and the actual sentence depends on any number of factors.

There's another charge in the mix: Aggravated Battery.

§784.045 Aggravated battery.--

(1)(a) A person commits aggravated battery who, in committing battery:

1. Intentionally or knowingly causes great bodily harm, permanent disability, or permanent disfigurement; or

2. Uses a deadly weapon.

(b) A person commits aggravated battery if the person who was the victim of the battery was pregnant at the time of the offense and the offender knew or should have known that the victim was pregnant.

(2) Whoever commits aggravated battery shall be guilty of a felony of the second degree, punishable as provided in s. 775.082, s. 775.083, or s. 775.084.

A second-degree felony has a maximum sentence of 15 years and a fine up to $10,000. A hate crime sentence enhancement changes the penalty to that of a first-degree felony: a maximum of 30 years and $10,000. You can call that "doubling the penalty" if you want to. That would be as accurate (or not) as with the Simple Battery charge. You might even go so far as to notice that it seems to be less of a deal with the more serious felony charge. Hate crime enhancements do the most enhancing with the lesser charges... in states that use this particular scheme.

I think it's pretty safe to say that this sort of thing... battery as a hate crime... would be the sort of thing I might want to avoid doing. Certainly it's the sort of thing that would inspire me to hire a good criminal defense attorney. I don't think I'd much enjoy being convicted of such a thing. Of course, I suppose that really is the point of criminal law.

This has been bothering me

2010-01-13T13:11:00.000-05:00

...because I'm like that.

Did you know that it's easier to "steal" a song than it is to find out what year it was produced? It more or less is... by a lot. I can't imagine why that should be, but it seems to be the case. Whatever.

I was somewhat mistaken about the overall suckiness of 2009. I had said it was inferior to 2008 by one hour and thirty-one seconds of music. Yeah. Not true. The proper figure is two hours, forty-two minutes, fourteen seconds.

I might even venture to add that the music from 2008 was generally better as well... apart from this Beyonce tune I heard. In truth, I only heard it in the first place because Princess Ann did just a lovely remix of it. I love Princess Ann remixes. The song in question, however... not so much.

So... Note to Ms Knowles:

If you were a boy, even just for a day, you would almost instantly discover something. You would. Declarative statements. Yeah. Also, monosyllabic answers to 'yes' or 'no' questions. You almost certainly would not "listen to her." You just wouldn't. Just sayin'. Not after having discovered the wonders of "yes," "no," and declarative statements.

Also... please note that being taken for granted is just not a sensible reason for losing "the one you wanted." No. See... from where I sit, being taken for granted is exactly what I want. That would be because I'm prone to 'granting' myself. That which is freely given is, pretty much by definition, "taken for granted." That which may not be taken for granted just hasn't ever been given in the first place... and I would never call something like that 'love.' I wouldn't.

And then... while it really does hurt to lose someone (for whatever reason), it's just not all that sane to believe that everything you have has been destroyed by this loss of a relationship. That... that's living in a very twisted fantasy and I just don't approve. You shouldn't do that.

Yeah.

Had to get that off my chest.

Ancientry

2010-01-10T23:51:00.000-05:00

"Who said 'I wish there was no age between 16 and 23?'"

I was asked that today. Can you imagine? What sort of person just asks questions like that out of the blue? Never mind... I know what sort of person. It's a person with one or more teenagers in their charge. They're all like that it seems. Whatever.

So I says: "Some shepherd, more or less. More properly it's Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare?" echoes my interlocutor. "That can't be right. Why would Shakespeare say something like that?"

"Yeah, whatever. He did," says I.

"It has to be more modern than that," insists my interlocutor. "Kids weren't like that in Shakespeare's day."

"Fine," says I. "Go ask someone to look it up for you on one of those new-fangled phones that does the Internet. They'll find it right after the 'exit, pursued by a bear.' Not. Kidding. If they have trouble, suggest A Winter's Tale, Act 3, Scene 3. Seriously."

Some minutes later, my interlocutor returns to plague me further. "How did you know that?"

Now... I'm given to wonder, from time to time, just why it is someone goes to the trouble of asking a question at all. I mean... when I ask questions I present them to someone I think might reasonably know the answer. I do. There's no point in putting questions to people who reasonably do not know the answer. Whatever.

So I just say, "The answer to your question is still 'Shakespeare.' The answer to your problems with your teenager is still 'get over yourself.'

    Exit, pursued by a bear

    Enter a Shepherd

Shepherd

    I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting--Hark you now!

This carrying-on of the youngsters has been going on for a very long time. They're like that. Mind you, the ancientry has been pissing and moaning about it for just as long. It seems a dreadful waste of time and effort to me -- the pissing and moaning, I mean.

As for the 'how did you know that' nonsense... does no one get obliged to perform Shakespeare in school anymore? I was obliged to perform more than a few of Mr. Shakespeare's efforts at scribbling when I was in school, including the specimen under discussion. As it happens, it's also one of the best-ever quotes on youngsters.

That, and what's not to like about "exit, pursued by a bear?"

New Questions

2010-01-07T00:20:00.000-05:00

cant sleep thinking gay

Right then... I'd tell you to go get laid, but I strongly suspect the real issue is somewhere else entirely... somewhere much higher in altitude than your crotch.

There's nothing wrong with thinking about this, that, or any number of other things 'gay.' That ordinarily just isn't a reason to lose sleep. If you're thinking of something, it's probably a topic of some interest and importance and you ought to be thinking on it. If you're diligently refraining from thinking about such things during the daytime, these topics of interest and importance are going to still be there, awaiting your attention, when it comes time to sleep. Topics of interest and importance just don't go away because you imagine you can tell them to "be gone." That doesn't work. You end up losing sleep and losing sleep isn't that good of an idea. You should calm down, stop trying to censor your thoughts, and just think what you think as you think it. Also... consider getting laid. Sex isn't as important to your health as sleep is, but that is not to say it's unimportant.

Perhaps, however, my interlocutor IS thinking about this, that, or any number of other things 'gay' during the day and still manages to lose sleep over it. That sounds a bit like hypomania. You should consult a professional about that one. "Professional" means a psychiatrist. While you're there, you can talk about this 'gay' thing... because the whole thing also smacks of internalized homophobia. In any event, psychiatrists can treat sleep disorders.

It's not a 'gay' thing... if anything troubles you to the point you lose sleep over it, and it does so to the extent that it becomes a problem, you need assistance.

which earring side for guys resembles gay

What? In good old twenty-ten? Neither. This is nonsense... and archaic nonsense at that. Sweeties, listen to the aging queen: that whole "left is right and right is wrong" thing is... it's very pre-Internet. Think on that. It's freaking pre-Internet. Most phones had rotary dials back then. Here's the most important part: It's very, very rude to presume that anyone is so very, very old as to remember which was which. Rude, I tell you. It's vile, churlish behavior and you really should have learned better.

There is currently no significance to earrings. There hasn't been in... oh... years and years and years. Seriously... like more than twenty of them (several more).

Note that while it really is very, very rude to presume that someone is so very old as to know the secret mystery of the earrings, I do remember (on account of my advanced age). I got my ear pierced in 1979. It was the left one. I intended folks to (correctly) assume that I was Gay on that account. Please note that folks with an interest in such things already assumed I was Gay on account of the unbuttoned top button on my Levi's 501s. See... tight britches were the thing back then. If you don't button the top button, you can slip into some shockingly tight trousers. You just can.

New to Me

2010-01-01T16:56:00.000-05:00

There's nothing quite like a cover of an old favorite.

Ugh

2009-12-31T06:01:00.000-05:00

So... I was considering writing one of them there "New Year's Eve" rants. I was. It was going to be all about all the things I'm just sick and tired of. It was. It was even going to be titled "Sick And Tired."

Yeah.

But, being like that, I paused to consider what positive elements there might have been in 2009. There were some. Carlos Bautista and Erich Ensastigue come to mind. I'm not at all sure I'd have managed the last year as well as I did without Carlos Bautista and Erich Ensastigue.

Yeah.

The fit of positivity passed, however. It did. It was rather like a gas cramp. Whatever.

I decided to consult the great iTunes oracle (but not using iTunes because... well... they're headquartered in California and I'm shunning all things California because it's a hate-filled cesspit.)

Nifty music from 2009: 17:03:01

Nifty music from 2008: 18:03:32

So there you have it: 2009 was inferior to 2008 by one hour and thirty-one seconds of seriously head-bopping boom-boom. That's not saying anything nice at all about 2009. It's just not.

That Rats in the Rice Christmas

2009-12-24T00:00:00.000-05:00

Not all that surprisingly, this traditional (and redundant) post has always been one of the more popular here. I say "not all that surprisingly" because I didn't write it. Nope. Not me. The spousal-unit wrote it... back when he had a blog. He wrote it for me, though. That makes it mine. At this point, it almost isn't Kissmass without it. And we can't have that.

Editor's Note: Warning! Unvarnished, seasonally induced sentimentalism follows. Use in moderation, and please, don't drink and drive.

Charlie Brown [yelling]: Isn’t there anyone... who can tell me... what Christmas is all about?

Linus: Sure, Charlie Brown. [walks to center stage] Lights, please....

Wherein I Answer

2009-12-10T02:42:00.000-05:00

Do doctors think there is something wrong with gay people?

What... on account of their being gay people? No.

Why do there are homosexuals?

Ummm... mmm-kay. It's a fine thing to ponder things. It is. This 'why' thing, though... don't bust a gut fussing over that one. 'Why' is only rarely an interesting question. The answer to most vague questions begining with 'why' is, after all, "Why not?"

Why are some people gay?

Because they are. I did mention that questions beginning with 'why' are only rarely interesting. There's quite a lot of scientific research into this one. It's more than half nifty stuff. There was a time when folks could just wonder aimlessly about such things. The tools for investigating the brain are a whole lot different these days than they were back then. I end up in all manner of fussy conversations with my over-forty peers on this account. Seems they made up their minds and encased the stuff in concrete two decades ago. You don't want to be using two-decade-old info in a discussion that has changed dramatically in just the last three years. Anyway... why. Yeah. Why, oh why? There does appear to be a 'why' to this one. It's a trifle complicated... which is what makes it interesting.

How does living with a gay couple work?

Oooooh... a question that doesn't have 'why' in it. That's lovely. 'How' questions are much tastier than 'why' questions. I like them best with jam. Jam is better than jelly, I find. It's more easily spread. Jelly is all... gelatinous and rubbery. Yeah. I like jam.

Right then. I'm Gay. I have a spousal-unit (he's Gay, too... just sayin'). That makes us a Gay couple. We've been doing that 'couple' thing for years and years. It's one of those things that make more than a few of my co-workers say "Wow. That's longer than I've been alive." Yup. Of course, you have to be younger than 24 for that to be true, but more than a few of my co-workers are. A great many things have happened over those 24 or so years and some of them have been of the 'living with a gay couple' category. That's right: there have been occasions when another person (or more) has lived in the same household with the spousal-unit and me. So how did that work?

Sit back, take a deep breath, and try ever so hard to remember. Do you remember back when you lived with your parents? It's entirely possible that's currently an ongoing condition so you won't have to remember back more than a few minutes. Otherwise, think really hard and remember when there was more than just you living in your household. Yeah. It worked a lot like that, only less fuss.

The fellows who've lived with us (all entirely heterosexual, as it happens) went about their business and the spousal-unit and I went about our own. Quite often, we passed the time in conversation. More than occasionally we watched the same television program at the same time and in the same room. Every now and then we'd order a pizza or two and (can you imagine such a thing?) we'd more or less share a meal together. Huh. In truth, this 'going about your own business' thing really does preclude sharing meals all that often.

Now... your mileage may vary. I mean... so much depends on just why you're living with a Gay couple. Mostly, however, the 'how' part involves going about your own business and being reasonably sociable when your paths cross. It's not all that difficult.

Questions

2009-11-29T04:22:00.000-05:00

I get questions.

What stuff should you put in a tree house?

OK... right. We'll start off the usual disclaimer: I don't have a tree house. I don't particularly like tree houses. If you have a tree house... I'm so not visiting you in it. That is to say "I am averse to tree houses." It's not that I hate them... you are entirely welcome to enjoy your tree house if that amuses you. The reference in the title of this here blog is an allusion to the trees outside the window. If I twist my neck just so... there they are. If the windows are open I can reach out and touch leaves. OK... in the summer I can do that. Right now I can reach out and touch twigs, it not being summer and all. You actually can't say that about most tree houses. The leaves are really, really close. There is no "Feral's Tree House." Feral more properly lives in a nest... though that's metaphorical as well. The surrounding domicile is a fairly comfortable three-story structure of undetermined (and casually disturbing) composition. OK... four stories if you really insist on counting the cellar. Whatever. I don't live in a tree; I live next to the tree (two of them, really). Further, they're quite bushy trees that seem to prefer the indoors to the out-of-doors. No matter how they get chopped back, they're always trying to climb through the windows. I say "trying" as if they enjoy no measure of success. *snort* They do quite well at it, these trees.

Anyway.

There are three things I can say about what stuff you should put in a tree house.

1) It should be your stuff. Not someone else's stuff.

2) You really do need to consider carefully this whole "up in a tree" thing. I think it goes without saying that the stuff should be small, portable stuff. Otherwise, just how do you plan on getting it up there? Also, there's the whole "down out of the tree" thing. That's a whole lot easier than the "up in a tree" thing: you just give it a bit of a fling or an assertive shove and down it comes. Gravity is like that... very dependable and trustworthy. However, most stuff is not all that suitable for flinging from trees. Trust me on this: when the time comes to bring this, that, or some other bit of stuff down from the tree you're just going to drop it. I think it rather follows that it should be fairly sturdy stuff. So... small, portable, sturdy.

3) Tree houses don't need that much in the way of stuff. There are all manner of required or otherwise desirable attributes of tree houses... like windows. The only stuff a tree house properly needs is you, your person. Otherwise, what's the point of a tree house? A tree house that you don't climb into is a lawn ornament of questionable taste. Stick with garden gnomes or climb up into the tree house. Once there, what you plan on doing there is entirely up to you. Chances are, you'll just be sitting there. I think something comfortable to sit on would be in order. If you have something more ambitious in mind than just sitting in a tree... well good for you. It's likely that there's some bit of stuff that would make that more ambitious activity more enjoyable and I think you should give serious thought to hauling whatever that might be up into the tree.

Just don't invite me up there with you. Not unless "up there" involves staircases with banisters, more than reasonably enclosing walls, and properly screened windows. You know... a house. Next to a tree is fine. Of course, I already have that.

gingham

2009-11-24T00:07:00.000-05:00

I was peering at Towleroad today (I'm prone to doing that) and this line popped out:

The woman born Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta has shot to the forefront of gay consciousness with a combo of cheeky post-Madonna dance grooves and a sartorial sense that makes Björk’s Oscar night Swan dress look like a gingham hand-me-down.

Huh.

Odd sentence. First, it goes and mentions She Who Will Not Be Named by name... which is fine... I guess. You can name She Who Will Not Be Named if you feel you must. But it's the context of the naming... the 'post' stuff. They went and named some species of era after She Who Will Not Be Named? Pleasantly, it seems to have passed, since something can now be termed "post-She Who Will Not Be Named." How sweet. I live in the post-She Who Will Not Be Named era.

Well... once you're of an age, everything is "post-you."

Oops... random fit of cattiness. It'll pass... just ignore it.

The gas cramp having slipped around the uncomfortable corner, the sentence proceeds to Ms Germanotta's sartorial sense. I wouldn't know how much of that sense properly can be said to belong to Ms Germanotta. I mean... folks dress her. They're the sort of folks who dress people on account of that's their profession. The folks that play dress-up with Stefani Germanotta... lots of people entirely approve of their craftsmanship.

I mean... if they wanted to dress me up... I'm your huckleberry. (Seriously, though... only so long as someone else is paying.)

Note to the stylists of the world: while I can probably carry off most of the clothes generally modeled by the likes of Ash Stymest, Cole Mohr, Luke Worrall, and Callum Wilson, I'm substantially older than any of them (make that any two of them combined) and some of the more... risky... selections are really, really ill-advised. That, and anything that requires something resembling the apple-cheeked blush of youth... you're going to want to bring help for that or just forgo it. Oh... and hair. Yeah. Saw a picture of Ash Stymest just today: that hair... that's noticeably longer these days than it had been... I don't have anything resembling that. Any styles that would require me to allow you to play games with my luxuriously flowing tresses are out of the question... owing entirely to my complete and utter lack of the raw materials for the game.

Anyway, this "sartorial sense" ... it makes that dress Björk wore back in 2001 look like "a gingham hand-me-down?"

I'm confused.

That dress did not seem to me outrageous or even flamboyant at the time. It seems less so today. It was a frilly dress. Kind-of plain, if frilly can be thought of as plain (and I am summarily unimpressed by frilly). On top of all that... it was just years and years ago.

Everything that folks wore back in 2001 can be compared to a 'hand-me-down' today. Oh yes.

But gingham's just plain nasty. There's nothing nasty about the swan dress.

Did you know I have a vivid imagination? I'm sure I've mentioned it once or twice. Whatever.

I'm imagining Björk's swan dress in gingham... all the way up to a down-home countrified gingham swan's neck. Ick. I bet my sister would like something like that. I bet my mother would plop down cash for one... so long as she could dress my sister and my niece in the same get-up. Mmmm... matching frilly gingham swans.

But yeah... the folks that dress Lady Gaga do so distinctively. I don't know if comparing something distinctive to something plain, if frilly, is the way to go here.

I mean... let's play the game right. Go on: compare Lady Gaga fashion to... oh, I don't know... Cher fashion. I dare you.

Have a look

2009-11-19T19:54:00.000-05:00

I'm going to drift off into a reverie about style and substance. Sure. That's what I'll be doing.

Style.

Substance.

Style without substance.

Substance without style.

If I come up with anything more than casually amusing, I'll dash off a note.

But...

Sure. Everyone looks different in Dolce & Gabbana. Underneath the D&C, everyone is... you know... who they are.

It makes sense in my own head, but that's because I've been being stalked by a Prada coat. I like it. I think it will look good on me. Scratch that... I'm quite certain it will look good on me. I don't know about those shoes that are usually shown with it. I'm deficient in the 'shoe gene,' you see. Definitely my own shoes wouldn't go so well with the Prada coat that's been creeping about in my peripheral vision, and definitely my own shoes need to be replaced. But... probably not Prada. I'd have to go and wheedle some stylist to pick some shoes out for me... maybe something that would go with the whizz-bang doodads that Manuel Albarran puts out. I can totally see myself in Prada and Albarran. It'd be... different. Mostly because I just do not afford such things.

Mind you, the coat might stop stalking me. That would fix everything.

Yeah. So.

2009-10-27T04:16:00.000-04:00

I was wandering around the Internet (I do that) and I tripped over something. I did. Myself. I'd have not thought that possible, which just goes to show how little imagination I have because... well... it was kind-of inevitable. Whatever. Seems one of them there machine thingies has been plucking keywords out of the Treehouse and has determined that...

wait for it...

it's a Gay blog.

Imagine my shock.

Huh.

Complete and utter surprise here.

Really.

Not so much that some machine thinks my blog is a Gay blog... 'cause it is. Really.

But... get this... said machine has also determined that the Treehouse is an Irish blog. Yeah. Northern Irish, to be specific.

*snort*

Not Irish. I'm not in Ireland, have never been to Ireland, and have no particular interest in changing that state of affairs. I'll grant that I've had the occasion to mention Ireland from time to time. OK... I clearly remember doing so once. I'm just assuming that, having done it once, I'm likely to have done it more than once (because I'm like that). So... yeah... from time to time. Whatever.

Ireland, Ireland, Ireland. There... I've gone and mentioned the place again, and for no reason whatsoever other than to mock the very concept of keywords. I'd trust keywords just about as far as I could toss a page of them into a trash can if I were you. I'm not you, of course. You can do as pleases you best.

Whatever.

That's not the only place I tripped over myself today. Nope. There's this other place... they think the Treehouse is... how do you put it? Ah yes: "safe for work."

Harumph.

You should work at work. That's why they call it "work."

Seems my proclivity for swearing doesn't count for "NSFW." That seems odd to me. I'm not allowed to say "fuckity fuck fuck fuck" at work... or "fuck me with a Q-tip." OK... I exaggerate. As it happens, I do say those very phrases, along with "fuck you very much" at work. I did that just yesterday. A fine, generous, and eminently likable co-worker offered me an over-sized chocolate chip made of dark chocolate (and I just love dark chocolate) so I accepted and said, "Why fuck you. Fuck you very much." So... it's not so much that I'm not allowed to say "fuck" at work... it's just discouraged.

Not very effectively, either.

Huh.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... usually that "not safe for work" stuff (and really... you should work at work) means pictures. Mmmmmmmmmm.... pretty, pretty pictures. Yeah. I don't put those up. It's not that I don't have them. Oh no... I have them. It's just that... well... they're mine. I'm like that.

But.

I do have this amusing picture of a really very remarkably large butt plug. You never know when I might post a picture of some honkin' huge, ginormous butt plug. That's the sort of thing I'd do.

Seriously... the thing is just huge.