I would like a spudnut as I sit in San Francisco International Airport waiting for a flight home.  I wonder if The Spudnut Shop delivers.

02 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

After having extolled Portland as being very gay friendly (which it is), I returned from a business trip to discover someone tore the rainbow flag from my house.  The vandal pulled with such force the steel mounting bracket snapped.  I doubt Crazy Helga could either reach or summon the strength for this task; it is likely the work of younger neighbors.

04 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Crazy Helga was Just Fucking Insane Helga this evening.

One of the neighbors has a basketball hoop at the end of his driveway.  This driveway borders Crazy Helga's yard.  The children in the neighborhood play basketball in the street and occasionally they have to retrieve an errant ball from Helga's property.

I was in the dining room preparing to paint and a herd of young girls was bouncing a ball in the street.  Suddenly, a bell began ringing, the children fell silent and then scattered.  I looked out the window and Crazy Helga was pacing in front of the basketball hoop carrying her "Private Property" sign in one hand and ringing a large hand bell with the other. 

The girls gathered in a tight knot twenty feet down the street.  They turned to look at Helga and she charged at them with the bell swinging.  Helga then retreated and took guard of the basketball hoop like a Storm Trooper overlooking Omaha Beach.  She paced in a tight circle for more than an hour, ringing the bell and waving the sign.

Crazy Helga: geisteskrank.

07 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

I grew up in a house where we never discussed bodily functions.  The elimination of waste was a forbidden subject; passing gas in an occupied room was an offense just shy of blasphemy.  "Shit" was only slightly less offensive than "fuck" and worthy of severe reprisals; "nocturnal ejaculation" was the only acceptable term to describe a wet dream.

The Navy offered a different perspective.  Sailors talked about every bodily function - quite proudly.  Large bowel movements were often left in toilet bowls and proffered as evidence to the masculinity of the producer.  Farting was a contest and the ability to light farts through underwear was a celebrated tradition.  Communal urination on walls in Third World countries was a bonding ritual.

When discussing bodily functions, I still lean toward my uber-conservative childhood lessons more than the in-your-face Navy traditions.  I'd rather not know what happens in the bathroom and I installed a very loud exhaust fan to ensure I never do.

This brings me to the question of the day:  Is it acceptable to urinate in the shower?  Click here and tell me what you think.

08 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Responses to yesterday's question approve of urinating in the shower by two to one.  Two people claimed the practice is effective at fighting foot fungus.  I am skeptical of this claim.

<rant warning>

Listening to NPR this week, I find myself annoyed at the coverage of the presidential campaign.  NPR, like other news outlets, seems to focus entirely on the conduct of the campaign, the visual appearance of the candidates, and meaningless polls to the exclusion of any substantive conversation about issues or promises.  This allows both major candidates to tour the country spewing irrational emotional statements without committing to any plan for the future.

The Boston Globe, the San Francisco Chronicle and even the little Portland newspaper carry the campaign analysis on the front page.  Four pages back, frightening articles about global warming, income disparity, poverty and medical coverage get continuous, second-rate billing. 

I stated previously I believe citizenship should not be automatic nor free.  Simply being born in the United States is insufficient qualification to vote.  If citizens were truly qualified to make decisions on who should govern, then terms like "homeland" and "freedom" would be laughed from the national stage and the current government called to task for its myriad failures.

</rant warning>

13 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Yahoo, Billy Bob!  It is legal to own assault weapons once again!

The Homosexual Liberation Army, also known as Queens with Big Hair and Big Guns, is happy this day has arrived.  Nothing says "NO!" to gay bashing like a fully automatic rifle with a ninety round clip.  As long as your ammunition belt matches your pumps, you are free to go shopping with an Uzi in your purse.

(Gee, Billy Bob, if I were a right-wing het-ro-sexual, I might be a smidgen concerned the gays might not just take this opportunity to get uppity in an entirely new fashion....)

Isn't a bit odd that the United States won't allow the boys next door to marry but does allow them to own .50 caliber machine guns with belts of armor-piecing rounds?  Nothing says family values like the ability to reduce neighbors, visitors and the presumed attacker to unidentifiable bits of flesh and bone. 

The NRA is primarily an organization of overweight Americans with bumper stickers reading:  "They can take my gun when they pry it from my cold, dead hands."  A more appropriate sticker might note how relatives will inherit these guns after a failed quadruple bypass surgery or adult onset diabetes.

Any rational adult understands the average citizen does not need to be armed with automatic weapons.  Even so, until the government gets around to banning guns altogether, I will market my line of Smith & Drag Queen arms.  Available in a variety of hues to match your nails, wig or eyeliner, these weapons go from day to evening wear with a quick change of the barrel.  Whether you prefer something small enough to fit in your handbag or large enough to destroy an entire army of hate mongers, Smith & Drag Queen has the weapon for you. 

Step right up, no waiting, no permits, no rational reason for purchase required.

14 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

The downside to owning a hundred year old house is being responsible for a century of deferred maintenance.  Each time a workman arrives it seems I learn of another necessary repair.  Where I once wanted to tackle all the work at once, I now divide the list into "Dire Importance:  Required to Survive Winter", "Can Wait Until Next Spring", and "Pass On To Next Owner".

I thought I was nearly complete with my Dire Importance list until I discovered the attic had no insulation.  Before I can install insulation, I must remove the ancient knob-and-tube wiring from my rental unit.  To remove the knob-and-tube wiring requires opening the plaster walls and replacing with drywall.  New drywall must be primed and painted before the unit can be rented. 

The tenant pays for utilities, so I suppose I could wait until spring...

My neighbor is named Richard Willey.  He prefers "Dick" which makes him Dick Willey.  I am uncertain why only I see the humor in this name.  Dick Willey leans across the fence and says:  "Looks like your putting a lot of money into that house.  Hope you can get it back out!"

Dick's wife often leaves her car idling in the driveway for hours at a time with the air conditioner running.  In this manner, the car will always be cool when she is ready to go somewhere.  Whether she continues this behavior in the winter is unknown.

Dick may be right.  I might own a giant money pit located across the street from a crazy German chick.  Or, by next summer, I may have the most valuable house on the block. 

Excuse me, I need to go check on the boiler repairs.

15 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

I have a stalker.  All my acquaintances in San Francisco know him.  My far-flung readers might be surprised by this news.

Stalker Boy has been more or less a part of my life for five years.  Although we dated and agreed to end the relationship, he changed his mind sometime after we separated.  He's never violent, but he is unrelenting in his attempts to return to my life. Stalker Boy never really threatened my safety which eliminates any hope of legal intervention.

Given the disparity in our income, I thought my move to Maine might end Stalker Boy's efforts to lurk at the corners  of my existence.  Less than two weeks after I arrived in Portland, people mentioned him.  He stretched his presence across three thousand miles.

Stalking, like a relationship, has good moments and bad.  Stalker Boy's efforts over the last half-decade have been at times either humorous or vaguely frightening.  Stalker stories provide wonderful fodder for party conversation and adequate reason to keep a loaded handgun in the bedside table.

I wonder if Stalker Boy will tire of following me about the land.  Five years is a long time to pursue someone.

16 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Driving home from Cambridge yesterday, I spotted a grove of trees beginning to turn red; the very first sign of a larger change to come.  California has just two seasons:  warm and warmer.  After living on the West Coast for more than a decade, I'm eager to experience autumn.

Sunlight slants further across my kitchen floor in these last days of summer.  The nights are cooler and the cats have taken to sleeping on their heated blanket. 

I will drive north on Sunday to the L.L. Bean Flagship Store to begin my own autumnal change.  L.L. Bean is the pride of Maine; the store is open 24 hours a day all year.  With a profusion of flannel and fleece, this store may explain Maine's large concentration of women in comfortable shoes.

17 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

I strongly dislike shopping.  Traveling to any local Consumer Village exposes me to the dreadful masses who waddle between meaningless jobs and worthless stacks of discount-priced, molded plastic objects.  To minimize my exposure, I accumulate a significant list of purchases before I venture past my property line.

Given the significant changes in the status of women in the past century, I am baffled why so many females still carry purses.  This heavy baggage always appears stuffed with items of minor import and rare usage.  Aside from credit cards and cash (which men carry in wallets), it seems the only other objects women truly need are lipstick and tampons, the latter for perhaps ten days per month.  Perhaps women's garments lack the pockets associated with pants, yet those side bags - which are better suited for equine pursuits - could be downsized.

Maybe purses are manifest emotional baggage.  If I was not intimately acquainted with numerous frightening bitches who carry tiny purses, I might suggest the size of a purse correlated to the need to recline on a therapist's couch.

I despise being caught in a checkout line behind (a) someone fumbling through a purse to find the last two pennies necessary to complete a purchase and avoid using another dollar bill, (b) someone reinstalling the seventeen objects required to be removed from a purse to reach the cash wallet stowed near the bottom, (c) anyone who still uses a checkbook, regardless of gender, and (d) anyone from (c) who only begins writing said check once the cashier is finished.

I also despise men who dig through lint-filled pockets looking for pennies and change.  I often wonder how many years I might serve for beating them thoroughly with my yet-unpurchased protein bars.

23 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

"I've never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died." - Televangelist Jimmy Swaggart speaking on a televised broadcast last week.

Most of the population is unaware of the new trend in homosexual accessories.  I am not referring to matching Prada bags and pumps, iPods with leopard print faceplates, or foreskin replacement surgery.  No, the hippest fashion this year is arriving at a party on the arm of an aging, preferably white guy, with a bad combover and a job in television ministries.  Just last week I saw Harvey Fierstein with Benny Hinn.

Age is rarely a kind companion.  It is less so to flyover heterosexuals who suffer extended midsections, drooping hind sections, and elastic waistbands in greater numbers than coastal populations.  Whatever one thinks of youth-inspired advertising, few gay men are lining up to date elderly gents who carry Bibles instead of fashionable handbags.  Jimmy can safely venture beyond the gates of his television studio.

Is it a bit odd that Jimmy and his male pals are fearful of having their butts perused by gay men while they expect heterosexual women to appreciate similar behavior when delivered by straight men?

24 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

My childhood closet rarely contained more than a single pair of shoes.  Whether dictated by budgetary constraints or wise parenting for a herd of growing boys, shoes remained in use until patched with duct tape and cardboard. 

My adult closet contains more shoes than its predecessor.  The shoes considered "in use" number too many to fit in the closet, so I keep a few pair under a bench in the mudhall.  The Not Yet Opened Boxes of shoes fill the large top shelf of the closet, side to side and top to bottom.  Finding shoes in my size is difficult and such a reserve is simply prudent planning. 

I categorize shoes not by style but by wear:  Still In Box, Dinner Party, Lesser Dinner Party, Everyday Use, Painting and Gardening, Donate to Charity.

Settling my estate someday in the future will be an easy task; except, perhaps, the disposition of forty or fifty pairs of size 13 shoes.

25 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Folsom Street Fair is tomorrow.  Click here for photographs from previous fairs.

28 September 2004 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

Leigh is coming to visit this weekend and my calendar is filled with work obligations.  There will be little posted here until I complete other projects.

In the interim, enjoy photographs from Folsom Street Fair.