On Thursday after training we had a lovely mixer cruise on the SF bay. Got to meet guys from all the teams and saw a nice sunset.
Friday was the first day of our tourney. We had an embarassing loss to an unexpectedly good rookie team from LA. Didn't score a try, but we were ready for the London Steelers in the next match, the team to beat. We didn't beat them, but played a good game of rugby. Our final match against the San Francisco Fog's B side was won festively.
Saturday we played the Seattle Quake in an intense match that ended in a 0-0 sudden death. We won and the very hyper Renegades were terribly glad for the win. Our final match against the SF Fog B team ended in a loss, but it was a good match with us up against their goal line for much of the game.
That evening we all celebrated at a post-tourney social in an art gallery, which has probably never seen so many drunken, naked men in a long time. I wanted to go out dancing but after a day in the sun, drinking and rugby I was not up for it in the least.
Today was the Pride march and festival. I initially intended to just watch, but after the 23rd leather/circuit boy float with disco music and bouncing pectorals, I decided to join the parade in the rugger contingent rather than be bored by it. The festival was overwhelming, and I think I only scratched the surface before retiring to my host's wonderfully quiet home. I'm sufficiently Proud for the rest of the year, thank you.
Going to socialize with my host tonight and head out tomorrow morning to return to the refreshing structure and protocol of Washington, DC. Ten years ago I visited San Fran and stayed with a friend. Even though I had just come out at the time, I had decided that SF was "too gay". Today my opinion of San Francisco remains the same, and I'm happy to be living in a city that has a large population of gay men in it by chance, rather than by design. San Francisco is a beautiful, livable city, but it's too much for jimbo.
It certainly ain't Code Red here, it's breezy and chilly. Wish I had brought some warmer clothes, but my host has provided extra stuff to wear.
Last night about four Renegades had arrived, but most of the Spartans and Steelers were at the meet-n-greet at the Pilsner. Much beer was consumed, and it was good to see everybody again. It sounds like the tournament is more of an event than the Pride celebration, and judging by the buzz in the air there should be a good crowd, making the matches intense. The tourney got a front page caption in the main SF paper, and top billing in the weekend section.
Today many of us went on a fun trolley tour of the city, followed by a boat trip to Alcatraz. Tonight is the pre-party at the Eagle, and tomorrow training and a dinner.
There's definitely a different vibe here than in DC. Can't walk a block without smelling pot, and there's lots of guys here with Tom Selleck/Chuck Norris style mustaches.
I remember this guy. I remember going to the emergency room in a truck with him. I remember his dislocated shoulder and my split chin. I remember him singing "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" for the guys from Buenos Aires.
I remember my neighbor, the pilot, walking his dog across the street with his partner. I remember September 11, 2001. I remember the mass exodus of people from National Airport. I remember driving away from the Pentagon, watching it smoke in the rear-view mirror. I remember watching my neighbor moving his partner's belongings into a U-Haul truck.
There may be scant blogging going on while I'm away at the rugby tournament in San Francisco. I'll try to keep y'all posted, but we'll see if I can find a 'pooter while I'm over there.
Well, our only other scrumhalf just got his foot smooshed yesterday playing soccer, so it's unlikely I'll be doing fullback duty (heh heh). Today my head was clear and I was barking orders like a scrumhalf should, and it felt right.
After some thought, the idea of a hottie stalkee referencing system is a bad idea. DC is not like littleminx's NYC. By now I'm probably only one degree separated from any stalkee on the reference list, and in this town word gets around.
Spending the afternoon chillin' out, havin' jimbo time before the roomate returns. I need some down time after this week, and before next week's craziness.
We have the technology, but we ain't using it. I realize the summer is busy for all of you, but some of you could drop me a line from time to time with more than just a link or a joke to share. Four paragraphs about how you are doing ain't gonna kill you. Jimbo shares daily, why don't you share at least monthly?
I have decided to adopt something similar to littleminx's Hottie Referencing System (HRS). He wisely superscripts and references each hottie frequently seen. I'll imrove on that by adding thumbnail photos I've found of said stalkees over the years, and a little bio on each one of them. Hotties like Bubba, Jocko and Jason don't really count (sorry guys), as I've corresponded with them and have ceased objectifying them. I'll limit it to my top 10 objects of lust in the DC Metropolitan Region, and include a little pop-up window bio for the readers' convenience. Sadly, Tim from rugby will not be on the list as I'm beginning to shake off his spell.
Last night at rugby practice the coach had me playing fullback. Fullback? I am a teensy, wee slip of a man, a mere buck-fifty...no match for an onrushing forward intent on making a try. I thought I was just filling an empty space, but after practice, he iterated that because I can catch, run and tackle, he wanted me to have some experience with the position before the tournament next week. Apparently the guy who usually fills the position on our team is known to "expire" early, and hasn't been to practice lately. I'm actually counting on the current scrumhalf to "expire" early as well. He claims to run 2-4 miles a day, but his drinking habits and sagging gut tell me something else.
Anyhoo, I don't know enough about American football or soccer to make any comparisions, but in rugby the fullback is the last guy on the defense to stop an offensive guy with the ball from making a try (goal). He's usually big and fast. In a defensive game, the fullback gets beat up a lot. In an offensive game, he's frequently bored. It will depend on how the games go, but I'll be sure to catch that goddamn ball and kick it right back into their part of the field ASAP. I'll be sure to gnash my mouthguard and get ready for the hits.
There are these obnoxious painted fiberglass donkeys and elephants all over town, part of a "Party Animal" art project. I would like to exercise my artistic creativity by finding a unique way to destroy each and every one of them: immolation, disintegration, oxidation, pummeling, collision, etc. Thankfully, "independent street artists" are doing this for me. Very few of these things are truly creative, artistic or tasteful. Most are very cliche works that even jimbo could improve on. Can't wait until they all get sent to the glue factory.
Hmm...yesterday I dropped some mail off at the ghetto post office and took the Metrorail to work. I did the same thing today, but the difference was the presence of armed police officers at both the post office and in the Metro station. Something must be up, but I hope it's not in DC.
Last night I managed to find a pair of grass clippers and went to work on the backyard turning all the overgrown tufts of grass into nice fashionable flattops. This will allow the gourds free reign of the area. I've already put two vines to work climbing the railing. This morning I helped the ants pollinate by plucking a male flower from one vine and rubbin' it up all sexy like against a fruiting female blossom. Nothing like gettin' it on before 8am.
EPA says toxic sludge is good for fish
Oh my god...why don't we just bring James Watt back into the picture, shall we? The bureaucratic logic is astonishing...if you dump sludge into the Potomac, the fish will flee faster upstream! The permit to dump expired in 1995 and began in 1989. Strangely enough, shad runs up Rock Creek have increased visibly since 1995. I always stop to watch them every March when I'm riding my bike up the Rock Creek bike trail. Apparently the EPA granted a new permit to begin dumping in the Potomac again. Washington, DC: America's dumping ground and human rights forgotten realm. (We still have no Senate or House representation on the Hill.)
Welcome Back jimbo! She will have much to share from her travels, for sure. Gurl, did you pick me up a pair of spidersilk hiking boots from the Underdark? Thanks.
Please welcome Steve, Dan and Glenn: all woofy in their own ways. Contact established and sidebar blog links added. Lookin' forward to comparing Peace Corps experiences with Glenn, as he was stationed in Uzbekistan, much more interesting than Kazakstan. Woofy, single, but living in NYC.
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Jeez...pensive and whiney blog entries sure are popular. Nobody gives a hoot about my happy blog entries. Like a few months ago when I was deep in a pit of situational depression (now known as The Kate Bush Period), people were commenting like crazy.
So here's more whiney content for you whiney-content lovers out there: I am grumpy today. I'm getting pissed off and impatient about my job situation, pissed off at my current supervisors who micromanage. Get this: the supervisor kevetched about a blinking light on my telephone. "Get that blinking light fixed," he said. The blinking light has no measurable impact on my job performance or his. Splitting hairs and redundancy drive me batty. Perhaps a solution to the terrible blinking light problem would be to to shove it up your ass, then no one will be affected by the awesome force of the blinking light. However, the boss in question probably wouldn't even feel the presence of a large office telephone in his rectum, and is probably oversensitive enough to actually feel the blinking light on the phone in his ass.
Then there's my cubicle. It's at the nexus of the printer bank, fax machine and the hallway, so everybody and their cousin is walking by. What I love is when people who have their own offices with doors stop by to have a clandestine meeting by my cubicle and whisper to each other. Go to your fucking office, close the door, and have your high-security meeting. I have blogging to do, leave me alone.
In happy, unreadable news, my lush gourds are now blossoming, fruiting, vining and entwining. Soon I will train them to climb up the rear stairwell, creating a cucurbitopia of untold proportions, unseen in DC since the Golden Age of Gourds in 1936 when Horace Lewzowski created exotic gourd topiary on the White House lawn in the shape of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Back in high school my friends and I would go to this train bridge over the Mississippi River and jump off various levels of it into the river. I can't believe we are still alive, as we must have jumped off from points 60' or more above the water. I recall Sean got a super-river-water enema from one titanic leap.
Before you jumped off, you had to take a few breaths and steel yourself for the leap. You had to be ready to jump and hit the water so hard it hurt.
Lately, I'll sometimes I get this feeling that I want to meet The Guy and get all swept away and gooey and get lost in someone. Then I step back from the edge of the bridge back onto the solid iron girders. Not ready for that, too emotionally exhausted for that, not yet reckless enough for that jump again...yet.
You have to have a certain readiness, a certain recklessness to be able to fall into a relationship. Sometimes we fall in too deep and take too long to get out...and end up far down the river from where you jumped in. It takes a while and some effort to get back to where we started and to what we were. Some of us never take time for a breath or two before jumping again and end up falling too hard, over and over again, and keep getting hurt.
I'm all aflutter over Genre Magazine's June Daddy Issue. It features a smouldering fashion photoessay featuring "The Daddy Look". They claim it's now "in". Let's hope they're right. Smooth twinkies get caught in my teeth. I prefer prime American beef over free range chicken.
Yesterday while blog surfing, I found some neato webmaster resources. If cute little navigation icons turn you on, these sites are for you.
Be warned: a friend of mine was mugged last Friday on 14th and S, Northwest DC. There have been several muggings and robberies there of late, precipitated no doubt by the increased number of people up and down that street with loose cash on hand. Gentrification and new restraunts have sprung up there in the past year or so, increasing human traffic and human traffic conflicts. He's fine, but has some remarkable bruises from a strike or two from a chain and a length of rubber hose. Luckily, a nearby samaritan stopped the assault before his injuries were worse. Walk with friends, and don't stagger home after too many cocktails alone.
I'm workin' on the core body workout again. Get out that Gymnic ball and wobble board, and fear my power. I need enhanced torso strength to rip down those other little scrumhalves in San Francisco rugby tournament next week. Grrr. The Fog is goin' down, and I've promised myself to show those pretty little L.A. gurls who's boss. NYC team? Chumps. Manchester? Well, there's so much inter-team "friendship" between us it's hard to be mean to all of one's former tricks. I am concerned about the London Steelers. They've had a good season this year.
"Misandronistic." I always wondered what the opposite of misogynistic was. Now that Fitz has slammed the play we saw on Saturday night, I can critique too, since he bought the tickets and it would have been impolite to dis it before he did.
It was a play that consisted entirely of what I call "breeder humour" monolouges. That is, the very trite cliched generalizations that men are noncommunicative slobs and that women are hypersensitive birthing machines. The same sort of shit you read in "Men are from Mars..." and in the play "Defending the Caveman". We attended the show to support the theatre's first play, but ours was the most silent, unresponsive row in the house. I just couldn't relate since I am a tidy, hypersensitive male who was in a relationship for three years with another hypersensitive man who would have been a birthing machine if he could have.
My experiences with female roomates have blown those stereotypes out of the water. Perhaps women only start becoming sensitive and tidy after they marry. Until then, they're just as sloppy as men, or even more so. Let me cite some examples: Alaska, 1994: Jordanna couldn't be bothered to touch the dishes. Portland, 1995: Jackie's hair gumming up every drain in the house. DC: Karen using my cooking pots to melt wax used for removing her armpit hair. There were still some stray armpit hair stubbles in the pot when she was done with it. Mmm...nothing like armpit stubble to give that special texture to oatmeal.
My two biggest accomplishments this weekend were to attempt to get a new shade for an art deco desk lamp I found in the house, and the pleasure of buying a Manny-sized blue-raspberry slurpee from 7-11.
Not sure about Matt Lauer's new buzzcut. It shows off his greying temples better, but I liked his old styled hair too.
Watergate is both a historic scandal and a very unattractive building.
It is not unknown for Forest Service employees or firefighters to start fires deliberately. You get a lot of overtime pay fighting fires.
Speakin' of Peace Corpses, I weighed myself this evening at the gym and I'm a whopping 150# on the dot. That's the same weight I was at when I left my Peace Corps service. At that time, it was due to daily diarhea and shitty food. Now, it's due to skippin' meals, bein' lazy, and probably some depression thrown in. That's too damn skinny for me. Two months out of the gym has taken its toll, and I need those extra ten pounds for rugby.
When I got home I made myself a big meal. No more skippin' meals, and as soon as my gym membership kicks in completely by the 23rd, I'm back at it 5 days a week. Even leg workouts.
Remember when you got a 90% or a 100% on your math or spelling quiz, and you got a gold star? Gold stars and other small awards tend to taper off as you get older. Nobody seems to give you credit for the little things that deserve little stars.
I keep thinking that gays and lesbians need a Gold Star Comissioner, who comes up to you and slaps it on your forehead like a caste symbol. For coming out intact against the societal and cultural flow from your parents, the workplace, and even other gays, you deserve a gold star.
The gold star idea came to me again after I finished a conversation with an acquaintance the other day. 'Jeff' told me the story of himself and an object of his fascination at a local club. Even though Jeff knew this guy was an asshole, he was enspelled to go up and chat with him, especially after the bravery of 2 downed and one half-finished beers were in him. As Jeff was finishing his third beer, the object of his lust went away and handed him his unfinished 'cocktail'. Jeff finished off his beer AND the 'cocktail', and immediately noticed something was terribly wrong.
The 'cocktail' was seltzer water and GHB. When GHB mixes with any alcohol in your bloodstream, you could go comatose or die. Luckily, Jeff puked most of it out, but was very ill several days later.
What was shocking to me was that the object of lust knew Jeff had drank several beers, and probably knew of the effects of GHB on an already inebriated system. To give a drunk person G is simply evil. To put it in a geek way, this person was Chaotic Evil, the worst of the worst.
I immediately went into Deanna Troi counselor mode, and became very overprotective for Jeff, who I think hasn't been out for long, or has had his nose in a book for too many semesters. Gave him my number and strongly suggested he call so we can go hang out. Jeff works in a place where the self-medicated get more medicated, so I'm guessing he's falling in with the wrong crowd.
Anyhoo, my core beliefs were a bit shaken by this conversation. I believe everybody is born inherently good, and that people are made evil, or let themselves become so. I often forget that there are evil people out there, or perhaps I block it out of my mind. To knowingly give G to a drunk person is homicide, plain and simple. An evil act. If Jeff ever tells me who this person is, I'm not sure how I'd treat this person if I ever meet him.
Then I compare myself to this evil person who basically deliberately poisoned Jeff. I couldn't do that, the idea would never enter my mind. I would be the one dragging Jeff home and nursing him after the bad experience. The difference between me and this person is vast, and dammit, I deserve a gold star for that.
I saw Jimmy Carter and his grandson this morning on the Today show talking about the Peace Corps 40th Anniversary. Of course the young Carter had a lovely time in Africa wearing kakhi shorts, sweating and teaching English. My experience was a little different.
During the first winter I was stationed in Kazakstan, 40 people froze to death in a bus that broke down just outside my region. The temperatures remained below -40 degrees Celsius day and night. My cat and three thick wool blankets were my only source of heat. The ice was black, it was so cold and dense.
Needless to say, I was only there for a year. Winters on the Siberian steppe that are shocking to a boy from Wisconsin are pretty damn cold. I'd have to say that the best part of my service was exchanging ideas and cultures, not necessarily the work that I performed. But part of the scope of the 'work' that Peace Corps does is cultural exchange. I'll always remember training in the gym owned by the former Soviet Afghan veterans who taught me muay thai kickboxing, shopping for tomatoes and cucumbers in the bazaar, or the grey, monolithic Soviet-style apartments that everyone lived in.
In a nutshell, the people we once feared and reviled during the Cold War are just plain folks, who party and live like the rest of us. Happy Anniversary, Peace Corps!
I'm feeling better today, thanks.
There are certain things that are unwise to do if you have a web log (blog). I've found out over the years by trial and error that certain things you say on your blog can and will be used against you, and you'll probably deserve it too. I try to stick to a set of self-imposed rules, but I know I'm a hypocrite sometimes as I often break them.
The big thing to remember is that a blog is usually open for public view and discussion. Even my mom may be reading your blog. I know my friend Brian and I have exchanged many an e-mail laughing about what has been said on this blog or that.
The challenge for the blogger is to make your blog interesting to read, yet pleasant enough to the reader to make them keep coming back. You also have to coat your statements so your opinions don't appear to be one-dimensional. People who read your blog may not really know you that well, and are judging you based on a paragraph or two.
Then again, a blog can be a very individual undertaking. Some people just don't care what others think. That's the freedom of blogging. If you do care, here's some to grow on:
I'm at home sick today. I felt it comin' on yesterday, and feel like a victim of a freight train attack today. I'll be going to the doctor later this afternoon.
Surfing the net to pass the time. Found a nice goateed pic of Ben Browder, the hottie from Sci-Fi Channel's Farscape. Whenever I watch that show, I always try to use Jedi Mind tricks on the television to make him take his shirt off. Never works though, as I'm just a padowan Jedi initiate.
It's promising to this underemployed webmaster to see that highly paid techies who do back end coding and server work can't design for usability and downloadability worth a damn. It gives me hope that such folks legitimize the hiring of designers when the time comes to make a simple and intuitive website. And then there's cool Flash designers who we wish had blogs. Everybody say hello to Steve from London.
You may notice a change in my blog layout. Not much time for a full-fledged redesign these days, but I moved some things around and added the pic 'o the day that you see. I'll try to update it weekly at the very least, so I guess it's not actually a daily pic.
OK, before you freak out about "dirty bombs", let little 'ol jimbo give you the 411 on radioactive materials.
How does an underemployed webmaster living in DC know about such things? During my Peace Corps duty in Kazakstan in '95-'96, I worked with an environmental group at Karaganda University who monitored radiation levels on the Semipalatinsk 'Polygon'. The Polygon was a region in the district next to mine where the largest volume of Soviet nuclear testing was conducted during the Cold War and all the way up to the mid-80's. Back in the '60's, residents of Karaganda could watch tremendous bright flashes in the Eastern night sky, and were able to monitor local daily levels of radiation at the local 'Zoom' department store.
The group of biologists and geneticists I worked with at "Eco-Center" performed biological radionucleide monitoring. That is, they took blood samples from small mammals and reptiles, and then painstakingly counted the amount of fucked up chromosomes in their red blood cells. Apparently you can measure the amount of background radiation without a Geiger Counter using the much cheaper erythrocyte chromosome counting method. If the ratio of fucked up chromosomes to healthy chromosomes is higher than normal, a conversion table apparently marks the amount of radiation that fucks up the chromosomes. A fucked up X-shaped chromosome will have one of it's arms or legs missing, or one of the strands will be bent or broken in some way.
I got to spend some time on the Polygon. A week of background radiation no worse than what you'd get living on a mountainside and I'm no worse for wear. I have an efficient immune system and my gonads are intact. Sadly, there are farmers and ranchers still living on the Polygon, still harvesting food from an irradiated ecosystem. They often wander a bit too close to the old, much hotter craters. Eco-Center advocated government sponsored relocation for these people, and for medical subsidies since leukemia rates were so high amongst these people.
Anyway, I had to do a lot of background research on radionucleides, alpha-, beta- and gamma-radiation, and the effects of radiation on humans and small critters. Since I was doing research and translating scientific grant proposals from Russian to English, I had to know my subject material.
I found out a few things about radiation in my studies. For one thing, you get a lot more harmful radiation by smoking, living in the Rockies or spending too much time out in the sun than you do hanging out near nuclear reactors or former nuclear test sites. However, do stay away from suspicious-looking craters, spent fuel rods and broken-down x-ray machines at your local dump.
How can a "dirty bomb" hurt you? Well, most of the initial damage will be from the explosive material than from the spent radioactive material. You're not going to get the nasty alpha- and beta-radiation burns that you would get from a nuclear reaction. The reaction has already taken place in the spent material, eliminating most of the threat. However, the danger in the dirty bomb exposure would be the long term effects from the gamma-radiation from the spent material. That shit is what will cause leukemia, cancers and other slow illnesses. The slow electromagnectic wavelengths of gamma radiation is such that it causes chromosomal degradation which leads to cancerous cell growth.
But that's only if you're right there at the explosion. If you're lucky and are not there, and stay away from the explosion site while they clean it up, you'll be OK.
Again, the force and energy from a dirty bomb would be from the inert explosive material, not from the spent radioactive material. It would only cause as much mass damage as the explosives involved, but there would be no humongous mushroom cloud or anything like that. There will be no "Day After" from a dirty bomb, just a very messy cleanup and lingering medical problems for those nearby.
I'm not advocating dirty bomb use. It's a horrible thing to do, just as horrible as the 9/11 attacks or use of nuclear warheads. What is scary is that dirty bomb materials are relatively easy to find if you're not a stooge like Jose Padilla. All it will take is one relatively smart person to find spent nuclear fuel or used material from an x-ray machine, attach it to a moderately powerful bomb, and set it off. He/she will probably get a little hot in the process if he's not careful. Just desserts, asshole.
Fitz, you have now been upgraded to the esteemed title of Hierophant Uber-Hyper-Ultra Geek for that outfit. Shit, that get-up beats my White Hand Orc outfit I wore for the Lord of the Rings live-action role playing (LARP) game way back in Governor Dodge State Park, Wisconsin. Do you have a complete Klingon outfit somewhere deep in your closet?
Like a bitter ex-boyfriend (hmm...the metaphor hits too close to home these days) stalking his ex, I scan the website I used to manage and notice that some other person has started to create new pages for it. Hmph, they used gifs instead of jpgs for their new page! The guy (girl?) has no idea what they're doing...MY site is being ruined! Downloadability, usability and low bandwidth out the door! They'll see, they'll miss me, their site will CRASH without me! They'll be sorry they ever dumped me. Gif files for Internet use be thrice be damned.
However (let's use another metaphor, shall we?), like a newly single jimbo getting attention from hotties during the gay pride festival, I've learned from the source that a super-sweet position I've been hoping for now has the green light for funding. It's permanent, it's lucrative, and it's where I want to work. My resume and phone number are in the right places. Say your prayers for jimbo, and one day he'll be a big, fat, guv'ment cat soon.
You know my percussion could never be fresher, Sheila E rocks the best under pressure. Wow, jimbo was impressed by Saturday's Sheila E concert at GWU's Lisner Auditorium. Most of her set was cool jazz style music with her talented band, the E-Train. They were all very skilled with their insturments. Of course there was the requisite trap drum solo where Miss E broke her drumsticks in a percussion frenzy. The neato part of the concert was when she got up to play this thing called a '.wav machine'. Perhaps Fitz knows what the hell it was...E claimed they are no longer manufactured. It resempled a big 'Simon' memory game gadget on a stand, which E used much like a bongo. She played off of her sax player for a while a la 'deuling banjos', then segued into a salsa version of Sting's "Desert Rose". Pretty damn cool shit. She accepted the Smithsonian's award for esteemed something or other for her contribution to women in the arts, then left us with a jazzy version of "The Glamourous Life."
Met up with some friends at the Green Lantern, and was suprised to learn that bar jobs have benefits after you quit. Didn't pay for a drink the whole night! I guess it's good not to burn your bridges. If only I could pull that off with the well-paying jobs. "Here Jimbo...here's some free flights from National Airport, just because we like you so much."
Today was the Capitol Pride Festival down on Pennsylvania Ave. It was cool, yet surreal to watch Tammy Faye spew cliche inspirations to us with the U.S. Capitol in the background. Saw lots of friends as expected, as well as the ex who now shares a pair of matching mountain bikes with his newfound love. I supressed the urge to vomit right then and there, and it wasn't due to the heat coming off the blacktop. Sure woulda been nice to mountain bike together way back when, but I guess priorities are different now.
However, it's always good for the ego after a breakup to have a pair of mature, musclebound 'Silverback Males' as I call them stroll up to me, daub my exposed nipples with ice cream, and lick it off in tandem right there on the street in front of God, Tammy Faye and everybody else.
Sorry, Fitz, I cannot upgrade you to cool. I can cite page 120 of the Dungeons and Drag Queens Player's Handbook, which states that any levels taken in the Geek character class negate any and all benefits from taking any in the Cool character class. True, you do have a cool website, and are in a band. However, if you can answer any of the following questions (and I know you can), it is proof that you have more than a few levels as a Geek, which overshadows any benefits of being Cool:
An interesting article about hemorrhoids in the Washington Blade this week. Mine have finally gone away, and they fucking sucked. Had 'em for over a month, and if you ever get them, I can offer tons of suggestions for soothing the rectal fires and for treatment.
Dolly Parton is coming to DC to perform at the 930 Club, just down the street from me. All the queens are abuzz about it. I'm probably going.
One incentive for this American to watch the world cup.
Slow day at work today, thus two blogs for the price of one. When blogstalking, one can't help but notice the near total lack of cool people in Washington, DC. Sure, there are the undermedicated, the quirky and the freakish, but no cool people here. I'm talking about the often jobless, chain smoking people you see at coffee shops in college towns. Part of the reason there are so few cool people in DC is that the standard of living is so goddamn high. Cool people are usually poor and wouldn't be able to survive here. The other reason is that DC is not a cool town. This town is all about conformity, policy and procedure. Coolness is not a part of policy and procedure. Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, freshly back to the US from their host countries, use their cultural integration skills to realize what the DC scene is like. They soon shed their Birkenstocks, Guatemalan weave handbags and tresses for an interview suit, buzzcut and laptop PC.
HTML skill and a flair with Photoshop does not make one cool, even if you're woofy. I am not cool: cool people don't get excited at the thought of shopping at Eddie Bauer for that 'classic' look. Yet I crave coolness, merely because there is so little of it here. Kiri moved to NYC from DC to find coolness such as this, as she herself is cool. Jon constantly bemoans the lack of cool people to meet. Me, I moved here for the guys who are educated and well-traveled. Coolness would be nice, but I can do without the chain smoking. Still, it would be cool to know more cool people to hang out with here.
Prince is 44 years old today. Yesterday, I mentioned excitedly to my 20-year old coworker that I was going to see Sheila E in concert this Saturday. She had no idea who Sheila E was. I will forgive her this time and chalk it up to the unusually warm weather. Next time she claims ignorace of Shiela E I will force her to listen to my entire collection of CD's, casettes and 12" maxi-singles, including the original version of "Nothing Compares 2 U", sung by a man named St. Paul. St. Paul later went on to sing theme songs for Pokemon movies. You go Paul.
It's Capitol Pride weekend in DC. However, my queerness has been on the backburner ever since Thanksgiving when I realized I was 'done' coming out, as other parts of my life have gained more attention. Thus, while I'm 'proud' to be queer, I'm not all that excited to go bake on the blacktop with a zillion sunburned gurls and grrrls.
My political and cultural action for change has taken place on the rugby pitch, paid for in bruises, blood and sweat. I think the Renegades do more to advance understanding and tolerance of gays than any radical group could. We simply do, where they try to force the issue to reluctant ears. We are a member of the local, predominately straight rugby union, and play only straight teams in the spring and fall seasons. The other teams know our story, yet play and party with us afterwards. That, to me, is impressive, and what we do hits as hard into people's perceptions of gay men as a good stiff-arm.
The most I get out of Pride celebrations is seeing old friends I haven't been in touch with, and shirtless men on a hot day. Otherwise, a parade and celebration is rarely seen by the audience we need to reach...the gatherings that we do are just another ghettoization disquised as a party. Plus, being the delicate forest blossom that I am, I just can't handle the blazing June sun on Pennsylvania Avenue anyway.
Way back in high school, after learning that me and a few of my buddies were going to the Living Colour concert in Minneapolis the night of a dress rehearsal, my English teacher and musical director Karen Rooney said:
"JIM BARRETT! You are the root of ALL EVIL!"
She was just awarded Holmen High School's Teacher of the Year award. However, one of her more positive quotes did stick in my head from English class: "Don't stop writing!" Every time I'm writing a report, story, D&D adventure or a comment on my web log, that quote always resonates in my mind.
I'm experiencing problems uploading hot pics of people like Seann Scott to this blog. Please be patient until I get in touch with the server administrator. Dozens of hotties will soon be available.
Speaking of hotties:
You better not pout,
you better not cry.
You better lift weights
I'm tellin' you why
Jockohomo's comin' to town.
Buddy, I'll pick you up and carry you home after the race.
Today I dropped informational packets about a healthcare reform rally to be held tomorrow in about 100 or so Senate and House offices. Tons of squeaky-clean youth manning the desks of our nation's political elite. Scary. I know how much they get paid too, and I hope for them the experience is worth it. According to a City Paper article on the best and worst summer jobs or internships in DC, summer jobs on The Hill are rated the most boring, least paying and most degrading jobs in town. I for one never liked the taste on my lips after kissing ass.
Dammit...I missed with co-star Jason Biggs in the film 'American Pie 2' winning the 2002 MTV Movie Award for 'Best Kiss'. In this case it was the first award winner for the category involving two men, Scott with co-star Jason Biggs in the film 'American Pie 2'. I'll have to go rent it now for sure. Any comments about how I resemble the woofy Sean Scott are always appreciated, as long as there's space in my room for the bursting ego boost.
Made a few adjustments to this style sheet, and updated my AOL home page. Learning more about Cascading Style sheets, and they are fun!
Ozzy samples a new type of vermin.
Rent a Renegurl. I will serve as acting consumer counselor if you need the low-down on some of the goods for sale. All that glitters...
On Friday I met up with Brian and Jon to geek out and prepare Oriental-style characters (ninjas, samurai, etc.) for a temporary upcoming change in our D&D gaming. We ate at Hamburger Mary's beforehand, and I went overboard on the 'Mary's Sampler' all-grease platter, which caught up to me afterwards (sorry about that Bubba). Met a public relations acquantance of mine there who may have a job opening for Web work on the National Parks Conservation Association. It would be a very jimbo job, but I need to get back to him to learn more about it.
Saturday I did more before Noon than most do all day. Got up for a haircut and got my broken bicycle pedals replaced, then off to a sweltering rugby practice in the sun. I was giggly and loopy afterwards, but I had the energy to help my roomate clear out what can now be called a dining room, formerly filled with junk. We played D&D in it today, and it was a good setting.
Saturday night I went out with Brian to the Eagle. Of course half the rugby team was there, as was quite a lot of old friends from way back, and it was good to catch up. Today I went on a laundry blitzkrieg throughout the day, and am eager put it away and to get to bed.
My aunt Diane died on Friday. She was suffering from a system wide infection of the Klebsiella pneumoniae bacterium infection whose source couldn't be located. She only had a single kidney to fight it off, as well as diabetes, and lost the battle due to an impaired immune system and poor circulation. We can only hope she was truly unconcious during her two-week coma. I'm glad I was able to see her in March when I went home to Wisconsin to visit.
