The Fireman, Part II of II

If you haven't already, you may want to read Part I first.

Now that he'd caught my attention, I was on the lookout to see him up close and in person. Our first encounter was as he was coming inside the front door of the building--in dark blue work pants, heavy black work boots and a tucked-in t-shirt that read WPFD. He was a fireman. A real-life, carry me down a ladder while my building burns fireman. He was much better looking in person. I held the door for him and said "How's it goin'"? He gave me a nod and a fleeting, but friendly reply. After that, it was official: We were going to start seeing each other on a regular basis.

We jumped right into a relationship. I slowly learned his work schedule, his TV viewing habits and even the order in which he liked to get dressed (underwear, socks, pants, belt, shoes, undershirt, shirt). I watched him do crunches on the floor (oh! the crunches) and even saw him clipper his chest in the bedroom mirror. We watched baseball together, though he never offered me any beer or chips. We cried together during sad movies and he read himself to sleep as I gazed into his eyes. It was amazing.

This went on for quite some time. I was truly happy and thinking that this could perhaps last a lifetime, but I was wrong. So terribly wrong.

One night, completely out of the blue--he jumped up off the couch, got dressed, and sat in the kitchen, waiting. He had a beer and then put on some cologne. Was he getting ready to come up to 2Retarded? Was it our time to consummate the relationship? I wondered if the magical bond we had was actually willing him up the stairs and into my arms. I wanted to hold him close and then fix his hair a little because it wasn't quite right. And those shoes!

And then he walked to the door, and that's when she walked in. Right in front of my face, the Fireman had brought a woman home. He didn't even bother to warn me about it, or show concern that I might be offended by her presence. Seeing her there stung me like a thousand hornets. In the eye. She wasn't even his TYPE! That slut. Had she no decency? Had he no respect for what we had?

That night our torrid affair was over. Not only because I couldn't bear to think of them together, but because I think the Slut made him close his blinds. I wish I could say I never looked out the window again, but I did. Thinking I'd get a peek of my lost love, all I saw was the flickering glow of the television against a now-obstructed view.

Oh well, lesson learned. Never, ever fall in love with a fireman. At least not one with window treatments.

Things I've Done Today

That I don't normally do in my typical day...

--Drank a cup of "Exotic Chai" tea.
--Mailed a thank you note.
--Attended an all-staff meeting.
--Ate BBQ for lunch, by myself.
--Wore dress pants.
--Called my doctor.
--Scheduled an appointment to fix my leaky basement.
--Sent a fax (all by myself).
--Took less than an hour for lunch.

Things I do normally do in a typical day...

--Sent a million e-mails.
--Talked on the phone.
--Went to a meeting.
--Blogged.
--Drank Diet Dr. Pepper.
--Shook my head in disbelief.
--Rolled my eyes.
--Laughed at a co-worker.
--Read blogs.
--Ate a Wendy's Frosty.

Peek Pic 111

Casey plays ball with Lamb Chop.

The Fireman, Part I of II

I wouldn't necessarily describe myself as a Peeping Tom. More like a curious on-looker. With binoculars. It's true that I sometimes find myself watching the neighbor's shirtless yard-boy in action, or oogling cute guys at the park, but I think of that as just innocent watching. I mean, it's not like I'm crawling around in the bushes outside someone's window or touching myself while I do it. Although there was a time...

In 1993, I was living in White Plains, NY in a six-story apartment building. I distinctly remember the apartment number, 2R, because my friend Sue and I assigned random but memorable names to the apartments of all our friends. She was 3Asshole. Rob was 6Sexchange. Elise was 4Motherfucker. I was 2Retarded. Appropriate, I know.

Apartment 2Retarded was my first real place out of college. And by "real" I mean that it was neither in someone's basement, nor shared with a cross-dressing landlord. It was a sizable one-bedroom with a large living room and bedroom, a small but newly refurbished bathroom and a very large eat-in kitchen. It had all the comforts of home and came complete with complimentary car radio theft every couple of months. While I enjoyed the entire apartment, the kitchen was without a doubt my favorite room--not because I was a cook, but because of the view.

One summer night I staggered into the kitchen after an all-night movie marathon to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich--in the dark--before heading to bed. As I was leaning against the counter enjoying my snack, a faint but noticeable light washed upon the walls of my kitchen. I concluded it was from the apartment one floor down and decided to take a look.

I didn't have a great view at first. While the blinds were open and light flooded out, the downward trajectory and angle of my view kept the majority of the apartment out of sight. As I watched carefully to see if I could catch any subtle movement, dark, muscular legs and bare feet walked into, then out of, my view. My heart jumped. I put down my sandwich and checked out the view from the kitchen's second window to see if the view was better. It was. Oh MY, how it was.

There, sitting on his bed in nothing but his boxers, was a dark-haired Italian guy about 24-25 years old. He was absolutely gorgeous and I was absolutely giddy. I stood watching that night until he turned off the lights to go to sleep. I had no idea this would be the beginning of a long and incredibly fulfilling relationship.

To be continued...

Peek Pic 110

They even have UPS SOCKS! That's a little too much company spirit for me.

Top Ten Least Likely Things For Me To Say

10. Hey, wanna line dance?
9. Nah, I'd really rather just cuddle.
8. Let's take your car!
7. Hey, I'll babysit for you.
6. Blonds are so gross.
5. Britney Spears ROCKS.
4. I can't, I'm on a diet.
3. Will you marry me?
2. If you don't want to read my blog, it's OK.
1. I'm sorry, it's just too big.

House Stalker

I'm not sure why I'm so fascinated with it. But I've really been watching the contractors re-build the house two doors down from me. I'm amazed by how they just completely knocked the whole thing down sans a couple of walls and the chimney and started rebuilding. I am not so thrilled, however, about the occasional jackhammer at 7:30 a.m. on Saturdays.

I walk by it nearly every day when Casey and I go for our walk and have taken several "in progress" shots. Here are the most extreme examples of progress:


When Steven and I moved into our newly-built house in Dallas, someone anonymously dropped an envelope of pictures in our mailbox showing each phase of them building the house. I really appreciated that gesture and intend to do the same for these new neighbors, without the anonymous part. Once they move in I'll take them over and introduce myself. God knows I can't bake a cake.

Firefox Tip for Blogger - Keep Current Time

If you're like me (and god help you if you are), you may write some of your posts in advance and may have accidentally published a post with the original date or time you created it, rather than the current date. This has the undesirable effect of placing your post in the wrong chronological order on your blog, which requires that you go back and edit the date and republish. A real pain in the ass.

A Consuming Experience has developed a nice Firefox script to keep the Blogger Time and Date current as you create your post. I absolutely love it. Before you install this script, you'll need to install Greasemonkey and Firefox 1.5 (which you should have done already). If you're not familiar with Firefox extensions and user scripts, go read up on them. They're amazing. Good Luck!

Things I Have in my Nightstand

As promised (because I know you're all nosey), the contents of the top drawer of my nightstand:

Two basketball-shaped, Beagle-sized squeaky balls
A 3-inch Everyready flashlight
Kenneth Cole shoe horn
Tube of Target anti-fungal cream
Two pairs of yellow foam earplugs
Black velvet eye mask
Toenail clippers
2.5oz bottle of ID Millennium
Remote control for fan
One Ace bandage
Five Durex Enhanced Pleasure condoms
Black Swiss Army knife
Six expired and/or unactivated credit cards
Nexcare ankle compression sock
BenGay Vanishing Scent Pain Relieving Gel
"Dark Matter" by Phillip Kerr
Bottle of Bath & Body Works Jasmine Vanilla body lotion
One tin of Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm

You know, while I was at work, I could've sworn I had more risque items in my drawer. I'd like to pretend I was just boring and didn't have such things, but the truth is: those things are hidden away in the closet.

Don't Swim Under the Trestle

Another Crazy Dream...

I was on a small inflatable raft with two other guys floating under a railroad trestle when the fat guy stood up and jumped into the water head-first. I was shocked at the fact that the water was even deep enough to sustain not only his length but also his girth. The other guy was apparently my boyfriend. He immediately jumped in after him. When he did, I got on my stomach on the raft and paddled quickly into the deeper water.

Soon I was at my grandmother's house and was feeling terrible for having abandoned my lover and my friend. But yet I also felt a somewhat satisfied that I had pulled off such a hilarious hide-and-seek--even though I was certain it was the wrong thing to do. I started to paddle back to the trestle, but I found myself laying in bed with one of my co-workers that happens to weigh about 350 pounds. We were under the covers watching a wall-mounted TV when she leaned over, kissed my ear and said "Let me just peek under the covers." I could sense that a dog was chewing a bone at the foot of the bed.

I turned my head and noticed that the door was slightly ajar and a note was pinned to it. I jumped out of bed and grabbed it off the door. It was several pages of a letter that had been constructed kidnapper-style with words cut out of magazines and taped to the page. It was a lengthy diatribe of how terrible I was to have abandoned my boyfriend in such a time of need. I felt so awful, I sat down in the chair and cried. Then I asked my co-worker if she had any cookies. She did.

Peek Pic 109

Well said.

Things I Have in My Desk Drawer

An inventory of my most used desk drawer at work:

Four plastic spoons
Reach Fluoride Mint Waxed Dental Floss
Two yellow and one green highlighter
Two black Sharpie pens
A Unisonic calculator
A blue, two-foot Cat5 cable
Half-used package of Cepacol Sore Throat Lozenges
.5 oz. bottle of HypoTears EyeDrops
Four "extra" taxi cab receipts
One quarter, two dimes, six pennies
A Target-brand mini travel toothbrush and toothpaste
Three Band-Aid bandages
A glow-in-the-dark golf tee
Blistex Lip Medex lip balm
Seven 37-cent U.S. Flag postage stamps
Three packets of Lactaid Ultra tablets
A package of small Universal binder clips
Three blue Bic pens
A pair of orange-handled scissors

This isn't a meme, but if you're looking for a 5-minute break from work, I'd love to hear what's in YOURS. Next, I may make a list of what's in the drawer next to my nightstand. That should be an exercise in contrast, that's for sure.

Random Thoughts #28

--Throughout the morning today, maybe once every 2 hours, I've been getting sharp, throbbing pains in the back, lower part of my head. This very well could be that aneurysm I've been working on for all these years. If all of a sudden I stop posting, you'll know why.

--Speaking of pains--tomorrow I'm going to bring a hammer to work with me. When my co-worker that sits next to me leaves her unmuted cell phone/PDA on her desk for me to listen to while she goes to an all-day meeting, I am going to smash that goddamn thing into 10,000 pieces. When she comes back to her desk and screams in shock, I'm going to say nonchalantly, "Hey, your phone was ringing."

--On Saturday, it rained really hard for several hours. I was down in the basement that evening watching a movie and I grabbed a pillow that was leaning up against the wall. It was soaking wet. Curious, I pulled the sofa out a little to see what was going on and the water was practically pouring in through the rock wall. I'm no house detective, but I'm pretty sure that isn't good.

--Lately, I've noticed that lawn moving services have universally moved to super-fast, sit-down lawn mowers. Those things seriously haul ass. As I was driving home last night going about 45mph, I was driving parallel to one mowing the grassy median. He was just about keeping up with me. If I didn't think I'd accidentally drive through the fence or run over the neighbors cat, I'd like to mow my yard with one of those. I bet I could do it in less than 10 minutes (not including hosing off the cat puree).

--There's a park on my way home that has a Frisbee golf course. I've never played, but I think it would be really fun. The course appears to have been very professionally constructed. It has concrete slabs for the tees and a metal pole with a flag and a small basket for the hole. I think I may try to muster up a few pals and go do that soon. I'm almost certain I'd be better at it than real golf. I'm gonna wear my silly hat again when I do.

--There are several gay guys that work here at my company. One is a recent hire that is quite the muscle daddy. We have a big flat-screen monitor at the reception desk that's been showing random shots of employees participating in the KC Corporate Challenge. One was of him at a bench press with four 45 pound weights on each side (that's 405lbs with the bar). Holy cow. Looks like it's time for me to step down from my long standing role as Chief Power Bottom Muscle Stud here at work. Oh well, he clearly earned it.

Sunday Picnic

Like everyone, my friends and I all have busy lives during the week. Usually our time together is spent in short bursts of weekend activities like going out, attending a party or doing dinner and a movie. Rarely, though do we all get together and just relax. This weekend, we did, and I loved it.

On Sunday afternoon on a near-perfect day, we gathered at one of Kansas City's most beautiful parks, Loose Park, for a picnic. Doug brought the food, I brought blankets, chairs and beverages, and Doug and Christine brought the horseshoes the volleyball net two kites. We spent the better part of three hours talking, sipping cold beers and making fun of our reasonably poor kite flying skills.

Since all of them are aware of PWWO, they insisted that I post a few pics so that they would in turn become world famous and adored by millions. Now, worship them...

Doug, Brian, Lucas, Sarah (Doug's daughter)

"This thing won't fly." "You mean I have to RUN with it?" "I need a cigarette."

Christine, Doug, me. Yes, I'm wearing a silly hat.

Airborne at last!

The gang.

Peek Pic 108

Someone had a VERY late night last night...

Things I Learned in Minneapolis

Top ten things I learned from our corporate executives:

1. We suck.
2. As a whole, our entire division sucks.
3. Our production sucks.
4. Our sales numbers suck.
5. We suck.
6. We should FOCUS.
7. We should INNOVATE.
8. No one else sucks.
9. Sucking is bad.
10. We shouldn't suck.

And then ten other random observations about my trip to Minneapolis:

1. Minnesota is full of hot, blond Nordic types.
2. Expensive dinners and lots of wine is supposed to keep employees happy.
3. Everyone in MN is married and has at least two kids.
4. If I worked in MN, I'd have a big office.
5. If I worked in MN, I'd have big gashes in my wrists.
6. I hate suits.
7. There really aren't 10,000 lakes in MN. It's more like 15,000.
8. Did I mention that Minnesota is full of hot, blond Nordic types?
9. Executives need three reserved parking spots (for guests and wives).
10. Lack of windows and fresh air keep employees FOCUSED.

Peek Pic 107

Here we go again...

Peek Pic 106

My office for the next two days. No window within 100 miles.

Stranger in a Strange Land

Minnesota: land of 10,000 lakes, the Mall of America, half of the Joshes, and my company's corporate offices. I arrived this morning at 8:30am on a largely uneventful Northwest flight. I slept the entire way except for a few brief seconds as my knee cap was being shattered by a drink cart. As soon as we hit the ground, three colleagues and I packed into a Mazda 6 and headed across town for Starbucks and a scone. We sipped and chewed slowly, as we weren't in any hurry to get to the office. In fact, none of us is really sure why we are even here. Something about a meeting.

This is my first time to this building. Unlike our Kansas City office, this place is very corporate. Lots of suits and nice shoes and fitted shirts as opposed to jeans and t-shirts that I'm used to seeing. Since I don't go on stage until 2:00pm, I've been sequestered to the office of a Vice President of Strategic Accounts salesperson named Darryl to file my nails work. His office is characteristically sterile. There's nothing on the desk except a monitor and a docking station, and two piles of manilla folders. I could probably shut the door and nosily rifle through them, but I just don't care enough. Besides, it's probably just a collection of dry cleaning bills and Hooter's receipts anyway.

So far today I've been working pretty hard. I've managed to summon the support team to bring me a spare power cord for my laptop since I left mine at home (no small feat). Then I ventured out into the common area for a Diet Dr. Pepper and a thimble-sized glass of ice. I also used the restroom (twice) and even made a couple of 900-number business-related calls. As soon as I finish this post and my colleague gets out of her pricing meeting, I think I'm going to be ready for lunch. I had no idea I'd be working this hard today.

Abort

Since I had to be up at 4:30am for a 6:50am flight to Minneapolis this morning, I was already in bed sound asleep when the phone rang last night at 10:15pm.

Me: Hello?
Dad: Hey, it's Dad. Did I wake you up?
Me: Yeah, but it's OK. What's going on?
Dad: Well, its a long story, but there was a problem with the donor heart.
Me: Oh my God.
Dad: No, no, no. Everything's fine. Mom's OK, but they aborted the transplant.
Me: Did they have her cut open?
Dad: No, thank God, they didn't.
Me: So then no transplant.
Dad: Nope, not today. She was under such deep sedation, they're going to watch her for another 24 hours, then she'll get to go back home. Now you go back to sleep and we'll talk tomorrow.
Me: OK, Dad. Tell her I love her and I'll call you sometime tomorrow to check on her. Thanks for calling me.

Looks like she'll get another heart another day. Thanks to everyone who commented and left good thoughts here. I really appreciated it. Especially the dancing foot boy with the size 13s.

"The" Call

After only a few short months of waiting, today at 5:07 p.m. CT, my Mom got the call to come immediately to the hospital for a heart transplant. She'll be receiving this gift of extended life from a 48-year old woman who's name and last steps in life are unknown. Whoever you are: THANK YOU to you and your family for making such an important donation.

I'd appreciate any thoughts, prayers, crossed-fingers, transplant dances and assorted positive spiritual energy flows directed her way this evening as she undergoes her surgery. I'll keep everyone posted on how she's doing. More details to follow.

Peek Pic 105

Oh vanilla shake, how I am powerless so against thee.

Crash

This morning as I was getting dressed, I heard a faint, but unrecognizable splintering sound, followed closely by a substantial thud. Casey heard it too and perked up his ears in curiosity, but since it seemed outside of our realm of concern, we both shrugged it off. Several minutes went by and then we heard sirens. And they weren't Dopplerized sirens that we're used to hearing--they were stopping close to the house.

As I hopped in the car and pulled (way too easily) onto the main street by my house, I saw three police cruisers, an ambulance and a firetruck all centered directly in the middle of the road. Apparently, a small, light blue Chevy pick-up truck had swerved to the right side of the road, knocked down a street light, then headed to the other side of the road, directly into my neighbors yard. As I drove by, I saw the smoking truck parked solidly in their back yard against a large tree--about 20 feet of fence was somewhere underneath the tires.

I'm glad I don't live directly on that street. The thought of having some drunk park his car in my living room is a bit much for me to take. If that tree weren't there, my neighbors would have eaten their breakfast off the hood of a Chevy this morning. Here's to hoping no one got hurt...

And you know what THAT means...

This weekend I was a little bored and found myself looking at the "Yahoo Answers" site where people both ask and answer questions. I like the concept, unfortunately, Yahoo doesn't have much control over all the drivel that comes in or out. It's really quite awful, unless you read them very carefully. If you do, you should be able to appreciate the subtle humor...

Question: "What should happen to a student who brings marijuana brownies to a PTA meeting?"
Answers (verbatim):
1. He get a free trip to jail.
2. Everyone should throw a couple bucks his way for providing some tasty snacks.
3. Invite him/her back next week, fo' shizzle.
4. Suspension and mandatory counseling (drug and family).
5. They should be permanently expelled from school and sent to jail.

Question: "Why are people so obsessed with making love?"
Answers:
1. Two words: No Morals. They get pleasure out of it but dont realize any example, or any bad things that could come out of it.
2. ask that after you have tried it... if you have tried it and still ask then you should come visit me!!!
3. No not me. I like to F***. None of that pansy making love crap. There's no wham bam thank you mam in that. Besides the Big O's are a lot better.
4. It's a question you should answer yourself first before asking.

And my personal favorite: "If I use a tampon, does that mean I'm not a virgin anymore?"
Answers:
1. honey your still a virgin
2. no no. first of all to be considered a virgin u must have your hymen intacked. thats a think lining around your vagina. that can only go away if u play extrenous activities like sports, gymnastics, tampons will not take that away. so dont worry your innocence is still there
3. Heavens no. if you read the box of tampons it explains. that no matter if you use a tampon it does not go deep enough to "pop ur cherry".
4. No but it sure hurts like hell the first time you put it in there. But his penis is a lot bigger than a tapon and the first time it hurts again. So I guess if you didn't tear it a little first it would be worse.
5. A women's virginia [we learned in sex ed] conforms to the size of the man who she has sex with the most. So if a guy says I had sex with her but I almost fell in. He is saying, "God do I have a little penis!" If he says, "I could hardly get it in there." Well, then you know what that means.

Go visit them if you're up for a chuckle. Now I'm off to get my virginia intacked.

In Case You're Reading...

To the construction worker on Mission Road that is allowed to work shirtless:
Why do you do this to me? On more than one occasion, I have almost crashed my car when driving past you. First, there was the time that you were leaning against the fence and your rippled abs were glistening with sweat--I almost rear-ended the car in front of me. Then another time, you had lifted your "SLOW" sign above your head to show me your delicious armpits and bulging biceps--I almost hit the curb as my eyes followed you rather than the road. For the love of God and all that is holy, please be my lover put your shirt back on.

To the adorable Hispanic guy that works the cash window at Wendy's near my house:
I know you mean for it to seem like an accident, but I know that you do it on purpose. There's really no need for you to gently brush my hand each time you grab my credit card. I realize that on average I probably come through the drive through more often than most, but since you're the only source of true physical intimacy for me these days, it's just something I can't help doing. At any rate, unless you're prepared to touch me in places a credit card should never be swiped, please, PLEASE stop touching my hand.

To the neighbor boy that mows his lawn with no shirt on:
Lately I've been having a hard time seeing you with my binoculars concerned about your posture, and I'd like to make some suggestions for improvement. First, don't look straight at the ground when you mow. You should stand up straight so that I can see your chest and abs your back doesn't give out. And if possible, you should face opposite my house and do some toe-touches. This will let me see your ass better loosen your glutes to avoid cramping. Last, it would be excellent for you to chug water as fast as you can every 5-10 minutes. And it would probably be better for you if you tossed back your long hair, put one hand on your hip and let the water spill down your chest. Hydration, indeed.

To the guy in the waiting room at the dentist wearing flip-flops with beautiful toes:
I don't know what the others have told you about my foot fetish, but had they explained this to you thoroughly, you wouldn't have bounced your barely covered foot in front of me like you did. I mean, it's really not appropriate for you to be strutting around like that in public. I mean, I could see everything, and it was SO obvious that you wanted me to. And please, the old "whoops, my flip flop fell off while I was bouncing it" just doesn't cut it. I'm hip to your slutty little games. Oh, and about calling the police after I accidentally "fell" onto your foot with my mouth was completely inappropriate. I mean, seriously, officer. Did you see what he was wearing?

Random Thoughts #27

--Monday morning at 9:03am and two colleagues are standing about five feet away from me talking feverishly about a project they're working on. Seriously. 9:03am. Normal people should barely be getting their coffee by now. The fact that you're even thinking about work before 9:30 on a Monday should be grounds for disciplinary action.

--On Friday over lunch I bit the bullet and initiated the Invisalign process. I had several X-rays taken, molds of my upper and lower choppers and wrote them a check for an amount that would feed a small country for years. All I can say is that this better get me a lot more sex.

--I just came back from the restroom where the smell was so foul I felt compelled to make a disclaimer to the young man that was entering as I was leaving. "That wasn't me," I said. "Woah," he said as the door was closing.

--I'm heading to our corporate offices in Minneapolis on Wednesday to smile and nod at our executive leadership as they lambaste us for not hitting our numbers so far this year. It must really be bad since they're having us come there. I've entitled my power point presentation: Exec_Fellatio_6_22_06.

--I didn't send my Dad a Father's Day card. I'm really not sure why. I did call him, and we had a great chat, but for some reason I just couldn't get off my ass and get a card to him. I think I better come up with an excuse today and get one in the mail.

--Until recently, I was completely unaware of the awesome things you can make your Firefox browser do. Take a look at Userscripts.org to get a feel for all the different things you can do to Firefox to make your Web experience better. If you're a Blogger user, make sure you check out the Blogger section for cool things you can do with your blog. [My favorite so far: MySpace Media Remover: Keeps annoying music from playing when you visit MySpace pages!].

--I think maybe those anti-inflammatory pills my doctor prescribed for my ankle are messing me up. For the last few days I've been itchy and tired. Not that I'm not always itchy and tired, but this a little itchier and more tired than usual. Oh well. As long as I don't get any embarassing boils.

Peek Pic 104

Decisions, decisions.

The Night We Met (Part III)

Conclusion. See Part I and Part II:

I picked the perfect spot to watch the door. Unfortunately, it was very close to a group of older men that were staring at me like a pork shop in a pack of wild dogs. Still early in my career, I hadn't yet traveled enough to learn the art of drinking alone at a bar. I had yet to develop the confident air that said that I was just here to relax, or to emit the false aura of a hard day at work. Mostly, I reeked of nervousness and impatience, which always brings the wolves in droves.

After nearly two hours, I began to lose hope and started the sort of self-talk that kept me from playing the lottery or praying to a God I wasn't sure was there. They popped in my head one after the other: "I'm such a moron for doing this." "Who the hell goes out to a bar two nights in a row in the middle of the week?" "He probably had to work late tonight." "Maybe the guy with the eye patch isn't so bad after all." "Does this shirt make me look fat?" Luck had never exactly run through my blood. In fact, on this night, it seemed to be running down my leg.

And then the skies parted and the sun came blazing through. Steven, with two friends, was now standing in line with his ID ready. My heart began to race like a rat on crack. Almost immediately, we locked eyes and he came directly over to me.

"What are you doing here, mister?" he asked with a knee-buckling smile.

"Honestly? I came back hoping to see you," I replied. "Something akin to returning to the crime scene." He laughed and put his arm around me and gave me a gentle kiss hello.

"What a coincidence. I'm here for exactly the same reason," he admitted. "But I didn't think you'd be here in a million years. I mean, who the hell goes out to a bar two nights in a row in the middle of the week?" We laughed knowingly. Clearly, we both had covered the multiple reasons why attempting to recreate Fate was a stupid idea. But as we stood there together, finally reunited after a tortuous 24 hours, we were happy to have been wrong. Very happy.

Fast forward five years...

"Babe, what was the name of the club where we met," I asked as we sat feet to feet on the couch drinking coffee, our Sunday morning ritual. I worked the crossword, he read the Style section of the Dallas Morning News.

Steven lowered the paper in a disappointing crumple and says "Why?"

"Because the clue for 14-Down is Chance Encounter, and it made me think of when we met," I explained, trying to make up for my inability to remember important facts and details about the event.

"It was the Wild Club," he said scoldingly. "And as punishment for the fact that you forgot, you will fold all the laundry today." His toes tickled mine as a salve for his harsh tone.

As I struggled to figure out the clue, I reenacted the night that our paths crossed and how fortunate I was to still be sitting here with him, toes entangled. Somehow that night luck had blessed me. And at that very moment, the seven letter word that ended in a "y" seemed so abundantly clear:

Destiny.

Sleeplessly Seeking Solace

It's 1:38 a.m. and I'm sitting outside on my screened-in porch listening to the wind rustle through the trees. It's incredibly peaceful out here and the temperature is perfect. The only other sound is a small creature creeping carefully through the back bushes. I wonder if it's watching me against the bluish glow of the laptop. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem threatened, nor should it be.

I'm so tired. My eyes and heart are heavy. My thoughts, churning endlessly in my head, have betrayed me tonight. I wish I could close my eyes and shut down the engines for just a brief moment. Like a respite from myself. Instead, I'll sit right here and let the wind blow refreshingly across my soul.

My Favorite Sport

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon and you're incredibly horny bored. With nothing to do, you hop online head down to the lake to see if you can find any action. You know the chat room lake doesn't have many hot guys fish in it, but it's nice to sit around in your underwear be outside and relax--a great way to pass the time. And who knows, you might even get laid catch your dinner.

If you're going to reel in the big ones, you've got to make sure you have the right gear. You'll need a profile cane pole and some slutty pictures bait. Obviously, the profile cane pole is much less important than the slutty pictures bait. In fact, you need to make sure that you change the slutty pictures bait continuously. Otherwise, the hot guys fish will pass right by you. Remember, the hot guys fish are dumb as a box of rocks pretty crafty; sometimes you have to work hard to lay catch them.

Once you've got all that taken care of, drop your profile line into a local chat room the water and wait. Right off the bat, you're going to get some private messages bites from some really nasty trolls carp. Do NOT chat with them reel these in, trust me. Patience is the name of the game here. To pass the time, you might consider downloading some porn reading a book, getting naked on cam needlepoint, or even cruising another sex site having some refreshing lemonade. Be careful: Don't get lube on the keyboard drop your book in the water!

Since you're not a complete slut a responsible angler, you're going to practice what's called catch and release. You will more than likely chat with reel in several guys fish over the course of an afternoon, but that doesn't mean you've got to f*ck keep every one of them. Hell, that's just too tiring. The key is to trade XXX pictures look them over closely to make sure you're getting the hottest best tasting, most hung fattest stud fish you can find. Nobody likes to have to kick out throw away a trick fish after you've put all that effort into getting him there cleaning and getting him naked battering it.

So next time you're horny bored, try Gay.com fishing. It's my favorite sport!

The Night We Met (Part II)

Continued from Part I:

"It's unlike you to not eat, Dave" my boss, Kate, said. With all the birthday cakes, cookies, catered lunches and company picnics we'd attended together, I'd developed a bit of a reputation for eating. A lot.

"I know, I'm just not feeling all that well," I lied. I decided that illness was the most logical escape from the situation. "My stomach's a little, well, uneasy." Whenever I needed to make an excuse to leave an event, I always went with diarrhea. Nothing can really match it's "need to go right now" qualities. You can always tolerate a sore throat or a headache for a while, but no one would deny someone the need to evacuate their bowels, much less discuss it over dinner. I gave her my best stomach cramp look so that if I bolted up from the table without an explanation, she would be able to draw the inference.

I left the Wild Club the night before explaining to Steven that I had to be up for a 7:00am breakfast and that while I would like nothing more than to go home with him, it just wasn't in the cards. We settled for a brief make-out session as I leaned against my friend's blue Miata. It was quite awkward since the top was down and David was sitting in the driver's seat barely 3 feet away. Though my back was facing him, I pictured him sitting perfectly still with his hands on the wheel looking straight ahead. Much like you might do if you were completely shit-faced and had to sit next to a cop at a traffic light. Not that I've ever done that, of course.

Since I lived in Dallas at the time, and he lived in San Antonio, we didn't see much need in exchanging numbers. We both regrettably resigned ourselves to it being a lost opportunity. Like just one number away from the powerball, or a grand slam stolen by an over-the-fence catch. In retrospect, this may have been the last time corporate responsibility interfered with my sex life. This event taught me that orgasm trumps promotion any day.

"You know, Kate," I said softly. "I think when they clear the entrees, I'm going to run back to the hotel. I must've eaten something that disagreed with me earlier." I emphasized the word "run" in such a way as to hint that I actually had the runs, and even threw in the ever-so-sublte "I'm about to shit my pants" look for good measure, but I'm not sure she got it.

"Go right now, Dave. These old farts won't even know you're missing. And even if they do, they're so drunk on wine they won't remember." Kate was always looking out after me in a drunken, cigarette-smoking step-mom kind of way. We got along famously. I tossed my napkin on my plate and said goodbye to the group. Kate gave me a knowing wink, as if she knew what I was up to. She'd no doubt excused herself from these situations many times, even if just to steal a quick Newport in the parking lot. I felt proud that my mentor approved.

Within 10 minutes I was back in my room plotting my return to the Wild Club. I realized the chance was incredibly slim that he would return the very next night, but I had spent the last 24 hours over-romanticizing how I might somehow find him and wisk him away into the sunset. This was my only hope. In a desperate vigil for love amongst the smell of smoke and cheap cologne, I'd planned to sit at the bar and stare at the front door all night. Ah, youth.

Conclusion to follow...

Peek Pic 103

Breakfast of champions.

The Night We Met (Part I)

The restaurant was French; the food, pretentious and expensive. There were eight of us in a small, private dining room of one many eateries along San Antonio's famed River Walk. I had been invited by my boss in an attempt to give me exposure to the executives in my company with whom I had little interaction, but I wasn't appreciating the gesture. I was 24 at the time and felt a lot like a preschooler sitting amongst church elders. I sat fantasizing about how I could escape--set fire to the table? Choke on a breadstick? Is it possible to fake a ruptured spleen?

As I stared into my Terrine de Saumon aux Epinards and listened half-heartedly to discussion of state medical licensure, my mind replayed the previous evening. My colleague, David, and I had ventured out to the "Wild Club," a local gay club, where we were entertained with a drag show. A very bad drag show. Think Dick Butkus in a bright red dress with white lace trim. With a beard. And a parasol. Luckily, since we were on an expense account, there was ample funding for alcohol to make the show more appealing.

Our intentions were to just grab a drink and gossip about which of our colleagues we'd most likely sleep with. But soon I was approached by a very sassy young girl wearing a halter-top that had nothing to say to me but "My friend thinks you're hot." I smiled, but before I could thank her, she headed back across the bar to join her group. When she approached them, a face popped out from the circle and stared directly at me. He was tall, with jet-black hair and the most beautiful white smile I had ever seen. And he was smiling at me. Naturally, I smiled back.

To be continued...

Peek Pic 102

Having taken it to the brink of death over the winter, my hibiscus is BACK!

Random Childhood Memories #8 - Water Polo

--Age 14. I was one of only three incoming freshman to make the Ross S. Sterling High School Marching Band (tenor saxophone). With a profound fear of being forever stigmatized as a "band queer," I scheduled a meeting with the water polo coach. After only a brief discussion, he accepted me onto the team in spite of never having played before. "You're huge for a freshman and I need you," he said. "I'll teach you the rest." The next day I quit the band and went to buy my first speedo.

--Age 15. My summer water polo club, Baker Road Aquatic Team (BRAT), took a trip to Washington University in St. Louis, MO for a National Jr. Olympic tournament. The chlorine in the pool was so bad, we were told to pour milk into our goggles and flush out our eyes to counteract the effects (I have no idea who came up with that). In spite of the effort, my vision was so distorted that I couldn't see the end of the pool. That night as we hung up our suits to dry, we realized how bad it was--our red swim suits were bleached to a faint pinkish hue.

--Age 17. BRAT played another National Jr. Olympic tournament at Cuesta College in San Luis Obispo, CA and took home the gold in a hard-fought, sudden-death final. After the game, I learned I was named the tournament's Most Valuable Player. A local TV station was running a spot on the tournament and asked me to do an interview. My first (and only) time on TV (seen here in all my glory). Already a ham at 17!

--Age 16. In the championship game of the Texas Boys State Water Polo tournament, I was having a very physical game with an opposing player. In a retaliatory strike, he threw an elbow mid-stroke directly into my mouth. Maybe 45 seconds later, the referee stopped play and called me over to the side of the pool. "Dave," he says. "I think maybe you need to get out." As I hopped out of the pool, the entire front side of my body was instantly covered in blood as it gushed from my face. The crowd gasped. I had bitten a hole clean through my lip. [Note: We butterflied the cut and I finished the game. The offending player was never able to have children after that game.]

--Age 17. The Jr. National Water Polo Team held a grueling two-week training camp at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs, CO. It was here that I was first introduced to a scrawny little 13 year-old named "Wolf," who was billed as the East Coast's most promising young player. In an effort to give Wolf a little experience with the big boys, the coach asked him to guard me for an entire practice. Since I was nearly twice his size, I proceeded to toss him around like a rag doll at every turn. Though it's certainly not true, I'd like to think I had a little something to do with this.

Peek Pic 101

This morning my company rolled out a new corporate branding strategy, complete with a new logo. I got a travel mug to commemorate the occassion. Naturally, it was broken. If this isn't the symbol of quality, I don't know what is.

Quote of the Weekend/Year?

Tyler: So did you hear about the UMKC student that had a serial killer eat his penis?
Me: Is this a joke?
Tyler: Nooo, it's real. He was a pre-op transexual that couldn't afford the surgery, so he met this guy on the internet that said he'd do it for free.
Me: A doctor?
Tyler: No, girl, it was the serial killer.
Me: But he let him do it anyway...
Tyler: Yeah, and he wakes up covered in blood with noone around and has to be rushed to the ER. Turns out, like 5 months later, the FBI knocked on his door and tells him he was the only surviving victim of this serial killer preying on local gay men. They also told him that he was a cannibal and he probably ate his penis.
Me: [Blank stare].
Tyler: Isn't that horrible?
Me: Well, he did go voluntarily to get his dick cut off by someone that wasn't a doctor.
Tyler: But not to be eaten!!
Me: I think that's irrelevant. He got what he asked for, right?
Tyler: Girl, noone deserves to have their penis eaten.

Truer words have never been spoken.

Basso Profundo

Saturday evening I had the good fortune of attending the Heartland Men's Chorus at Kansas City's Folly Theater with my out-of-town guest Tyler and long-time pal Tobi. There's something about an all-male chorus that stirs me deeply. The timbre of 134 masculine voices is unique and powerful, and as a fellow gay man, I feel a kinship that stirs in me a sense of profound pride.

The concert was a collection of audience-selected songs from the group's 20 year history and took the audience on a roller-coaster of emotions from hysterical laughter to full-on tearshed. I laughed out loud in several places, tingled during a rousing ovation and caught myself crying on two different occasions. I truly enjoyed the evening. If you've never had the chance to take in a performance of your local gay men's chorus, I highly recommend it. This was probably my 15th concert of the type (mostly NYC Gay Men's Chorus and Turtle Creek Chorale) and I've never left disappointed.

Many, many thanks and congratulations on a fine performance to PWWO reader David, who is a member of the Chorus. David extended me an invitation and was kind enough to arrange for complimentary tickets--how could I refuse THAT? I even had the privilege of meeting him in person after the show. David--I truly enjoyed it and sincerely appreciated your generosity (as well as your regular readership)!

Now--the rest of you out there: I also enjoy movie premieres, film festivals, award shows (red carpet only, please) and am looking for a guest spot on Conan. Don't let David embarrass you by being the only one to shower me with gifts. Seriously. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Peek Pic 100

The deck, after being pelted by hail on Saturday eve. Welcome to Kansas.

Gotta Love John Stewart...

John Stewart vs. Bill Bennett on gay marriage.

Peek Pic 99

This car belongs to my company's Director of Quality Assurance. I shit you not.

The Check's in the Mail (Dumbass)

[This was yesterday's post... but a busy schedule and an ill-timed Blogger outage kept it from hitting the airwaves].

I've written before about how "Consumer Directed Health Care" will be soon sweeping the nation (if it hasn't hit you already). Basically, the idea is to turn formerly cost- and quality-oblivious patients into consumers who are engaged in the financing and decision-making of their care. This is done by providing employees fixed amounts of funds to cover routine health insurance costs. These funds come in a variety of different mind-numbing tools, including Health Savings Accounts (HSAs), Health Reimbursement Arrangements (HRAs), Flexible Spending Arrangements (FSAs), and Medical Savings Accounts (MSAs).

The basic concept is that if I have limited funds to spend over the course of a year, I'll start asking questions about how much things cost, and whether certain tests and procedures are necessary. I might even chose to go to see a Nurse Practitioner rather than a Board Certified Family Practice Physician to stretch my dollar, or elect to receive generic prescriptions rather than name-brands. This, in turn, will theoretically spur competition amongst healthcare providers to ultimately lower costs and increase quality.

So here's my first foray into the HRA and FSA world...

At the beginning of the year, my employer put $400 in an HRA which would be used to pay for all of my medical/pharmaceutical/chiropractor/etc. bills throughout the year. Based on last year's expenses, I decided that wasn't enough, so I opted to include an FSA in which every pay-period I put pre-tax dollars totaling an additional $500 into an account to be used just like the HRA.

So far this year I've had some fairly expensive claims--shoulder problems, a minor surgical procedure, a couple of visits for colds, etc. While I thought all this would be covered with my ample and prudent $900, I've been getting some pretty outrageous bills from my providers. $219 here, $147 there, 98 here and several others. I was confused, so today I called my insurance company to figure out what was going on. I was certain there'd been some mistake.

I spent the better half of two hours on the phone with a helpful and friendly young lady that meticulously went over every single one of my claims with me. We walked though how the $400 was drawn to zero, and then how the $500 was nearing a goose egg, too. Soon, we figured out that the claims had been submitted, and checks were being cut, but the doctor apparently wasn't getting them--he was still sending me the bill.

It took the two of us the entire time to figure out that while the HRA paid directly to the provider, the FSA checks were being mailed directly TO ME. Somewhere in the house, I had tossed over $425 worth of checks in the stack of endless "Benefits Statements" and "Account Balance Statements" that I'd been letting pile up, un-opened in my in-box on the desk.

And in a uncharacteristically lucky move on my part, I went home at lunch and found every single one of them. Hallelujah! Ain't modern healthcare grand?

Peek Pic 98

The Fairway Hen House, where I do all my grocery shopping.

Random Childhood (Church) Memories #7

--Age 12. My Mom decided we'd switch churches because our current church was becoming too large and too mainstream. We visited many, including one in a Red Lobster where they gathered in a big circle and spoke in tongues. I did it, too, but I faked it.

--Age 13. I had just returned from church camp with my cousin and we decided we'd swear off Rock and Pop music so that we'd be less sinful. We ceremoniously burned Prince's Purple Rain cassette tape in the middle of my street. I bought another one about 2 months later and it remains one of my favorite records albums CDs of all time.

--Age 13. I sat in my Junior High School auditorium and listened to a school-sponsored lecture on the evils of rock music. The topic was backmasking and the heinousness of listening to the Beatles, Led Zepplin and Judas Priest. Backwards, of course. Because we all do that.

--Age 12. I remember waking up very early on a Saturday morning and sitting outside by the pool with my Bible, feverishly highlighting passages that I thought might apply to me. It was called "Quiet Time," and my mother couldn't have been more proud of me. I'm pretty sure my Dad thought I was nuts. He was right.

--Age 13. I sang in the church choir with him (although I just found out he was a popular singer). You GO, Chris!

--Age 14. I gave up church after they fired my favorite (and also black) Choir Director, James Wright. When I asked my Mom why they fired him she said "they" just didn't think he was a good fit for the church. I told her if that was the case, I didn't think I was either. I never went back.

He Gives Good Header

Many, many thanks to Michael of at Doomed to Flail for helping me replace the boring Blogger header with something slightly less boring of my own creation. He was so gentle with me, took his time and performed flawlessly.

*muah*

How 'Bout a Bean Sandwich?

Mom: [In thick Texas accent]. Hi honey, it's yer Mom, Happy Birthday!
Me: Hey! Thank you, thank you. 29 again.
Dad: Hey bud, Happy Birthday.
Me: Thanks, Dad.
Dad: So what are you up today?
Me: Well, I just finished cooking for about 10 people and we're all eating out on the deck before we head over to the Pride Festival.
Mom: Well that sounds fun. What's the Pride Festival?
Me: It's Kansas City's Gay Pride Festival. It's where we all go and get drunk and act as gay as we possibly can.
Mom: [Slight pause]. Well that sounds fun. [Another slight pause]. So what'd you cook for dinner?
Me: Oh, I just barbecued some steaks and chicken on the grill. Oh, and I "doctored" some beans with your special recipe!
Dad: Mmm, I love those doctored beans.
Mom: They are good, that's for sure. Say, hun, we don't want to keep you away from your friends, so we'll letcha go. You enjoy the rest of your birthday!
Me: OK, guys, thanks for calling me. I love you!
Mom and Dad: We love you too! Happy Birthday. Bye!

30 seconds pass. Phone rings again. I expect to hear something about gay pride or not drinking too much or something bad about Dad.

Mom: Hey.
Me: Hey again.
Mom: I just wanted to tell you--real quick--put those beans in the ice box, and later when you come home get a couple of pieces of bread and have yourself a bean sandwich! They are out of this world!
Me: [Laughing]. Mom, you called me back to tell me to eat a bean sandwich?
Mom: Just do what your mother says, and don't forget to take some Bean-o!
Me: Thanks Mom, you always give good advice.

I told everyone about the bean sandwich call-back and we all laughed. I bet I said "bean sammich" in a thick Texas accent about 50 times. But I'll be damned if I didn't come home that night and eat myself a bean sandwich. And it was the best thing I'd eaten all day. Except unfortunately for Casey, I didn't take ALL of her advice...

Don't Go to Uzbekistan Without Flip Flops

Yesterday afternoon I found myself preparing for a trip, although I wasn't quite sure where I was going. I packed an enormous suitcase that once belonged to my mother and clothes I had never seen before. I don't remember actually packing it, only that it was a bitch to zip the lid shut. I had to remove a large waffle iron to get everything to fit. The next thing I knew it was the middle of the night and I was boarding a large white cruise ship with tattered ropes anchoring it to the pier and eerie yellow lights.

Once inside I was forced down below to steerage and found myself being cornered by a square white robot with U.S. Postal Service bumperstickers affixed to the side and two small arms that were spewing high-pressure water to keep me cornered. It instructed me in a quiet female voice to lower my head towards the arms, which I did. I was shocked to feel a large amount of thick, brownish fluid being sprayed in my hair. The mechanical arms stopped spraying water and began immediately massaging my scalp in a very pleasing manner. I couldn't help but notice a small red light that read "Anti-Lice." I was appalled.

The next moment I was riding in a gold Datsun 240Z with a handsome but aging Italian that spoke no English and a small, black Cocker Spaniel puppy. The Italian was driving incredibly fast and the signs--in a language I couldn't recognize--bled past the windows in a blur of green. I asked him where we were going, but he just smiled and kept his eyes on the road. I noticed on the Datsun's navigation screen that most of the words appeared to be in Russian and concluded that we might be heading to Uzbekistan.

Just then we screamed to a halt in the cobblestone parking lot of a small bed and breakfast. It was dusk, and I noticed very faint lanterns in the windows. In a matter of seconds, the Italian and puppy were gone. I was alone in the Datsun with not a clue what to do, so I gathered my things and headed into the B&B. I was greeted by an elderly woman that instructed me to drop my things immediately and put on a light blue lycra shirt that zipped up in the front and told me to find my flip flops. I dug and dug and dug in my bag, then ran back out to the car to see if I'd left them there. Of course, the car was gone. She didn't let me back in without the flip flops. I sat remorseful on the stoop trying to figure out how to get inside and get my stuff.

And then the phone rang and woke me up. I really wanted to go back. I bet I could've gotten in.

Birthday Shots

Random shots from the weekend:

Dave and Justin (friend from Lincoln, NE).


Trevor (aka Daddy's Lil Helper).

Doug, Brian and Lucas. Sale on wife-beaters?

Justin, doing what he does best.

Shot of the festivities.

You shouldn't let me loose with the camera when I've been drinking.

Food for the BBQ, just before chicken juice ran down my leg.

Trevor is forced to sanitize the entire kitchen due to said juice.

Brian, Mohawk Mark (aka A/C Mark) and Lucas out on the deck.

Doug, Tommy and Mark sit on my huge deck.

He didn't get ANY attention this weekend. Not a bit.

Trevor and Laken.

A Day of Mourning Rest

After a VERY long weekend spent cooking, cleaning, shopping, recovering, being proud, being older, etc., I decided Monday would be an official day of rest. No computers, no phones, no TV. Just me, a book, a bed and a Beagle. It was bliss.

A few pictures and a video from Pride coming later today...

2006 Pride

6:30am - 11:30am - Clean the deck, plant some flowers, run to Target for supplies.

11:30am - 12:30pm - Lunch with Trevor.

12:30pm - 3:30pm - Rum, Tequila, Rum, Tequila, Marlboro Ultra Light Menthols, Tequila, Tequila, Tequila.

3:30pm - 5:30pm - Go to Pride festival, walk around seeing people you're embarassed to be associated with. Stoli Blueberry, kiss a few cute boys, Stoli Blueberry, Stoli Blueberry.

6:00pm - Decide I need to be home in bed. Now.

2:21am - Wake up and wish I was dead.

2:22am - Oh shit, it' my birthday!

2:23am - Figure I've got 22 more hours to get laid. Better get to work.

Official 2006 Birthday Wish List

I fully appreciate that most of you that read this blog won't be buying me a present for my birthday; however, if you're feeling a little extra nice on Sunday, you can choose from my Official PPWO Birthday Wish List:

10. A new motorcycle.
9. A 2-week vacation watching the sun set across an infiniti pool in Mykonos, Greece.
8. A Bang & Olufsen BeoVision 4 Television System for my bedroom.
7. An Aston Martin Vanquish S.
6. A table for 10 at Per Se.
5. An IWC Ingenieur.
4. A little sumin sumin for the lake.
3. Maybe something for the feet.
2. TomTom Navigator 5 GPS Bundle for Treo 650.
1. A link to PWWO on your blog (if you've done this, see #7. Or 8. Or 4).

Come on now... I'm worth it. Every penny.

Random Thoughts #26

--I'm sitting at my desk typing this and there's a developer named Michael talking to my co-worker. He's got an incredibly deep and booming voice, which is kind of sexy except when I'm trying to concentrate. Right now I just want him to shut the fuck up.

--This morning on NPR I learned that it is customary for the U.S. Military to pay compensation or "solatia" to the families of Iraqi civilians injured or killed by U.S. forces. So how much is an Iraqi worth to us? $2,500. Injuries: $1,000. As I was searching the Internet for similar stories, there were pictures of soldiers counting out $50 bills to Iraqi citizens. Tacky.

--Today former co-worker and long lost pal Mike is taking me to lunch for my birthday. I've selected Fuddrucker's, where I'll have a tasty Turkey burger and some fries. Hell, I might splurge and go to Wendy's for a Frosty, too.

--I don't see how steroids makes Barry Bonds hit more home runs. Seems to me like hitting a home run requires some amount of eye-hand coordination that steroids doesn't improve. If you juiced up half the players in MLB, Barry would probably still have the most. And, what the difference between hitting a ball 490 feet and 590 feet? They're both still homers (I think).

--I ate dinner right next to Sammy Sosa once at a crappy little Chinese food dive in San Francisco. They locked the doors behind him so people wouldn't come in and bother him. Somehow, the owner magically produced a handful of baseballs for him to sign.

--I saw a personalized license plate yesterday on a big giant SUV that read "OTOLITH." At the time, I thought it might have something to do with ears and a large stone, but I wasn't sure. I definitely thought it sounded cool. According to Merriam-Webster Online, it means "One of many minute calcareous particles found in the inner ear of vertebrates and in the statocysts of many invertebrates." Why would anyone put that on their car? Someone please help me understand.

--I've always wanted to have a personalized plate, but have never been able to come to any type of decision on what I wanted it to be. This is the same reason I don't have any tattoos. Maybe "PWWO"?

--The product group I work in is traveling to Minneapolis in a couple of weeks for a meeting and we were just talking about making travel arrangements. One of my co-workers has this antique/vintage BMW motorcycle, and I told everyone (jokingly) that I wanted to ride up there on it with him. Another co-worker says, "Yeah, you'd make a GOOD biker bitch." Um, how did he know that?

--Kim English, RuPaul and EnVogue are all performing for Kansas City Gay Pride this year. I think that's a decent line-up for a lil' ole Midwestern town. It's not Gay Days or anything like that, but I think it'll be a fun weekend.

Harper's Index for June

Fascinating facts and figures from the June Harper's Magazine.

Peek Pic 97

Who the hell wants THAT piece of crap?

Salesperson Rant

I just had a little "run-in" with one of our sales "executives" (I use that term loosely) and I just felt compelled to say this out loud: Salespeople are douche-bags. Let me give you a few reasons why I feel this way:

1. Gaucheness. Just because you're wearing a pin-striped suit and cufflinks doesn't make you important. We ALL know you make decent money and we ALL know that you have a Porsche and a trophy wife and a kid in private school. Woopty Fucking Do. You're an assbag and you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground. And that Rolex looks like you stole it off a pimp.

2. Talk. You talk all the time and say nothing. You say things in annoying metaphors that make me want to choke you with my bare hands, like: "Let's not try to boil the ocean here..." or "Woah, it's like drinking from a fire hose..." or "Let's circle the wagons and run this play..." If you weren't so fat and ugly, I'd stick my fire hose up your wagon and blow an ocean that would make your head pop off.

3. Motivation. You don't give a shit about our clients. You want to sell them the most expensive thing we've got with the shortest sales cycle so you can take your commission and run to the next deal. You don't know what our products do, how they can help our clients or the best ways to position them to maximize their value. Your motivation towards money is no different than a maggot to a corpse--and just as sickening to watch.

4. Scavengers. I've seen wild dogs on the Discovery Channel with more manners. You'd slit my throat and sell your baby's organs to get a commission. Listening to you argue amongst fellow salespeople makes me sad. No, not sad, angry. Because watching your perpetually puckered lips move is a complete waste of my time. I want to bathe after sitting in the same room with you.

5. Brains. Last, you're a fucking idiot. The only value you bring to this company is the willingness to pester people until they're willing to talk to someone who knows what they're talking about. The only thing you've got going for you is a decent head of hair and very pretty fake teeth.

So in close, hear this:

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord Product Portfolio Director when I lay my vengeance upon you.

So, BACK OFF, jackass or you'll never make another DIME here.

[I feel so much better now].