Homer'sWorld

Leap Year. Doesn't come often (no jokes please), so you should make an effort to do something utterly bizarre or unusual. Really, try it, as Panchesco would urge. So last night I went over to Jamie S.'s and was his photo model. Unfortunately, because many children probably read this blog, I can't post many of the more interesting photos. I did discover that the old saying that the camera adds ten pounds is true, especially if those ten pounds are already padding your mid-section. Nothing like a shocking photo or two to make you think, "Time to get one's behind back to the gym."

And then there is the unexpected photo, what do you say? I guess I can't be handsome or sultry or cute all of the time.



New, bewildered, shirt.

An early afternoon self portrait.

Early morning. My quota of sleep used up earlier than normal due to late afternoon napping. At 5 AM I learn that I need to take special vitamins and buy bunches of silver coins, at least that is what basic cable television tells me. I comb Puff and Bear and Princess and the amount of soft hair that comes off of them surprises me, but then springtime is in the air. Princess, the pretty gray sealpoint, purrs loudly and looks at me with her pale blue eyes in a way that says "Adore me, for I am purrrfect." And she really is, the prettiest cat ever. Don't believe me, well you're a dirty trucker-fucker then.

Went clothes shopping because, as I told Eric, I was tired of my duds. On the way to the mall (I know, but that is all there is in Tucson) I see a prostitute dressed like a 1960s go-go dancer, complete with tall white boots and a sorta plastic coat. She looked miserable, no doubt because it was cold and rainy and who wants to hook in the rain?

I end up buying a cool striped shirt with a wide collar- very 70s looking, I guess. At the store a very cute Asian man assisted me, I admired his physique and imagined that he is almost as cute as Patch or Wayne or Maloney or HappySad, but probably not.

At home Les called me and we chatted about gross things (we always do) and about Steve N., someone we knew 18 years ago back in Ann Arbor and who now has a profile on bigmuscle. We hate him for having a hot body (it helps to be an architect and an aerobics instructor), but giggled knowing that he must buy Nair in massive quantities, since his pictures suggest a smoothness that he certainly didn't possess in 1986, when he was the hairiest man I had ever seen.

I thought about watching the telly last night but with basic cable there truly is nothing. As a result of my lack of cable, I totally missed the Sex and the City last episode brouhaha, but can't say that I even cared. I've also never seen Oz or Six Feet Under and, according to Gavin, I'm missing the new season of AbFab, which upsets me to no end.

Okay, nothing else to recount so I think I'm going to go make some French toast for breakfast. Later.

A letter to the FCC. Jockohomo suggested that everyone send letters to Michael Powell, head of the FCC. Poor Mike (son of sellout Colin Powell) got to see him some tit at the Super Bowel. And got himself all worked up about it. So this is my letter to Mr. Powell, who wants to censor the already-censored garbage we see/hear in the media:

Dear Mr. Powell,

A quick note to say I don't care about the Janet Jackson breast APOCALYPSE. Can the government spent my tax dollars on something more important?

I find it much more OBSCENE to watch our president announce his plan to make gays and lesbians second class citizens. That is a profoundly more disgusting, immoral incident than Janet's wardrobe malfunction.

When I listened to you blather on about how awful the boob event was for you and your family, all I could think is "What the $#@&^!" Please note that in accordance with FCC rules I made my own swear word to express my dismay over the bull^%#$ that is coming out of the FCC.

I had to come home from work cause I feel like %$@#, coughing up big chunks of *($&^. The cats are delighted because that human is available for extra cuddle time. Geez, almost forgot, I need to call Santorum's office today and harass him.

My future ex-husband. William Hung (what an amazing last name) is going to be a mega-super star. Well, maybe not, but he's the sweetest guy to come out of the whole reality television craze. It is a shame that those American Idol judges just didn't get it. Their loss. I hope William enjoys his fifteen minutes. Maybe if he had a wardrobe malfunction he could get a little more time in the limelight?

Jamey called and asked how my day was going. Well, I said. This morning I woke up and decided to stay home from work. I'm finishing up having a cold and I'm coughing up unpleasantness. So I slept in, watched some silly daytime television, had a veggie corn dog and fries for lunch. I then went and saw Master and Commander. Am I imagining the homo-ness of the relationship between the captain and the surgeon. The surgeon was my type, which really doesn't mean much because at this precise moment my type is basically a non-Republican male aged 18 to 50 who has most of his teeth. The movie was alright and made me glad I wasn't a sailor at that time period.

Afterwards to Bookman's where I somehow won the three books I was buying. Very strange as I never win anything. Then home to read the alternative Tucson Weekly, which had a stupid article on gay marriage written by a straight woman "I also don't understand why gay couples want to waste their time and energy getting a state-sanctioned OK on their unions" she wrote. I sent her a polite letter explaining a few reasons why, and the paper's publisher called me a few minutes later asking if he could publish it. Sure I said. I was watering the flowers in my front yard when Jamey called. He is a photographer and I have a photo shoot with him this Saturday.

In conclusion, I had a great day. Almost forgot, I saw two (count 'em two) cute redheads today at the bookstore.

What to say? I was naughty and called the Republican party here in Pima and chatted with some old geezer who got so worked up he told me that gays would get married "when hell freezes over." As I did this Patti and Sarah giggled. My office-mates enjoy listening in as I vex politicians and their staffmembers.

I enjoyed listening to John Waters chat with Terry Gross on NPR. I went to see Mr. Waters speak in April at the Hotel Congress. The event was marred by the two super drunk chain smokers sitting right in front of me. I had taken the claustrophobic ex along and I think he had a worse time. Oh well.

I taught an archaeology class at the local community college. I ate a sandwich from Beyond Bread and suffered from acid reflux. I had to reschedule my colonoscopy consultation until next week because the doctor was going to go play golf or something. I was excited to see the car odometer at 62222. I can't tell if I am catching another cold, something that happened last year when I had two in a row. I argued with Mike C. about politics. I am so right and he is, naturally, utterly wrong. Now it is time to go to bed and I have nothing else to write about. How was your day?

Oh crap. So George W. Bush has decided that a constitutional amendment is needed to save heteros from the lousy fucking homos. I called the D.C. offices of my US Senators- McCain and Kyl- and chatted with staff members. I asked Kyl's office when were they planning on opening concentration camps to put the gays and lesbians in. They assured me that wasn't going to happen. Yeah, right.

I also called the office of Marilyn Musgrave, the Colorado representative who sponsored the amendment. I talked with her staff person and told him that I hoped she got what she deserves. What that is, I'm not sure. Maybe her queer hairdresser will fuck her 'do up royally. Although, after checking out the pictures on her website it would be hard to make her look more asinine. Maybe she'll get her a lesbian grandbaby. Wouldn't that be ironic if one of her spawn turned fag? It is almost laughworthy. Or maybe a couple of queers will kiss in front of her, totally ruining her sunny disposition and making her extra flatulent.

Maybe I'll have to move my lousy fucking homo butt up to Canada. Mighty Maloney- can I come and sleep on your couch?

An afterthought. I called my mother this morning and she said, "I don't see any reason why gays and lesbians shouldn't be allowed to marry." How did my Republican mother become so cool?

Did he know I was stalking him? On the way home from work I stopped at a supermarket. Now in Tucson, every supermarket has a distinct personality. The Fry's chain is known for the preponderance of mouth-breathers, shoppers who don't have the sense to close up while walking about. Albertson's is more expensive and I don't like the floorplan. The Safeway near work is crammed full of elderly people and embarrassed men buying Maxi-pads. The Safeway near home is heavily Hispanic and the candy section has strange confections with odd textures and unusual flavors. The Safeway I went to today is near the University and is typically filled with cute college stud-ents.

I wandered in to buy some diet pop and those expensive pretty pills. He was standing at the end of an aisle looking at cans of dog food. I see him whenever I do research at a Pima County office. Tall, thick brown wavy hair, nice goatee, brown eyes, great body. I've admired him for years. I know he smokes, perhaps a flaw, but the rest of the package...fine. I doubled back to look again. Nice butt. And as I was looking at bread he came over to inspect as well. His Pima County ID badge hangs partly from under his coat. First name starts with an S, but I can't make out the rest. Probably a Steve, maybe a Scott. Last name is decidly English. His forearms are really furry. No wedding ring.

I decide that I've done enough gazing and go look for those pills but end up in line behind him- he chose a long loaf of cheap white sandwich bread. He smiles at me and I wonder, "What if he's gay?" But I have no working gaydar here in Arizona. So I watch as he walks away and admire his butt and have a little domestic fantasy before the cashier asks me to enter my club card number.

Is it wrong to flirt with another Blogger? I'm awful guilty, but feel no guilt about it. In fact, it is one of the nice things about becoming buddies with fellow bloggers, getting to know them much better than some guy at the bar or that blonde stud who works at the supermarket. The guy I've flirted with is someone I'd like to meet in person. Who knows what we will talk about, once the talking starts.

A Grande time. Jeffrey S. and I walked up to the Grande Avenue Festival. Stopping to admire the house for sale on the corner. At night the Virgin of Guadalupe is lit up by neon. Out in front tiny daffodils are blooming.


Virgin of Guadalupe. There are lots of shrines in my neighborhood.


Miniature daffodils- the former owner also grew fantastic irises.

The festival is in its second year- it began last year to celebrate the re-opening of the area after a horrible sewer pipe leak that undermined the road and stunk up the neighborhood pretty bad. I was out of town last year, so missed it. I was amazed at how many people were strolling up and down the street. Food booths, crafts, carnival rides, a band on stage, and lots of neighbors. The crowd was mainly Mexican-American, with the occasional Anglo (mostly hippies) mixed in. It is strange how cultural events in this community are so segregated.

Jeffrey S. admired the vintage cars. Sometimes I think he is secretly straight because he can rattle off the make and model on sight, and is knowledgeable about whether the interior is original or not.

Jeffrey S. and the 1965 convertible.

We ran into Kent, and the three of us hung out. Jeffrey and Kent hadn't met, and I mentioned to Kent that Jeffrey had been a Peace Corp volunteer in Africa. Kent, when he was younger and more impressionable, had been a Mormon missionary in Peru. They spent the rest of the time chatting. I am playing matchmaker. Wonder what will happen?



Kent

Playing doctor. Yesterday was my annual physical. I wanted to find out about the acid reflux and a large spot on my hand. Turns out the pretty purple pill should work on the stomach and the hand thing is just an "age spot." And because I have aged and I'm now 40, drastic measures are needed. First an EKG test, which was totally uninteresting. And then the cough-cough test. And then the bend over test. That's not a big deal (although I know of a couple of straight men who are FREAKED by getting that test), but the doctor then tells me that I need to get a colonoscopy. Jesus fuck. He wants baseline data on my guts. Which means I have to take super-laxatives for a day, poop out everything in my system, go to the hospital, get sedated, have a tube stuck up my bum and a video made. I hope they give me a copy so at my next craft party I can pop it in the VCR and amaze my friends with "A Tour of Homer's Rectum." I just canned the crass joke I thought up.

In other news, I sent a company-wide email this morning about my "flippant" comment at the benefits meeting and received a number of responses. One other woman said she had had similar feelings (she has a boyfriend) but was too chicken to speak up. All nine responses were supportive. I feel much better now, and I guess I'll put the baseball bat away. A chocolate eclair helped too.

After the Day of Discrimination I came home and was very upset, as previously stated. Luckily, I realized that I was having dinner with Bob and Steve so I drove over to their 1880s adobe, locking my keys in my car. Nobody was home but I was a little early. I thought perhaps I had messed up (and I had, we were supposed to eat Friday instead) but it all worked out in the end and the combination of talking, Dragon View takeout, and pretty Miss Peaches sitting on my lap were mostly healing. But when I came home I wrote a little letter that I may or may not give my boss. When I climbed in bed an unexpected windstorm hit and the electricity started to go off and on, leaving me with an annoying flashing alarm clock. I haven't confessed this but if I have to get up early I watch the clock all night, a very bad habit, I wouldn't recommend starting. Plus, I ground my teeth so hard the whole left side of my face feels like someone punched me. Again, not recommended, because it makes the day start out kinda crummy. Plus I'm going to the doctor to find out about acid reflux and get poked, and that accurate to an ounce scale that I dislike almost as much as...., well I'm just not going to bother thinking up negatives. Instead I call for Princess to come sit on my lap and pat her pretty little head and think about the donut I will be eating after the doctors office.


Basket and candelabras at Steve and Bob's house.


Homer and Peaches, the miraculous calming Pomeranian.

Insurance discrimination. At today's workplace presentation on our new "beneflex" plan the company owner from California glibly noted that domestic partners and significant others would not be covered as per IRS regulations. The second time he brought this up I interrupted him and asked what was going to happen with the marriages in San Francisco and Massachusetts. He didn't want to talk about this and repeated the domestic partner/significant other rule. I told him, in front of my co-workers that I thought he was being flippant and asked him what his company would be doing to change this. He said "Nothing" and then refused to discuss it further.

My co-workers failed to understand my point. "Oh, he wasn't being flippant" they say, "and why should his company do anything to change IRS rules." I respond by noting that he had already noted the numerous changes in IRS rules that have taken place in the last 18 years this particular plan has been in effect. Obviously, the industry hires lobbyists to push for these changes. My company has a queer, two dykes, and a woman with a domestic partner. The overhead money we generate are helping to pay his company for his services. Ten percent of the employees are not getting the same benefits as the "traditional married/persons with kids" because of IRS rules. The benefits company should be interested in changing those rules for both financial reasons (they would make more profit with more individuals covered) and to better represent the workers of the people paying into the plan.

I'm really pissed off and the reaction of my co-workers (Homer is getting over-excited and there's nothing that can be done about it) makes me even angrier. Where's my baseball bat?

Later: At home, I'm still pissed off. The reactions of my co-workers were amazing- "You were making a big deal out of nothing" and "I don't think you should have told him he was flippant."

Let's see, why shouldn't I be pissed off. Straight people can go get married and within a few minutes receive a whole set of rights that are routinely denied gays and lesbians. Of the 40 or so people I work with there are four or five who are married and have no intention/ability to have kids, but still have access to lots of rights that I don't have. And then there are the ones with kids who benefit from my paying taxes for schools. So you would think the co-workers would spend a few minutes and think about the issue. But since they have theres, they aren't particularly interested in the topic.

Meanwhile, insurance and benefit companies are willing to take gay/lesbian money but are not interested in going to Congress and telling them to change the laws. It makes me livid. Where the fuck is that bat?

Feels like Spring. Suddenly it's Spring time. The wildflowers in my front yard are pushing upward and a few have suffered from premature blossoming:


Blurry yellow.

Which reminds me of the last time I was in Nogales, Sonora with my mother. We walked across the border and wandered through the tourist portion of town. Shops crammed with ticky-tacky stuff, a tired old burro to pose pictures with, and the street hawkers trying to sell you stuff.

"Hey man," says el hombre, a little older than me, "You need some Viagara?" Christ, couldn't he see that was I with my mother?

"No thanks," I said, my face turning red with embarrassment.

"Okay, then you want to go see the donkey fuck a girl?" Jesus H. Christ, we must have been walking down the wrong street. I steered my mother back into a shop to admire little knobs with bluebirds painted on them.

"Oh, I wish they had had that stuff back when your father was alive?" she said.

"What stuff?" I asked.

"That Viagara. After he got diabetes he could never have an erection and that was very upsetting for him. Not that I cared one way or another."

Oh. My. Frigging. God. That was a billion times more information than I ever needed to know. "Mother!" I said, "I don't want to know about that."

"Well, I was just saying...." It was almost as bad as the time I asked her why she had these purple plastic high heeled shoes. "Well, when your father gets depressed because of the stroke I take my clothes off and walk around naked in front of him wearing them. It cheers him up."

This was over 10 years ago, and I'm pretty sure I suffered internal sunburn from the degree of embarrassed redness.

Is it wrong to lust for your plumber? The guesthouse bathroom clogged up again and a call to a different plumber brought John G. over, exactly on time. Handsome, salt and pepper hair, a nice smile, pretty eyes, and a great ass. Now, I wouldn't have minded if he had plumber's butt.


John climbed up on the guest house roof and thrust his long, snake-like appendage into the appropriate hole. A few minutes of intense probing action, and that darn blockage was gone.


The downside- $165 down the drain, but I cheerfully wrote the check as a figured out ways to take pictures of the lustworthy plumber without being too obvious.

I think this is the naughtiest entry ever on this blog. Sigh.

The Gay Guys Valentine's Day Party was a success. Fifteen single men, you'd think there would be total debauchery. Instead the boys snacked and made plastic bead mosaics.


Jeffrey S. and his creation.


Reuben is all smiles.

Things got really wild when I pulled the Twister game out.


Panchesco plots his next move.

Richard and I had a camera duel, I think he probably won, since I'm still learning what all of the buttons mean on my new Nikon.


Richard at the craft table.

The only downside was having to ask the Magic 8 Ball the same question (Will I get a boyfriend this year?) three times before I got a satisfactory answer.

Happy Valentine's Day. It is really exciting to see all of those gay and lesbian couples getting married in San Francisco. The two guys in the picture below appeared in today's Arizona Daily Star, almost as cute as their babies. I'm very happy for all of the newlyweds.



I hope you have a nice Valentine's Day too.

Things I hated about Michelle's going away party. Michelle is leaving for Israel Sunday and at her party in my guesthouse there were a lot of hippies and otherwise interesting people. But there were a lot of godawful things going on including:

- a guy singing the "Fuck" song at the top of his lungs outside my bedroom window. Not endearing.
- blondes with dreadlocks. Nasty, matted, dirty. Ruins perfectly nice bone structure.
- being told by your friend that his very hot boyfriend, standing next to you, is limber and well hung enough to give himself head. And the boyfriend confirming this is in fact true.
- tribal drumming until 2:00 AM is so 1968.
- seeing 20-somethings so stoned that they couldn't speak clearly- yuck.
- the cutest guy at the party, the one who kept checking me out, turns out to be straight.

On the other hand, Michelle was having a lovely time and I will really miss her as she goes on this adventure. I hope she is safe in Israel, I wish that country would sort out its problems with the Palestinians, but then I wish I lot of things. Like maybe getting me a limber boyfriend...

Runaway Nose. Cue dramatic music. Lights, action, kleenex. In this episode of Homer'sWorld our protagonist is suffering from what is believed to be a fatal case of runny nose. As concerned cast members and extras arrive at the hospital, the camera presents a close up of Homer's bright red nostrils. Someone asks, "Is it alive?" As a stream of mucous jets out during a particularly violent eruption, a long lost friend appears, trapped in an alternative dimension, loosened by the magical combination of anti-hista-whatever-it-is-that-I-can't-spell, paper towel, and Joey Cat. Someone else comments on the weird scent in the air, to which smell-challenged Homer cries out, "There's got to be a morning after!" Panchesco arrives on Magda, and waves his fiery wand. Is it too late for our hero? Will the Single Gay Guys Valentine's Day Party be a gigantic blowout, or will it just plainly blow? What sort of pizza goes best with Sudafed? Stay tuned for the answers to these and other exciting questions....

Thanks San Francisco. Tomorrow the sun will rise, commuters will drive to work, I'll drink a diet Coke, President Bush will say something really stupid, etc., etc. The world will not have ended because two elderly lesbians got hitched in San Fran. Many religious conservatives will get their panties in a bunch. Who gives a flaming fuck what they think? I mean, the same crowd has been wrong-wrong-wrong on all of the other "issues" they have played cry baby about. Inter-racial marriage, the end of slavery, relaxed divorce laws, the end of prohibition- none of these brought about the end of the United States. Each of these actions actually strengthened our country.

If by some off chance you are one of the idiots who oppose gay marriage, and you found your way to this website, go fuck yourself, I'm certain nobody else will do it.

In other news, I'm recovering from my sniffles, have been productive at work, flirted shamelessly on the phone, as well as paid my bills (and actually have some money leftover!). I really like my new camera and need to find some interesting things to take pictures of. And last night's Angel episode was really good. As a friend of mine would say, Good Times.

Breaking news: Drive By Shooting! Occasionally I hear gunshots. A few minutes ago I HEARD gunshots. Like, right next to my house. So close, I was truly alarmed as my cats ran about frightened. I ended up lying flat on the floor as more gunshots rang out. Bang-Bang-Bangedy-Bang!

And then I remembered that there was supposed to be a fireworks show on the mountain next to my house because it is the 50th anniversary of the Gem Show. So I went outside and watched for a while, coming back inside because it is kinda cold.



Drive by fireworks.

As the Stomach Turns. I haven't whined about it, but I have been suffering from acid reflux for the last 35 days or so. Almost every time I eat I develop a burning sensation in my chest. Sometimes I can even taste the acid if I burp. Next week I go to the doctor to find out what can be done. In the meantime I am taking one of those well-advertised brightly colored pills. So far it hasn't helped.

Compounding this is a little cold that I picked up from a co-worker. God-fucking-dammit. He had it much worse than I do, and I know it was him because I had to listen to his cough-cough-coughing. I'm feeling mighty stuffed up myself, I guess a result of the drive to Sierra Vista today, which is at a slightly higher elevation than Tucson (3,800 ft versus 2,500). So I'm going to huddle at home in front of the little electric heater. Play with the cats (Puff and Mama are waiting to be petted). And have a nice someone-sticking-a-knife-in-my-guts kinda evening. End of whine. Was it good for you?

And a little later. So cheap, generic wireless keyboards are actually cheap, worthless keyboards. That don't work. And will have to be dragged back to Circuit City for a refund. Although the packaging is totally ripped to shreds. And I'm having to type this using the vomit-keyboard. Blech.

And don't go to Circuit City the day your tax refund comes and you end up buying a Nikon Coolpix 4300. Which I did. Which takes much better pictures than the old camera. The very first photo is presented below. Please note that Bear is not the puking cat, he just looks like Puff.


First photo, Bear.

Disgusting Puff. Likes to sit on the top of my monitor. Well, when I came home tonight I discovered he had been sitting up there when the urge to puke happened. So gobs of puss vomit were running down the screen and covered much of the ketboard. Attempts to remove it from in between the keys have proven impossible. I'm heading off to buy a new keyboard now, since as I type this the puke is squishing up between the w and e keys. Fuck...

Almost famous. Jim mentioned that the only celebrity he has seen in person was Tiny Tim. So on the way to work I started thinking of famous people I have bumped into, Here's my list:

Charlie Sheen- at the gym, he was filming a movie in Tucson
Stephen Baldwin- at the gym, he lived in Tucson
Ted Danson- at the airport in LA
Keanu Reeves- at a restaurant in LA, he was attending a birthday party
Ricky Lee Jones- at the same restaurant, at the bar
John Stossel- walking down the street in NYC

And that is it for the accidental list. I guess I'm not a magnet for the rich and famous. The on-purpose list includes: Gerald and Betty Ford, George and Barbara Bush, Dan Quayle, Walter Mondale, Howard Dean, Jesse Jackson, Robert Ballard, and Maya Angelou. And perhaps the most bizarre- Colonel Sanders.

So who have you seen in person?

At the Gay Man's Sex Expo, I decided to get vaccinated for Hepatitis A and B, which are apparently becoming more prevalent here in Tucson. The 20 minute HIV test results were ready by the time I had been poked by three needles- negative. I did not attend the spanking workshop, although Jeffrey T. and Jeffrey S. said it was "interesting."

Afterwards, Mark Q. and I went out to Gates Pass and walked out onto the nearby mountain. I met Mark back in September, another cute redhead, and he called me out of the blue last week. Kevin had mentioned my name. His sense of humor is as goofy as mine (he'll protest, saying mine is goofier, when it is actually just more juvenile).


Mark Q., half in shadow.

As usual I focused on details, the lichen covering rocks, the water-fattened saguarro.


Lichen.


Saguaro.

We scrambled off the rocks as the sun went down, our conversation rambling from one topic to another.


Sunset.

Afterwards we had middle eastern food at Ali Babas and came back to my place, where he was impressed by the linoleum art. It ended up being a really nice time and I'm sitting here wishing, in a pleasant way, that more Saturdays were like that.

Letter to editor. The letter I wrote last week showed up in the Tucson Citizen, our conservative newspaper today. I'll be getting some hate mail soon- religious tracts, or maybe a letter from a fake address telling me I'm a pathetic shithead. It is so easy to rile up conservatives.

I've been thinking about the woman who told me she was voting for Bush again. The backstory is that this woman is white and and is married to a black guy. Until 1959 this sort of marriage was illegal in Arizona. According to Arizona law, a "white" person (of European or Mexican background) could not marry a black, Asian, or Native American. The ACLU finally filed suit and when it was apparent the law would be thrown out the state legislature caved in and sacked the miscegenation laws.

The gay marriage issue is on the same track, but this time around the Republicans are pushing for a constitutional amendment and George W. Bush is backing them. Anyone who supports him is supporting his policies. If the woman wants to vote for Bush, go ahead. But she shouldn't expect me to be her friend anymore. I'm not looking forward to being a second class citizen.

Newcomers. I added a few new blogs that I've been reading. Cosmic Goober is a guy living in Denmark- look at his branding pics in the November archives. Ouch! Not something I would do- although cat-induced scars almost count. Looking for Sam is another Tucson blogger with a mystery he is trying to solve. Homo-lame-o relates stories of life in southern California. Lastly, I like Mr. Happy Sad's use of images.

I shouldn't climb back in bed in the morning after I have had insomnia. I typically have bizarre, scary dreams. This morning I dreamt of nice Grandma. I was at her house playing cards with a bunch of relatives and there she was, putting her coat on and heading outdoors. I asked her where she was going and she hurried out. I realized that she was running away, but my mother caught her and she came back inside.

Grandma died six years ago and I sometimes really miss her. She was a hard person to understand, kept her emotions well hidden. But every time I went back to Michigan I would stop and spend a few days with her. We would do the things she liked to do- go to Salvation Army to look for bargains, have lunch at the FlapJackShack, watch Wheel of Fortune. We didn't agree politically- she was an ardent Republican. But I blame that on the horrid newspaper and television stations she had access too. Grandma helped me out financially three times when I really needed help, and for that I guess I can excuse her politics. [Side note- it was shocking to see how many awful Republican fund raising letters she would get every day- from scum like Oliver North. One time I returned out to Jessie Helms suggesting in quite colorful terms where the envelope belonged].

It was nice to see Grandma in my dream. I wouldn't mind if she showed up there more often.

Driving north on Mission you can see that the Catalina Mountains are covered in snow, with fat clouds clutching at the highest peaks. I wish I had my camera because the shadows and the purple hue is amazing. I'm guessing though that the camera wouldn't catch that very well, so I am content to memorize the scene instead. On my left, to the west, is a forest of saguaros, a few tick-tacky houses interspersed. On the right is the hell of mobile homes and palm trees, plunked down on the floodplain of the now-dry Santa Cruz River. I wonder what will happen when the next 500 year flood comes. Will the mobile homes wash away, taking with them the collections of plates and crystal figurines elaborately described in the Parade magazine each Sunday?

And I'm voting for him again. She said. What do you say when a friend tells you she voted for George Bush? It makes me feel very strange. Bush's buddies would look at me and view me as a perverted queer (only if you ask nicely) and someone doomed to burn in hell (yeah, whatever). And because of Bush's tax cutting mania, the particular place this woman works has lost one third of its staff positions in the last two years. She is moving on to a new job soon and it is unlikely that her position will be filled. So I don't get it. It is right up there with the whole idea of infinity and what was there before the Big Bang.

My friend Mike came over to look at the guest house and will probably move in. He's a super guy and it would be nice to have him in there.

What else? Rupaul sent me an email recently, thanking me for a note I wrote him. I think he is the coolest.

I think the Janet Tit incident is pretty stupid. Hmm, Janet's WMD (Woman's Mammary Displayed) needs to be instantly investigated, according to the head of the FCC, whose children had to sit through Hard-On adds only to see a BOOB. Yes, this investigation will get to the bottom of that horrifying terrorist incident! Meanwhile, Georgie, after months of controversy, has decided that maybe we should stop stalling and find someone to blame for his missing WMDs. Stupid fuck.

Taxes and election and Janet. Theresa, my cute Korean H & R. Block tax person, finished my tax returns and I promptly signed them. All of the money will go to pay off my credit cards. Tomorrow is primary day and I'm voting for Dean. I just plain like him and the fact that he was courageous to sign the civil union legislation in Vermont makes him pretty heroic in my eyes.

I didn't watch the Stupor Bowl so I missed seeing Janet's teat. Yawn. Who fucking cares. I wished I was interested in keeping abreast of this issue, but I'm not interested in hyped controversies on the boob tube. I watched parts of two Queer Eye shows, and really wished those five guys would come help me out. I mean, I really need advice on exfoliation. And my wardrobe is pretty lame- in case you didn't know, people in Tucson, Arizona are not particularly interested in fashion. So I buy clothes at Old Navy that are comfortable. And I don't have many dress up duds. Help, Fab Five!

24 Hours. I worked on my book, finding the Kingdon family in Illinois and Kansas. I stopped at the health food supermarket and sampled a disgusting healthy snack chip. At running charades my list- e-mail, spam, Viagra, Nigerian dictator, lower mortgage rates, teenage sluts, penis enlargement, enough- was decidedly difficult and no one caught on to the theme. Doug the tympanist was very cute and had a sexy demeanor. I invited him to my upcoming party. I developed a stomach ache, unfortunately.

This morning I read the New York Times and the Arizona Daily Star. I clipped a coupon that saved me three dollars. The neighbor kids asked if I would pay them to rake my yard. I agreed, and I'm guessing the $10 went to candy and popcorn at the movies. At Ace Hardware I bought flower seeds. At Queen Donut I treated myself to a lemon -filled and a huge Diet Pepsi. Then at the pet store I ooed and ahhed at the cute cats and puppies. I switched lines so that I was waited on by Ryan, the incredibly good looking clerk. I had a moment of lust. On the way back home, while driving down Oracle, I saw a prostitute sauntering up the street, looking for some business. I bet her last 24 hours was a lot different, and perhaps more interesting, than mine.