Homer'sWorld

In case you were wondering, Seymour the artichoke has begun to bloom.


Seymour.

He's a big, brawny plant with a rather hairy blossom on a thick stalk, kinda like some men I know.

Different angle.

I can see potatoes pushing up around my potato plants- I think this Friday will be Day o'Harvest and I'll make some boiled New Potatoes. I'm hungry already.

The B 52's are playing. I bought their greatest hits CD but of course where is that one song I really like?

"Rock Lobster!"

I watched Serenity and The Island this weekend and enjoyed both. Nathan Fillion could come drive my spaceship in hyperdrive anytime he wants.

"Quiche, La Poodle is her name!"

I discovered that my friend Bob and I are approximately 10th cousins. My mother was pleased about this, she really likes Bob and Steve. When they came over for a white trash meal I made (veggie dogs and tater tots and salad), she actually swept the kitchen the floor. That was the only time in three months that she cleaned house.

"We'll meet in Mesopotamia!... I know I need excavation"

Thank you to Albert, Jim, and Julio for the translation help. That inscription appears on a tombstone for a man who died in 1893 and whose house I dug up a few years ago. I was a bit tardy seeing what that said.

"Orange popsicles and lemonade..."

Jimbo is enamored with the Australian rugby team the Sydney Convicts. One of their players is my friend Mark who is both sweet and hot, as is his bf Sandy. I really need to go visit them sometime. Maybe they will let me be towel guy.

"Tin roof, rusted!"

A request. The last image contains Spanish text. Can someone translate it for me?

Angels.

Jeffrey S. called me at the Catholic cemetery, just as I was finishing photographing some tombstones for a presentation I'm giving. The wind was blowing and I had to get in my car before he could hear me.

Dove.

Brightly colored artificial flowers were everywhere. I paused twice to re-insert bronze flower holders back into headstones, apparently undone by the strong winds we have been having.

Hand and cross.

Later another phone call includes the message that I am disappointing. For whatever reason it is very upsetting and I make a small scene. I am tired and feeling off from being sick and the chocolate frosting and yellow cake I had made don't seem so special anymore. Hours later I still feel off and wish the stomach ache would go away.

The mysterious text.

At the cemetery I wandered along rows of graves. We never put artificial flowers on the graves back in Michigan, but then you could plant flowers there and they grew, here the hot sun and harsh winds quickly fades the fake flowers to a pale, lifeless color.

My pretty pony. Today, during break time, I climbed into one of the outhouse pits being dug at the site and poked my trowel around. After a minute or two I found this:

Pretty pony.

So cute, unbroken, the paint still fresh after 120 years.

Earlier in the day, in contrast, I found a bottle as the backhoe was scraping off an area. I cleaned it off and discovered it was an "Injection Brou" bottle from Paris. This was a particularly disgusting medicine that you syringed into your private tingly bits to make them somewhat less tingly, although whether it worked is anybody's guess.

In summary, the highlights of the day were a children's toy and a VD bottle. Nice.

The best thing about having practically non-stop diarrhea for three days is the pounds that magically vanish from your waist, flushed down the toilet along with all that nasty Gatorade that came out the same color it went in. The bad thing about non-stop diarrhea for three days is that all the Immodium you took to plug yourself up worked. Perhaps too well.

But at least I'll look alright for naked pool volleyball, unless someone mentions to me "Homer, you are carrying a few extra pounds" and I'll have to say back, "Oh, if you only knew..."

What caused me to be me? I wonder why I have the personality, beliefs, desires that I have.

I grew up in small towns in northern Michigan. My father was a truck driver until I was 10, a farmer afterwards. My mother stayed at home. We were lower middle class. There wasn’t money for extras. I wore hand-me-downs and once in a great while we got candy or pop, those were great luxuries.

I went to average schools until 4th grade and poor schools after that. When I was in second grade my teacher realized I was ahead of the rest of the class and put me in an advanced reading program. That was the only special attention I ever got in school. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to go to a better school, would I find math easier?

My father had mental problems, a result of his treatment by his mother. He never grew up, in some ways, never became completely responsible. After we started farming he frequently was cruel to me and my brother. We were the scapegoats for everything that went wrong. Frankly, I don’t miss him, it is too bad he never understood himself.

I knew I liked guys since I was in first grade. I had crushes on Steven J. in 5th grade. I was gawky and uncoordinated and developed late. I was never interested in girls but that was okay because I was a nerd. I came out of the closet my junior year in college. My life improved immensely.

My mother did not believe in racism and even though we grew up in a very, very white area, her views were imparted on me. I look at the individual rather than the group. I find men of all types hot, I know that would surprise some people. Sometimes I say “Republican” on my blog and that isn’t fair, because many Republicans don’t do or support the naughty things the Republican leaders are doing. I apologize.

I believe in giving money to the needy. I don’t particularly care to be rich. I am already rich, when compared to people living 60 miles away in Nogales, Sonora. I do not live in a tin and cardboard shack. I am thankful for that.

I am lucky to have a career I really like and I am good at. I have a nice, old house with three cats and a dog. I have good friends and I make them laugh often. I am lucky.

So what made me, me? A lot of things. My mother’s insistence I go to college. Looking at that Penthouse magazine and being more interested in the man than the woman. Petting Ferdinand the bull right before they shot him. Having my heart broken. And all the adventures and unhappy moments and surprises that lie ahead.

B.A.R.T. Bananas, apples, rice, and toast. My Peace Corps friends, Jimbo and Jeffrey S., told me these foods would help slow things down. So far, not successful. I think I'll go to the store and get some supa-strong stuff.


At the French doors.

Stomach flu or maybe food poisoning. I am amazed to find out how much vomit and diarrhea comes out of my body over a 15 hour period. For a while I squatted in the shower with the hot water coursing over me, both ends discharging simultaneously. I haven't been this sick since 1989.

I called up Brady. I was desperate for pepto and pop and toilet paper. He and Patrick came over immediately and were so sweet, I practically burst out bawling. Meanwhile, neighbors two houses down were having a party and I could have sung along to the words if I knew the words to Mexican polka music.

This morning I have a yoghurt and some pop and wait to see what will happen. I've got a million things to do and being sick wasn't on the list.

The Mayor asked me a couple of questions- why did the one wall slope downhill? I explained that Tucson's Spanish-era fort was built directly on the ground surface and that the area sloped down to the west.


The mayor shovels mortar.

At last week's meeting I asked whether there was going to be a cornerstone ceremony for the new park. This is the area I was doing archaeology in this last December through February.


Dedication ceremony.

The foundations of the new walls and tower are in place and the adobe bricks are being prepared. This is the northeast corner of the Spanish/Mexican Presidio that was here from 1776 to 1856. In a year from now it will be a park where living history is shown to Tucson residents and tourists.

The ceremony turned out to be really nice, I even got to lay one of the adobe bricks. I'll be able to come back years from now and point to that brick- "That one is mine." The cornerstone is from a rock found on the site, once part of the foundation of a boarding house built in the 1890s. I think my idea turned out to be a rather good one.


Cornerstone.

It has rained once since October. The plants are dying. No baby birds or animals. I wet down the dirt in my front yard in an attempt to stop the dust from coming in.


The big lizard at work.

We are still a month off from the monsoon season. I'm hoping for lots of rain this summer.

Cactus flower.

I wish I had charming stories to tell but Byron wasn't working at Mexican Safeway and I left the store with detergent and scrubbing pads and orange-flavored chewable vitamins which leave a slight metallic taste in my mouth. Once when I was a kid, and we didn't have candy because we were poor, I climbed up on the counter and ate a couple of orange-flavored vitamins and felt real guilty afterwards. I was probably five-years-old, why that memory has stuck with me when so many others haven't is one of those great mysteries.

Brian was kind enough to call me and have me wave while he got a screen grab of the HomerCam2006.

You'll have to go to his website to see the image, Blogger is acting up really bad today- I can't post pictures and I can't hyperlink anything. Brian's blog is CheapBlueGuitar in my links.

I'm old or worn out because working 10-11 hours a day isn't as much fun as it used to be. I spent yesterday spraying water on the dirt to keep dust from blowing off the site. Doing so keeps the county dust folks happy, and you really, really don't want to see them unhappy. They write enormous fines.

Tonight I'm going to come home from work and watch the boob tube and do nada. It's 6 AM and I'm already so tired. Whine-o-rama in 3D tiredness. Did I tell you about my sunburn? Summer's here.

My dig started today- luckily it was cloudy and not so hot. Lots of work to be done- I was chatting with Jimbo on the phone and the backhoe found two or three new outhouse pits just while we were talking.


The dig site.

I outline all of the pits with white paint after we find them, when the dirt dries they are less visible.

There is a webcam set up so you can see us working! Click on the fourth tab over, TRAFFIC. In the menu that comes up, click on Downtown Tucson Views. Then click on the fourth red circle from the right, City of Tucson's Historic Train Depot. You can see the big pile of backdirt, the mobile trailer, and during the day you'll be able to see the archaeologists digging and walking around. Tomorrow Brian is calling me and I told him I would wave at the camera.

My chores finished, Puff and I sat on the back porch. I watched him investigate the plants, he sniffs everything and once in a while would look at me and meow. I sometimes can tell what he's saying, there's the "Food bowl empty" meow and the "Please, let me outside with you" meow. This morning he's telling me that he's super excited to be smelling new smells and walking on real dirt.


Lying next to Seymour.

I could smell the tomato plant, the one that survived Mollie digging up most of my garden. Now I've screened off the area so she can't get in. The tomato is busy making medium-sized tomaters, meanwhile the potato plants are still happy, I wonder if they are making potaters?


Puff.

A lazy morning, debating what I should do. Really I should sweep the house, but know that the dust will make me sneeze like crazy. So instead I lie in bed and I read something scholarly and tell Puff to stop picking on Joey.

Dear National Security Agency,

It has come to my attention that my phone provider, Qwest, refused to turn over their records to your agency. Obviously, Qwest is run by a cabal of communistic, atheistic sodomizers who force their interns into degrading and nasty double penetration scenes, the likes of which are rarely seen outside of Rick Santorum’s office. I am a patriotic person, I vote, I pay taxes, I have personally raised the morale of members of the Army, Air Force, and Navy. Because of Qwest’s traitoristic behavior, I’ve decided it is my responsibility to send along my phone records to add to your totally-legal-and-without-a-doubt-used-only-to find-terrorists-or Democrats database.

Let’s see, during the billing period from 4 April to 30 April 2006, a total of 139 incoming and outgoing calls are associated with my telephone number. These calls ranged in length from one minute to 38, totaling 1022 minutes! I see that I called Archerr, Jimbo, RJ, Brian, Mike in Chicago, Brady, Brett, Moby, Pat, and my mother. As far as I know, none of these individuals are terrorists but for the sake of National Security I recommend doing full cavity searches on Archerr and Jimbo (preferably smooth, musclebound agents for the former and hairy, bearded ones for the latter).

I’m embarrassed to relate to you that my next phone bill will include several phone calls to Canada, a nation well known for socialistic medicine and other depravities. Please note that Larry is Jewish and therefore likely to be a natural enemy of most Islamic terrorists. However, it is reported that he has a Weapon of Ass Destruction, so maybe you should come do one of those full cavity searches on me anyways.

Sincerely and syncophantly,

Homer

Honesty. Lot of drama on the old internet, swirling around like a whirlpool, dragging in people.

Drama focused on what is real and what is not real. I was on a dig in Wyoming once, shared an apartment with a guy named Craig. He was in his mid 20s. Every couple of days he would tell us a story, letting the details dribble out in bits and pieces. A wife killed in Lebanon. A plane crash. A near fatal bus accident. A previous career in the army. Separately, the stories seemed plausible and even possible. But gradually a realization dawned on me that there were too many coincidences, too many bizarre happenings. One night he arranged a poker party and I placed hostess, deciding that card playing was not a skill I possessed. As I watched Craig I realized, "He's cheating!" Mirror skillfully set in his lap so he could see his cards that were facedown, supposedly unseen. That's when everything fell in place, the mirror reflecting on the true persuasion of that man.

From time to time hoaxes have played out on the internet. The guy in Australia supposedly fag-bashed. The guy named Joel dying of cancer. That other guy trying to escape the ex-gay camp. Are there others out there? Time will tell.

If only. If you Google "homer fucking" my blog is number one. I think that is a case of misunderstanding.

Got the swamp cooler going, finally. The joy of slightly damp air blowing through my house is boundless.

Started a new dig today- spent the day spraying water onto the asphalt being stripped off a parking lot. We start digging next week- an area that contained a Chinese restaurant, saloons, boarding houses, a grocery store owned by an Austrian family, and a Chinese laundry. Who knows what we'll find.

Because of the dig I won't be attending GB-NYC3 this year. Last year I had a very enjoyable time, especially hanging out at Joe's place and spending some quality time with Ed. I need to have a GB-T1 gathering at my house. Who wants to come?

Invasion is so much better than Lost. So much better. I really liked Lost last season, this season started out great, but then it just plods along and seems so random. In contrast, Invasion is exciting and new and has Eddie Cibrian and Tyler Labine and the characters are complex and interesting.

I hope it gets renewed. ABC, are you listening?

Well hello, a lot of people are coming over from BestGayBlogs, which featured my blog this morning. Welcome and all that stuff. Who wants to go on a date?

An introduction- I'm 42, work as an archaeologist here in Tucson, grew up in Michigan, moved to Arizona in 1988. I'm 6'2", balding brown hair, hazel eyes, and I have a great sense of humor. I write about my everyday life, post pretty pictures, and sometimes get into trouble (see Jello wrestling pictures below!).

And I've been single for 3.5 years and hmmmmm, a date once in a while would be fun. Your mission, should you chose to accept it, is to describe what we would do on a date in my comment section. I await your answers.

Okay, I take it back. Ian from Texas Ranch House notes on his MySpace account that it is creepy, hilarious, and gross that gay guys find him somewhat attractive, after coming across my blog entry from last week. My mama always said that when you get a compliment, the proper and polite thing to do is say, "Thank you."

And Later. Ian and I have traded emails and he wrote "Well anyways your mother is right about compliments. Thank you for your kind words. Im sorry if I made you upset."

My mama also said that apologies are like gold, it is better to share them with the world than to bury them in some dark, dank place.

I take back my take back.

So what are the secrets of successful jello wrestling? Archerr was able to pry a few things out of me on today's podcast. Scroll down past today's entry on Archerr's site and stare, stare, stare at the hotties he photographed last weekend. If I can ever convince him to get onto that aluminum tube of death (some people prefer to call them airplanes, but Archerr knows better), I'll have to arrange a photo shoot with him and Panchesco. Panchesco's Jello Wrestling photos are HERE. Top row, third and fourth from left, I'd like to see them wiggle...


Homer and Brady, photographed by Panchesco.

In other news, the LCD display on my digital camera has decided to die. Second time in the last six months. ARGGGHHH. Maybe Best Buy will consider replacing that part of the camera instead of "fixing" it.

Somehow my pockets got filled with lime jello. Okay, so let's back up a little bit. This morning I got up and did my chores and fixed the swamp coolers and played Age of Empires and admired Brian's new haircut. Later, in the afternoon, I went over to Patrick and Brady's, and convinced Brady to go to jello wrestling.

Now jello wrestling is an annual charity event that involves people bidding on things, drinking, and wrestling in a big pit of jello. Note that drinking a lot of beer will make you do things that you wouldn't normally think of doing. Remember that, please.

The first thing that Brady said when we got there was that he had to have his picture taken with a drag queen. I do what I am told.


Drag queen and Brady.

There were a lot of drag queens collecting money from the audience, they made 35k or so. As will be seen, I helped raise a couple hundred...

Patrick and Aja.

No Drag Queens were hurt during this photography.

Beautiful minds in beautiful bodies.

I ran into someone that used to date my housemate in Ann Arbor back in 1986. He was busy making the moves on somebody that was four years old back in 1986. Happy ever after sorta moment.

Panchesco was there, and we chatted and I made observations and he was kind enough to not tell me "YOU ARE DRUNK" 'cause after five beers that is so true.

Panchesco.

After the sixth beer Patrick offered some money if Brady and I wrestled in the jello. We were fairly tipsy and honestly I didn't mind. Having a blog removes many inhibitions against exhibition.

Homer and Brady.

We ran around with buckets and collected some money. I didn't have my glasses on and couldn't see what people were giving. Brady says he was getting a lot of twenties. I probably made eight dollars, but since I'm so blind with my glasses off lets just pretend they were hundred dollar bills instead.

Panchesco was kind enough to send me the next four images. Be warned, some of these pictures contains scenes of violence that may offend and, perhaps, damage the sensibilities of sensitive folks.


Wrestling is real dangerous, don't try this at home.

Lime jello can be real cold. Think shrink.

We purposely threw handfuls of jello at the crowd.

We were so naughty. We shared that lime jello with whoever was standing nearby.


Sometimes I play real durty.

How did that happen? I have no shame when it comes to raising money for charity.


Poor Panchesco got splattered.

Afterwards we went out for pizza and I got into Patrick's shorts, mine being all soggy with jello. Nice time, although my head kinda has that hangover thing starting up.

The moment I got there Peaches wanted to sit on my lap.

Princess Peaches.

And who can blame her?

Bob and Steve and Larry and Eric and I walked to the restaurant through Armory Park

Palm Friday.

First time at Cafe Milano. Food is excellent, the salad was so good. I had spaghetti, which is a mistake because I am clumsy twisting and eating those noodles.

Dessert.

Nice time had by all.

I'm letting Puff come out and explore my patio while I'm watching. My cats aren't allowed outside because the coyotes came through the neighborhood and ate all of the outside cats.

Puff.

He likes to sniff the plants. Now Seymour the Artichoke is busy making baby artichokes but I'm somewhat conflicted as to whether I should cut them off and eat them, thereby damaging the magnificent plant. I'm perhaps inclined to just leave them and see what happens.

Artichokes.

My potato plants are busy blooming. I expect once it heats up they will all whither and die.

Potato blossoms.

A busy week end planned. Larry and Eric are in town from Vancouver. Jello wrestling on Sunday. Stay tuned for pictures.

A friend has suggested to me that I don't appear happy on my blog. Actually, I am going through a rather nice time in my life. I've recently met a bunch of bloggers that I had really wanted to meet. They were all as great in person as I imagined (hi Moby, Brett, RJ, Marc, and Chad!). Oh any Brandon too! And Jeff, who I like to whisper secrets to.

Although it is starting to get warm here, the weather has been alright and Seymour, the artichoke, is still growing. Yesterday I discovered my tomato plant is making tomatoes (what a relief that it didn't decide to make radishes, which I really don't care for).

The Hubble Space Telescope keeps taking great pictures of outer space. So much better way to spend money than bombs.

The two great Spots on Jupiter.

Granted, my love life is non-existent, but whatever, I guess I'm not stressing about that. And when I do get pissed off at things like politicians, I get release by writing on my blog or letters to the editor. Afterwards I feel very contented and all.

I have an interesting archaeology project starting soon- I'll bore everyone with lots of pictures. And I'm planning a trip to DC in early August to see Archerr, Jimbo, Tom, and Carl. So everything is as rosey as I could like.

Except I have to fill my gas tank on my car this weekend. And change the swamp cooler pads. And pay my mother's library fine. Oh geez, there I go again.

Andrew Sullivan is a fucktard. Sometimes I like him, although often I think he places too much hope in politicians. Today he is just a fucking idiot.

He writes: "I'm longing for gas at $4 a gallon. Yes, I know it hurts people. But pain is the only medicine for America's oil addiction."

Andrew lives in DC. His commute to work consists of walking to his desk. DC also has a nice, clean public transit system that is remarkably cheap. You can bicycle to interesting places, like Jimbo does. Plus Sullivan probably makes big bucks yapping (and itching his 'roids) on the telly or for Time magazine. Four dollar a gallon gas aint gonna bother his scratchy ass in the slightest.

In contrast, my mother lives in rural Michigan. She has to drive at least 10 miles to the store. She lives on Social Security and a tiny pension. Last year they raised her Social Security by maybe $20 a month. That doesn't help much when energy prices soar.

Andrew also blathered on about Roe V Wade: "And if some states were to ban all abortions, along theocon lines, then pro-choice groups should do all they can to expand access to contraception, the Morning After pill, adoption (including gay adoption) and access to out-of-state first trimester abortions if necessary."

Again, he lives in a liberal city with easy public transportation. If he needed to abort a baby he could hop on the bus and go visit a clinic. Not so easy in places like South Dakota or Wyoming where there are one or maybe two clinics in the entire state. The high price of gas ties in, of course, because that makes it more expensive to drive 400 miles to have an abortion.

And the Theo-cons aren't going to stop at abortion. Next up will be banning contraception. Don't want to have taxpayer dollars go to sluts and whores, do we?


Andrew Sullivan can be such a pain in the ass.

The Decider got his panties in a bunch: “I think the national anthem ought to be sung in English, and I think people who want to be a citizen of this country ought to learn English and they ought to learn to sing the national anthem in English.”


"I am the Decider."

Well you know what, the Bible was originally written in Hebrew/Aramaic (Old Testament) and Greek (New Testament). I think people who want to be Jewish or Christian ought to learn Hebrew/Aramaic/Greek before they are allowed to read the Bible. I also think people who want to watch television should read the manual that comes with their telly from beginning to end. And that people who want to drink mixed drinks should make every ingredient from scratch. And make their own toilet paper. And medicine. And...

I can be a Decider too! It's real easy, just make some stupid idea and Decide it is a great idea and force everyone to go along with you.

A couple of things. I'm on Archerr radio today, chatting away with Archerr. He's swell.

Did you catch Texas Ranch House on PBS last night? One of the cowboys, Ian Roberts, gets scruffier and scruffier. I'd go all Brokeback with a cowboy like that.


Ian.

I was eating a hot dog when Uncle Fred came to the back door. I turned and looked behind me. I was eight years old and it was the spring of 1972. "Carolyn, he's gone," said Uncle Fred. I don't remember what my mother said, I know she hugged her brother. I know that I couldn't finish that hot dog, although Susan scolded me to do so. I can see them at the back door, as clear as I can remember yesterday.

Grandpa lived next door with Grandma in the house they'd built in 1947. He was tall and skinny and could do so many things- carve animals, paint pictures, tan hides to make leather for snow shoes. In the summer he fished and in the winter he ice-fished. Once he had to be rescued from the ice after it broke off and floated out into the bay. He had retired from the phone company in 1964 and had truly enjoyed life in the time since.

I was always over at my grandparent's house, it was only a few hundred feet from the light green ranch style home we lived in. Their house was two stories tall with a basement that had a root cellar that was mysterious and exciting. Upstairs in the bedrooms were old clothes from the 50s to try on, I wonder what they thought of me running around in that old pink ballerina tutu?

But one night there were the flashing lights of an ambulance and Grandpa disappeared away into the hospital. At that time children weren't allowed to go to hospitals, or perhaps my mother didn't want to see him dying, his heart damaged beyond repair. He confessed that he'd had an earlier heart attack, but hadn't said anything, he was scared of doctors. Grandma later said that if she had known that meat and fatty foods were bad, she would never have fed them to Harold. But he was so skinny and tall you wouldn't have guessed his arteries were clogged. And grandma had learned home economics in the late 1920s and they taught meat and potatoes back then.

My parents didn't take me and Bub to the funeral. We walked next door and hung out with Aunt Judy, who had flown in with Uncle Phillip from Kansas. I could see Grandma sitting in the front seat of the station wagon, all by herself. "Why is Grandma in the car?" I asked Aunt Judy. Nobody could say to me why. It was a big surprise, my grandmother's response. She was the strong, outspoken one, the one you wouldn't think would fall apart so bad her hair fell out and she had to wear a wig.

I wish Grandpa hadn't been afraid of doctors, that he had gone when he felt the pain the first time and perhaps back in the archaic days of the early 1970s they might have been able to help him. I wished I could have known him better, wished that my grandmother was not a widow at 61, with a long, lonely life ahead of her. But that's the way it was back then.