shovel the silliness like it was cool

Once again I find myself doing my part to keep Yuengling in business, dumping gallons of their fine beer product down my throat. Tonight we're listening to Stevie Wonder who is on my mind because I saw his happy face in attendance at the sparring match between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. Of all the big name folks the camera caught, he was the one I cared to see.

I had a nice grocery store incident today. I got home in time to smoke a cigarette with Momma before she took off for work only to realize I'd left a bag behind. It was an important bag as it contained my onion, red pepper and garlic, all of which were essential to my cooking supper, arroz con pollo, mostly from the Joy of Cooking.

She called in late as I sped back down the road to fetch my goods. It wasn't until the meal was ready for the cup of frozen green peas that I realized that they had also been in that bag. And here I was at home with no working car in which to return yet again to the store. DAMN and damn again!

Other than the missing peas and having allowed the rice to overcook as I wrestled the chicken off the bones, the dish was as delightful as ever. As is my want I don't exactly follow Ms. Joy's instructions. I like to add a can of diced tomatoes, and the red pepper was substituted for green because every single one of the green peppers available to me was absolute shit. I can't imagine paying money for the nasty things they had out in the produce section today, and I much prefer the good taste of a red pepper to that green-ness inherent in a green pepper, so it wasn't a total loss.

It's not that I don't like green peppers, though I don't, because I realize that, as an ingredient, they do add a little something in the proper proportion. And sometimes the green is what is called for. A good spaghetti sauce is no less good subbing a red pepper for a green, but it changes the whole dynamic. If that's what you want then fine. I was thinking the green and . . . seriously, blah-blah-blah, but that's as good a story as I have tonight.

Either way, the rice is still overcooked, and no amount of rooster sauce can fix mushy rice. The flavor is fine, and the dish is all sorts of tasty. But I still want to have to chew my rice. It's a perfect texture for a senior citizen, and thanks to Doc's comment in my most recent and especially queer ass post, I no longer feel quite as long in the tooth as I could. But the rice . . . again, blah-blah-blah.

And that's where I find myself. I've run out of things to say in this particular post. I'm still debating whether to make a post out of the new site I joined where ninety five percent of the members are willing to identify themselves with pictures of their wieners. There's a good post in there I'm quite sure, but a two weeks in, I'm almost certain it isn't where I find myself heading, and besides, it's a whole other post if it's a post at all. And if that description doesn't tip you off to the kind of thing I'm talking about then you're likely better off not knowing, which isn't to say I won't share sometime soon.

speak for yourself, mary

I've noticed something about myself lately, and I'm not claiming that it's either good or bad. It just is. Though if it's about me you can bet your sweet ass it's more good than not. It's at least better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Before we really get into the story I should point out that I've never been the butchest bitch on the block. Again, it's neither good nor bad, just is, but it's somehow appropriate to the situation to have this information as we proceed.

Also, I've never pretended that I'm not a bit of a lush. I like my beer, and maybe on occasion a Sunday afternoon just deserves a bloody Mary while the sun is still riding high in the sky; lord knows I deserve it a bit more often than I get it, and a shot of tequila wouldn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure we're fresh out of that.

And none of that's really the point. We're here to discuss something else, and that something else is that it seems that I somehow grow a little gayer as the drinks pile up in my system.

It's nothing major, no flames licking the ceiling, not quite Japanese girl hiding her giggles behind her hand. But I hold my cigarette a little more just so. The "oh my goooood" grows a tiny bit more shrill. The eyes roll slightly more sarcastically in that certain way.

The south in me probably comes out a bit more at those times too, and what could be better than a southern queen approaching middle age?

Again, I'll point out that this is neither good nor bad, but I'd lean toward more good than not if pressed. It certainly beats the sullen prick I used to find more likely just a few short months ago.

I pointed this out to Momma last night, and she was kind enough to have noticed as well. I'm not sure kind enough is really where we're going here, but it helps that I'm not deluding myself.

What to do with this? Not a fucking thing as far as I can tell. I'm sure it's a case of just is, as I pointed out earlier. It doesn't bother me in the least, and if it bothers you then be glad you only have to deal with my drunk ass through the tubes that are the internets. And girl just be yourself.

And speak for yourself, Mary!

e for something

Doc thinks I'm an excellent blogger and has included me in some pretty good company. Considering where else I've seen this endorsement and who else has been awarded this, I'd have to say I'm in great company. I'm going to be selfish, however, and not pass it on. I really just don't feel like it, and believe me, I've thought about it. I've saved Doc's post in my Google reader, waiting for the time I felt like sitting down and figuring out who deserves it. I could come up with several, but I really just don't feel like playing. And it's nice that I don't have to play.

I have a lot on my mind lately, as anyone can well imagine.

If you are a regular reader of Doc's and if you read her comments, then you already probably know most of this story, but I'm sharing it here anyway. I sat on it for a few days, but I need a post, and it's time.

I went to the gay bar recently. Our town actually has a few, and I've been to three so far. One was shortly after Valentine's day last year, a few days after learning Momma's news, and I stood against the wall, arms crossed, angry look in my eyes, quite likely ruining the mood for ten feet around me in any direction. I'm not sure what I had in mind that night, but it didn't help anyone.

The next time I went to this particular bar I had fun, but nothing came of it but me drinking a wee bit more than I needed to have. Another gay bar I've been to has been on the night that it doesn't really function as a gay bar. A friend of ours does an alternative dance party there on Saturday nights. What this means is that a few gay people and lots of guys who look like they collect swords and/or knives with dragons on the handles, guys who like girls but can't convince them to join them for any sort of fun, hang out while a few of them dance poorly to a broad array of not necessarily dance music.

Then we come to the gay bar I most recently visited. With me was Momma, a lesbian friend and a gay male friend who called a taxi and fled when it seemed we weren't going to leave when we'd promised him we would. We would have, but since he fled we didn't have to, though we pretty much did.

I had a good time at this particular bar on this particular night, even if I did hang out with girls, much too nervous to interact with any of the lovely gay boys in attendance, the ones I should have been hanging out with. On a side note, Momma won a prize playing bingo, and I got some under the shirt action from the drag queen running bingo. She also wants to wash and cut my hair.

And that is me as a gay man, happier with the girls because the boys, hot though they are, make me nervous. I'm sure if one of them had talked to me I'd have done the giggle Japanese style, hiding my mouth with my hand, looking appropriately bashful. I need to do something about that.

All in all it was a fun night. I'm sure I'm not nearly gay enough in my flannel shirt and biker jacket with the punk rock buttons on the lapels, but it's what I know. Also I don't have any appropriately gay clothing. I'm not sure what that means, but my sense of style certainly leaves something to be desired, and when I do go out, I'm afraid the gays assume I'm not one of them because I certainly don't look it. I'm sure there's a remedy for that somewhere, and I'm sure one day I'll care enough to change my entire wardrobe in the interest of looking gayer . . . or not.

ranting again

Why do I use Restalyne? Because he thinks I'm younger than I am. So goes the line in an especially galling commercial advertising a product that one injects into their face to smooth out the lines and wrinkles one earns as part of growing older.

The commercial pisses me off every time I see it, because they are basically suggesting that it's completely okay to base a relationship on lies. I'm sure we all know how well that works, and those of us with first hand experience can second that particular emotion.

On some level I don't suppose I really care too horribly much that some people are insecure about their appearance to the point they are willing to inject toxins into their skin in order to appear younger than they really are. It is extremely galling however to have it sold to us on the basis of lying to the significant other that we probably claim to love.

How strong a relationship do you imagine you have if you are so willingly deceiving someone? And if this deception is okay to the woman in question then at what point would she draw the line beyond which lies are not okay? In my opinion, you can't accept any lie without accepting all lies.

And yes, I completely understand that this is an ad, that the people in the ad are actors and that it's par for the course in the world of advertising consumer products, but at some point we have to accept that there is some amount of mirror between how we live and how we accept that advertising of consumer products.

In the end, it's just one more commercial that pisses me off, and it's really fucking easy for advertising to piss me off. I may in fact be one of the single most irritating people with which to watch television.

I'm just saying is all.

sounds of stomach churning

I'm having to force myself not to even look anywhere near The Boy right now. For all the trouble we have getting him to eat reasonably healthy, there are a few foods that he does love.

Momma worked in the daytime yesterday, and as a nice surprise for the boys she brought home some sushi. When she brings sushi she'll often make at least one roll with soy paper and no raw fish, just in case I feel like having a little something. If it's a roll that usually gets roe she will put it in a little to go cup on the side and put it on to serve it.

The boys ate their sushi last night but didn't eat all the roe. There was some small amount left which The Boy is now eating. He has a little plate with some pickled ginger and a lime wedge and the little container of tiny orange flying fish eggs.

I tried roe once. It was salmon eggs, so they were a little bigger than what The Boy is eating. I remember it vividly because it was one of the few times I've actually had to scrape my tongue to get the nastiness off of it. I remember spitting it directly into the garbage can and probably even considered washing the taste away with a handful of that garbage. It was seriously the singly most foul taste to ever enter my world.

So as the boy sits with his little container, eating the fish eggs with a spoon, I find that I can't even look anywhere hear where he sits.

Fish eggs . . . bleurgh . . . ach . . . ick . . . shiver . . . shudder . . .

qotd

Post fodder or just a thing I keep forgetting to do? Either way, thanks again to The Quotations Page, a quote of the day. Who doesn't love Oscar Wilde?

The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated.

and for the hell of it another:

Work is the curse of the drinking class.

video time

It's time for a new video. I forget exactly where I heard of this band, though I do know it was one of the gay bloggers that are new to my reader, not that that matters.

The singer is Sam Duckworth, and the band is Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. Yes, a bit of a mouthful for a name as far as that goes. So far I've only heard his songs that I can run across on YouTube or his Myspace page. I've really enjoyed what I've heard and need to get around to getting a cd.

It doesn't hurt that he's a cutie, though a hair cut wouldn't hurt at all.

This video is for the song Call Me Ishmael and is perfect for all the time card punchers and wage slaves out there.

link love

How late am I? Not more than a few weeks in this instance. I've been meaning to direct you to the coolest new blog around, and I'm sure I have a perfectly valid excuse for not doing so sooner, but it doesn't come to mind at the moment.

The lovely and talented One L has a really cool blog that she's started, The Music Chamber. I read, though usually without commenting, because I can never think of anything good to say.

Head on over. Being Tuesday, it's open mic, so you can listen to some other equally lovely people play guitar and/or sing or maybe just slap a pair of spoons against their thigh.

Then make sure you put The Music Chamber in you blog reader of choice so that you never miss a post.

poor dumb Romney

uuuummmmmm . . . I lifted this from the local news blogging site. The person who posted it there titled his post Awkward, and I don't know of a better title. I'm just a little on the dumbfounded side here. Just watch, and feel free to tell me what you think.

please don't ask me how I ended up at my wit's end

I don't know how many posts I can start and delete. Tonight alone I'm up to four. It's like I have something I need to dump out, but every attempt just comes back around to poor-pitiful-me, and that's the last place I need to keep going.

The problem is that I keep letting myself get stuck in the evil mud of depression and self pity. I feel useless like that last square of toilet paper that you can't get off the roll without it ripping to shreds, and I know better.

Am I really just stuck in bad place, or do I just keep not doing the things to pull myself out? In the deep dark of feeling bad it's hard to ask that question, but answering it would really help.

In the deep dark it feels good to wallow in the misery, but when I force myself to try and write I realize that it's too often self imposed. Writing forces me to think and examine what I think I think. I don't have to feel this way, but it's so much easier. It really is just a matter of time and place, and I need to figure out what it takes to get out of here. The sad truth is that the self medication of the drink is the biggest help right now, and I'm already close enough to being a drunk without the added aid from the feelings.

Some amount of it is still guilt at having hidden and buried my own gayness for so long that I involved Momma in this to such an extent that I not only allowed her to believe things that just weren't true but went out of my way to make her believe. That was a shitty thing to do, and it's hard to accept that I'm as much a victim of this idiocy I nursed as she is.

The real problem in all of this is that I keep not doing the things it would take to help myself. I'm so used to inaction, I'm so used to being passive, I'm so used to just sitting back and letting life pass by. It's hard to break that habit.

I'm completely accepting of the fact that none of what I've just written makes a whole lot of sense. I'm fine for the moment with things not making sense. It's just how things have to be right now. And having said all that I know that it's really up to me. It's work, and I hate the very idea of having to do that work. But more than that I hate where I keep finding myself when I don't do that work, so it's time to shit or get off the pot.

post title taken from the Rise Against song Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.

buckle that baby

Local blogger Katie Allison Granju is asking about car seats. Her newish baby is growing too big for what she refers to as the baby bucket, and she's interested in reader opinions about the next seat.

Child safety seats always remind me of growing up and the seats we had when I was a child. Born in the early seventies, I'm a product of that era before seat belt laws and mandatory safety seats for children based on age and weight.

If I remember correctly, my mother told me once about the seats her children rode home in as newborns, a laundry basket lined with blankets, probably crammed safely on the floor between the front seats. My brother can comment and point out how wrong my memory may be or possibly add some color commentary.

After the van broke down for the last time we rode for a few years in a Volkswagen Beetle. We had to look like the clown car family as we arrived at church and proved that you actually could fit eight or nine people in a VW Beetle. Sometime after this we moved up to a large sedan, Ford LTD, then on to a full size station wagon.

Smaller brothers sat on older brother's laps while the middle brothers got to perch on the front of the seat, kind of like staggering horizontally stacked butts. The youngest brother generally got to stand in the middle of the front seat until he was too big to stand. The nearly youngest brother would sometimes ride in the rear area beneath the rear window. The station wagon was great, but I don't remember often using the rear most seat as there was much more room if we left the seat down and just sat in the space at the back on top of the folded down seat.

Seat belts I remember as those filthy things crammed down into the seats, those things we sometimes had to pull out of the way as we searched down in the crack between the seat back and the seat itself. Once we'd retrieved our pencil or quarter or whatever, we'd cram the seat belts back down into the crack. The closest I remember coming to a seat belt for many years was, when sitting in the front seat, my mother's arm thrown out in front of us as she came to a quick stop.

I'm not waxing poetic about those heady and carefree days of yon. I'm completely fine with the fact that my children are safer in the event of an accident. Most of the time I've been driving there have been seat belt laws in effect, and all the time that I've had children there have been laws mandating that they be safely buckled in.

It's fine, good in fact, and I'm quite beyond being used to it. It's an ingrained habit to not even put the car in gear till I've made sure that all passengers are safely buckled in, and I've even taught the boys to alert me if I happen to forget and the car begins to move before they've gotten their seat belts buckled. And even through all that, it's also somehow an ingrained habit to throw my arm up sometimes when making a quick stop. It's just one more thing my mother has given me.

absolutely nothing

It's just after one in the morning, and it's not nearly as cold outside as it should be, or maybe it just doesn't feel as cold as it is.

Last night's/this morning's weather report for my town and the local area was the most convoluted I've ever heard. We were basically told to expect rain and sleet then rain and snow then rain and sleet and snow then snow and sleet then sleet and snow then . . . you get the picture. At one point late last night (wee early hours) while Momma and I were darting to the garage to smoke, we could hear the sleet hitting the ground. When we looked into the streetlight we could see snow blowing around. When I woke this morning, all that was left was a tiny, maybe two cups worth, collection of snow, blown against the base of a neighbor's tree.

I woke up this morning pissed off and depressed. Part of that was due to sleeping too late. Momma and I have been staying up way too late lately, and when we have a deep heart to heart, we can excuse it. Last night was not that, just too much sitting up and not going to bed. I can be a bit of a butthole if I sleep too late. I'm honestly better off waking at a reasonable time with too little sleep.

We did get to watch the newest Project Runway, and how Rami and his smug ass attitude is still there I don't know. I hated Christian when we were watching commercials and waiting for the season to begin, but as the show continues I find myself liking him even more. He's a little sweetheart even if his hair is seven shades of fucked up. And just in case he happens to read this, STOP TUCKING YOUR FUCKING PANTS INTO YOUR BOOTS!!! So not cool.

I'm kind of craving a tiny square chicken sandwich and a tiny square bacon cheeseburger, but I hate to waste eating fast food when we don't really need it. It's much better when it's more needed, but I for real have some munchies and am much too lazy to want to eat anything we have here.

Speaking of what we have here, tonight's supper was roast chicken and fettuccine alfredo with onions, yellow bell pepper and zucchini. The half wit bagger at the grocery store, the sawed off little shit that isn't quite mentally as there as one might wish, did his usual suck job bagging my groceries, zucchini in the same back as raw chicken, bell pepper in a bag by itself, seventeen boxes in one bag so that the handles don't quite meet . . . yeah, I should have really done it myself. However, my grocery scanner was the guy that I think is gay (not interested in him gay just that he's always been an absolute sweetheart) is always worth talking to because, as I mentioned, he's always an absolute sweetheart, and he's going through chemo, and I'd rather just be friendly and interested in his well being.

Supper was good, but I don't want leftovers the same night I made it. There's also etouffee from a couple nights ago, but Momma hasn't had any yet, and I'd rather save it for tomorrow when she'll need a quick meal on her way out the door to work.

That's not even close to an update, but it is what it is. I should probably just call it by its name, post fodder, but we'll pretend it's important and that we've learned something from it.

she rocks

It seems a little ridiculous to even mention this in 2008, but women in rock still seem relegated to either the bass player or as a member of the all girl band that no one cares about once they realize that the members aren't knocking themselves out to be sexy for the boys. I mention this because today's band features a woman as both lead singer and guitar player.

The video below is The Muffs. It isn't one of their newer songs, but it is a good one, as if they were able to put out a bad song. This is the band that's been pushing Rufus out of the cd player lately.

It could easily be argued that there are sweeter and/or more beautiful voices in music, but for a straight up, basic rock and roll band, Kim absolutely kills it. Wait till about 2:30 when she belts out a scream, the absolute best scream in rock music.

The video is their song Outer Space.

momma gets her turn

Momma has a blog, though as of now her three posts amount to one a year. Her newest was written two days ago and has to do with the entirety of 2007, at least as far as our relationship goes. Go and read it HERE, and then come back for my own additional thoughts.

Right, so you read it? Because what I have to say may not make much sense if you didn't.

If you did read, then you've seen now the catalyst, the spark that finally allowed/forced me out of the closet. Now for some things that are hard to admit.

I never really believed that she was the one. I thought on some level that she must be and maybe even wanted her to be, and I, most of the time, thought of us as together forever. But all along I knew better. All along I wished that she'd do something to give me an excuse. I knew the truth, yet never felt I could admit to it or do anything about it.

Her sneaking around and being dishonest are quite understandable given the nature of her nocturnal activities. The actions that called for the sneaking and dishonesty are harder to understand, but through discussions she and I have had, I've come to understand her and her motivations to some extent. Her youth gave her own sexual nature plenty of fuel to be confusing to her, and I can completely understand that all of that led her to where she found herself.

In her post Momma mentions my forgiveness. We shared dishonesty, both of our own kind, and I completely forgive her dishonesty. Considering the fuel mentioned above, considering what she's shared with me about her childhood and youth, I don't feel that her actions need to be forgiven. I can't blame her for being confused. I can't blame her for sex and sexual issues getting the best of her. I am equally to blame if we never were completely honest with each other before being forced to. Perhaps if she and I had talked more and more honestly a few years ago then things wouldn't have progressed to the point they did. It isn't that I don't forgive her, because I completely do forgive her the things I think she truly had control over. A person's nature doesn't need forgiveness any more than you can forgive a candle for giving light.

But then comes all the other stuff. We've had a great time together over the years. We have produced two wonderful children through this. We have a strong and wonderful friendship. How much of this would be possible if I'd come all the way out earlier in my life? Where would we be if we'd never gotten together in the first place?

zero percent

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 15% Conservative, 85% Liberal Social Issues: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal Defense and Crime: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

How Liberal Or Conservative Are You?

It's not that this silly thing is not indicative to some extent, but some of the questions were really poorly worded, while all the questions offered no more than two options as answers. There really has to be room for the various shades between yes and no.

So on Social Issues and Ethics I'm zero percent conservative? And I get twenty five percent conservative on fiscal issues and personal responsibility? Again, the wording of the questions and the available options don't really allow one to explore the issues very much.

Seems though I may have done this one before. This time it's thanks to Meg at Get In, Hang On.

the dreams post

Momma has dreams, things that she really wants to do. I have things that seem impossible, so why should I bother.

A line that's run through my head so often lately, a line I've typed into posts I've begun and deleted, I was not raised to follow dreams; I was raised to do what god told me to do.

I don't intend to blame my parents for where I am now, but I can't help sometimes but wonder, the whole nature versus nurture argument tag teaming with the absurdity of my insular childhood and youth. Keener minds than mine have wrestled with this, and I'd love to think they've gotten closer than I have, but part of me doubts very much.

Who doesn't want to write the great American novel? And I'm so sure I'm the guy to do it. What story could be more American? Ultra religious childhood, rebellious teen years, acceptance of at least bisexuality coupled with some amount of experimentation, decade plus heterosexual relationship with attendant children with the first volume published ending in the early coming out years. Seriously, find more American than that. I'd like to see you try.

As a child I was sure I was going to be either a missionary or that I would work in advertising. How the advertising part came in I can only imagine due to some childhood fixation with the show Thirtysomething. I'm not sure exactly how that works in, but it's a memory and the only logical conclusion I can draw. That I ever watched the show is possibly linked with a youthful attempt to emulate the cool brother. That those were my childhood ideas of my possible future says something.

At some point I started writing, lots of real crap for the most part, most of which I currently have in a tucked away and ignored stack of Mead composition notebooks. I don't know that I ever got to a point where I wasn't writing crap, but I did spend a few years not really writing anything. I finally discovered the joy of blogging, thanks to the coolest of homeschoolers and homeschooling families all across our bit of the continent, and at least on occasion practice writing. Writing has always been there, hanging in the background of things that I can sometimes enjoy and might not suck at.

Cooking I discovered quite by accident. As a child I helped in the kitchen by staying out of the way. At the same time, my best childhood memories of my mother involve watching Julia Child and Martha Stewart and Jeff Smith and Justin Wilson. This was when Martha was a cook and not some clenched ass lifestyle expert. Jeff Smith you'll remember from The Frugal Gourmet, while Justin Wilson brought us cajun cooking and the phrases "oooooeee" as well as "I guarawntee."(yes pronounced like that) Julia, of course, needs no introduction.

I held a number of restaurant jobs before the one I consider to be the first real one, the one that led me to a life in the kitchen, a giant whore of a place in Charlotte NC which is not so sadly no longer there. Some other idiots have bought the building by now. I washed dishes. I did a lot of LSD around this time and sometimes dreamed of squadrons of the various dishes flying in formation. I hated it and quit, swearing I'd never work in another restaurant ever again.

My next job was in a large national chain as was my next job. From there I did some work as a general laborer with a drywall contractor. It sucked, and the first chance I got I was back in a kitchen. I've done local stand alones, local chains, national chains, sports bars and once worked in a place where I cooked so many wings that we dumped cases (one case equals forty pounds) of wings into large drip pan, and I scooped them into the fryer with a two quart scoop.

I can write anytime, but the nightmare years of kitchen work made me grow a new dream. I really want to open my own restaurant. I have more ideas for places I think would work in my town, and I'm not telling you any of them. Now that I'm not in the closet I have room to hide my ideas, because I know bitches will steal my ideas.

But even so, it's hard for me to think of it as a dream, as something worth pursuing. There's a certain petulant "why can't I?" but beyond that I just don't do anything. There are also random measures of guilt and laziness and fear mixed in along with other feelings. Fucking feelings!

updatey sort of thing

I feel as if I should post some sort of update, an answer to my most recent post in which I channeled my angsty and confused sixteen year old self and wrote something I would have called poetry roughly twenty years ago.

It's often hard not to feel guilty about having kept my sexuality some sort of secret for so long. It wasn't that it was a secret between Momma and me, because she knew. I, however, convinced myself I was bisexual and just accepted it as true. I should have known better, and on some level I did know better.

So we find ourselves in the here and now, and by letting the genie out and confronting it I've put a swift stop to the relationship we thought we had for so long. And it's all those years that I find myself having to figure out, except that there doesn't seem to be a lot of figuring out going on.

As one would, Momma has asked me about those years, and my best explanation is to accept that I can't explain anything. I can't help either of us make sense out of it. I have to wonder if it's just that I don't want to delve into it as opposed to not being able to make sense of the tough questions.

Momma and I had this conversation months ago. It really is settled, but like picking a scab, my brain doesn't want to let it go. I don't really know if I need those answers or if it's something to just let go of. I want to just let it go, accept that we don't always get answers, but the part of my brain that can't let go of guilt is holding onto this, demanding that I feel bad about this.

And that's where I too often end up lately. It's the stupid things that make me feel bad, and as depression does, it grows from there, sucking in anything that can add to the mix. It never takes long from there for me to slap together some overwrought post full of poor sad me sorts of themes. The difference is that this time I didn't delete it immediately.

And finally, to the people who commented to that post, I really appreciate it. It was all stuff I should and do know, but we silly humans sometimes need to hear things repeated.

just click away while you can

Times I want to just dump the bucket that is my head out, just empty it and start all over. I think sometimes I should sit down and write. I think sometimes I just need a shoulder to cry on.

I even think some times that I'll be able one day to make sense out of everything. It's never happened yet, so I've got no reason to believe it one day will, but I can't stop wishing or hoping or whatever it is I'm doing.

I'm a master of the talking without so much of the walking. I'm good at putting together strings of words that make me look more a master of my domain than I really am. I'm mostly a guy in his mid thirties whose brain is stuck at a much younger place. I have a great wife and great kids and want nothing more than for a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet.

Princes aren't just ambling down the street these days. I have to accept that I am where I am and on some level give consideration to making sense of myself. Last time I set out to do that I had not only the drugs but also the time. I don't think it worked so well that time, so I'll have to find a different route.

I feel currently like I'm wasting time in a hallway lined with doors. Entering any one of the doors represents having to sink myself into and make sense of any number of questions. I don't want to do the work that involves, so I loiter in the hall a bit more, pretend I'm thinking about something important. I keep myself in a place that is safe but is stagnant.

uuuummmmmmmm. . .

I'm sorely in need of dumping my brain into a bunch of stupid words on your computer screen. But what to write about? Do I go with the softball and write about how long my hair is? Honestly, pictures of me from over thirty years ago show the only other time it's been this long, and it's a totally new experience made more so by over a decade of voluntary head shaving. It's just weird, and it's not really thaaaat long.

I looked through my reader to learn that the number of gay specific blogs and news sources is nearly equal to the total of homeschool related feeds. I find that a lot of the gay blogs I'm most drawn to are guys discussing coming out, though most of them are a bit younger than me with a bit less of the history.

I could tell the story about going to see a local rock band and the guitar player of the other band that played, the band from halfway across the state, the guitar player that couldn't not be gay. He had to be. And I kind of think I may have made an ass out of myself I realized walking away with the seven inch and t shirt for ten dollars. For what it's worth they really were good live, and he threw in their cd for free, so . . .

We also have soccer sign ups this weekend.

more vendaloo?

If you'd like, play the following song and scroll down for more vendaloo news. Visit Molly and tell her thanks for, not only getting this song stuck in my head, but also for this attempt I'm making to lodge it even more in your head. If you aren't sure what the hell I'm talking about then by all means listen to the song. It's great.


Please feel free, if you think you know better, to tell me in the comments what a vedaloo actually should be. Keep in mind that I'm making it from our beloved friend Ms. Joy.

Vinegar, olive oil, garlic, ginger, curry powder, mustard seeds, cumin, cardamom, cloves, crushed red pepper all go into the blender and come out a thick and smelly and yellow mess. It then gets tossed with two pounds of pork, cut into one inch cubes, for one to eight hours. When you're ready too cook the pork you cook some sliced onions in a pot, add your pork, a can of diced tomatoes and a cinnomon stick. Cook it till the pork is at is tastiest, stir in some more mustard seeds, let it thicken and add some cilantro.

So, even with my almost need to follow a recipe at least the first time, I used rice vinegar though the recipe called for white wine. The (preferably black) that followed each mention of mustard seeds translated to brown being the darkest mustard seed we had, and I wasn't going all the way to the coop for mustard seeds. And instead of pork loin or shoulder as requested I went with a cheaper cut thinking the stewing would work fine on this particular cut, and all the loins and/or shoulders were twice as big as I needed. Also I forgot to add the cilantro at the end, which I realized as I was finishing eating and wondering how I could make it better. Finally, we didn't have the rice we should have had, and I used sushi rice. I just didn't like it in this.

What made it better? Coconut milk and not sushi rice and not forgetting the cilantro. After I looked a little more I realized that we did indeed have a long grain white rice, which was better than sushi rice but not nearly as perfect for this as jasmine rice, which we don't currently have.

I'm sure the addition of coconut milk made is so not vendaloo anymore, and I really don't care. And that's the end of of this round. One begs me to make vendaloo again and to write about it again. That's how these things go. But really, we just can't know. I'll definitely mess around with curries, but will I attempt the vendaloo again? Actually yes, because the more I think about it the more I really do care. What is this dish, this vendaloo? I'm afraid I might have to actually bother looking around. I mean, it has a song not not about it for fuck sakes.

who's an idiot?

We'll know later for sure how big an idiot I am, and I'll try to remember to update this post to let you know. Why am I demeaning myself so?

Tonight's supper is pork vendaloo, or what the Joy of Cooking tells me is pork vendaloo. It smells good, it's done according to the recipe with one minor change. I do not have white wine vinegar, but I do have rice vinegar. That should make a mostly unnoticeable difference and is not why I'm an idiot.

So what happens if you set up your rice steamer almost correctly and let it run for ten minutes without the cooking water? There is water in the bottom, so I wasn't tearing it up and letting it run while dry. But I set it up as the vendaloo went to it's cover and simmer for one hour stage, leaving the cooking water out because I didn't know what effect it would have for the rice to sit in water for thirty minutes waiting to cook.

The thirty minutes elapsed meaning the steamer needed to start with the addition of the water. I'd even measured out the water when setting up the steamer. Turn the knob to thirty five minutes and walk away. Thankfully, ten minutes later, I decided to smoke a cigarette and on my way outside noticed the measuring cup of water next to, as opposed to in, the steamer. I added the water to what had become more clump than pile of rice, stirred, swore a couple more times.

So, twenty five minutes from now the steamer timer will ding, and I will go and inspect what I fully expect to be absolute hell. Will the rice be okay? Will it need to cook a little longer? Will it be a gross and soggy mess? Am I really an idiot? Can you expect good ethnic dishes from Joy of Cooking?

update on the rice: it was fine, maybe a tiny bit overcooked if anything, but certainly not in a bad way. Vendaloo? not bad as such, but not good. The pork wasn't especially tender, and the sauce was a bit lacking. I'm not sure yet what I'd do different, but I'm sure I'll make this again after fixing the recipe.

old and new

My very first post of 2007 was a bit of history about Hank Williams as well as a video of him doing his song Cold, Cold Heart. I'm posting another version of the song, this time without the history. In fact, this is about all you're getting in terms of words other than to say, enjoy Cold, Cold Heart performed by Norah Jones.

that new years post

Somewhere inside of me is a part that wants to write the "out with the old, in with the new" post that so many people have been able to throw together. I've honestly tried to think about this, measuring my life in terms of where I've been, where I am and where I want to go.

Regardless of how 2007 may have started, we couldn't have known then what the year would present, the explosions that would occur, the tears shed and the truths bared.

I feel as if so much of what I held or believed or pretended was true this time three hundred sixty five-ish days ago has been proved untrue in some cases and as the lies they were in other cases. It hasn't been fun, but the year represented a lot of hard truths coming out between Momma and me, not to mention beginning coming out for at least one of us.

The biggest change has been the difference in secretly knowing that I am gay versus accepting and admitting that I am gay. I almost completely accepted it many years ago, and I can't know or explain or understand the circumstances that pushed me back into the closet. Those circumstances, for all the shit one goes through pretending not to be gay, gave me a very supporting and loving wife and friend as well as a wonderful pair of kids I don't appreciate nearly enough.

And I expect a lot of changes going into the new year, that one that's already aging as I type these words. I've already spent too much of my new years day watching shows involving mixed martial arts events and Iron Chefs from last year than is prudent.

So what is it I need in the consistently less new new year? The same shit as anyone, better diet and more exercise, less smoking and tv watching, more money, my vote to count, comfort with my sexuality, support and love from and for my wife, honesty, my kids to be happy and learning and knowing they are loved and supported, money, less debt, friends. You know, the basics.

And this is where I find myself going into oh eight. I've lived years that have collected around me, sometimes feeling like walking through mud that clings and weighs me down. There are elements that counteract all of that somewhat, trying to reach down and pull me up, and I love my wife for being the element that keeps pulling me up while all of this tears at her in ways I can not even imagine.

More than anything, this year needs to be the one when I start acting in ways that back up the things I say. I say a lot, but I don't often quite live up to those things I espouse. I need to look into that along with doing things that make me a better and happier person. I've never really given those things much thought, and I think I kind of need to. Those sort of thoughts always seem so selfish to me, and that makes it hard.

A couple of days in I honestly expect good things this year. I hope your year is good, free of the bad stuff that we can't avoid, full of the good stuff we never seem to quite track down. I wish for honesty. I want to figure out what that thing is I'm supposed to be doing when I grow up and to grow up finally.

in case I wasn't lazy enough

Sue Doe Nim was kind enough to suggest I join Stumble Upon, probably because she knows I don't spend nearly enough time at the computer.

I sat on the invite for a while, not sure if the too much I already do was quite enough, until today. I took the plunge and stumbled on over.

I'll be honest and say right now that I'm not what it is I'm supposed to do there. It mostly seems like a fancier option than my little shared items window from Google reader which you can see right there to the left.

So we'll see how it works. Is it better than shared items? Did you ever notice my shared items? It's really right there on the left. Go look at it. It's where I can share the best of the blogs that I read. There's some cool stuff in there, and you know that I'm the smartest sumbitch you ever laid eyes on, so of course if I like you'll love it.

If you already stumble upon stuff you can find me there. I'm samuelfunkypants, which isn't to say my pants are especially funky, and they aren't really that cool either, basic Wrangler regular fit, run about fifteen bucks at Target and last just long enough. The knees usually wear out about the same time my hard pack cigarette pack starts to wear corners in my pocket.

christmas full of books

This, assuming I haven't forgotten any, is the pile of books that made up our Christmas book gifts. Most of these were from Momma and me to the boys. Four of them were gifts from my family to Momma and me. The one book that wasn't actually a Christmas present was purchased within a day or two of the actual day as I finished shopping for my family, so I've included it, that one being the The New Encyclopedia of American Animals.

Anthony Bourdain's The Nasty Bits as well as Alton Brown's book, I'm Just Here for the Food, were gifts to me, visible in the two lower corners. Next to Alton Brown are the gifts to Momma, Michael Ruhlman's The Soul of a Chef and The Reach of a Chef.

I'm well into The Nasty Bits and am a big fan of Bourdain's work. This makes the third of his books that I own. The two Ruhlman books are firsts for us as is Alton Brown. Momma and I have become fans of Ruhlman through his appearances with Bourdain, while the entire family loves Alton Brown. Big Brother and I have enjoyed his show Good Eats for a while, and though Momma also enjoys the show, she generally seems to be at work when we get a chance to watch it.

Among the other books, one notable is The Golden Compass, Phillip Pullman's ode to making your baby hate Jesus (sarcasm) which Big Brother seems to be enjoying. I've mentioned this book before as one that we loaned out never to see again. I've wanted to replace it for some time, and we finally did. You can see the top of a book mark peeking out. In addition we picked up three other Pullman books, I Was a Rat, Clockwork and The Fireworks Maker's Daughter. These are all delightful stories and fairly quick reads, and I've read two of the three already.

One really cool book that I was unfamiliar with is Abarat, by Clive Barker. It's the second kid's book of his that we have, and I've also already read it in the week since Christmas. Now we have to hunt down a copy of the next of his Abarat books so I can read the rest of the adventures of Candy Quackenbush. It's an odd story in the best possible way and exactly what a fan of Clive Barker would expect. In addition to a great story the book is full of illustrations painted by Barker, beautiful work that really pulls one deeper into the story.

A couple of notables that I've barely flipped through but look forward to diving fully into are The Dangerous Book for Boys, mentioned variously and randomly by a few homeschooling bloggers I enjoy, though I can't think now who. It was with their mentions in mind that I snatched this up as soon as I saw it, though it wasn't technically on any list when I did see it. Next to it, the bright red book at the top of the picture, is Characters from Tolkien by David Day, the purple book with the giant TOLKIEN. This was a score from the used book store, one that I wasn't looking for but again had to snatch up as soon as I saw it. Having flipped through it a bit I've been awed by the art, not to mention the further immersion into Middle Earth.

There are, as one can see, a number of books not getting a mention in this post. I didn't set out to write an obnoxious list of gifts and books, but there are a few I'm proud and happy to finally own as well as some new discoveries. My parents were kind of enough to give us two new bookcases, so I know that as soon as they're put together our new books will have a home. We'll also need to sort through all our books and arrange them somewhat sensibly. I still won't put all my foodie books and cookbooks together, but at least the kids books can all go on a bookcase together, removing several of them from my foodie bookcase.

Apart from some really good ham and the joy of seeing family, the pile of books might be my favorite part of Christmas. Some people fantasize about rolling around in piles of cash, while I dream of the day I can wallow in a big pile of books, or maybe just have a huge room with built in book cases lining the walls, each full with a variety of friends and neighbors of the written persuasion. And no, you can't borrow any of them, because I've learned that lesson a few times. But you are welcome to come by and hang out and read.

start the new year with what?

It's late, and I should be in bed. Momma is dozing. The boys are both in bed and asleep. I should also be in bed and asleep.

Checking my stats the last few days I've found some of my posts showing up HERE. I don't know exactly who these cunts are stealing my rambling, but I'd really like to know what's going on. I wrote that stuff, and I don't like them pilfering. Who are they, and how can I stop them?

If you have any news or info about this type of thing, please comment or email me. I'd like for them to not only be stopped but also to be caught and busted. They are not writing this material, and they have a blog based on other people's work. I'm not the only person having their content stolen, and it is beyond uncool.

last oh seven post, see you in the future

I haven't posted much the last couple of days. I have plenty to discuss, but for whatever reasons, I'm doing all reading and no writing. 'Rithmatic can suck it, by the way.

First, don't let the song below give you delusions of seeing the end of me. The song is Closing Time by Leonard Cohen. The only closing is the whole out with the old, in with the new of New Years Eve. I love the song and don't know or care if it's especially appropriate. It is what it is.

Play the song, enjoy, and I'll see you next year.

gay flesh eating rats

Hat tip to the fine folks at TN Guerilla Women for a great video on why we should vote for Romney. If you want to avoid gay flesh eating rats, then you will vote Romney. I have tried to clue people in to the problems with gay marriage in the past, think nazi tyrannosaurs with laser eyes, and think November of oh six.

timely quote

I believe this one could just as well be applied to every single person serving at the federal level, especially at this moment in time. Quotation from Theodore Roosevelt via The Quotations Page.

When they call the roll in the Senate, the Senators do not know whether to answer 'Present' or 'Not guilty.'

should actually be doing something

Another gray and drizzly day here,. Momma is at work till five-ish after which we drop off the dog for her brothers to watch while we haul ass south. My family celebrates Christmas Saturday this year.

I have six brothers. They are all married with children, and as the years pass, we've learned as a family that it's so much easier to let our Christmas happen at another date. Last year, if I remember correctly, our Christmas didn't actually happen till after the new year, and that's okay. It really is just easier. We're still getting to see each other and eat too much even if the actual calendar holiday was a week or so prior.

For a few years, the brothers and wives would all draw names for gift giving, but at some point, as the number of our children hit the teens, we decided to just put everyone that isn't our mother and father into the hat. Now we all draw names.

So my family of four has four names. That means that I get to do shopping for them as Momma has already done as much of that as she can handle. At least when she went she didn't have Big Brother and The Boy with her, but I also got to do mine after Christmas. So I can't really complain, but that's never stopped me before.

In addition to all the post Christmas mess that we really should have cleaned by now, we also have a small pile of wrapped gifts waiting to drive down to Atlanta with us tonight. I need a shower and to pack clothes for me and the boys. I'm putting that off while I get enough coffee in me to face the day, the cold, wet, dreary day.

I love seeing my family and wish we could head south more than once a year. I do have to admit that this may be the last truly comfortable trip. I fully expect to continue keeping my secret from them for a little while at least, but as we look toward the new year and wonder what it holds, I must admit that I just don't know.

And now the time has come. I'm near the bottom of my cup, that point where there is no more coffee floating brown and tasty above the black, gritty silt at the bottom. I'm sure there are some horrid cartoons just waiting for the boys eager eyes.

no good approach

Momma has asthma. It is very seldom a problem, though we will finally finish paying off an asthma related emergency room visit from just over a year ago some time in February of '08. That's the thing. While it isn't usually a problem, when it does act up it can get bad fast.

There are a couple of triggers that we know of that will cause some minor problems, and we can't ever know when the minor problem will get worse. It's a whole separate rant that the US medical system is so fucked that we can't afford the insurance that would allow her to have a regular doctor to help her better understand and control her particular asthma issues. We won't go into that here.

One of the triggers is perfumes. That's right. If you wear perfume and Momma spends even a little time near you, she will begin to have some trouble breathing. Another trigger, and the real reason for this particular rant, are the various products currently available to introduce scents into the home. Scented candles, anything from Glade, whatever the hell her mother uses that sit on little electric warmers, all these things or even any one of these things will make her asthma kick in, and she will begin to have trouble breathing.

And the sad fact is that this isn't even the real problem. The real issue here is the attitude of other people. A coworker of hers once got angry because Momma mentioned to this person that she was growing nauseous and having trouble breathing because of this person's perfume. She got mad at Momma for getting sick, not concerned, mad.

But we are only now getting to the real rant. Momma's mother and grandmother are fans of the products mentioned above, candles and such, often having several different products in use at one time. They refuse to believe that their desire to create fake odors in their homes creates an unhealthy environment for their child and grandchild. They honestly believe that we are lying to them when we explain this problem.

I have gotten into the habit, whenever we visit either of these homes, of going through the house to the usual places where these devices are being used. I blow out all the candles and turn off all the electric devices. I always miss one or two, and within a couple of hours of arriving I can hear Momma's breathing growing labored. When she has to walk outside to get some fresh air I know that it's getting serious.

And with every visit it seems we tell them all of this once again. I've even tried a few times to explain to them that they are basically creating fumes of unknown chemical compounds, and those compounds are harming someone they are supposed to care about and protect. And each time they are flippant and act unconcerned. They just don't believe it, and her mother has actually suggested that it's all in Momma's head. Seriously. Momma's mother has even argued that she used many of these products when Momma was a child and that they never bothered her then. I could argue that she also kept birds in the house (birds in the home are known to contribute to children developing asthma) and had cats (Momma has cat allergies) and that Momma hasn't taken nearly as much allergy medication as she did when we met those many years ago while she was still living at home. But that wouldn't matter. She would continue to belittle our issue, and she will continue to create harmful fumes of unknown chemical compounds to pollute the air of her house.

Is it ironic that Momma's mom wanted to burn the cookie scented candle on Christmas day? the day that sees more cooking and creating of natural and harmless odors that actually smell good? And she acted upset with me for trying to put out the two candles that she was burning while her daughter was obviously and audibly having a growing problem trying to breathe.

Merry fucking Christmas.

one last christmas song

I'm almost certain that two of my three readers are seeing this the day after Christmas, because they spent the actual holiday with someone other than me and my blog. For the one of you that is seeing this on actual Christmas day, you are loved even if you are reading blogs while the rest of us are eating ham and deviled eggs.

Part of me really is trying to keep from weighing the blog down with my love for Rufus, but another part of me is more than happy to tell you to suck it. He's awesome and dreamy and all kinds of other good things.

Anyway, here he is doing a lovely Christmas song, Spotlight on Christmas. As usual, click the linky part to go straight to YouTube and embiggen the video so that you can properly swoon.

I hope you are having or did have the most spectacular of holidays, whatever you call it, however you celebrate it, with whoever you coaxed close to you.

qotd

The Boy, walking past holding a soccer ball behind him, said, "I like my big butt."

drat those taggings

I've been tagged yet again, this time by Darryl for the seven random things about me meme. I'm not sitting down with a list of seven random things in mind, as I've been unable to come up with seven things by thinking about it and wanting to. So we'll discover all this together, just me and you, my blog reading buddies.

-I think Tim Gunn is really hot, though I have absolutely no interest in dressing women fashionably or any other way.

-On those extremely rare occasions that I wear a tie, I tie them so that they hang really long, like past my belt long, but not tacky long.

-I find the ideas behind Buddhism very interesting, but I fear I'm too big a puss to actually follow the teachings. Also, I know that if I tried meditation, that right as I was starting to achieve any sort of state beyond bored, my butt would start to itch, and then I'd focus my efforts on willing the itch away. I think we all know that that doesn't work.

-After over a decade of shaving my head I've been letting my hair grow. I last shaved it sometime last year and then just never got around to it again. At some point it became shaggy enough that I went to a little barber shop up the street and got it cut, but since then I've just let it go. I never realized how curly it is, and I'm becoming a little fixated with it.

-I use the boys' shampoo/conditioner in one stuff. I tried Momma's shampoo and conditioner (not all in one,) but I don't like the extra step involved, and I don't really like the smell.

-Whiskey gives me immediate heartburn. It doesn't even need time to get into the system like coffee does.

-All my mother's children are boys. Each of us now have children, and I am the only one with no daughters.

There we have seven random things about me. There are no great revelations here, no bright shining truths for the ages, nothing earth shattering. I'm fine with that. It's not like I let you into the dark recesses of my cold, black heart either. It is what it is.

I'm still not entirely comfortable with having tagged people for the last meme, and I've debated whether to do so for this one. That the meme suggest tagging seven people makes it especially difficult. I prefer to dose my discomfort in smaller batches.

If you feel inclined to share seven unimportant things about yourself, then consider yourself tagged. You can even link back to me under the pretense that I tagged you. Or don't. I can't say that I really care, but in a good way.

back that tilt up

I swiped this from Lynn, but she swiped it from someone else. With all the swiping going on one might forget the real reason for the season, and no, it isn't really about babies and stars and wise men. It isn't about magic insemination of virgins by interstellar entities, though feel free to enjoy it however you please.

best christmas song ever?

Arguably one of the greatest Christmas songs ever, Merry Christmas Baby by The Ramones deserves at least an annual listen. It really is an awesome song, and the bit of video before and after only add to the seasonal joy.

Have at it, and have fun, and have a hell of a holiday, whichever one you happen to celebrate. And if you celebrate nothing, well you can just suck it.

somehow no matter what

In keeping with the undercurrent of a theme running through a few of my favorite blogs by homeschoolers I present the following song, Science of Myth by the mighty punk rock lords Screeching Weasel.

Homeschoolers are a subset of the population as a whole, and to further divide us many find that there is a further division between Christian and secular. The Christian side of this division would be more accurately characterized as evangelical fundamentalist, or a term I find fairly descriptive, exclusionist. The secular side does in fact include many Christian people as well as atheist and all points in between.

It's almost funny that the secular side is so much more inclusive and open than the Christian side, especially as they're condemnatory nature likes to suggest that it is we secular hsers who are not open.

So, I present you with a song that I feel sort of plays into this discussion, and I include the lyrics below the player for those of us unable to tease the words out of the noise.


if you've ever questioned beliefs that you hold you're not alone
but you oughtta realize that every myth is a metaphor
in the case of christianity and judaism there exist the belief
that spiritual matters are enslaved to history
the buddhists believe that the functional aspects override the myth
while other religions use the literal core to build foundations with
see half the world sees the myth as fact
while it's seen as a lie by the other half and
the simple truth is that it's none of that and
somehow no matter what the world keeps turning
somehow we get by without ever learning
science and religion are not mutually exclusive
in fact for better understanding we take the facts of science and apply them
and if both factors keep evolving
then we continue getting information
but closing off possibilities makes it hard to see the bigger picture
consider the case of the women whose faith helped her make it through
when she was raped and cut up left for dead in a trunk her beliefs held true
it doesn't matter if it's real or not cause
some things are better left without a doubt
and if it works then it gets the job done
somehow no matter what the world keeps turning

dog pile again

COD has the scoop concerning Ms. Late To The Party. I feel like I'm jumping on an over crowded wagon, and I feel as if this blogger doesn't need anymore of us hollering at her, but she is misguided, and she is being less than honest. She literally begs for it.

If you visited the link above to COD's place then you get the story. If not then here's the quick version. A site that hosts evangelical, fundamentalist Christian (EFC) homeschool blogs accepts ad revenue from a couple who write books teaching EFC's to abuse children in the name of discipline. They have been boycotted for well over a year by a number of bloggers, bloggers who represent the variety of beliefs from pagan to Christian to those like me with no faith or religious based beliefs. I will not link to them.

The EFC's, as they usually do, are pretending that anyone not in lockstep with their views is anti Jesus and a humanist atheist sinner. As usual, they are wrong. They can't stand the idea that we feel they should not be allowed to hit their children with switches and plumbing supplies, so they lie about us and damn us.

So if you read the bit over at COD's then you know his comment at one of these blogs was deleted and that the comment was supposed to be nasty and/or malicious and/or unChristian. He called bullshit and was deleted. I called bullshit and was also deleted. Here's my comment, in full and verbatim. Find the nastiness if you will, and please leave a comment to show me the error of my ways.

The Pearls do in fact suggest beating children with pieces of plumbing hose. Hitting children is not okay. People go to jail when they hit adults, but some people think that hitting defenseless children is somehow okay and even commendable. It is neither.

Many Christians like to ask the question What Would Jesus Do? and I'd ask if they believe that Jesus would beat a child? Do you think Jesus would beat a child?

I have been a fan of COD's blog (he, not she) for quite a while. I've read his comments at many blogs. You've accused him of being nasty, yet I find that very difficult to believe based on what I know of him and his writing. I think that having left his comment up would have proved that he was not being nasty, yet we now have only your word for it.

Rather than face her accusers and answer our questions she tells us we are nasty, and she deletes our comments. What is truly nasty is her ability to stand side by side with people who abuse children. Hitting children in any way is abuse, and it is abuse that doesn't end. I was spanked most of my childhood in a very aggressive and painful manner. I attended a school that allowed corporal punishment throughout most of my childhood. I still fight my own anger and abuse issues with my own children.

Hitting children is not okay. Calling it spanking does not lessen the fact that it is abuse. Calling it discipline does not make it okay. If you must hit a child then you have already failed as a parent and need help. Please get help if you need it. All our children deserve better than this.

done been selfless

Since doing the meme and admitting that I don't tend to act in a selfless manner I have found myself doing three completely different and entirely selfless things. I could be proud of myself, but I try not to, as that would kill the selflessness part, or so it seems. (jeez, compound sentence much?)

Two nights ago, having purchased my cigarettes and beer for the night, I was leaving the grocery store. As I rounded the corner to head to the rear entrance I saw a white and mostly busted tow truck mostly in a parking space. As I approached I could see the driver climbing out with that look that says "I'm about to make some sort of monetary request of you." I almost drove on, but I didn't as he flagged me down.

His request was not actually for money. He explained that he'd run out of gas and asked if I'd possibly take his money and gas can to the gas station and get four dollars worth of gas. Inward and inaudible sigh, "Sure, let me think; what's the nearest gas station?"

"It's probably that Pilot past the interstate," he answered, and he was right. And I did go and get him gas, returned all of his change and refused payment. How can you accept payment for this sort of thing?

Selfless acts numbers two and three occurred today.

I was finishing smoking outside of Toys R Us prior to going in and realizing that waiting in all that traffic was a waste as they didn't have the toy I wanted for the boys. As I finished smoking a couple of slightly olderish women approached. One entered the store while the other attempted to push her bag of fast food trash into the trash can. It's the kind of can with a little spring loaded door that you have to push open. She was having trouble, plus there was a shopping cart in front of the trash can making it difficult for her to reach. I dropped my cigarette butt into the little butt receptacle and pushed the trash can door open for her. She was then able to easily slide her trash in.

"There's my Christmas good deed," I laughed when she thanked me.

And finally, the last selfless deed. I collect tomato boxes and not because I'm a dork. They are some of the sturdiest of boxes available and make near perfect recycling boxes, and Momma brings them home whenever she is able. We currently have more than we really need.

The young lady who was there also recycling had a couple of garbage bags she was sorting glass out of and noticed that all I had to do was pop open the end of the twelve pack holder. Since we put our empties back in the box it's really easy to just open and dump. She was amazed by the thought that you could do this, and I pointed out to her the tomato box also. I had my own two boxes, one mixed paper, the other clear and/or random glass.

I gave her my boxes. Just like that. I caught her eye and told her, "I have plenty of these, so I'm just going to stick them in your trunk."

So there. I can be helpless, and baby Jesus and Santa Claus no longer have to cry when my name comes up.

really bad joke

Yay for post fodder. This from Comedy Central.

Steve, Bob, and Jeff were working on a very high scaffolding. Suddenly, Steve falls 50 feet to the ground below and he is killed instantly.

After the coroner leaves with Steve's body, Bob volunteers to inform Steve's wife of the terrible news. Some two hours later, Bob returns to the work site with a six-pack of beer under his arms.

"Say, Bob, where did you get the six-pack?"

"Steve's wife gave it to me!"

"What! You just told her that Steve died and she gave you a six-pack?"

"Well, before I broke the news to her, I asked her if she was Steve's widow. And, she said she wasn't, so I said I'd bet her a six-pack she was!"

seasonal message

DC United midfielder Ben Olsen knows what Christmas is all about. Click HERE to visit the DCenters blog to read a great piece on what Christmas should be about for us all.

And share the ball!

more on huckabee

alternate post title, oh no he didn't

As if we needed more reason not to vote Huckabee, not that it was ever an option, follow THIS lovely link to understand what he thinks about immigration and our Mexican friends. And for the record, Mexican is really not descriptive of the various countries represented in our new immigrant pool.

update: in the comments Michele has added a couple of links which do not fully appear in the comments. I don't know yet how to fix that, though I will look into it. Till then:
First link
Second link

just a lil ol meme

Sue tagged me for a meme, and I've really tried to do it for her, but I'm not sure I can honestly answer her questions. Question number one could be easy, and assuming I can be less tagophobic, number four may even be okay. It's two and three I have issues with.

Here's the meme itself, so you can look it over. Most people would probably easily be able to answer these, and I'll admit that I'd love to be able to as well. I'll attempt what I can with the warning that you might not like two and three when I get done. Hell, you might not even like me after that, but them's the breaks.

1) Post a note about a blogger you would like to see something wonderful happen for. Maybe one whose posts have touched your heart in one way or another. Include details as to why you admire them and what you wish for them. Be as supporting and affirming as you can.
2) Post your favorite memory around selflessness, giving, or doing for others. Something that has actually changed you.
3) As a postscript, name one thing you will actually do for someone in your life before December 31 that is born out of joy.
4) Tag 3 other bloggers who will play the game and find the spirit. Don't forget to leave a comment on their blog so they continue to share the good feelings.

1) One L and her family are real life friends. She has a daughter a little older than Big Brother and a son slightly younger. Her children are beautiful and smart and fun to hang out with. Big Brother has always enjoyed playing with these friends. The wonderful thing I want to happen is both for them as well as for kids in general.

One L's daughter is somewhere on the Asperger's spectrum. My wish is for us (all of us/huge collective everyone us) to take the time to be understanding of kids like this child. She's an amazing child to whom the world often just doesn't make sense. I can't make it make sense and don't know if anyone can. But I know that others can take the time to be helpful by not condemning or making assumptions about these children or their parents.

2) I don't know that I've ever really done anything selflessly. I'll sometimes dig a dollar out of my pocket for the bums, but I do so grudgingly. It isn't a selfless act so much as buying the chance for them to piss off and leave me alone in a nicer way than just saying it. It isn't like I'm an asshole, I'm just not not an asshole. This is an area in which I need to do some self improving.

3) See number two? I don't currently have any plans to do anything out of joy. I really have a lot of thoughts lumbering through my head currently. Thoughts of doing things out of joy only bring to mind the really hot British guy I got to kiss last weekend, though admitting that he was trying to kiss more people than his friend sort of takes some of the wind out of that sail. So we'll leave it there. I could discuss joyful acts, but I don't currently have it in me. Let me get to a better place, and maybe I can answer this whole meme somewhat more nicely some time next year.

4) As mentioned above, I'm a little tagophobic. I'm not sure why, but I really hate tagging people. Maybe it just feels like RSVPing someone without their consent and assuming a desire on their part for something they may not want. I will tag three people though, even if I have to leave this as a draft all day while I decide which bloggers I want to burden with this.

The aforementioned One L and her blog Cutting School get the first tag. If I'm going to force her into this by trying to be nice, then I'll just go all out and invite her along for the ride.

Number B is Frankie at Kitchen Table Learners. She and her son deserve a gravy biscuit every morning.

Finally I want to know what Ren of Learning in Freedom thinks, that is if she can find time. She's probably off doing something thoroughly delightful.

homeschooler not for huckabee

No single group of homeschoolers speaks for all homeschoolers, and no single presidential candidate can be said to be the choice of even a majority of homeschoolers.

You may be asking why you should care, and I imagine most people here don't and likely shouldn't. Those readers are probably not aware of HSLDA or Mike Farris. HSLDA, Home School Legal Defense Association, is a group of fundamentalist lawyers that like to think they invented homeschooling and single handedly fought to make it legal. They are heroes to a number of families who homeschool for primarily religious reasons and have decided they like Huckabee.

Not that any of that matters until you find your family being spoken for by people who not only don't represent you but also don't really even have your best interests at heart. Because the fundy voice is loudest in the world of home education, it is often assumed that they are descriptive of us as a whole.

So should you happen to hear that homeschoolers support Huckabee, remember that not all of us do. The majority of homeschoolers I tend to associate with aren't even considering the republicans any more than to be scared that someone, somewhere is considering them.

I personally like Gravel and Kucinich. I won't give you the rant about them not getting the same share of air time as the other democrats and how that effects their fund raising. I won't rant about the whole rest of the democratic candidates combined don't have a tenth of the balls either of these two have.

I don't dislike Hillary, but her camp already trying to get the dirty game started doesn't help. The only way I could really vote for her would be not so secretly looking for Bill. I'm not sure about Obama. If he could prove that he could be as a good a president as he is a speaker then I'd vote for him. I liked Chris Dodd in whichever debate that I saw when he was actually allowed to talk, but when everyone keeps shoving past him to get to Hillary/Obama/Edwards, it's hard to hear him.

So, I don't support anyone right now. However Doc likes Hillary and even made a pretty button.

two on the porch

They stood on my front porch, two fresh scrubbed young lads, one in what looked like a knock off Member's Only jacket, both in black pants, white shirts, black ties. Both wore badges alerting me to their elder status in the Church of Something or Other. The title of elder, I daresay, was quite unearned on my porch, as I certainly have at least fifteen years on the oldest.

I learn through our conversation that I have a talker and a non talker. As the talk plays out, non talker begins to make me nervous. He's visibly tensing up at points, and I can almost sense a youthful desire to be offended and possibly have to do something about it.

"We're new to the neighborhood," the talker of the pair began. I thought immediately of a particular Myspace spam in which the spammer attempts to convince me that they are a newly arrived and quite sexy girl who enjoys both chatting as well as being naughty on a webcam. Oh how misguided that attempt is, and in a sense, these fellows are about to hit a very similar sort of block in their attempt to sell me their product. Talker of the pair continues, "How long have you lived here?"

I allow them to engage me in conversation, knowing full well it will lead to nothing. I should just run them off to the next house, which I've been doing lately. If it's nice old ladies I allow them to think their efforts are untimely so that I don't have hurt old ladies on my conscience. The kids I'm just blunt with usually, treating them more like a telemarketer.

We segue into video games, as they've seen through the doors that the boys are in fact playing video games, one of the Twisted Metal series, in fact, which seems to delight them. They make appropriate noises about children, seeming for whatever reason wowed that I've got such.

I don't know how exactly we get to religion, but I lead my half of the conversation giving them the knowledge that I don't believe in god. Well, they'd love to come inside and talk about how their belief can make my life better. I decline.

I don't tell them that they'd never find themselves in my house, but I know that, given the right mood, I'd be willing to engage them in some amount of conversation on the porch. I'm not going to do it now, because I left my cigarettes by the back door, and I'm not walking all the way back just so I can take snide potshots at a couple of missionaries, which I don't tell them either. It sounds fun, but no.

Talker of the pair really wants to push this. Maybe he sniffs conversion in the air, though all I smell are my armpits. I finally just let him have it. I'm familiar with the Bible. I know about Jesus, and it's not him I have a problem with. But I don't avoid black cats or walking under ladders, and I don't worry about people's souls slipping out when they sneeze or whether ceiling cat sees what I do in the shower.

Oh, but they have something else for me, because they have new interpretations. And of course I ask, "Oh, you mean Joseph Smith?" probably smirking maybe a little. I can't help but thing of the magic obsidian slabs he unearthed in outer Mongolia.

"Yes, have you read the book of Mormon?" Again, talker of the pair is speaking. My mention of Joseph Smith gave me that hint of non talker perhaps tensing up. I know how people can get when you mess with their heads, so I finally decide I'm done.

"Look, guys, thanks for coming by, and good luck with this, but I've got to get back inside. Stay out of traffic."

reading sampler

Clearing the table is always fun. The boys can be relied on to put books away, but this only actually happens after I've gathered them all up and created a stack. There are always potential piles being created, even as we clear, because whatever it is we happen to be reading at the time is soon to be left out, not yet returned to the book case.

The Boy has a place marked in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire that he's been "reading" on and off for a while. He doesn't actually read yet but has begun getting books off the shelf and perusing them while he eats. He's copying Big Brother in a sense, and he sometimes moves on to the most recent book Big Brother has finished and left out.

Big Brother's recent pile included five Highlights magazines, all of which are eleven years old and were given to us by my mother eight or nine years ago. Also included was The Birth of the Infanta and Other Tales by Oscar Wilde, a favorite that was a gift from a very good friend who always picks awesome books. There's a book about knights and armor titled, Knights and Armor, and finally Calculator Riddles, a Scholastic book by David A. Adler. He'd been hunting down a book we have about the states and was delighted to find it recently. Maybe when he puts them up he'll be delighted all over again when he finds it again.

I know these exact books because they are right behind me on the table that was once a console tv. The guts were removed and once housed the new tv. I Finally pulled the tv out and found a different solution to where to put the tv only to create the problem of what to do with that damn cabinet that used to house the tv. I know! Keep it so I can pile crap on it and leave it for weeks at a time because it seemed interesting to me to blog about.

And there's already a new pile growing on the table. We've got Rudyard Kipling, a book about bees, a book about frogs and one about the insides of small animals. There's also the booklet about Fullmetal Alchemist that came with the dvd. And this pile will become a slightly ordered stack that will finally makes its way to the shelves.

I'm sure this is a good thing. The bookcases always seem full, so I'm sure the books, as they cycle in and out are creating space for the next pile.

pop is tricksy

Not that my real name is hard to come by if you read here, but I've always just been me at the blog along with Momma, Big Brother and The Boy. At home I'm Pop. My oldest brother's kids sometimes called him pop, and I liked the sound of it. It's not hard to refer to yourself as such often enough with small children so that they come to know you as such. And that explains the post title.

Pop is indeed trying to be tricksy. We need to get ourselves out to the Christmas tree farm, but we have some small amount of rearranging to open up the corner where the tree goes. That involves moving the dining table to an odd and very sore thumb sort of place that totally works for the few weeks of Christmas.

There is in fact very little real cleaning needing to be done. A couple of chairs that don't have any true home need to disappear. The tub of Thomas tracks needs to slide back into the playroom. The Thomas tub is only track pieces. The roundhouse doesn't fit nor does the three story tunnel combo, though the track pieces for both do. The number of engines and cars has grown so that they occupy their own box. There's also a two lane bridge that I'm sure should fit in the tub but is on top. Every thing that doesn't fit in fits on if a bit precariously. The whole bunch of it is sitting out in the middle of the room not having actually been played with in most of the weeks it's not gotten put up.

There are a few Tinkertoys strewn about the floor. They are the round pieces that connect the sticks. They were probably bombs that got tossed at any number of bad guys which could include Sith, Deatheaters, drones, World War II Japanese or Decepticons. And yes we have explained a few times, just to make sure, that the Japanese are people like any of us and as good or bad as all of us. When we pretend we are fighting the Japanese it is actually the Axis powers. And this is all from playing Medal of Honor and the looking into WWII that it spawned.

That little bit of stuff, Tinkertoy bombs, Thomas pile, random chairs along with a handful of books, a balloon, Viewmaster and the rest of the flotsam and jetsam is really all that needs to be cleaned in the interest of making a place for the tree. The boys' room and the playroom being clean or not in no way effect the tree placement, but I'm more than happy to allow them to believe that their cleaning their areas is somehow helpful in the growing Christmas preparation.

To those things that are actually in the way of bringing in the tree, add the stacks of books everywhere but on shelves, my piles of notes still not put away since the end of the soccer and derby seasons, a pair of dirty socks and a jacket thrown somewhat onto a chair, and we do have a bit of work to tidy up for the Christmas tree. There are those jobs that have to be done and those that need to be done. The sad part is the number of times I've rearranged these piles lately in an effort to have cleaned. It's now time to actually put them somewhere.

The Boy asked to watch a video game, and I explained my desire to have the house clean for Christmas. He didn't say another word, just walked back to their room to the world of Transformers. I heard some sort of raised voice squabble a few minutes ago that they seemed to quickly work out, but other than that not even a request from Big Brother for video games, an oddment in itself considering that it's past noon.

Big Brother will quickly and happily trade the few minutes it takes to put away toys for the several minutes he'll get to play video games, so I don't even need to pretend any Christmas schemes if he asks, but I may just drag out the vacuum and see if I can use the Christmas scheme to eek a bit more work out of him.

I have a feeling that it's not going to work. And by feeling I mean that I know better. If the rain doesn't work with us then we'll end up putting the tree farm off even more, but we still haven't quite gotten back all the rain we didn't get over the summer, so it's hard to not want the rain. It also feels a little shitty to complain about the rain in light of the dousing Doc and her town got.

What I do know is that, like usual, I'll be the one rushing around at the last minute sliding tubs and hiding chairs. I'll vacuum after the tree arrives probably. For now I'm going to pretend I'm applying myself to some cleaning or other. I'll get dragged back to the computer too soon knowing all the nuggets that await me in Google reader. Along with the cleaning mentioned here are dishes to wash and probably some laundry even though we still haven't fully put away the last round of wash/dry/fold/ignore.