don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been

We are turning yet another page, to use Momma's explanation of our lives right now.

After three years of doing a fairly poor job of being an active stay at home dad I took a job at the same place Momma worked till recently. I began my training as she began a week long suspension, punishment for being fairly late on two consecutive days.

I worked last Friday morning and Saturday night. This week I worked my third training shift the day that Momma returned to discuss her future employment with her direct superior, the head chef.

He fired her, and I worked the rest of my shift with the thought that I would return the next day. If I was the only one of us with a job, the responsible thing to do would be to keep the job as long as I needed to.

I awoke Thursday morning in time to get to work on time. I awoke Thursday morning to a mix of rage and depression at the thought that I'd have to go back. I got dressed as far as pants and socks, pulling them on in the most angry way I could muster. I slipped a pair of shoes and my jacket on and stepped outside with Momma to smoke, an early cigarette for clarity in the coolness of the beginning of the day.

In truth I was trying like hell to talk myself into going to work. I was upset with both Momma's firing after being held in limbo for a week as well as the knowledge I have of this restaurant based both on Momma's descriptions as well as disappointing things I'd seen in the three days I put in. This wasn't anywhere I wanted to be, and though Momma will certainly miss the place she attained at this restaurant, she is overjoyed at the page being forced to turn when she'd had so much trouble doing so with so many reasons not to.

I applied for a different job Thursday, after hanging out at the park with some great people and their great kids. I have a second interview today for not quite the job I thought I was applying for. One could consider the location a step down in certain terms, but it's more my kind of place, and the possible job would be both cooking and serving. I have years of cooking experience, but I have random and not really serving experience serving.

I don't see why I couldn't get this job, and I find myself actually wanting it. The weird part is that it's at my default bar. A number of the regulars were friends before this place opened and/or are friends outside of this place. I've known some of the staff for some amount of time.

Another page, Momma has an offer to cater a small dinner party. It's on a Saturday that I have both soccer games and a roller derby bout to announce. Did I mention that Momma hasn't been skating for a couple months? The dinner is a great opportunity for her, and catering is an idea she and I have tossed around noncommittally for a couple of years. I won't get to help too much with this one, at least not in the final process, but I plan to do my part to make it a success.

So pages turn. We find ourselves unemployed, both of us expecting a check that will sever our ties with her place of employment for nearly four years. This is on top of all the things we've been through over the past year plus. We find before us doors opening, pages turning.

There are other burners going, ideas beginning to simmer between us. We are in a place of hesitant excitement as we begin to imagine ourselves doing for ourselves, less at the whim of others. We've begun thinking in terms of what is best for us rather than what we have to do. We are aware through IRS dot gov of the date by which our income tax refund will arrive, fully expecting that to keep us afloat for just long enough once again. There are light bulbs over our heads, and more and more, we are looking to turn those pages ourselves. We're getting tired of having to read to the end of pages we don't care to read and are looking for the good stories, the ones that speak to us.

title from Bon Jovi with a capital duh

the thing I said

I almost feel as if I owe any readers I still have an apology for last night's late, drunken post. Momma had gone out with some friends, and I managed to invite a friend over. He's straight, and continues to remain so despite my urging him to change his mind, so it wasn't that sort of thing.

Sometime between him leaving and Momma arriving home I made the turn from completely fine mood to somewhere else as evidenced by the drunken rambling.

I'm tired of not writing more, and I'm tired of the writing I do manage to squeeze out being ridiculous nonsense. It may seem that it's not all crap, but that's only because you only get the ones I post. You never see the shit that sits around as drafts, lonely and unwanted, soon to be deleted.

So, I hereby resolve to stop the melodrama and the melancholy or at least place some other posts between the weepy ones. And with that, I'm off to complain about something that will likely earn me trouble.

don't stop believing

This twist off of the beer cap comes too easy.

The sad feelings come too easy.

The melodrama flows out of me like blood from a head wound.

I try like hell to beat it down. I try like hell to master myself. I want so much to be in control, yet those damn feelings and thoughts have a mind of their own. I can try all I want, but I don't end up making sense of anything.

I want, yet I can't even figure out for myself what I want.

I don't know if I'm even trying anymore or if I'm just right back where I've alway been, rolling with the punches, trying for nothing more than to get drunk enough to get to sleep quick enough to avoid crying into my pillow.

Beer doesn't really seem to be working, but it's the constant, the thing I can rely on. It's the thing I think I know my way about when so much else seems to bring nothing but a curious mix of heartache and curiosity and regret. It's my friend, the friend that's there when no one else is.

I'd like to think there's something more, but . . .

holidays are bull shit

This started out as a Myspace bulletin. I cross posted it here because I loved it and want everyone to read. This note is for the couple of people that may read my crap both here and there. So . . .

To whom it may concern:

I'm tired of all these "christian" celebrations masquerading as holidays.

I do not give a shit about St. Valentine, and I doubt his life's work involved funneling even more money into the butchers in charge of the majority of diamond procurement/production that exists in the world. Look into blood diamonds and see if they're still as pretty.

St. Patrick may have been a drunk, but I sort of doubt it. I'm a drunk and have neither doubts nor qualms about it. I also don't think that he was really the guy who got rid of all the snakes in Ireland, as I don't really think they ever had a huge snake problem. Green beer sucks, and if you're beer is so nasty that adding green doesn't bother you, then maybe you suck too.

Easter, I don't even know where to start with this one. This was once a non christian celebration of spring. As is its want, the Catholic church co-opted the day and painted some religious overtones on it so that they could count the heathens among the saved and steal their gold when they were too busy collecting eggs to notice. If I celebrate spring it will be by enjoying the warm days and long nights, and it will hopefully involve drinking a beer on the patio at the Urban Bar.

Christmas was also co-opted by the church to celebrate the birth of baby Jebus. This time the heathens were too busy outspending each other at Wal Mart to notice the gold theft, but the end result is the same.

I could go on. All our holidays are shams, and if they ever did mean anything, they now only serve to increase the income of our corporate overlords. You aren't really celebrating anything recognizable as worthy of celebration, but you are helping the rich get richer. If you're okay with that, then fine, but just understand if you try to pinch me for not wearing green that I might smash your lips against your teeth. I'm not Catholic or Irish (I might be a tiny bit Irish in a DNA sort of way) and I don't celebrate religious holidays.

I have no religion, therefore religious celebrations would make me a lying hypocrite. Please respect that, and look at your own beliefs, and ask yourself what you're really celebrating. If it's just an excuse to get drunk, then perhaps you should recognize and celebrate that you're a drunk. I'll be right there with you, not lying about the fact that I drink, not needing an excuse to tilt the pint.

partay

In order, somewhat, the pork loin is cooked, chicken stock is cooling on the counter, the flourless chocolate cake is also cooling on the counter and the beans are soaking. It's too late now to worry whether I should have chosen pork butt instead of loin or to worry about whether it will overcook with the beans.

Between games tomorrow I need to drain the beans, rinse the salad greens, chop the mire poix, cut the sausage and decide whether I want more of the hog jowl bacon chopped. I'll cut the apples and soak them in some lemon juice and water in the refrigerator. I might even cut the bacon, but it might be nicer to have it hot.

Dinner will start with a salad, packaged greens that are supposed to be a fifty/fifty mix of baby spinach and spring mix, granny smith and ambrosia apples, bacon and toasted pecans. The dressing is a sort of buttermilk vinaigrette that I'm stealing from Ms. Joy which is recommended in her book with a similar salad to mine. After the salad we'll be moving on to a cassoulet followed by the previously mentioned flourless chocolate cake.

This is only the second attempt I've made at a cassoulet. I'm cobbling a variation together using Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Joy of Cooking and a little bean cookery advice from Alton Brown. I don't have goose or duck confit. I don't have any mutton. I do have pork loin, smoked sausage and hog jowl bacon.

While I'm sure I can produce an end product that is tasty, I have no fear that I'll actually approach a real cassoulet, a classic of French peasant cooking, a large casserole that not only uses available ingredients but is argued about seriously should you choose to vary your recipe from that of basically anyone within earshot.

I haven't even cooked beans that often (almost never) and have that whole concern to be concerned about. I'm a little worried about the cake as well. I couldn't mix the chocolate mixture with the egg whites any more without flat beating the shit out of them, and now I'm a little afraid that I can kind of see some unmixed beaten whites spotting the surface of the cake. We can't know till tomorrow when we dig into it, but I can't help but worry. A rich slice of chocolate cake can almost hope to fix a nearly mediocre meal. I'm confident with my salad, and I mostly expect good things out of my cassoulet, but the cake has me nervous.

I'm sure I'll remember to post about the great fun we had, drinking wine with friends and enjoying a nice meal. It'll be awesome, the food will be better than I expected, and all sorts of niceness. And because I've been posting so regularly, you can rest assured that you'll have the info soon after the affair.

And if you're lucky, I'll take pictures and tease you with glimpses of my culinary achievements. Just you wait.

food porn meme

I wasn't directly tagged for this meme, so I won't directly tag more than one person. I almost did it when Rosie left an open ended tag, but I totally did it when Sue left a more openly ended tag.

1. What food do you consider the best “date” food? In other words, what meal or food item do you think is sexiest to eat in the company of someone you would like to look sexy around?

I never dated. That's what this question makes me think of. And then it leads into too much thought going into my whole upbringing (far past and far right) and the places I've been between then and now.

I'm starting to think that the best date would be finding some dark haired boy that wants to both eat my cassoulet and watch a Miyazaki movie with me and my wife and kids.

2. What well-known person would you like to share a meal with—with or without clothing. (saying whether or not clothes are involved is optional).

I'd like Eric Ripert to cook me dinner. I believe in cooking clothed, so anything else would have to find its own way in at some point later in the evening.

3. What does your perfect breakfast-in-bed look like? (Food AND the details, please. Candles? Music? Flowers? Hot tub? Dancing girls?

My perfect breakfast in bed would happen at the bar over some steaks and eggs and bloody marys.

4. What do you consider the best application of whipped cream to be?

Pie, the only real destination for whipped cream. Anywhere else it just gets in the way.

Which is not to say that I couldn't think of any number of other uses for whipped cream. So I guess we're back to the original question. If nothing I've said so far gives you an indication . . .

5. Oh-God-No, Biff, the yacht is sinking! You are sent to the galley to retrieve the food. What luxury food items do you snatch first? The champagne? The caviar? Smoked Salmon? Truffles? Chocolate? Or something else?

Seriously sinking yacht? I'm going after the least perishable items I can find, and if Biff can't get his dumb ass in gear enough to recognize this fact then fuck him. His ass can drown. My kids and as much food as I can dig up is my sole priority in this situation.

Okay, two things are a sole priority? Yes, though kids slightly edge out food, slightly.

And there you have my food porn meme. I tag Momma first and foremost, because she needs to write more. After that?

singing fool

Last night, without even being nearly as drunk as I assured everyone I would have to be, I was coaxed to sing karaoke. And it wasn't quite so bad as I thought.

Coaxed really isn't quite what happened so much as the sound of the words "Sometimes Roommate and Sam sing Chug-a-lug," yes that one, the Roger Miller classic. That was followed quickly by the words "son of a bitch" steaming out of my own mouth. She'd already done Dolly's Mule Skinner Blues, the one with the yodeling, and after that I couldn't not have the balls to sing.

I will admit to enjoying myself. I also feel that some explanation of the particular place is also in order. It's a distinctly local place, a honky tonk that proudly advertises their hillbilly jukebox. The menu, is beer, pizza, hot cheese plate and more and is posted randomly behind the bar on sheets in paper and Sharpie. Pictures of customers and staff adorn a good bit of the wall space, and with the new addition of a slightly regular hipper, younger element seems to be growing. It's a really cool place, introduced to us by none other than Sometimes Roommate.

We're back to my enjoying singing karaoke, but I will admit more here. We got a couple of late starts on a couple of lines, which anyone could do. I also caught myself improvising some of the lyrics which is a habit of mine.

Very often, when I'm singing alone, I will make up new words to songs. Quite often the new lyrics are fairly obscene, though more often they're just stupid, humorous only to me. It certainly happens a hell of a lot less when there are children present, so don't too alarmed, but it does happen. I didn't consider this habit when I was walking through the bar toward the stage, and really, why would I? The right lyrics are on the little tv, so any I forget, I'll be able to figure quickly, not that I've memorized that many Roger Miller songs.

And it happened. I suppose the social lubricant, PBR in a can, may have helped, or not helped, depending on how you see it. Being up there at all courtesy of Sometimes Roommate and a desire to enact some mild revenge like thing may have subconciously come into play. I don't now remember what lyrics I changed or even what I sang, but I'm pretty sure I sufficiently gayed it up, which is the part that I do remember.

Momma definitely wants to go back and sing karaoke again and soon. I'm holding out as ambivalent just yet. I did enjoy it, but I'm just not sure.

And fresh from the ovens of YouTube, the video is crap, but the audio is fine if you choose to listen to the song. There's a second song that you don't have to bother with, but you are also more than welcome to listen to it as well.

finally

I almost titled this post "fucking finally," but decided not to the moment I even considere it. I just wanted you to know.

We had a couple warm days this past week, weekend days that saw our Sometimes Roommate and her two year old son over so that another friend could paint Dolly Parton on the hood of her car. Sometimes Roommate brought over a friend, the object of my newest lusty thoughts.

I can see by the looks on all your faces that you've just stumbled upon a new thing. Yes, we have a Sometimes Roommate, a female friend who sometimes finds herself staying with us. She has a two year old who also often joins us, and Big Brother and The Boy have found no end of fun playing with him. I'm not sure how involved she'll be with the blog, but she now arrives with a name even. I haven't thought up a name for her kid, but he's a sweetheart, and if he shows up again he'll have a name.

The weather was the real star of the show. I scooped as much poop as I could find out of the yard along with a fair number of leaves too committed to the poop to let go. We unstacked the white, plastic outdoor chairs and pumped up bike tires. The dirt patch under the maple is still too sodden to really want to play in, but it'll dry enough soon enough.

It was an awesome couple of days which have given us our first daffodils, quite possibly my favorite flower currently. Where I live they are always the first blooms, the first color, that shiny gleam of hope that spring is not so far away. It brings thoughts of finally fixing the clocks by a whole hour and accepting Easter as a way to get at some ham.

Momma and I have discussed Easter recently. I realized that the only meaning I've ever known for Easter has been directly related to crosses, nails, blood, torture, and having to get up extra early to go shiver in a park to hear preaching right before you went to church and ate breakfast in time for more preaching. And if you were my family, you weren't out enjoying breakfast but in the back preparing and serving it. Moments like this indicate that I was in food service earlier than I thought, but that's a topic for another day.

Soccer has begun again, our first games coming Saturday. I feel completely disjointed about the whole thing right now. I feel like I got a late start with my U10's, but we're fine where we are. I have good players for the most part, if I can't get them to see the game as I do. I think during our next scrimmage I'll take two players out at a time and get them to watch with me as their teammates bunch up like granny's underwear and steal the ball from each other.

Apparently our team name will quite possibly be Yo Momma. I don't care personally, but I explained to the vociferous suggester of the name that he had to get the written and signed agreement from each mother represented by a player on the team. I don't know who he asked, but he seemed to think that he had gotten that sort of thing with something an awful lot not written and/or signed. Somehow that led to everyone swarming to their cars and suddenly practice was over.

I've completely forgotten to give them my "all I want is your very best" speech. I'll have to remember that before the game Saturday.

Soccer practice is the only exercise I've gotten since last soccer season. I can't last for shit with those kids, which I really hate because I really love working directly with them. We're still at a point in life when I can generally beat them, but they are also getting to where they can beat me. I actually love when they do that, because I feels it helps build their confidence. I do also admit that, were I in better shape, it wouldn't happen very often and doesn't now, but the twelve pack of beer a night and however many packs of cigarettes added to the sad, depressed and fairly sedentary existence I've stuck myself in . . .

Sorry, had to sneak a little melancholy in.

Other than all that, there isn't much else to say at the moment. I get to go out Friday night(tonight by the time this gets read.) We have an all night babysitter Saturday, so Momma and I both get to go do something. Christian pulled it off in the end to take Project Runway, and a new season of Top Chef starts next week.

Daffodils and Top Chef and soccer season. Maybe I'll blog Top Chef, but if I do, Momma has to accept that we won't always watch each episode together. We'll see.

And, yeah, we're done here for now.

good deed

This was spotted while pumping gas. You can see that the notice has been corrected, which I thought was just really nice of someone, to take time out of their likely busy day. It really is the little things in life.

music and understanding

Finding this video didn't start out looking for some random moment of realization, but that's how it happened. It's a great video, The Monkees doing You Just May Be The One.

I'm certainly not quite old enough to remember The Monkees, but I do remember them thanks to the power of syndication. It's one of the few shows we were allowed to watch, and it was always a favorite of mine. This was of course Atlanta network tv a few years ago in my innocent childhood.

Mike was always my favorite followed by Peter, and it never really occurred to me why that might be. Stumbling on this particular video, in which Mike sings the lead vocals, forced a sudden and random moment of realization, and I knew why I'd always liked Mike, even all those couple of decades back.

And he's still the hottest one, followed by Peter of course because I'm a sucker when I recognize shy and awkward.

qotd

I don't know thing one about James Russell Lowell, but this quote vaulted itself right into need to be shared.

Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this, that you are dreadfully like other people.

I'm honestly going to look for a way to say this to someone in the near future.

an ode to shoes

These are my most recent shoes. I really liked them, and would still be wearing them now but for the fact that, hidden in this picture, there is a wide tear across the bottom of the the shoe with its sole turned up.

I discovered this hole in my shoe as I was putting groceries into the trunk of the car. I'm sure, as I was turning from shopping cart to trunk there was some final last straw of friction as I felt my sock quite rapidly become completely drenched, the cold setting in immediately. It was a rainy night here in K-patch, much like tonight.

These shoes are almost exactly the sort of thing I tend to wear most waking moments of my day. I'm weird in that way, that I much prefer to have shoes on than not. Momma and both boys are not like this at all, especially The Boy who sees walking inside as an invitation to remove shoes and socks at the first possibly moment.

The major difference in these shoes and recent shoes is the near obscene amount of white, though technically this color, when the shoes were new, was actually called "milk."

The shoes that came before these are still wearable, another pair of black suede Converse, though the only thing on them not black is the logo. They became the grass cutting shoes when I finally settled on these as their replacement. So the space between the tongue and the laces on them is stuffed with little bits of dead, dry grass. They were also always a bit too big, and with their years of service they've become just too floppy for regular duty.

And now, until we get a couple of bucks to invest in footwear, I'm stuck wearing my old work boots. It's sad how weird I am about having to wear shoes, because these Sears brand sons of bitches stink and are not the most comfortable housewear on the planet. They're great for standing in the kitchen, but they suck of kicking back with a beer. I either need to get over this shoe thing or get some new shoes.

this blog still active

Was it the cold moonlight soccer practice that ended up with me getting more exercise in one hour than I've had since the last soccer practice of the fall season? Is it the combination of beer and cigarettes and perhaps some other smoked substance drug addling me good? Is it the complete sitting here alone with no noise but the dog rolling and huffing in the floor?

Something is working to make me slightly less maudlin and depressed than I've been lately. It would be nice if this were more than a one night thing, but recently, that premise is highly doubtful.

We spent this past weekend in Nashville, or more honestly, we spent most of it in Clarksville, about forty five minutes northish of Nashville. We were in middle TN for roller derby.

I'm sure everyone has missed the roller derby talk. This bout was the season opener for HKRG, so expect me to at least have that to post about eventually. Our team won, tearing each point from their scrabbling hands. It was one of the most amazing bouts I've seen, though had Momma been skating it would likely have been a slightly easier win. Though she wasn't not skating for a bad reason, that's it's own story for some other time.

In that purest if cheesiest of sports moments, the bout was won in the final jam. Nashville was up thirty points as the first period ended. By the end of the second period, our side had whittled that lead down to nothing. Knoxville took the win in the final jam with a final score of seventy eight to seventy seven. It was freakin' sweet.

The annoying twist from the weekend involves me realizing that I have an extremely stupid crush on someone I've seen three times in the last year and a half, someone I've seen across a rink more times than I've spoken to him. I may have said "hi" and/or introduced myself once. It has been roller derby related each time. I can't say I actually know him, and I live at least three hours away.

It's stupid. It makes no sense.

The first meeting was in my town and was most certainly in my bury/ignore being gay days. I noticed him and liked what I saw, but I wasn't in a place where I was going to do anything about it. You could say I got a little stuck on him, though I didn't really realize it at the time. The next time I saw him was in his town. I'm pretty sure I didn't actually talk to him, but I did see him, and I remembered the first time and was still stuck. This would have been between learning of Momma's infidelity but before my own acceptance of me, a really weird time. I saw him again recently, somewhat after having come out and accepted that I do like the fellows, and for some reason I got really stuck, completely based on seeing him in the crowd a few times. It was a classic moment filled with instances of "did he look at me or catch me looking at him?"

It's stupid. There's no sense in it. It's irritating the living shit out of me, like I've once more found a helluva way to go right back to sixteen years old. Damn! and sigh . . .

that one guy

I have a friend, not really someone I'm close to, but he's a guy I've known most of the time I've lived in this town. One thing that is really noticeable, sort of a feature that stands out, is his voice, a deep and gravelly sort of thing that you almost imagine singing some low down blues. And then he talks and dispels that myth.

I hadn't seen him in a couple of years the last time I saw him. I was out having a couple of drinks, mostly fucking off. I mentioned his voice earlier because that's how I discovered he was also out that night.

I went into the bathroom to take a much needed piss, the beers having begun to back up in the bottleneck of my increasingly less patient bladder. As I stood at the urinal I heard someone enter the bathroom behind me but thought nothing of it.

I was quite enjoying my pee, having put it off quite long enough. Along with the pee I felt a build up of gaseous material, the sort one often rightly chooses to expel in the bathroom when out in public, and this I did.

Upon the release of my fart I heard a laugh from the next stall, and I knew at that very moment that I was in the presence of only one possible person. There are no voices like that but his.

little better

What started Wednesday with a severely runny nose worsened Thursday, coupling intense sneezing fits with the clear, watery snot deluge.

By Friday it had turned into me being the whiniest I've been in ages, combining the aforementioned symptoms with random body aches, early stages of a cough, lack of appetite and what may have been the worst, a thick headed and dim witted sort of duh.

The whole of that stretched between Friday and Saturday with Saturday seeing a lot more coughing, enough in fact so that my left eye had a nice redness this morning.

My back has hurt most of this time, and various aches have shuttled around my head, sometimes including the entire head. The head was never one ache though, as even when the whole thing hurt, I could still feel the different pains separately.

One of the symptoms of the past few days that was by far the weirdest is likely the one you least want to read. I usually get a nice couple of days of watery bowel movements with whatever sort of sickness I get. This time however I spent a good portion of my past few days having no bowel movements. I will say that I farted a lot, like I just ate Senor Taco lot but without the stink. Yes, weird.

Oh, my skin also hurt. Did I mention that? That's a symptom I've recognized since childhood, and it's usually a personal early warning sign. Whenever my skin starts to hurt I know I'm in for something bad.

Today I woke up with a dry nose and a clear head. I won't discuss pooping other than to admit to some satisfaction in general in regards to that area. I've been ravenous most of the day and have eaten more in sevenish hours than I have in the previous seventy two. I even washed a couple of dishes and didn't mind fixing the boys lunch (heating up cans of soup.) My back still hurts, almost as bad as it has at any point during the sickness, but that's to be expected at this point, as it's become a muscle thing from the hacking cough.

The best thing, apart from getting to eat, about feeling so much better? I finally get to take a shower. I finally get to wash my greasy, ick hair. It'll still look like fluffy hell atop my head, but it will soon be clean fluffy hell.

wbc sucks

Good As You has a video up that is worth watching, so I've borrowed it. Warning: Westboro Baptist Church related nastiness though not too much as the good guys win in the end



I'd say the video seems fairly obviously a product of Westboro, though they do attempt to make it seem like a news story. I'll let you pick out the subtle hints that point this out.

One thing that stood out to me is how big a failure their attempts are at the evilest place in Kansas. If I believed in a god these asshats would be pushing me even farther away from wanting to know him/her.

Finally, what stood out even more was the patriotic feeling I got watching the men and women counter protesting by hiding the asshats and their hateful signs with rows of the US flag. I actually got a little emotional watching the stars and stripes used for good.

you mean that HSLDA?

Yeah, there is only one HSLDA, Homeschool Legal Defense Association, and yes I see homeschool as one word, so that's just one more strike against them. It doesn't seem like that long ago that I posted some other asinine rant about these bozos, but an easy target is an easy target, so . . .

Anyone reading here that is not a homeschooler may well be unaware of the HSLDA, and if they have heard of them then they may know that they are a bunch of uber religious nutters that have as much to do with the legal side of homeschool issues as a basket of dirty underwear has to do with getting supper on the table.

HSLDA likely fancies themselves the ACLU of the homeschooling world, and many of our more zealously christian homeschooling friends would agree to the spirit of that comparison while quickly pointing out the evil nature of the ACLU and homaseckshuls and libruls and women in pants. Yeah, those people.

I won't be entering this contest, though I do thank Lynn at Bore Me To Tears for noticing and showing us all. The contest is an essay contest in which entrants are asked to explain what the HSLDA means to them. As Momma pointed out when I showed her, "Twenty five words? That's not an essay. That's a couple of sentences."

Should you choose to enter, the prize is a gift certifacte to the HSLDA bookstore, which brings up another question. What kind of crap do they sell in the HSLDA bookstore? I can well imagine, but I'd rather make uneducated guesses, as it's so much funnier that way. So before I complete my essay I'll give some examples of things that aren't quite likely to really be there, such as the
-ladies tea cup (because coffee is probably too strong for them) reading, I got married and all I got was these bare feet and a growing stack of babies
-t shirts that read I homeschool my child for all the wrong reasons and we don't need your filthy and unBiblical logic
-the classic full armor of god play set
-book titled "Conservatives Today: Working Our Asses Off To Take America Back To The Dark Ages"

But I digress when I really should be working on my essay.

So, what does the HSLDA mean to me?

HSLDA doesn't mean a square inch of turd. They haven't done shit for the vast majority of homeschoolers, so they can go and suck it.

And it's exactly twenty five words, but I really don't think it's a prize winner according to their standards. Regardless, I think it's honest and heartfelt.

And added from Lynn's comment due to sheer awesomeness, check out this fine offering as an additional option from the HSLDA shop.

bad derby blogger

Haven't you missed hearing about roller derby? Aren't you just dying to know what the fabulous ladies of Hard Knox are up to?

There are a couple of stories in this post, one of which involves Momma leaving Hard Knox for another local league, a very small and just getting started league. She left for a couple of personal reasons that didn't make it easier, and she worries often that she might should regret the decision. I think in the end it really will be for the best, but change is often hard no matter how much we might need it.

She left with the best intentions to maintain a good relationship with the league, and we remain close friends with so many people we met. In addition we plan to work to maintain good relations between the two leagues.

As long as they'll have me, I plan to continue to announce for Hard Knox. And I get that chance in just a few (too short) hours. Tonight's bout is a scrimmage as the team prepares for the season opener in one week in Nashville. Momma has been planning on our driving out with the team to provide support and hollering as well as to see a couple of friends we've missed greatly. I'm not sure if we'll have the money to make the trip, and I don't know if we'll have the money for tickets either.

And that's a quick run down of our derby life as it stands. Look for more in the future and hope that I'm not a bad blogger and can get a message up earlier than the day of.

And finally, if you live in or around Knoxville and need something to do tonight, come out and see us at Skatetown on Broadway. Doors open at seven with the bout starting at seven thirty. Tickets are only five dollars, and it's a great time for the youngest kids to the oldest kids.

qotd

What does it say that Oscar Wilde is once again the quote that shows up and is worthy of me squeezing out a QOTD post? It must mean something. As usual, have a link to The Quotations Page from whom I freely borrow this, and feel free to enjoy the new quote.

I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability.
- Oscar Wilde

no we can't

We start the day with a bit of pessimism. Though I really do think we can, if all we've got is a pretty song and some heart warming speeches then no we can't.

You've seen the video, Obama speechifying while attractive people agree and tell us, "Yes we can." Si se puede? Perhaps, but not until we stop letting the media control who we have real access to, not until the likes of Richardson, Dodd, Gravel and Kucinich are treated as equally viable candidates from the very beginning.

Why are we reduced to two options, Clinton and Obama? Are they really the top two in what was, until recently, a fairly crowded field? They aren't and weren't my top choice. I'd love to see the old white men step aside in favor of fresher faces, but more than that I want a president who means what he says, and I want for her to tell me what she will do that will make our country better. I might smack the next person that even utters the word change without telling me what they will change and how they will change it.

I am dreading going to vote. I'll turn the little knob and press the little button, but we have so many options in our local election. We have a huge bunch of rascals in our county and city, and we have that many more people offering us vague change and bringing the power back to the people. We have options that might as well be mirror images of each other. We have people meeting oustide of the sun light to make deals with each other, to give each other the job they were just term limited out of, to make sure their little corner of the kingdom stays in family hands.

And the worst of it all is that politics are fucking boring, booooooooring. Maybe they shouldn't be or don't have to be. Maybe it's just that, locally, there are too many names and faces, and I want to make an informed decision, for my vote to represent what I believe our system of governance should be, but on some level it's like deciding whether your pie should have a full top crust or a lattice and pretending that it makes any damn difference.

So, I will vote. I will do my civic duty. I will vote based on party in some instances. Perhaps I'll vote for the sole woman in some instances. This is Knoxville, so if any of the candidates are gay they ain't tellin', and shallow as that might be, that would get my vote in the same way some Baptists will pull the lever for Huckabee, "'cuz he's one of us."

And then I'll come back home, relieved that it's over for a few more months, chagrined that little will likely change. What I really want to do, at least locally, is sew the bunch of them up in a huge sack and smack them back and forth between the TVA towers for a couple of minutes. It would either knock some sense in or knock some of the stupid out.

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.