Up to R Street and over to Wisconsin, I jogged to Georgetown today. Two and a half miles from the lovely confines of my Logan Life, an Einstein Brothers resides. This was my third attempted trek to an Einstein's, the first resulting in a popped tire for Krista, the second landing Pam and I at some Punjabi Einstein Express inside GWU (on freshman move in day!), and this one finally proving fruitful. I felt truely Arthurian, seeking my salad-in-a-stone or holy grail, this time embodied in the leafy greens of a much coveted Jerk Chicken Salad (with mango vinegrette!). My hunt for salad felt epic. Gosh, I'm a dork.

I won't wax epicurian for terribly long, but the whole chunk chicken with the kickin' mango dressing, tossed with fresh pineapple, mango, and mandarin oranges made for a sweet summery treat. I'm glad I coupled it with the half sandwhich, in hindsight, because while tasty in its own right, I can see myself being disappointed with the actual heft of the salad. The Cali Club panini made it a well rounded occasion, and with all the extra dressing they politely put on the side, I was blessed with a sweet dipping sauce for the sometimes too dry panini.

So. Fucking. Good. Get yourself to an Einstein's while they last!

I've been catching up on Firefly over the past few days. Its been more and more enjoyable as its gone on, less cliched, and the characters seeming a touch more human. It gets the motor runnin' a little, knowing that there is a big budget flick to follow, and I think its a shame it was put to pasture early. Then again, maybe the flick will provide a fitting end. I'm in no real position to make such guesses, though, since I'm only like 5 episodes in. Thats less than half. I'm pacing out my episodes now so that I can watch the last two I have right before the newest repeat on Sci Fi.

In regards to television, I have Rome tivo'd but haven't watched it yet. I'm hoping its good-- I've been bombarded by some sort of urban viral marketing campaign for it all through my neighborhood. They've hung up flyers saying "Ever City Has Its Secrets" with a tear-off number for you to dial, much like a room for rent posting would have. When you call, it gives you some low-grade moviephone bullshit playing the opening sequence. It sounds just like that stupid friend of yours' voicemail when they play 50's "Candy Shop" or some such nonsense. Good campaign, lousy pay off. I hope the end product makes up for the thirty eight seconds of hell before I hung up.

We shall see.

I took Pam to her first Hookabar yesterday after Geoff, Tara, Pam, and I went to Asylum for 25 cent Tacos and Beer night. Mondays are good for the Tacos, and good for the 2 dollar Shiner Boch. Yum-o. Pam and I mellowed out over Double Apple Shisha and just kinda rapped to each other about all the bullshit swirling around in our heads. Satisfying, if not productive. But, the shisha high was fabulous, and I'm glad to know that there is a place to smoke some good tasties right in Adams Morgan. I really need to track down Omar.

The paparazzi have been out in full effect this week, but I haven't gotten the photos to share with ya'll yet. I'm a slacking bastard, mostly, and haven't followed through on the follow throughable. Whatever, they'll get here when they get here. The photogs snapped a click-click or two of Krista and Myself in various regalia ranging from matching deconstructed looks to daniel and I as Truman Capote and Cowboy Queer. Three guesses which I was. Krista's visit coulda gone better, the poor dear. Her tire blew out, we never found einstein bagels, and our appointments ran long.

On the bright side, we did make good in the fat-kid section of Target.

Ugh, couple the negatives with a fabulous Mother Dearest-y hissy fit I threw on Tuesday, and I'm a raging star of self abuse and self involvement. I've been less than 5x5 for the past week or so, kinda down, less than bubbly. I don't know why, exactly, but of course it means that I'm a bit distant and cold. As someone who is both warm and mean at the same time, its often hard for those around me to know that when I'm cold and mean, it has little to do with them. Thats gotta be hard to take, and kinda just plain wrong of me to ask. And of course, a good rule of thumb for that, don't add alcohol.

So, I've bundled up nicely. Bought some pot. Stayed in. Went dancing on Thursday. Spent the weekend stoned. Its been nice. Lots of television catch up, and time to take care of the sick puppy.

He doesn't know he's sick, but he is. He's got really bad diarreha and whatnot. It could be from all of the shots he got last Monday, but I don't know for sure. Daddy's worried, and taking him to the vet tommorrow if he doesn't have consistantly firmer stool throughout the day (it was better yesterday). I'd take pictures of that, but honestly people, me in a daisey dukes is a far better sight. And besides, wait 'till you see Seb in his superman t-shirt Daniel gave him-- soo f'n cute, you won't know what to do with yourselves.

I went to the middle of nowhere to get away from it all.

I'm back in the District. Sebastian gets to wear a bandana around his cute little puppy neck now, he's earned it-- he's a good country dog. He had a puppy play date with Caroline's doggie Annabelle, and he is smitten with her. She with him, too, I imagine. The Snead is doing well, as am I. Very little to report-- nothing but mirth and merriment all around.

I bought Lauren a yellow polka dotted dress for her birthday.

For those paying attention and don't seem to know.

Agnes and Steve, Left and Right. Respectivly. Spelling properly optional.

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I love the smell of spray paint. It harkens back to a younger era of me in the country, bein' bad. I can always tell when someone's done a really fresh tag or when they've marked up the sidewalks somewhere for maintanence-- it throws me back to Colonial Beach before they paved the roads. A smell that I know equally well is that of ganj, a scent that harkens back to, oh, I dunno, about twelve hours ago.

I got all Taint-y with Alex on Sunday, and she had to twist my arm to get me there. I was zonked the fuck out from working all week, and had it not been for her insistance, I wouldn'ta made it. We were gonna go for a little drinky-drink, a little dancey-dance, and then just be-out. Two Sparks later, I had found my energy.

If you ask Alex, she'll tell you it wasn't the two Sparks, but the two boys, who got me moving.

Oh yeah, Alex and I got taken home from Taint. The boys, Joe and Dave, were both service industry folks. Joe's a little older, maybe early thirties, balding but cute, with a personality that was too blunt to be called catty and to catty to be called blunt. Facial hair and gauged earrings, light skin and darker features, he just wasn't quite my type. He checkeed a few boxes on the list, but really, his lack of boyish charm, and my Kathy Oversaturation, somehow warded off whatever spell he wanted to cast on me.

Dave, on the other hand, was much closer to my age. He was also much closer to Alex's height-- and Alex isn't a spectacularly tall girl, by any stretch. Not quite a stepladder makeout, but closer to 5'8 than to 5'10. Great arms, dark hair, and a fun smile. Funny as it is, Dave barbacks at Saint Ex, and remembered my drink that I had ordered all of once. Dave was being the wingman for Joe, and asked the normal litney of questions. I didn't give the answer Joe probably wanted. Thats okay, 'cause I'm fairly sure I gave the answer Dave wanted.

Puppy kicking and cruisey gym humor later, we had both made each other laugh. We moved from family guy to adult swim, and then he fessed up to liking Teen Titans. I told him that I dug on the Trigon storyline, and he misheard Trigun. We had both succesfully outed ourselves as nerds.

He invited us over, and on our way out (to his car), he told me that someone had to take shot gun.

"Shotty," says me. Like duh.

Alex, Yama (a third in their circle), Joe, Dave, and I smoked a ton of pot and watched a coach bag full of TV. We laughed our asses off, and enjoyed more Kathy Griffin on Bravo. "...Not Nicole Kidman" is a scream, and comes recommended. I didn't end up with either boy's number, but I liked my sit-next-to-session with Dave on the couch. I feel like following up or something, but we'll see. Its the start of the work week.

oh, speaking of work, I went out on Monday and saw The Aristocrats with a bunch of heads from work. Since we work at the Improv, we got invited to the sneak preview session. Enjoyed it fully, but the best part was with the old batty bitches midrow couldn't take the vulgarity anymore and dipped. That alone was as funny as the movie.

I was cranky all day Monday, but made it through. Feruza Balk and Return to Oz helped. Six Feet Under didn't. The second anniversery of Emily's death came and went, and I didn't totally break down. I was just salty at strangers. I also went a-googling Emily's name, and found out that the truck driver who hit her totally got four years in jail. Mary Washington also established a scholarship in her name.... the funny thing? She wouldn't have qualified.

She'd drink to the irony of all that.

Agnes (ag-nee) thinks Sebastian and I look alike.

Harumph. I may have Lauren find the resemblence with her camera.

My mother, being both sentimental and batty, insisted on purchasing holiday eating utensils at every oppertunity. Every Thanksgiving, along with the stuffing and the jiggly canned cranberry, we had cartoon turkeys on nonlinen linens. Christmas had wrapping paper and hollyberry bev-naps. The plates, cups, and especially napkins were purchased for anniverseries and birthdays, halloween and graduation.

It was the napkins, in retrospect, that always seemed to make a special point of lingering around. Like the last of the wassle, or the slowly consumed black jelly beans, it was these functional tchochkies that made it the longest. It was a rare occurance indeed for all of the special little lint leavers to be used up by the end of the celebrated season. It was not uncommon in my household to use Happy New Year Napkins come the third of February.

I cleaned up Sebastian's mess today with a Class of 2001 napkin. Sometimes those silly napkins stick around to remind you of what a glorious year you have ahead, and sometimes they haunt you like unfulfilled promise.

There has been a sketchy-scary in my neighborhood harassing me for about the past week. I'd say he's roughly 39, looks 29, and is hella ripped, if on the lean side. His body is developed enough, and he's shirtless in the neighborhodd enough for me to have noticed, that I can't imagine he got that way outside of a gym. I believe him to be homeless, and with that said, I see him three or four times a day. He's been threatening, verbally abusive, sexually offensive, and just downright scary on more than a couple of occasions. We've had a yelling match (or two) and for the past few nights I've carried my mace securely in my freehand, safety off.

I shoot off my mouth and have to back it up-- he doesn't get away with talking shit to me, but I'm not out to pick a fight. I don't want to get fucking stabbed.

Last night he apologized to me on my walk home from Geoff's. Weird. He thinks we run into each other too often to have animosity. I don't disagree, and appreciated the sentiment, even if I'm still scared shitless. How do you take something like that at face value?

You fucking don't.

We ran into each other once again today while I was out running errands. He asked me, "Do you wanna hook up?" "No," I replied, not into fucking those that scare me (excluding for now the empirical evidence that proves otherwise). "It doesn't have to be sexual," he countered, finally saying "Do you place chess?" I again answered no, and told him that those weren't the kind of things that I was looking for. He wished me luck on finding the things that I was looking for. I wasn't rude or standoffish-- He then hit me up for a dollar, and I gave it, pleased enough that I didn't feel as though he was an immediate threat any longer.

I say "immediate threat" without any sort of color coded Ashcroftian slant, but if there was one, I'd still say that we're on level lemon. I managed to make lemonade once, but I don't doubt that this could still end sour.

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Not too much decadence this weekend, kiddies. Flip Orley, the comic hypnotist, has been at the Improv all week. He's a hoot, he really is, even if he stays on stage longer than Cats ran. Its been okay, though, I worked most of the heavy drinking out of my system on Tuesday. When I said that we hit DG for Happy Hour, I meant that we simply started our drinking at 6-- we eventuially bopped off to the Hunt, where I continued to drink like a Kennedy. And we smoked, of course. Alex even made it over, and it was with her that I stumbled back to my place. We watched quality television and were just kinda drunk at each other. We had a ball.

Can you figure out why this chair is hardcore chained to a street sign outside of my apartment? Lauren, Geoff, and I couldn't-- granted we were (you guessed it!) drunk.


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Speaking of street signs, on Wednesday one fell on me. No Standing or Parking. Whats sad is that I wasn't doing either, I was walking. 9 Foot Tall Fucker. That pretty much truncated any exercise from Thursday on (though it's back to the gym tomorrow). It also kept me outta the bars and clubs, and let me spend Thursday in, which I fully dug. Alex kept me company in my ouchies state.

I got to see Wendy at work tonight. Stevey Snakebite fucked up his knee playing softball today (we'll worry after the rest of the tests), so Wendy covered the shift for him. I was too drunk to be a good listener when I saw her on Tuesday, so I got to hear the stories from her and Zarah's trip to New Orlean's a second time tonight. Fab. She brought me back a choco-cocko-pop with nuts in the nuts. Frickin' sweet.

Zahra dubbed me Gay-Lo for my Paparazzi Protectors and eurotrashy shirting.


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I don't know if removing the shirt made me more of less Gay-Lo, but who cares. More than a new shirt, I need a new hat, and I think I want one of either Fernando Alonso or Jenson Button. Alonso is way hotter and a better racer so far, but Geoff's into Giancarlo Fisichella, and I fear that its too gay (literally) or something for us to have almost matching hats. I may just wait for Scott Speed to make his debut for Red Bull Racing next season. His car is dope, he's adorable and American-- plus his name has to be fake, right? Formula 1 kinda rules... Fast Cars, Hot Guys, and Apparel. You know you want in.


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So, the green pawed puppy and I spent the day running errands and being responsible. I bought myself totally tubular new sunglasses, as evidenced above. Tell me those aren't fabulous. On the way back from the gym, though, someone decided to torch their car. Rad.

Here's the proof.
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Later on Geoff swang by la chateau and reminded me that we'd been invited to a Happy Hour down at David Greggory's. Meg, Geoff's sister, was resposible for the invite, and of course I forgot. I shminked and then we booked it to Foggy Bottom. On our way there we ran into Merideth, an old roomie of Nelina and Fred's. As it turns out, Mer is a client of Geoff's... Her Corporate Executive Board to his Nortel. We all got along famously. Also in attendance were Rick (Meg's ex), Philip (Meg's Current), and PJ (Meg's old roomie of about 3 years). A friend of Shania's, Michael, was managing that evening. We chatted him up.

Adorable.

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Ahoy Hoy!

Sebastian Cole takes after his daddy more and more every day. Aside from runnin' all goofy-like, he also has an interest in gardening. Yes, little Bashers decided that he just couldn't stand my schaflera tree any longer and decided to dig it up. Seven and a half gallons of potting soil later, my kitchen looked like the start of a mud wrestling ring.

I had moved the ailing flora to the kitchen hoping that the better lighting would allow it to thrive, and now in hindsight, I'm glad I did. Much easier to sweep and mop the kitchen as opposed to the shag.

I've got no clue as to what time the puppy started digging, 'cause I found the mess this mornin. It had to be after Mark and I had dinner, but before the puppy was crated. I'd have a better idea if I hadn't already tied one on that evening-- Bellinis are delicious.

Speaking of bellinis, Mark and I have crafted an easy and delicious sparkling treat that also will fuck you up. Nothing like class and trash, right? Mash up about two slices of frozen peach and throw them into the bottom of a champagne flute. Add a shot of Absolut Apeach (delicious in everything!), and then fill the flute with your sparkling wine selection. Perfect-o and delicious. You can prego me later.

Oh, also in the naughty pet department, the neighbor's new little kitty decided to shit on Caitlin's bed this weekend. It was my fault, I didn't shut her door all the way when I went and raided her stencil stuffs. I made Lil Miss Mo a birthday stencil for the back of her work shirt so that she could roll in a little extra dough for working on her b-day. The shirt came out okay, but I wish it hadn't been at the expense of Caitlin's new sheets. Alas and anon, I'll be washing her linens this evening.

Back in the land of Stencil and Mirth, I'm almost done with my Sebastian stencil. I'm totally gonna put him on a wifebeater. I may also tag his likeness in some spots around town now that the infamous BORF has been caught-- someones gotta get prolific with the guerella art.

For now, this one's definatly going on a shirt and a wall:

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I wouldn't be surprised if every single post for the next few whiles starts with some adorable picture of Sebastian. Like the one above. We love Sebastian.

The Fourth of July festivities went off mostly hitchless, if not bitchless. Dana, Krista, Tabby, Cherese, Janine, Norma, Uncle Pappy, Uncle Mark and Aunt Karin, Aunt Debbie, and a few others came down, and everyone behaved exactly as they always do-- take it or leave it. For those who I'd rather leave, I cry bullocks. For those that I enjoy? Glorious.

On Friday, Julia called and asked if I wanted to get a little afternoon drunk. Duh. Well, afternoon drunk turned into a revolving door of people in and out of my house, killing off 3 cases of beer and eight bottles of wine. My friends rule. I was D-U-N done around 2:30am, but made it another hour. Woke up on my couch with a put away puppy, so the party counts as a complete success. 12 hours of solid drinking? I don't care if it was unplanned, that counts as a frickin success.

Works fucking sucks big wookie right now. I hope it turns around-- but in the meantime, I reckon I'm day job hunting. We'll see. I'm skeptical that things'll change, but I don't wanna jinx anything. I'd rather look at silver linings. Like yesterday, getting cut early from work because we only had 60 tickets sold, that was a blessing (though, I'm still really, really, really pissed about the whole thing). I got to take the puppy to his Uncle Geoff's to go play inside. He went totally nutball cornwallace crazy with all the new things to play with. He also tinkled on the rug TWICE. Puppies are not allowed at Geoff's anymore! Not until he's a big good boy (not just a little good boy).

Its so early, but I'm not to be pittied.

This is what time Sebastian Cole Hall wanted to get up and go for a walk-- I've had until 8:45 the past few days of the week, so this was a hair unexpected. The Medicine Man levels of rain going on right now have now twice thoroughly soaked Sebastian and me.

You take you good,
you take the bad,
you take it all,
and there you have,
the facts of life.

The Facts of Life. Oooh, Charlotte Rea! You're gettin in the way of telling 'em about my gorgoues, sweet 9 week old American Coonboxer. My sexy, sexy man of dog came into my life on July 5th, the same day that quit smoking.

May I present to the world Sebastian Cole Hall, King George Pound Puppy Extraodinaire!

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Is this even cohesive? God, I'd proofread, but its so frickin early. The puppy didn't go poo, so I have to go put him back in his C-R-A-T-E for an hour before we can try again. I wish it weren't cold out, so I didn't have to wear the sweater. You'll be seeing more pictures of the adorable doggie soon... that photo up there just doesn't do my cutie pie puppy dog justice.

New subject, before I conpletely square out.

I went dancin for a tiny bit last night and when I came home, even my asymerical vinyl tie felt a little more soaked through than I'da thought possible.

Oh yeah, and I have fourth of july stuff to talk about, too. But I'm three different ways of tired. Maybe in an hour I'll post again, once the puppy is done pooing. I'll get back to ya'll-- the puppy crapping and my writing's promptness are directly proportional.

Okay, back to bed. Arf!

I found it very funny that the Department of the Interior's building is illuminated by kick ass lamp posts, yet they can't keep them lookin' good with bulbs and all. There were like 12 bulbs out. There's a message in there.

Its not raining. Shirtless, 14th and P.
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She's not sober. Wasted, Eastern Market.
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Thats not right. Illuminated, 14th and P.
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Thats 12 feet up. Where you wanna be, La Chateau de Ghetto.
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Thats not wrong. Enlightened, courtesy of Mark.
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Mark and I shook out the shag rugs today. On my corner. You have to go outside for an event like that, regardless of where you live, but in the country its much easier. Your back yard distinctly belongs to you and only you, but here in the district my back yard is the neighborhood’s posh grocery store. People get uglypissed when they’re attacked by dirt launched from what looks like a dead llama being beaten by a fag in the middle of the sidewalk.

Fuck ‘em. Fifteen shaken, beaten, dirty lookin’ minutes later, and I had clean carpets.

My apartment’s now a cohesive whole, if you couldn’t tell from the shag-shakin’ anecdote. I highly recommend looking in my windows should you find yourself on the yonder side of P or 14th. You can see a giant glowing “M” coming from my bedroom. I hung, oh I dunno, about eighteen feet of super bright rope light behind a 6 foot asian rice curtain that’s stuck to the wall about 14 feet up… so, now everyone’s left with my monogram starin’ up Northwest. It feels good, and is also incredibly, absolutely self important. Word.

I’m no longer inhabiting the Apartment Rowanda—its blossomed. Its all fourteenth amendment up in here, reconstructions going down right here on fourteenth street.Yah, Le Chateau de Ghetto is now a little more chateau, and a whole lot less ghetto. I’ve got curtains, the floors are mopped and the art is not only on the walls, but in frames. Carpets are clean, surfaces are dirtless, furniture is matching, and I’m even cooking in (though, that has more to do with the weight of my wallet than with the allure of local eateries).

I wish my apartment were more of a physical avatar for my inner feelings, ‘cause then my head’d be feelin a little less messy. Unlike my carpets, I still feel weighed down by something. Even going to the gym and going tanning feels like a chore. Maybe its me that needs to be taken into the backyard for a good pounding, ‘cause my sex drive is nill. I’m left to wonder, of course, whether its me that’s down about my sex drive or my drive that’s responding to me. Chicken or the egg, kiddies?

Ugh, listen to me. ”Who is it that I want? And why don’t they want me?” Lord. Sorry to go all Joey Potter on you, but it’s a problem. And that’s prescientology crooked smile Holmes, not the arm candy to crazy couch surfing superstar creature that the Star keeps telling me about. (No, I haven’t seen Batman Begins yet)

I could wax celebrepoetic all day on the vast neurosis of my inner angsterreha, but I’ll let it end here—for the time being. Only boys with boyfriends, both connected to the Improv, seem to want to flirt openly. I can’t (with a clear head) go a nookie-nooking behind some dudes back knowingly. Its just yuck-o. I should totally just go get cats and take up knitting. Uuuugh, I actually already know how to knit. I’m halfway there. Sidebar—Trev, who I learned how to knit with, got a hold of me this week. We chatted. I don’t trust myself not to cry at the end of our instant messages, and I secretly loathe myself for that. I haven’t yet cried, and odds are good I never will, but oooooh if my shrink were here….

Enough, enough, I said I’d stop.

Shits good. The world’s calm. This is no hurricane’s eye, there is no monsoon approaching. Its just stability. Stability is new and really, really scary. Terrifying. Setbacks give you a reason to sprint, and forward momentum is exhilarating, but stability feels way too much like attrition. You wanna know something else about stability? Its boring as fuck. Yah, uh huh, you heard me-- it’s totally not at all interesting. I’m really surprised you’re still here.

Lemmie see if I can figure out something good to tell you. What is interesting right now? Lauren’s gone to San Fran for the week (its pride!), Geoff’s in Boston (for training), and I’m workin’ every show this week at the club. Erin had her Birthday last night at the Ugly Mugg, and I now dig the fuck outta Eastern Market. I had a phenomenal time. JD wasn’t there, but that’s okay, cause I think he and Nelina deserved some good nookieing in their new place (which is in Erin’s building, overlooking Meridian Hill Park). Kelly is back from South Korea, and I’m stoked to see her. The neighbors got a new kitten that’s taken to shitting in their laundry basket. I almost got the kitty, but I decided against it since they liked him, too. If he’s shitting in laundry baskets, maybe I made the right call (but I do want one!).

What else? I worked on my resume and sent it out to a variety of Craig’s list ads in the marketing, PR, and promotions section, and what do you know? Someone’s interested in me. The gigs for coordinating and creating events for a GLBT crowd at straight bars. Bring it the fuck on. I’ve spent so much freakin time getting bombed at the Hunt, the Fox, and the Front Page instead of JRs and the Fireplace, and now I get to refer to all that time as research and interning. Bitchin.

Back to my internship.

[setup]I saw this great little movie that a few people have been talking about...[/setup]

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So, ya, Mark and I made it to the midnight screening of Star Wars on Wednesday night. I wasn't super duper impressed, but then again I'm not a Star Wars Junkie. Shiny pretty glimmering funshows always hold my interest, and if I were stoned, I'd definatly watch it again; high praise for someone who thought the first two of these steaming digital dogpiples were nigh on unwatchable (even during the shiny pretties). I'm hunching that if you really dig the heck outta the original 70's SW, you're gonna bust a geek nut all over this one.

Midnight screenings always bring out a hodgepodge of folks, and lets be blunt: Star Wars fans are wook-tarded. I could link my little heart out just showing you a small percentage of that point fifteen times this way of tuseday, but I had my own little bit of asshattery right here in the District. Some drunk bitch totally caused a scene.

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Not only that, get this, the bitch totally had to be escorted out with the aid of two managers, a handful of security guards, and even an undercover cop. After she was thrown out, her toolshed boyfriend didn't bother to leave or even see if she was okay. He stayed for the show. Can you blame him?

In the web of all things leaving, I've now left Bertucci's. No more chain pizza for me. We'll see what happens between me and the day job scene. The money lost, while certianly not entirely negligable, isn't make or break for me. This should prove to be a good oppertunity for new things-- outside of the resturant service industry. I guess I'm going to have less friday nights free for a while, but far more long nights out. This could prove fun.

I've been swirling around the month of May in a cloud of happiness and self reflection. I'm now 22 (22 on the 22nd), the same age as all the oldest "older man" from my dating days. I'm Trevis's age, ya know? Thats a little weird. Also a little cool. As a boy told me this week: Welcome to The Race for 30.

Yesterday was indeed the birf-day, if you happened to check the date, and it went off swimmingly. I spoke to all sorts of peeps on the phone, and I did some spring cleaning with Geoff-- good lord if le Cheatu de Ghetto didn't need it. We got it to a state of presentability that worked for a small soiree. In the evening, Miss Lauren, Pam [from Hawaii], Geoff, Nills, Lee, Alex, and Derrick[Alex's Twin] stopped by.

Oh, girl. Lots and lots of good chat-- we left the telecrack off all evening. It was totally a "That 70's Show" pana-rama-cam type o' night. Beers, Rum, Joints, Jokes, Bongs, Stories, and Bowls. Chatting and chilling for hours

The world is good, ya'll. So good, your find your imagination in high gear, and the urge to
tie a towel around your neck and run around a friends apartment overpowering. Being young and full of wonder is still okay, too.

I find it a touch giggle-worthy that my favorite parties in town are Blowoff and Taint. Alex and I rocked out with our (proverbial) cocks out, danced and dallied with the best of 'em.


One of said best just so happened to be Markie, who convinced me to go to Blowoff instead of Nation (sorry Delroy!). His influenced was appreciated, I had a bitchin time. Between cocktails, Pina Coladas, and good ol' fashioned hang outs, its been a bitchin weekend.

Not a lot to report, kiddies. No news is good news, or so Mom used to tell me when the mailbox was empty. Its an empty mailbox month so far. Just playing with the Logan Circle family, relaxing in Dupont Circle on the nice weather days (even climbing trees), and making new friends (Geoff).

Geoff and I jogged down to the Capitol earlier this week, and thats such a quintesential DC type thingie that its worth mentioning. I hadn't done it in a while. Word up hey.

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Remember that movie with Jude Law and the kid from the Sixth Sense? In it there was this bitchin' teddy bear that I wanted so badly, and now I think they're making something like it for real. It may even trump Clocky in the department of cute things I want now.

Check out this groovy article about robocats, and go to paragraph 7. Teddy Bear robots! Granted, the cats were described as "some come-alive stuffed animal from a high-end horror movie," but that really is fine with me. I doubt my teddy will come a knifin'.

I did go a knifin' last night at Skewers, though. I went with Geoff, my girl friend Meg's brother-- he's a logan circle hood rat, too, and we're buddying up. We smoked at his house before going down for grub, and I was handidly baked. No questions asked, no fuckin' around. The foods was good, and I was shocked that it had taken me so long to go there. Its right above Luna Cafe, so its not like i don't eat over there all the time anyway.

Well damn. You silly sons of bitches. How did ya'll miss Taint? Its not that far a drive-- and I worked my shit. You guys shoulda, too! Phoenix, Alex, and Mike Cooper did. Flordia, New Jeresy, Boston, Virginia? You all missed out. Just sayin'.

I'm spellbound by both Grey's Anatomy and Desparate Housewives. The former for its very real portrayal of how relationships go down (as I remember), and the latter for the sheer candytainment. Well written, engrossing. I'm on edge for each new episode. Markie was right, we are at the new coming of television.

This was a banner week for bruises in the land of Mike. I mentioned the twin extra long, and I guess I should have referenced its girth, too. Sore Mikey. Then, on Tuesday, I was jumping a fence to get to Columbia Plaza (go have a look, and see that big highway thingie? thats got a fence)... well, it had just started raining, and my foot slipped. As I was launching myself. I fell and flew about four-ish feet and also busted my ass on the pavement. I also hit a spokey-spoke.

Black and blue, strawberried, poked more than once and bleeding, I was a tore up fatty. I was crampy, bloody, as well as mostly jovial in re: to the whole matter. Lets be honest, kiddies, its a good story. When I was finally able to climb stairs like a normal human being, I awoke with a gunky eye. Apparently, three months of one contact set will do that to you.

I'm all healed now, my vision is fine (though the glasses are natch), and I can behave like a normal member of society. I, like any well trained mutt, have righted most wrongs and maybe even fixed the root source of all these problems.

Lack o' Lube? Uncheck. Fence Jumping? Uncheck. Permacontactcs? Uncheck. Pavlov, of course, had a bell. I have pain and suffering.

On the bright side, I'm really cute in my glasses.

Of course I'm a cingular subscriber. Their motto is "More bars in more places."

Are you fucking kidding me?

Thats my fucking motto.

Larry Poon, lounge singer, drinks. And blogs. And, as the name would imply, sings.

He also talks about my alter ego, Skippy St. Croix.

I'm sure it'll come as no surprise, but I've been fired from many a job. If I were a professional bag go-througher, I'd more than likely get terminated for something like this.

So, its not the weed. Its the email.

Mickey Mouse is only gonna be in town for 5 more days. Thats a little disappointing, its been nice having 75 of his likenesses runnin' around. They've all kinda denned up over at the Reagan building, which hosts the outdoor dance party I like so much. It must be the cats pajamas for my sass to the south, Bikutoria, to constantly have a little bit of rat-itude.


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Instead of cute and kitch, I'm gonna have the straight up oddballs that this swamp city brings out come Spring. Like this chucklehead, who was headed north on Connecticut the other day. Mmmm, argyle socks.

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Or like this wacko who's coming into town on the 14th of May.

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Yes, you are, princess. Yes you are.

Speaking of all things Jersey, I've got Pam (she of Hawaii and dance partner fame) coming into town on the 20th of May. Work it out, birthday present.

So, its gotta be the weed?

Trite sonofabitch.

Jesus, who let me go on about the past five years? Really? I sounded like some sort of Tracey Gold meets Ghost World Afterschool Special. "Quick! Hide the exacto-- he's a cutter!"

Jeeze. Work somehow managed to mumbo-mojo me back into good spirits-- one part tobacco and one part good company. Libations later signed and sealed my happiness, as I ended up at the Hunt after work with Chris, Smokey, and JD. Anita was working for some reason, and Lauren wasn't, so things were a little old school. Totally weird to be there with Anita slinging cocktails-- she hasn't done that in forever. Lauren was actually who took Anita's place last year as Miss Anita became a MF9to5er. It was like summer of last year all over again.

Fall down drunkardness ensued, so thats why I'm referencing yesteryear. Don't worry, I'm not gonna get all Afterschooly again. Anita and I stayed at the Hunt for a bit after hours, and that put me in a position to meet a tall cute AU boy, who just happens to be named Mike.

Word up, hey. It's been well over a year since I had a sleep over at an AU dorm, and the idea of a twin bed sounds like it would be almost as fun as coalwalking, but for a hot boy you do whatcha gotta do. If we end up seeing more of this boy, we're gonna have to call him M2.

Anyway, for good faith in my noncuttery, here are some adorable ass baby penguins being screened through security before their flight.

This all will mean little to nothing to most.

Sophmore year of college was a very, very long time ago.

I spent 2001 learning where to put my feet and how to stand.
I spent 2002 loving, hating and forgiving.
I spent 2003 broken and addicted.
I spent 2004 growing, healing, projecting and realizing.

2005 seems to be the year that I learn to let the hurricanes pass by. The Isabelles. I don't want to think of a faceless nothing in regards to this year, but I can't name my hurricanes anymore. I hope Phoenix, Trevis, Andy, Dan, and Kate Brock are doing well.Omar, Tiffany, JC, Suzanne, Michelle, Lindsey, Omar, Ashley, Basham, Sarah Shay, too.

You're hurting me, you're taking me over.
I didn't ask for your extraction, I didn't call for your execution.
I didn't ask. I didn't want.
I'm pulled, you're pierced, and somewhere so am I.
soul mates never die.
(thx placebo)

4/20 has come and gone, ya'll. I hope everyone celebrated well. The 420 High Council convened, but no new decrees were set or smote.

Biotech Companies are thinking about pharming underground in caves. I find it one part facinating and one part shit-tasticly creepy.

Before Trev[PaEx] moved to Shippensburg from Harrisburg, we spent probably four hours on the phone together a day. Minimum 2. This went on for just about a year. Who knew that it was art?

Pam from Hawaii and DC is coming to visit on May 20th. That means she'll be here for the entirety of my birthday celebration. Booyakasha, ya'll!

Krista's coming down on the 14th (of May) for HFStival. The Line Up?
Billy Idol, Sum 41, Social Distortion, Garbage, Foo Fighters, Good Charlotte, Coldplay, The Bravery, Citizen Cope, Jimmies Chicken Shack, New York Dolls, Unwritten Law, They Might Be Giants, Louis XIV, Echo and the Bunnymen, Interpol, The Stereophonics, Pepper, and DJ Rap. You can pick your pussies up off the floor now, I realize this is gonna be sweet. I'm gonna try to convince Dave[Crazy] to carpool with Krista and me. I think it'd be fun.

Markie came over and installed some new bluetooth stack on my computer today. Good for him. If he hadn't, I wouldn't be able to show ya'll the Garden of Babylon or the Sparks-and-Absolut fueled afternoon that created it.

For your viewing pleasure, Mark and I gardening:

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Smarter boys would learn to watch what they type when posting to the interweb, but unfortunatly I'm sometimes a bit of a dim discoball. I referenced the Foggy Bottom Alcoholics Anonymous on here and had to explain to someone in real life that I wasn't in AA (not that I shouldn't be). Its a term I use for my friends who happen to go George Washington University, a lovely school in sunny, gorgeous Foggy Bottom).


Fucked up and funny, I can't claim to have coined the term. Last Halloween Julia, Cole, and a few others made T-Shirts that said FBAA and wore them out boozing. Fake names on the back, they took it the whole nine. A lot of people apparently missed the joke while they were out and proceeded to be ghastly offended.

I'm telling you, I could hear the story twelve times and still have beer come out my nose. Fantastic shit, ya'll.

Equally fanastic is the 14th Street Christian Youth Association moniker that we've got going for the neighbors and me. Sometime around the time of Bush's inauguration, the neighbors and I stumbled upon Nascar Poetry through Nill's. One of them even had a link so that we could request a free poem. We couldn't help ourselves:




Date: 1/23/2005
From:
Reply To:
To: qdesigns@islc.net
Subject: requesting free poem

Miss "Trish"-

My prayer group and I were inspired by your eloquent writing and wondering what poetic sentiment you could offer us directly after the auspicious re-inauguration of our wonderful president. Any inspired words you could offer us would be much appreciated!


Yours in Christ-
Michael Hall and the 14th Street Christian Youth Association
<><




So, thats that.

Celebrated Margarita Monday with Markie on the fire escape. We tended to the garden, which is just a' sproutin', and invited people over to partake in our tasty frozen libations. Mark's boyfriend Sean came over and played for a bit before we all went out seperate ways. Thats as sure a way to a friendship as any. He also turned me on to an online comic I'd never seen before: Alien Loves Predator. Word.

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Yesterday was Nill's birthday. Kind souls that Nills and Lee are, they invited the 14th Street Christian Youth Association (read: Caitlin, Ashley, Jeremy, and I) over for Tapas. In true fourteenth street fashion we arrive noticably late for a guest list that only plus-one'd one more-- Miss Maria. Thankfully, fatties need not be worried, the food was just coming off the stove as we arrived. Hearts of Palms, Cajun Shrimp, Meatballs, Melon and Prucheutta, Asparagus, Potatoes, stuffed mushrooms... Jesus, it was fatkid paradise.

UH. Total food porn.

The libations flowed, and when we all had gotten good 'n tipsy, the dancing and shakin' moved into a homoeroticism that even I couldn't have expected. The problem? All the straight boys were busy with each other. Isn't that always the way?

Yes, ya'll, I can't help but feel like there is more HoYaY going on between my my heterobuds than between any of my homo ones. Go figs. Its prevelant enough that there is a pattern!

After watching many gender combos bust a move, Caitlin and I made our way down to the black cat for indypop dancing and beer drinkin' fun. I believe us to have had a lovely good time, met some nice folks and pretention was at a minimum. It was superduper nice having a Saturday off!

Technology came to my door this week in the form of an itty-bitty bluetooth dongle. Its adorable, the little dongle, and I can't help but gush and make googly eyes at it-- it's smaller than Fetus Spears. The hope was to get my phone a chat-chat-chattin' with my lappy top, eventually setting up a photoblog not totally dissimilar from Mr. Mark's. With hope comes uncertainty by default. I suppose it's enough that I finally have a phone again, but really, the fact that I can't figure out how to get my phone talking to my laptop kinda pisses me off.

At least I have a phone again. It'd been since the end of February for crying out loud! Having a cell phone again means that its possible for boys to call and ask me out on dates, and clearly I like that. Cause they are calling. And last weekend I had a date. The talapia was good, and so was I. Behavior wise, that is(and only mostly good, anyway).

Dating, huh? Its about time.

Just a moment of zen from a recent conversation:

I am betting that the average number of threesomes my gay male friends have had is higher than the average number of total sex partners most of my straight male friends have had.

Myself included, hell.

Making efforts to be dirtier than Anna Nicole at the generous geriatrics nursing home, the Mid City Market directly below me has been indundated by something a little unpleasent. Something a little gross. Hell, lets just come out with it: I've shit on the market. Yes, kiddies, the minute you give me running water again, I go and break the pipes. The kitchen of the fishies store is now filled with floaters of a different kind.

The plumber came on an emergency call at like 5 in the afternoon this past Wednesday and I was just getting ready for my wednesday shift at the 'prov. He comes in, decides there ain't much he can do, and goes along his way. Friday morning, my property manager woke me up by coming into the apartment with three plumbers. My boxer clad ass, sexy at any given minute, was up and moving with out an ounce of frazzle. The good mood and sexy legs, not fear and reprimands, may have been what I remember for that first forty-five seconds, cause I somehow managed to put the bong and weed away the night before. Heck, the property manager even said he like what I'd done with the walls (painting was a bit of a no-no).

And, also luckily, there weren't any strange boys in my bed and there certainly weren't any lesbians on my couch. Pretty much the cleanest and emptiest you'll find my house, all things being even. There wasn't even a straight boy in the bar!

It's 7:15. I've just lost an hour of sleep due to Day Light Savings Time.

I woke five minutes ago and franticlly put on my pants and socks and got ready to run out the door, for fear that I was already an hour late for work. Oh, I've definatly only slept an hour.

It's definatly not night time. The lights are on and its a little dark because its early, not ytt.

I'm going back to sleep.

Kelly, of the she who gave my keys to an asian fame, hasn't called me since I've been home. Not since she knew I found out, not since I confronted Lauren, not since my plane landed have I heard shit from her. I don't know what I think about that. She hasn't given me an apology or offered me an explination, though through the grapevine I've heard she's offered these things to Lauren. Are you fucking kidding me?

For Fattentinesmas, I gave Kelly a gift certificiate for a full modern facial at Blue Mercury. Pore sucking, dead cell exfoliating, muscle massaging... the whole god damned nine.

Here's where I get horribly rude and inappropriate. I want to go down to Blue Mercury Salon, debit card in hand, and have them cancel her facial and transfer it over to me. This, of course, is hindered by my naturally attractive good side. I gave it to her because I wanted her to have it, I know this, my good side knows this. The evil part of me really wants to have smaller pores. Smaller than her.

The important part is smaller than her's.

I'm not going to take the card, but I did think about it in fantasy mindset mode for almost 10 minutes.

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[via boing boing]

Its soooooooo a blowdryer! I want one! Real, real bad.

*Mike double fists a Sparks and Puja's Heinkein 24oz*
Puja: Can I hit it 'fore I hit it?
*points to Heinkein*
Mike: No, I'm enjoying my trashyness
*Puja reaches for the bong*

The folks had their 23rd Wedding anniversery last night; it doesn't get more romantic than the first day of spring, ya'll. They're coming into the District this evening to hang out and have dinner and I'm really very excited, not having seen them in a few months and all. They should be here around 7:30, which means I am gonna miss happy hour on my only day off. I'll manage.

Puja is going to be returning my cell phone to me tonight after I go to dinner with the family. She's had it since February 26th-ish, so I'm really, really excited to have it back. I can't believe I went nearly a month without it, without killing myself.

I've spent most of my time with the improv kids, the neighbors, or the neighbors and the improv kids together, so its made the lack of phone calls much more tolerable. I know what its like to just go a knockin' on my friend's doors now. Its like the olden days!