LUCUBRATIONS OF A MAD GENIUS

2003-08-10T12:20:00.000-04:00

2003-06-25T15:31:00.001-04:00

I Give Up!

It’s snowing again. That does it! I’m quaffing a dram of my magic potion and I’m going to sleep until the magnolias on Commonwealth Avenue are in bloom again.

2003-06-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

Damas y Caballeros

That is all. That is all I wanted to say...just because I know how to say it.

They say that the mind is the first thing to go.

2003-06-24T17:13:00.000-04:00

I’m Back!

I’m back from the Sunshine State. Not much to report now except that I’ve gained 274 pounds—it was hell getting on that plane!

Stay tuned, my darlings.

2003-06-12T16:08:00.000-04:00

In Memoriam

1916-2003

2003-06-11T10:31:00.000-04:00

I Love a Parade

It’s not a march any more, it’s a parade. A parade with corporate sponsors such as Fleet Bank, Wainright Bank, Captain Morgan’s Rum, Smirnoff, Bud Lite, Jose Cuervo and Verizon. It’s not about gay rights any more. It’s about outrageous displays of public behavior. It’s about half-naked steroid boys tweaked out of their minds on crystal meth publicly strutting their buffed and well-oiled bodies. It’s about women baring their torsos to shockingly display their pierced nipples. And we lament our lot in life because we’re not taken seriously.

Gay men are still dying of a disease for which there is no cure but we are not demanding that our representatives in Congress allocate more funds for AIDS research; but once a year, we put on leather chaps and wiggle our bare asses while dancing in the back of a big black truck. We’re not voting homophobic politicians out of office or demanding our basic right to marry each other or be able to adopt; but once a year we can manage to spend a day twirling on the sidewalks looking for a fuck. We bemoan that the media doesn’t take us seriously; but once a year, we parade in smartly designed frocks and size thirteen EEE come fuck me pumps while frantically waving at anything with a lens.

I’ll be missing the Gay Pride celebrations in Boston—for the thirteenth consecutive year. I’ll be landing in the Sunshine State just as the show gets underway. I guess I’ll have to make amends for my uncannily bad timing and, after Saturday, spend 364 days quietly and relentlessly trying to be a proud gay man.

2003-06-07T19:37:00.000-04:00

The Fry-O-Lator Beckons

I try to keep a healthy diet. Once in a while, however, I get cravings for junk food. No, not McDonalds or Burger King, what they serve hardly qualifies as food.

I’m talking about local greasy spoons. Today, I’ve been craving food from Kelly’s in Revere Beach—a suburb of this fine city. I am craving a big bucket of juicy, fried clam bellies with sides of french fries, onion rings and coleslaw and a large chocolate frappe—a frappe, for those of you from the rest of the country, is a milk shake, or a cabinet for those of you from the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations; did you know that that is Rhode Island’s official name?

Since it’s raining and it’s a little chilly—an outing to Kelly’s requires good weather, their food tastes better when eaten on the beach—I’ll settle for a nice piece of grilled salmon, sautéed cucumbers with dill and brown rice. I am having a chocolate frappe for dessert.

Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow.

2003-06-07T12:59:00.000-04:00

OED Approved

I should have never had that last bewy¹ last night. Not only did I fall asleep in my bling-bling² but I also had to get up twice in the middle of the night to go to the minging³ khazi⁴. Now I feel like such a head-case⁵ that I think I'll just plop in front of the tele and watch blipverts⁶ all day. Can someone please half-inch⁷ me when it's over?
____________________

These words have been added to the latest edition of the English Oxford Dictionary (OED). They are officially part of the English lexicon.

¹ Beer
² Elaborate jewelry or clothing
³ Disgusting
⁴ Toilet
⁵ Person who exhibits irrational behavior
⁶ Subliminal television advertisement—Considered for inclusion but not adopted
⁷ Pinch

2003-06-05T17:54:00.000-04:00

Gorgeous Ladies Behind Bars

Ladies, please allow me to introduce you. Martha...Big Bertha...Leona. Big Bertha...Martha...Leona. Leona...Martha...Big Bertha.

2003-06-05T15:32:00.000-04:00

HRH Prince Phillip Cuts the Cheese

2003-06-04T14:32:00.000-04:00

You’re Not From Around Here, Are You?

I’ve trying to psych myself up for my pilgrimage to Florida. I’ve been checking the weather; 98ºF, 100% humidity, partly sunny with a 30% chance of thundershowers every day for the next ten days. I don’t know why I bother to check the forecast. Florida’s weather is, if anything, predictable in June. Hot. Humid. Sticky. I’ll be packing lots of shorts, fluffy shirts and sandals. Best not forget a couple of swimming trunks for the beach. Please note that I did not say Speedos. Speedos ought to be banned along with their cousin Thong—a.k.a. anal floss. I better pack some disco wear in case I want to take in some of the local nightlife.

Yes, disco. It’s Florida but it’s not South Beach.

Now, I’ve never been particularly fond of gay bars—or bars in general. I don’t particularly enjoy smoky and crowded rooms. I ‘d rather stay home with a good book. I do make an exception when I visit Mother Genius. I go out at night. It gets me out of the house and it keeps me from having to watch reruns of the Golden Girls.

There is one gay bar where Mother Genius lives. It’s not only a gay bar but also a drive-thru liquor store—I kid you not. It’s a drag bar. It’s a dance bar. It’s a dyke bar. It’s a twink bar. It’s stuck in the seventies. Seriously stuck in the look-at-the-dance-floor-light-up seventies.

Every weekend night is a theme night. Trash Night Friday: female patrons are encouraged to bare their breasts on the dance floor; and they do. Sort of a Gong Show in reverse. The victor is always Jeanne, an eighty-six year old fag hag who always wows the judges with her flaccid and pendulous boobs. The grand prize is the winner’s bar tab for the night. Jeanne drinks a lot. Then there is Gorgeous Girls of the Space Coast Saturday: drag show. Bad drag show. Bad drag queens. Fat drag queens. Ugly drag queens. And the weekend ends with a relative whimper on Bingo Sunday: Desperate people sitting on desperate bar stools playing a desperate game. B-27! Barks the bar tender as two patrons fall off their stools.

I can’t wait for the man who asks me the same question every time I’m there. After working up the courage to speak to me—it usually takes him about an hour—he’ll approach me in his drunken stupor and ask: You are not from around here, are you? I’ll smile politely and uncomfortable and say: No, I’m not. Then, with incredulity, my eyes will turn to the dance floor where Jeanne will be twirling her tits for a case of Bud Lite.

I can’t wait to get there!

2003-06-02T13:32:00.000-04:00

What Country Are You From?

I have never been in a country where so many of its citizens claim to be nationals from other lands. There seems to be a tremendous deal of confusion about the nationality of American citizens. A great deal of people who were born and raised here seem to hail from other shores.

Please let me help you with your citizenship status.

If you were born in Hamtramck and your grandparents emigrated from Poland, you are not Polish. You are American. Your grandparents were Polish.

If you were born in San Juan, Puerto Rico after your parents fled Cuba, you are not Cuban. You are Puerto Rican—American by a mere technicality. Your parents are Cuban.

If you were born in South Boston and your great grandparents left Ireland during the great potato famine, that doesn’t make you Irish. You are American. Your great grandparents were Irish.

If you were born in South Philly and your grandparents were from Italy, you are not Italian. You are American. Your grandparents were Italian.

I won’t touch you if you are one-half French, one-eighth Swedish, one-eighth Scotch, one-eighth Russian and one-eighth Portuguese. If you were born in Hoboken, you are American.

I think it’s nice to be proud of one’s heritage but, please, check your birth certificates and identify yourselves appropriately. America needs Americans.

2003-06-02T09:00:00.000-04:00

Food Fest 2003

Mother Genius just heard her favorite words: I’ll be there in two weeks. Her predictable response was: What do you want to eat?

In my family everything revolves around food. The kitchen is the center of the universe; my mother its supreme ruler.

When my parents retired twenty years ago, they built the house of their dreams. It has a gargantuan living room, a dining room that comfortably seats twelve, a large family room. You get the picture. The most utilized room in the house, however, is the kitchen. When one stays at my mother’s house, ninety-five percent of one’s conscious time is spent at the kitchen table. Eating. There are mandatory feedings every hour. Mother Genius is easily wounded when an offering of food is refused. Those of us who love her know that we must eat everything that is put in front of us.

I’m sure that Mother Genius is already cooking. I better start packing. Size 30 jeans for the flight down; size 31 jeans for the transition; size 32 jeans for the return flight. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into her legendary empanadas, or a platter of her bite-sized cheesecakes.

2003-05-28T23:57:00.000-04:00

Back in Business

The grease traps have been cleaned, the emergency exits have been cleared and the nice man from the sanitation department has been bribed.

We are back in business

2003-05-28T08:24:00.000-04:00

2003-05-27T13:44:00.000-04:00

If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them!

This morning, at a quarter past six, I put a white plumeria blossom behind my left ear and went to the toilet where I had an extraordinarily odorless and effortless defecation. So odorless, that the plumeria blossom and the scented toilet paper completely dominated the situation. So effortless, that its smoothness reminded me of the honey of busy bees.

This morning’s graceful bowel movement was quite different from the fetid, spasmodic, dithyrambic, explosive, pestilential ignominies that I used to have at the time of my debauches in Detroit with my friend Richard.

I attribute today’s magnificently unsullied movement to my current phase of nearly absolute austerity. I have also noticed, that not unlike Saint Theodorus VonBlastus—a Third Century ascetic who took nourishment from chewing marigold petals without ever swallowing them—I hardly fart at all. These days, the very thought of breaking wind fills my eyes with tears.

2003-05-22T17:24:00.000-04:00

Off to See the Wizard

I'm off to the easternmost point of the continental United States. I’m off to the place on the East Coast where one can watch the sun set over the ocean. I’m off to the place where the likes of Tennessee Williams and Marlon Brando used to frolic on Herring Cove Beach. Yes, I’m officially kicking off the cool and damp beginning of summer in Provincetown.

I love Provincetown. Where else can one sit on a park bench in front of Town Hall swilling coffee at 7:00 AM while having a wonderful conversation with Norman Mailer? Or watch Princess Leah—a retired school teacher—ride her purple bicycle up and down Commercial Street while bedecked in a formal gown and tiara? Or watch a local fisherman having coffee at the Adams Pharmacy soda counter while he’s sitting next to a man wearing hot pants, red come-fuck-me-pumps and a boa? Not a feather boa, a live boa constrictor.

I’m off to pack a bag full of warm clothes and a pile of books to read. See you in a while. Enjoy the long weekend.

Incidentally, Jodi, I’ll be having lunch here just for you!

2003-05-20T19:24:00.000-04:00

Orange Alert!

2003-05-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

Feh. Kaka.*

I’ve been doing this for nearly a year and I’ve read many blogs—have I ever mentioned how much I detest that word? Have I ever told you that, to me, blog sounds like something that needs to be lanced, packed with gauze and treated with massive doses of antibiotics? I’ve discovered something over these past few months: Bloglandia is, for the most part, a barren and bleak wasteland.

There are tittie blogs where women willingly and shamelessly post pictures of their sagging breasts. There are scat blogs where people think it’s clever to immortalize their bowel movements. There are penis blogs where men post pictures of their pathetic schlongs. There are angst blogs where miserable people grace us with tedious daily whines. There are parrot blogs where people who are incapable of coming up with one original thought blog vicariously through others. There are word salad blogs where people who cannot compose a sentence or organize a paragraph go on ad naseum about nothing.

Incidentally, if you are going to write for an audience, please invest in the following: a good dictionary, or at least use spell check; a thesaurus, it’s good to have a vocabulary of more than twenty-seven words; and, the Chicago Manual of Style, a must for any aspiring amateur writer.

* Feh. Kaka.™ used with permission from the fabulous Jodi.

2003-05-15T14:24:00.000-04:00

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie

Tonight, the heavens will grace us with a total lunar eclipse.

In preparation, I mowed the lawn, weeded the flower beds, refilled the patio torches with fragrant citronella oil and bought a loaf of French bread, a few hunks of good cheese and a kick-ass bottle of red wine. I thought it would be nice to bundle up—it will get a little chilly—and sit outside to take in the display.

I just found out, however, that the local television stations will broadcast the celestial event. This leaves me in a quandary. Do I carry on my original plan and get sauced on Cabernet Sauvignon while basking in the moonlight or do I simply stay in and watch it on the idiot box while swilling Kool Aid in my skivvies?

2003-05-15T11:38:00.000-04:00

Swimming for His Life

There is a drama unfolding in Florida four miles off the coast of Key Largo.

After swimming ninety miles across the shark-infested Florida Straits, a Cuban man is being corralled by the U.S. Coast Guard. The Coast Guard is trying to prevent him from reaching land. Once, and if, he reaches the shore, he’ll be granted political asylum; if nabbed at sea, he will be repatriated. That is current U.S. policy. If returned to Cuba, he will either be executed after a quick monkey trial or he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.

This man is not risking his life for economic reasons, he’s trying to escape an oppressive communist regime led by the cruelest dictator in the western hemisphere.

It infuriates me that this country will spend billions of dollars and risk the lives of thousands of innocent Americans ousting a brutal dictator in Iraq in order to quench our thirst for cheap oil, yet, it will not throw a $20 life jacket to a man who risked life and limb in search of freedom and basic human rights.

2003-05-14T17:43:00.000-04:00

Damned Acer platanoides!

Sure! They are very pretty. So pretty that loads of tourists spend millions of their hard-earned dollars touring New England every Fall to bask in their leaf-changing majesty. They can also be tapped and their sap can be boiled down into a delicious syrup.

To me, they are the bane of my existence. Maples. Fucking maples that produce millions of seeds every Fall. They remain dormant during the cruel Winter months until awakened by the balmier days of Spring. They sprout on the lawn. They germinate in the flower beds. They take root in the rain gutters. They fucking take over the world!

Dealing with the ones that grow in the lawn is relatively easy; they can just be mowed. The ones in the flower beds are another story; they have to be plucked one by one and carefully discarded so that they don’t take up root again. Removing the ones from the rain gutters, for me, entails having to climb two stories on an extension ladder—I am not particularly fond of heights.

I have spent the bulk of today de-mapling my garden and my house. The irony of my discontent is that I do not have a single maple tree on my property.

2003-05-11T10:26:00.000-04:00

Happy Mother’s Day!

She is probably the most colorful member of our family. She was born in Havana on November 19, 1915. Her name was Maria Leopoldina Grau. She was simply known as Polita. She acted as fist lady of Cuba during the administrations of her uncle, Ramón Grau San Martín—a bachelor— who served two terms as President of Cuba; from 1933 to 1934 and again from 1944 to 1948.

She was a political activist. She was a feminist. She was a mother.

For many Cubans, she is revered as the godmother of Operation Peter Pan, a movement that encouraged Cuban parents to send their children to U.S. families and spare them communist re-education. Thanks to Polita’s indefatigable work, 14,000 children were allowed to leave Cuba in the early 1960s to be eventually reunited in the States with their parents.

In 1965, she was arrested and charged with being a CIA agent and for conspiring to topple Fidel Castro. She spent 14 years of a 30 year sentence in a Cuban prison until her release in 1978—brokered by President Jimmy Carter. She was allowed to immigrate to the States where she spent the rest of her years.

Polita passed away in March, 2000. She left a daughter, six grandchildren, a great-grandchild and 14,000 children who were spared from having to grow up under a tyrannical communist regime.

Happy Mother’s Day, Polita!

2003-05-10T08:26:00.000-04:00

You’ve Got Mail!

America On Line has the cutest and exceptionally wholesome television ad these days. They portray a group of monks who have obviously taken vows of silence. The brothers walk single file down a loggia, perhaps on their way to matins or vespers, and hear AOL’s infamous You’ve got mail! message. They scurry to their cells where we see them emailing and chatting away with their buddies.

Now, I would like to know if any of these holy men frequent any of the following chat rooms:

Kissmyfeet—A sandal away from a toe job.
NJDungeon—Get flogged in Paramus.
Hotpastorswives—Repressed protestant babes.
HSVALover30—Southern adults with herpes.
Crossdressatwork—Have dress, will take dictation.
Lovewomenwhodrink—Hey! She’s probably already drunk!
MyJesusmySaviour—I bloody doubt it.

Yes, these are real AOL chat rooms. Hasn’t AOL any shame? Have they ever heard of truth in advertising?

2003-05-09T14:32:00.000-04:00

Transpose a Couple of Letters and What Do You Get?

I’ve seen my site listed as Lubrications of a Mad Genius in a couple of places. I think that’s funny as hell, but please note that the official name of this site is Lucubrations of a Mad Genius.

2003-05-09T13:56:00.000-04:00

An Open Letter

Boston
May 9, 2003

Dear Dad,

I was just thinking about some of the arguments we used to have while you were alive. When I was younger, I did not subscribe to your theory that hydrogen and stupidity were the two most abundant elements in the universe. I always thought that you were being too harsh on humanity.

I was wrong.

Love,

Mad

2003-05-08T13:42:00.000-04:00

Reality Television

I am proud to say—I even brag about the fact—that I have never watched one single episode of Survivor, American Idol, Bachelor or any of those idiotic programs over which this country seem to be agog. Please don’t tell me that I can’t make a judgment about these shows because I haven’t watched them; I understand the concept. I am more of a Masterpiece Theatre, South Park, SNL type. Now, give me an old movie with Audrey Hepburn or Gregory Peck and I’ll be in babble box heaven.

I am waiting, with baited breath, for television advertising to embrace reality. I give you a sampling of reality television commercials:

Denture Adhesive—A toothless man walks into the bathroom, scratching his ass. He stands in front of the mirror, takes his choppers out of a glass, smears them with Dentucrete and pops them in his mouth. He spits and says: This tastes like shit but it keeps them from falling out.

Feminine Hygiene Product—Couple watching television. Husband grimaces and says: Honey, you’re getting that not-so-fresh fishy smell again. I think your twat is getting a little funky. She storms out of the room and into the bathroom. She hikes up her skirt, pulls down her panties and douches with FunkBGone. Wife returns to living room. Husband goes down on her.

Toilet Paper—Man runs into the bathroom. He pulls down his pants and sits on the hopper where he lets go of a pestilential ignominy. He tears a few sheets of AnuClean toilet paper, wipes himself and…

I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. Even I have limits.

2003-05-07T11:16:00.000-04:00

Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall;
Threescore men and threescore more
Cannot place Humpty-Dumpty as he was before

The Honorable Craig Benson
Governor of the State of New Hampshire
State House
Concord, NH 03301

Dear Governor Benson:

I am writing you to proffer my condolences on the loss of New Hampshire’s state symbol, the Old Man of the Mountain—a craggy rock outcrop in Franconia Notch that used to look like the profile of an old man if you squinted your eyes and did a lot of drugs.

I understand that you have formed a twelve member Revitalization Task Force to be led by former Governor Steve Merrill and that you have charged the group with examining the possibilities of restoring your state's cherished symbol to its former glory. In other words, you have assembled a committee of state hacks to see if they can come up with a way to reassemble a pile of rocks that slid off the side of a mountain while they get a free lunch from your lovely state's taxpayers.

I’ve been living in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for many years but I’m now seriously considering moving to the Granite State so that I can be among the hordes brilliantly governed by you and your administration.

Live free or die!*

Mad Genius

* New Hampshire's state motto.

2003-05-06T15:45:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the Postman Brings Good Things

This is one of those things that is meaningless to most people but I can’t help myself. I have to post it.

This photograph of my maternal grandparents and two of their nieces was taken in 1922 in front of the newly-built church where, as a child, I had everything religious done to me. Señorita Gil and I mud wrestled in our pristine white outfits the day of our first communion in 1966 in front of this very church—she started it!

This photograph was taken by a friend of my grandparents; a wonderful woman from St. Louis—yes, Missouri—who married my grandfather’s best friend. She eventually returned to the States with her husband. I was honored to meet her in the mid seventies. Mrs. DeArmas gave this photograph to my mother in 1976 and I have been lusting after it ever since. This morning, much to my surprise, I received a letter from my mother with the photograph enclosed. Needless to say, Mother Genius got a weepy phone call from her Baby Genius.

I grew up listening to people tell me that I was the spitting image of my grandfather; this photograph is living proof. He was my favorite person in the world. I owe my sense of humor, my appreciation of good food and my love of horses to him.

How I still miss him!

2003-05-06T12:23:00.000-04:00

Death…Wholesale

I just learned that caskets no longer have to be purchased through a funeral home. Our government has relaxed funerary regulations and we are now allowed to purchase our own box . This, supposedly, saves one from having to pay outrageous markups. I’m almost tempted to order a sensible vessel in which to spend eternity.

Here’s my dilemma. If I buy one, what do I do with it while I’m still kicking around? Do I turn it into a coffee table? Use it to store linens? Line it with glass and turn it into a terrarium?

2003-05-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

If They Only Had A Brain

Last year, my neighbors and I spent several weeks suffering through a street repaving. Cars had to be moved. Driveways were blocked. It was an urban nightmare.

After several weeks of noise, dust and inconvenience, our street looked resplendent in a glittering new coat of asphalt.

Six weeks later, the gas company decided to rip up the street to lay new pipes. After several weeks of dust and noise, they left a street filled with nasty looking cold asphalt patches.

Then came Winter. Potholes everywhere.

This morning, I returned home from the gym at 7:00 AM to a jack-hammering bevy of Boston Water and Sewer Commission workers who were tearing up our lovely street in order to replace old pipes.

Does the Boston Public Works Commission ever talk to the Boston Water and Sewer Commission? Has anyone in this city ever heard about planning? Coordination? Mistah Mayah? Are you there? Is anybody home?

2003-05-04T13:28:00.000-04:00

They’re Off!

Pope John Paul II plays the starting bugle at Churchill Downs.

2003-05-04T11:40:00.000-04:00

Stop! In the Name of Love!

The pontiff, a former member of the Supremes of Motown popularity, demonstrates his stop in the name of love routine to SM El Rey Don Juan Carlos of Spain during his visit to Madrid.

2003-05-03T14:47:00.000-04:00

Some Reasons Why You May Not Want To Be Here

I am an iconoclast. I take great delight in ridiculing organized religion—regardless of its god—and popular culture icons.

I will not preface everything I say with disclaimers. If you don’t get my twisted sense of humor, well, you just don’t get it. Once it has to be explained, irony ceases to be.

This is my soapbox. My COMMENTS feature is not your pulpit. I will delete inane comments at my own discretion.

I am not here to massage egos. If I were, I’d call myself a therapist and charge $200.00 an hour for my services.

What I say here is not a personal affront to anyone. My opinions are simply my opinions and have been formed by observing myself and people around me.

2003-05-03T11:24:00.000-04:00

Oh, Martha!

I was listening to the radio while running errands earlier this morning. To my surprise, Martha Stewart came on the air to explain the difference between a crow and a raven—something I always wanted to know. Martha went on to explain the differences in great detail.

She just failed to tell us how to properly cook the birds. She forgot to tell us what wine to serve with them. She did not tell us if it’s proper to use a raven fork when eating crow. She did not mention whether it’s socially acceptable to use a crow knife when serving raven.

Martha, I am disappointed. You’ve let me down.

2003-05-02T13:20:00.000-04:00

Have A Nice Day

I used the word blessed in my last post. Twice. People who know me will know that I was being sarcastic. I hate the current overuse of that word. I hear it and read it everywhere. I’d like to find out who started that trend—I have a feeling Oprah may have had her hand in it.

It’s not Have a Blessed Christmas; it’s Merry Christmas. It’s not Have a Blessed Easter; it’s Happy Easter. It’s not Have a Blessed Purim; it’s Happy Purim.

So, please fucking stop it with blessed this and blessed that. It’s really annoying.

And please, unless you are a bona fide, robe wearing, toad boiling, hemlock tea drinking, dancing naked in the moonlight Pagan, please stop pretending that you celebrate Pagan holidays.

Have a nice day.

2003-05-01T22:45:00.000-04:00

Blessed Methane

A blessed Methane to all!

Methane, for your edification, is a little known judeobuddhomuslimchristian holiday that celebrates the flatulence suffered by the Lord Jesus Christ on his way to Calvary and on the cross.

Jesus farted once after his first fall on the Via Dolorosa. He tooted two more times on the cross: once when the Lord Buddha tickled the bottom of his feet and again when Mohammed put on a pant suit and did his impersonation of First Lady Laura Bush.

Lore also has it that the Last Supper was not Jesus’ last meal. There was a Last Brunch shortly before the crucifixion where the messiah and the apostles consumed large quantities of beans, guacamole, lemony eggs benedict and mimosas.

2003-05-01T17:55:00.000-04:00

Recipe of the Week

Higado a la Extremadura
(Liver with Cecum and Green Peppers)
Adapted from The Foods and Wines of Spain by Penelope Casas

1½ pounds beef liver, sliced thin
Coarse salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 green pepper, finely chopped
1 pound cecum, thinly sliced
6 tablespoons dry (fino) sherry
6 tablespoons chicken broth
2 tablespoons tomato sauce
½ teaspoon thyme
1 bat leaf
Freshly ground pepper

Sprinkle the liver cutlets on both sides with salt. Heat the oil in a large, shallow casserole. Brown the liver over high heat and remove it to a warm platter. Reduce the heat and saute the onion, garlic and green pepper for 5 minutes. Add the cecum and cook 2 minutes more. Stir in the sherry, chicken broth, tomato sauce, thyme, bay leaf, salt and pepper. Return the liver, spoon some sauce over them. Cover and cook slowly for 15 minutes.

Serve with a green salad and a full-bodied red wine like Viña Real.

2003-05-01T11:02:00.000-04:00

¡Mira! ¡Mira! ¡Mira!

Last night, I tuned into the two Spanish language channels offered by our local cable company. I wanted to brush up on my Spanish. Okay, I was bored. Really bored.

There was what appeared to be a comedy program on one channel. I sat through a skit consisting of five men gyrating their pelvises and speaking in a grating, rapid fire staccato that was mostly unintelligible. I suffered through their torturous performance hoping to see some improvement in the following sketch. Fat chance! The gyrating pelvii were followed by a talent competition. The first contestant was a young man who pranced up and down the studio spinning pizza dough to cheesy circus music.

Click to another channel.

Ah! The news in Spanish! The anchors: two bimbos in mini dresses who seemed very concerned about the placement of their shapely legs under the glass top desk and whose plunging necklines showcased their very large breasts. Their faces appeared to have been painted by a kabuki makeup artist. They were followed by the inimitable—I got online and learned all I could about him—Walter Mercado. Mr. Mercado, obviously a charlatan, flamboyantly dispensed advice for the twelve signs of the Zodiac while donning an extremely elaborate sequined cape; his face appeared to have been painted by the same kabuki makeup artist who had worked on the afore-mentioned tarts.

At this point, numb with incredulity, I turned off the television set and I picked up my copy of Miguel de Cervantes’ The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha. For four hours, I read about the adventures of Don Quixote, Dulcinea and Sancho Panza. I needed an antidote.

Note: Mr. Mercado's astrological predictions are part of the news.

2003-04-30T20:18:00.000-04:00

Waxing Nostalgic

I’ve been traipsing through other people’s web pages and looking at pictures of their pets. This has compelled me to go through my photo albums.

He is no longer with us, but I wanted to post a picture of my all-time favorite cat: Tiberius. He was a Russian Blue who thought he was a dog—he used to fetch! He was, without a doubt, the smartest cat I have ever known. I still cackle at some of his antics. He’s been gone for a couple of years and I still miss him terribly.

I will post a photograph of Psycho Kitty once he signs a model release. The boy has attitude

2003-04-29T13:39:00.000-04:00

Enjoy It While It Lasts

I’ve spent most of this morning clippity-clopping around town in sandals and shorts. Yes, shorts! I’ve publicly bared my lily white legs for the first time this year. I can barely suppress the joy of exposing my gams to a little ultraviolet light and fresh air.

I think I’ll have a little lunch, arm myself with a camera and venture out to the Arnold Arboretum in search of emerging flora.

Might as well take advantage of the balmy weather. After all, this is New England and we could get snow tomorrow.

2003-04-28T20:51:00.000-04:00

And Mr. 10,000^th Is…Drum Roll, Please...

Him! Not only does he have the dubious honor of having been my 8,888^th visitor, but he also managed to be the 10,000^th person to grace this site with his presence.

Since he will not be receiving a prize, I think that the least we can do is give him a standing ovation. Everyone stand up and applaud.

Damn it! I said: stand up and applaud.

Do it!

Now!

That’s better.

2003-04-28T15:54:00.000-04:00

You’re Not Francesco Scavullo

She recently talked about this. Now it’s my turn.

Stop it with those black and white photographs on your sites. Unless you own and know how to use an SLR camera and know how to use and manipulate Tri-X Pan film, please stick to color. Black and white photography—good black and white photography—is tricky and it requires experience and knowledge to produce a quality print. Please stick to color photography if you don’t know the difference between a yellow filter and a polarizing filter or if you don’t know how the lens aperture affects the photograph’s depth of field. Color photography, specially portraiture, is much more forgiving than the four-shades-of-gray, two-dimensional image that you think is artsy. Bad black and white photography is torturous to those of us with a discerning eye.

Here’s something that you can start with—I am in love with mine—if you are really interested in learning about photography; get one and then enroll in a basic photography class near your home. You may be all pissy and offended now but, if you are serious about photography, you will thank me later.

2003-04-28T08:57:00.000-04:00

Give Me a Maypole, I Want To Soft Shoe Around It!

I think Spring may have finally arrived.

I won’t be hanging around here much. Not today. I think I’ll take advantage of the break in the nasty weather and spend most of my day in the garden. I have new hostas and a magnolia grandiflora that we bought at our favorite nursery yesterday that need to get in the ground. I also need to pay some attention to existing flower beds.

So, children, behave! And don’t trip over yourselves trying to be the 10,000 visitor to my site. There is no prize.

2003-04-27T01:22:00.000-04:00

Facts About Our Solar System and Nearby Stars

The moon is in a decaying orbit around the Earth and falling at rate of one-twentieth of an inch per second—please, it’s past one o’clock in the morning, you do the math; the Milky Way—our galaxy—is hurling through space on a collision course with the Andromeda galaxy; Bianca Jagger has given up disco and glam for social activism; and, I’m sitting here staring at a buzzing, pulsating monitor screen in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.

I need to get out more.

2003-04-26T13:22:00.000-04:00

Rain, Rain Go Away

I don’t mind rainy days. I really don’t. Particularly when they are in April. April showers bring May flowers. But this is ridiculous.

It seems that we’ve been having the coldest, wettest Spring that I can remember in a very long time. And we are having it after one of the coldest and snowiest Winters since weather records have been kept in Boston.

It’s time. It’s time to make the pilgrimage to visit Mother Genius in Florida. It’s time to call my trusty travel agent and book a trip to the Sunshine State. Ah! Miles of white sand and balmy beaches, sand in my shorts, conch chowder and key lime pie in my tummy. Maybe we’ll even look for a nice piece of property in a nice South Florida neighborhood. I think we might be ready to chuck quaint New England and its crappy weather.

2003-04-24T18:18:00.000-04:00

I Want To Trend You Up!

I am so happy! I really am!

I just spent the entire day doing the one thing that I do best. I just redecorated the house. I repainted all the walls in the trendiest colors for Spring 2003. I reupholstered all the furniture in the latest fabrics. I took out my little Sew Perfect sewing machine and made new window treatments. I rearranged all the art work. I stenciled smart designs on the walls and floors. Everything looks just divine. It really does.

Why did I redecorate my entire house in one day? It’s what gay men do best. Well, some of us also become priests so that we can have a fresh supply of children to fuck, but even then we decorate. We can’t help it. Look at what we did with Popeville. Tell me that the Vatican doesn’t look fabulous. Show me another minority group that can mix patterns the way we mix patterns. You can’t!

So, I’m offering my decorating services to anyone who needs them. I want to trend you up! My qualifications are simple and straight forward—pun intended: I’m gay. I’m a fag. I’m a cocksucker.

Incidentally, paisley is not this season’s black, and, contrary to popular belief, gay men don’t appreciate being stereotyped.

2003-04-21T12:15:00.000-04:00

Incidentally…

I can’t stress enough that if you live in Boston and you have a warped sense of humor, you must catch a performance of the Gold Dust Orphans' The Bad Seed. Read all about it here.

2003-04-21T11:20:00.000-04:00

Rosie Ruiz Is My Hero

It’s Marathon Monday in Boston.

Thousands of runners will attempt to run 26.2 miles—42.195 kilometers for those of you who insist on being part of the metric community—from Hopkinton to Boston. About twenty thousand sweaty, hypothermic, dehydrated, panting, seemingly undernourished runners will attempt to cross the finish line just behind Boston’s bastion of knowledge—the Boston Public Library. Save for a handful of elite runners, these people will not race for a purse or a coveted laurel wreath to adorn their temples; they’ll run for the glory of having finished one of the world’s most prestigious foot races—even if it takes them twelve hours—and to be wrapped in a paper thin mylar blanket as they hobble to the nearest first aid station in Copley Square for a mouthful of Gatorade. They’ll run for the satisfaction of being able to boast that they were among the throngs for whom many of our fine city streets were closed this fine Spring day, hence making it impossible for the rest of us to get there from here—a daunting task under normal circumstances.

I believe that the Boston Athletic Association ought to forbid anyone who can’t finish this race in a reasonable amount of time from running it; or at the very least allow the spectators to shoot paint balls at the laggards who can’t get to the finish line in or under three hours.

Rosie Ruiz had the right idea in 1980. She shrewdly boarded an inbound Green Line subway train somewhere along the course, hopped off a couple of stops from Boylston Street and sauntered across the finish line without breaking a sweat. Rosie is my kind of hero.

2003-04-20T11:58:00.000-04:00

Less Is Less

I believe it was Diane Vreeland who once gave us this timely fashion tip: Look at yourself in the mirror before you leave the house. Once you have done so, please remove one piece of jewelry. Sound counsel for those who are prone to over accessorize.

I have an additional piece of advice: Look at yourself in the mirror before you leave the house. If you are butt ugly, please stay home.

2003-04-18T19:18:00.000-04:00

Show Me Your Cunt

Please, do not send me a picture of your bitchy girlfriend’s face. I want pictures of your cunt. Send me pictures of your glorious bearded clam. Pictures of your box. Your pussy. Your labia majore. You labia minore. Your clit, if you dare. Show me your snatch! I don’t care if it’s shaved or not as long as it’s clean—no bloody twats and no yeast infections.

What is he going to do with the pictures? You ask. I’m just going to post them on a special site for all the world to see. I think that’s cute and clever. Don’t you?

2003-04-16T09:28:00.000-04:00

Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians

Paul's first letter to the Corinthians has been found in an archeological dig in the Middle East. A translation of the text follows:

Dear Corinthians:

How are you? I hope you are fine. My name is Paul and I am fine. I am in the fourth grade and I like school a lot. My best friend is Jesus and he says that he’s the messiah. He resurrects dead frogs and chickens and things like that. I think he’s pretty cool. My mom says he’s meshugana. My birthday is next month and I asked my dad for a new dreidle.

I have to go now. I have to do my homework. Please write back.

Paul

2003-04-14T15:27:00.000-04:00

Water Weekly and Provide with Eight Hours of Direct Sunlight

Ryan Landry and his talented band of thespians—The Gold Dust Orphans—are bringing a classic to the Boston stage. Please excuse me while I call the ticket office, I suggest that you do the same if you are in Boston and you don’t want to miss a superb stage adaptation of a great American film.

2003-04-10T19:54:00.000-04:00

This Is Rich!

I was just checking stats on visitors to my site and I found this. I think it's hilarious!

I was also visited by someone from the U.S. Department of Defense Network Information Center. Could big brother be watching me?

2003-04-10T11:44:00.000-04:00

Enough!

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that I would not write or comment about the war in Iraq. But I have reached my saturation point. I have reached my fill of myopic flag-waving patriots who sit in the comfort of their homes cheering the senseless annihilation of innocent people.

If you think that this war is worth fighting, why don’t you go enlist? Stop pontificating about how just and necessary it is. Put your money where your mouth is. Go risk your life for cheap oil.

And talk about money! Approximately seventy billion U.S. dollars will have been spent at the end of four weeks of fighting. Seventy billion dollars! Meanwhile, there is poverty in this country; yes, children still go to bed hungry in the United States of America. Funding for medical research is sorely under funded in this country; our tax dollars are being spent liberating people across the world from a mad man. Meanwhile, people continue to die of cancer and AIDS in this country—no cure in sight.

Next time you get on your soapbox to pontificate about this war, think—if you can manage to remove your blinders for a moment—about the little boy who lost his entire family, not to mention both his arms, look at him in the eye and tell him how fair and necessary this war is. Think about the American mother who lost her child in this war so that you can pay less than $1.50 for a gallon of gasoline. Think about the orphan who lost his father or his mother so that you don’t have to pay exorbitant prices for oil.

Incidentally, the car sitting in your garage better be American; if it isn’t, you have managed to keep several American auto workers from earning a decent living. The computer that you are using better be made of all American parts by American workers. The clothes on your back better have an American union label on them. If you don’t buy all American, you are a hypocrite and you better stop waving that Stars and Stripes that was probably made a child halfway across the world living in squalid conditions and making a less than adequate daily wage.

And when you admonish the Canadians, the French and the Germans for not wanting to be part of this carnage, think, if you can, that perhaps they remember the horrors of war and that, perhaps, they are more evolved than we Americans can hope to be.

Now, stop shoving the flag down my throat and put your time to better use. Go volunteer to cook a couple of meals a week at your local homeless veteran shelter. Go talk to the men and women who have been forgotten by the country that they so bravely served.

2003-04-08T20:17:00.000-04:00

Jihad!

By MAD GENIUS, Absurd Press, Boston, Massachusetts

Paducah, Kentucky—After a three-day secret meeting in Paducah, Kentucky, the Council of Bishops of the United Methodist Church declares jihad against the infidels.

Methodist housewives are being asked to put down their knitting and scrap booking and run to their kitchens to bake sugar cookies. The tasty morsels will be used to pelt unpatriotic infidels who have been protesting against the war in Iraq.

While the Bishops endorse and encourage the use of Betty Crocker’s sugar cookie recipe, they do not sanction Martha Stewart’s recipe, which, in their opinion, contains too much butter. Culinarily challenged housewives may, with the approval of their pastor, use Pillsbury’s refrigerated sugar cookie dough—available in the dairy section of most American supermarkets.

As always, the use of jimmies and chocolate sprinkles is not permitted.

2003-04-08T08:32:00.000-04:00

Writing vs. Blathering

I believe in the economy of words. I don’t equate logorrhea with good writing. Sure, John Galt’s brilliant soliloquy in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged is several pages long; in that case, Mr. Galt’s protracted discourse is used as a literary device to summarize Ms. Rand’s objectivist philosophy—tenets that can hardly be recapitulated in three short and concise paragraphs.

I read my share of personal web pages that are written by very talented people. Occasionally, however, I find myself wanting to ask the writer: What is the point? I believe that when writing in one’s personal journal, one should be able to let oneself be free with one’s words; when writing for an audience, one must take one’s readers into consideration.

Some time ago, I discovered a wonderful writing exercise: I walk away from my first draft and then I begin to pare down my words—I try to distill my thoughts to their bare essence. I find this very helpful and effective; I hope my readers do as well.

English is a wonderful language. Please use it wisely and use it sparingly!

2003-04-07T21:28:00.000-04:00

Don’t Forget April 15!

April 15 is almost upon us. That could only mean one thing—well, two things: it’s the tax filing deadline for those of you who live in the U.S.; and, the day you need to search your house for and get rid of Chametz!

2003-04-06T19:29:00.000-04:00

Class! Class!

Class! Settle down! Now! You are in this predicament because you did not pay attention to Ms. Finklewagner the day she explained the proper use of English pronouns. Perhaps you were too busy pulling Priscilla Pfug’s pigtails or pulling your pud in the boy’s room.

I don’t have Ms. Finklewagner’s patience—the woman was a saint—to explain the correct use and subtleties of subject, object, possessive and reflexive pronouns but I am going to teach you a little trick so you don’t use I—subject—when you should use me—object.

Here’s a little exercise:

Ms. Finklewagner gave Priscilla and I a lot of homework Wrong! Rewrite the sentence leaving Priscilla out of it. You would not say: Ms. Finklewagner gave I a lot of homework. That is simply and obviously incorrect. You would say: Ms. Finklewagner gave me a lot of homework. Now, rewrite the sentence to read: Ms. Finklewagner gave Priscilla and me a lot of homework. Easy. Isn’t it?

2003-03-31T13:49:00.000-05:00

Bridge Over Troubled Waters

The Leonard P. Zakim Bridge opened yesterday. This jewel of Boston's Big Dig is now the widest cable-stayed bridge in the world and, in my opinion, elegantly designed. Check out this link if you are interested in looking at more pretty pictures of this superb feat of engineering.

Keeping with convention, Boston drivers christened the bridge with a four-car pileup and three fender benders on opening day.

2003-03-29T17:11:00.000-05:00

No More!

2003-03-28T10:59:00.000-05:00

Caveat Dator

Pickings are slim for single gay men out there. They really are. I thank my lucky stars that I’m happily married to a wonderful man.

One of the ways that one can meet another man when one is single is to either place or respond to a personal ad online or in print. I now give you a basic translation of usual gay adspeak:

Swimmer’s Build—Humpbacks have them too.
Football player build—Pig.
Work out twelve times a week—Self-absorbed Steroid Mary; little pecker and easy to bruise ego.
Discretion assured—Cheating on lover or wife.
Your place only—Cheating on lover or wife.
Daytime hookups—Cheating on lover or wife.
Bear—Chubby, hairy man over thirty.
Cub—Chubby, hairy man under thirty.
Normal—Borderline personality disorder.
Top—Bottom.
Versatile—Bottom.
Bottom—Extremely needy and pushy bottom.
Looking for under thirty only—He’s over fifty and lies about his age; thinks he can pass for thirty-five. Ha!
Sensitive—Needy. Whines a lot.
Not ready for relationship yet, just want to date—Ninety eight percent of his possessions are packed and he’s ready to move in with you. See Normal.

Let’s be careful out there!

2003-03-27T19:44:00.000-05:00

Age-Old Dilemma

While I am not yet forty-nine, I can already see the shores of the Land of Fifty—still looking fabulous with a size thirty waist and a full head of hair. I am ancient in gay years.

There are few options available to a respectable gentleman of my persuasion in the twilight of his life. Did you just hear Blanche Dubois in that sentence? Did you? You ought to have heard her. I just watched Streetcar. Anyway, he could be the crazy man on the hill who gardens in sequined caftans and hides behind the rhododendron thicket to spit on unsuspecting pedestrians. Or he could just be a leather daddy who can recite the entire script—and hum the musical score—of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Please tell me what to do. I've always depended upon the kindness of strangers.

2003-03-27T15:33:00.000-05:00

English Lesson

Okay people, the plural of y'all is all y'all.

Back to your stations.

2003-03-27T09:09:00.000-05:00

Let's Go Citrus Picking!

2003-03-26T18:31:00.000-05:00

Here's Something to Ponder for A While

How many pins can you stick on the head of an angel?

2003-03-26T09:06:00.000-05:00

Notice of Revocation of Independence

By Royal Proclamation
March 23, 2003

To the citizens of the United States of America:

In light of the general idiocy in the former colonies, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchial duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories, except Utah which she does not fancy.

The Right Honourable Tony Blair—Prime Minister for the 97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that there is a world outside your borders—will appoint a minister for America without the need for further elections. Congress will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. You should look up revocation in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up alumin[i]um. Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up vocabulary. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as like and you know is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up interspersed.

2. There is no such thing as US English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf.

3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard.

4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys.

5. You should relearn your original national anthem, God Save The Queen, but only after fully carrying out task one. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through.

6. You should stop playing American football. There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American football is not a very good game. The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays it. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby, which is similar to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies. We are hoping to get together at least a US rugby sevens side by 2005.

7. You should declare war on Quebec and France, using nuclear weapons if they give you any merde. The 98.85% of you who were not aware that there is a world outside your borders should count yourselves lucky. The Russians have never been the bad guys.

8. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

9. Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us crazy.

2003-03-25T13:07:00.000-05:00

I’m Going to Scream

My screams are going to circle the globe if I hear or read the word irregardless one more time.

That is all.

2003-03-24T15:49:00.000-05:00

Girls! Girls! Girls!

Collin, darling, please stop wearing tops that showcase your gynecomastia. Those are not pecs, those are girl titties. Also try to wear gender and age appropriate clothes. We already have Michael Jackson doing the ambiguous gender, the queen’s too old to be wearing that thing.

Collin, lovie, please have sex. Dirty, nasty poofter sex. I beg you. Find yourself a leather daddy for hire and have him shag you like a bitch. Repeat until your can smile sincerely.

Christopher, love, please have sex. Dirty, nasty poofter sex. No, no, no! Not with Collin! You girls would just try to decorate each other and you would do it badly. Find yourself a leather daddy for hire and have him shag you like a bitch. Keep doing it until you can keep yourself from saying anything asinine for five minutes.

And Chris, hon, what is this crap about merchandising a room? Designers do not merchandise rooms—or anything; window dressers may merchandise displays. Now, girl! Are you a department store window fluffer trying to pass yourself off as an interior designer? Do you know the difference between a designer and a decorator? I’ll check your credentials with ASID, I swear! I have connections.

Both of you…can you say testosterone? Have your respective physicians shoot you up with male hormones. It’s done wonders for her!

2003-03-23T10:29:00.000-05:00

War: What Is It Good For?

It’s divisive. It’s painful. It’s senseless. It pits the innocent against the innocent. In the long run, I believe that for the most part it’s all about economics. That is just my humble opinion about war.

I believe that most of the Middle East would exist in relative obscurity in the eyes of the general American populace were it not for the fact that it is sitting in a sea of oil and this country has a serious addiction to cheap crude. I don’t believe that this war is solely about saving the world from a mad man—and mad Saddam Hussein is—or about restoring basic human rights to the citizens of Iraq. I believe that this war is about keeping the cost of gasoline and other fuels low.

If this nation cared so deeply about basic and universal human rights, our government would have taken swift and decisive action against a brutal dictator who rules an island nation just ninety miles south of Florida where eleven million people have been denied basic human rights and dissenters have conveniently fallen off the face of the earth since January 1, 1959. But that little banana republic is not sitting in a sea of oil; its economy—if one could call it an economy at all—is based on tourism, sugar, coffee and tobacco.

We are extremely lucky in this country. We have the right to hold and to voice opposing opinions. We have the right to, publicly and without fear, take sides on any debate. We have the right to dissent. We also have the right to be respected—and as civilized people, it is also our responsibility to respect those whose views differ from ours. We are entitled to disagree with each other. We’re entitled to debate opposing viewpoints.

Let’s keep the debate about this war open but let’s also remember that we have the ability to do it intelligently and respectfully. Name calling and finger pointing tend to lead to war.

2003-03-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

God Damn It All To Hell!

I opted not to go to Denver—good decision and long story—but Michael is soaring across the North American continent as I write. I’m home alone with my pussy.

Psycho Kitty and I were talking about how we are both disgusted, not only with the war but with its media coverage. Christ! I don’t remember having to give up Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In for unrelenting reporting during the Viet Nam war. And we accomplished a lot then:

Hostile deaths: 47,378

Non-hostile deaths: 10,800

Total: 58,202 (Includes men formerly classified as MIA and Mayaguez casualties). Men who have subsequently died of wounds account for the changing total.

Married men killed: 17,539.

61% of the men killed were 21 or younger.

Wounded: 303,704—153,329 hospitalized plus 150,375 injured requiring no hospital care.

Severely disabled: 75,000—23,214. 100% disabled; 5,283 lost limbs; 1,081 sustained multiple amputations.

Amputation or crippling wounds to the lower extremities were 300% higher than in WWII and 70% higher than Korea. Multiple amputations occurred at the rate of 18.4% compared to 5.7% in WWII.

Missing in Action: 2,338

POWs: 766 (114 died in captivity)

And that doesn’t cover the Vietnamese, or the Canadians, or other nationals who served in Viet Nam!

Christ! All we needed then was three networks and ten minutes of coverage during the national news to stay informed of the carnage.

Damn it! I want my regular programming back! It’s my right as a citizen!

2003-03-15T17:27:00.000-05:00

Beware!

2003-03-14T08:50:00.000-05:00

Sometimes All You Have To Do Is Put a Little More Mascara On

Her stage name was Melba Toast. She was beginning to develop a following, particularly after a memorable performance at the Escape—a gargantuan gay bar located in a strip mall on Southfield Road near Detroit. She was funny. She was the funniest drag queen I have ever seen.

Melba Toast begat Aunt Jennie. Melba wore gowns and lip-synched to Bette Midler tunes; Jennie wore tacky polyester pant suits, rhinestone cat eye glasses and did stand up comedy while wielding a black patent leather handbag. It was a truly funny and original act. I still laugh hysterically every time I remember the time that Aunt Jennie slid on her ass the length of the bar at the Blue Boy with her legs up in the air and hanging on to her blue-rinsed wig for dear life. Yes, she knocked off every drink on that bar. People loved it. People loved Aunt Jennie. She was funnier than Boulevard Blanche; and Miss. Blanche—one of Detroit’s grand drag dames—used to do cartwheels in floor length gowns and roller skates at Bookie’s in Highland Park on McNichols Road. Indeed, a tough act to follow.

His real name was Robert and, like the rest of us, was in his early twenties. Unlike the rest of us, he had been married and had a lovely child. He was not stunning by any standard—he wanted to be—but he had a heart of gold. A big wounded heart of gold. Some of us tried to get him to therapy. He was in an incredible deal of pain that he tried to conceal with humor.

One day Robert disappeared. His apartment was empty. His phone was disconnected. He had vanished. We were not all that worried. He had been making noises about starting over somewhere else. We thought he had decided to pack all his frocks in the truck of his Maverick and ride off into the sunset to look for greener pastures. We thought we’d eventually hear from him. We didn’t.

Then one night I was drinking a seventy-five cent beer at the Flame in Ann Arbor and ran into someone who knew Robert and his ex-wife. He told me the story that I will try to make short.

Robert got himself a job working the night shift at a very busy pump your own gas station. After a few days, he took all the money from the till at the end of the shift, bought a one-way ticket to Honolulu under an assumed name and, after a week in Hawaii, put on his best ball gown and jumped off the roof of his hotel building in full face and wig.

Some of us still miss you, Miss Toast. We also miss Aunt Jennie. But most of all we still miss Robert. I hope the grass is greener wherever you are.

2003-03-13T22:17:00.000-05:00

I Need Help

No, I don’t have to call the Betty Ford Center. I just need a loaded firearm to put to my temple. You see, I just wasted ten minutes of a precious cabernet buzz watching this.

Can anybody help? Anybody out there packing heat?

2003-03-13T09:30:00.000-05:00

The Fruit Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

My parents built their dream house after my father retired. My mother finally got her dream walk-in closet—a closet that is larger than my modest three bedroom house. Her closet is filled with shoes; hundreds of pairs of shoes.

I spent some time yesterday thinning out my closet. I decided to donate old clothes to charity. If I haven’t worn it in a year, chances are I’ll never wear it again. I ended up with three large plastic bags filled with neatly folded clothes that I will deliver to my favorite charity this afternoon.

Now, earlier this morning, I was inexplicably driven by a strange and powerful force to buy these in anticipation of Spring and Summer. Curiously, my closet floor is covered with shoes, lots of shoes. They are not going anywhere but for a stroll on my feet.

It is true. The fruit does not fall far from the tree. I am my mother’s son!

2003-03-11T17:01:00.000-05:00

8,888 Visitor!

This man has the dubious honor of having been the 8,888 visitor to my site.

Congratulations, Michael! You’ve not won anything!

2003-03-07T17:10:00.000-05:00

Just What this World Needs, Another Critic

Having spent the past few weeks unemployed, sick and convalescing, I have managed to get a lot of daytime television hours under my belt. I tend to gravitate to cooking shows—they seem to be the least offensive of all television evils—when I can’t find a good flick.

I offer you my critique of a handful of cooking programs:

Mario Eats Italy Let’s change the name to Mario Ate Italy. Lose the clogs, dark socks and shorts, Mario. Put on a pair of long pants, for Christ’s sake!

From Martha’s Kitchen For the love of God, woman! Just eyeball a measurement once! Lose the bogus and affected Connecticut accent, everyone knows you’re a not-so-nice Polish girl from Jersey. Incidentally, I get sick of my stomach every time you say beaooootiful.

Sara’s Secret You are the executive chef of Gourmet magazine? Really? Knock me over with a feather!

[Anything] Emeril Bam! You’re gone!

Passion for Dessert with Jacques Torres Jacques, you seem like a nice guy. But really, not even Martha’s staff has the time to create a five foot tall, multicolored blown sugar structure to display elaborate homemade French pastries.

Bobby Flay Come on, dude! You are not all that talented and I lost any respect for you the day that you challenged an Iron Chef, won and did a victory dance on the Kitchen Stadium tables. That was culturally appalling and it offended your Japanese hosts.

Of course, there are some cooking shows I enjoy; Two Fat Ladies being one. I’m just in one of those moods today. Perhaps I’ll review my favorite cooking programs in the not so distant future.

2003-03-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

All Tongue Tied

I have an uncanny ability to learn languages quickly. I became aware of this gift—I think it’s a gift—when I was fifteen years old.

I immigrated to this country when I was fourteen. Unlike most Cubans, my family did not settle in Southern Florida. My mother had two brothers who had emigrated to the States; one went to college here in the forties, fell in love, married and settled in Michigan with his lovely bride; the other was scurried out of Cuba under rather scandalous circumstances in the early fifties. Perhaps I’ll tell that tale some day. I did not speak a word of English.

Our flight alit in Detroit’s Metro Airport June 21. After a tearful reunion—my mother had not seen her brothers in fifteen years—we were whisked off to one of my uncle’s houses for a reception. It was there that I was first introduced to two wonderful American delicacies—ambrosia salad and Wonder bread—and my American cousins with whom I could not communicate; they did not speak a word of Spanish.

I spent that summer with a private tutor, a wonderfully kind woman who taught seventh grade English and who refused to take payment for my lessons. I learned very little English under Mrs. Miller's tutelage during those two months. I was too excited adjusting to a new culture and, admittedly, I was not particularly attentive to her instruction.

Then came September and my first day in school. High School. My first class, ironically, was English. I can still see Mrs. Birdishaw’s face when she approached me to say something that, to me, was then incomprehensible. I can still see her pulling her bright red hair as her eyes rolled in the back of her head when I replied: I don’t speak English. The poor woman!

That year proved to be rather interesting. I learned English by completely immersing myself in the language and the culture. I was speaking what I thought was adequate English at the end of that school year.

Then came my junior year in High School. That was the year that I had Mrs. Goff—my all time favorite teacher and a lovely woman I will remember with great fondness for the rest of my life—for junior English. I was in better linguistic shape that year but very self conscious about my accent, not to mention my syntax. Mrs. Goff realized this one day when I had to stand in front of the class and read an excerpt from Shakespeare’s King Lear. I remember that day with great clarity. She kept me after class and, with the broadest of smiles, asked me: Are you aware that your English is impeccable? Do you know that your syntax and diction are flawless? I didn’t know. The funny thing is that they were. I had learned a new language in just one year. I realized then that I was linguistically gifted.

I’ve managed to become conversant in a couple of other languages since, but there is one I can't seem to get: the language of my ancestors. Euskara . Basque. A language seemingly without roots. I’ve been trying to teach myself the tongue of my people. I can’t seem to get it. I have either lost my gift or this ancient language is just really hard. Maybe I need to move to the Pais Vasco in Northern Spain and immerse myself in the tongue of my forefathers. Or maybe I should just give up.

Mila esker. Eskerrik asko. Bihar arte.

2003-03-06T13:10:00.000-05:00

¡No Mas!

It’s snowing again. I had planned to have a smart lunch with a friend who refuses to go out in this weather; I don’t blame him. I’ve had it up to here—makes obscene hand gesture over his head—with winter. So has Psycho Kitty. Inasmuch as he likes to relieve himself al fresco, he looked at me with great contempt when I opened the door for him this morning. He refused to go out. Smart cat, he is.

There is, however, one denizen of the great outdoors who seems happy about the weather. There is a crazy squirrel running around my yard. It seems elated that it’s snowing; or maybe it’s rabid.

I’m going to spend the rest of my afternoon in front of the other Babble Box. It’s a good day to sit through the Fantômas trilogy. No! The films are not classic! They are hilariously bad French films from the sixties.

2003-03-04T21:20:00.000-05:00

These Boots Are Not Made for Walking

I miss wearing proper shoes. Wing tips. Moccasins. Penny loafers. Monk straps. Sandals. Slides. I miss shoes that don’t weigh eight pounds each, don’t have a mile of lacing and don’t have more rubber than my car’s spare tire.

I like to keep my feet dry and warm during the winter. I end up, for the most part, putting my proper shoes away by mid-December and pulling out the guns for the winter. I forfeit fashion for comfort. I wear duck boots or urban combat boots. Incidentally, why can’t shoe manufactures make a smart winter boot for a man?

Sure, my calves look great! They get lots of exercise lugging sixteen pounds of insulated, fleece-lined, waterproof footwear at least eight hours a day. But they are tired.

I’m tired too. My dogs are weary. I want to samba in my slip-ons. Better yet, I want to feel the grass on my toes.

Note: I have an aversion to wearing sneakers outside the gym.

Next end of winter bitch: My Shorts and I—and I don’t mean BVDs.

2003-03-01T13:07:00.000-05:00

Rocky Mountain High

We were just offered two airline tickets to Denver—please don’t hate us because we got lucky, and we're beautiful to boot! —for a long weekend at the end of the month; we would leave on a Thursday morning and return the following Monday. A hotel stay is included in the offer.

I am, however, in a bit of a quandary. Now that my convalescence is over, I had planned to spend this month earnestly looking for employment. I can, however, collect for another month and trek West for a gratis mini-vacation. Michael is lobbying for the trip.

I’m trying to be a responsible adult and…aw, fuck it! I want to fly to the ridge where the West commences and gaze at the moon ‘till I lose my senses!

2003-03-01T02:15:00.000-05:00

Happy New Month!

In like a lamb, out like a lion. In like a lion, out like a lamb. In like a perch, out like a rhinoceros.

Okay, I stole that bit from an old Saturday Night Live episode.

It’s just past 2:00 AM and you are asking yourself: What the Hell is he doing up at such an ungodly hour? Well, I’m staying up celebrating the end of another February. It almost feels like a new year!

Just beware of that pesky Ida March on the fifteenth!

2003-02-28T10:51:00.000-05:00

The Cruelest of Months

For mystifying reasons, February has always been, for me, a cruel month. For quite some time now, it’s been a month of calamity, upheaval and turmoil. It’s the month in the year when the long shadows of winter appear sinister and foreboding. If anything dreadful is going to happen to me or those close to me, it always seems to happen in February. It’s also the month when I reach my fill of my least favorite season: Winter.

There is one magic day, however, in this cruelest of months. It’s the day when I expect to see darkness and I realize that, albeit softly, the sun still shines in the western horizon. That magic day was yesterday.

It’s all uphill from now on. In approximately six weeks, I’ll begin to see the greening of my garden. My plum tree will be in it’s glory, replete with fragrant white blossoms. The crocuses, wild tulips and daffodils will dot my lawn and flower beds. My temper will be more cheerful; my disposition sunnier.

Good riddance, February! I’m glad you’re over for another year. I’ll try to spend the next eleven months not thinking about you. You are, indeed, a short but malicious and vindictive month.

2003-02-27T17:31:00.000-05:00

All He Had To Do Was Keep It in His Pants!

Just when I thought life could not get more absurd, I stumbled upon the following article:

Man Cuts Off Penis, Tosses It to His Wife

MANILA (Reuters) - A Filipino man cut off his penis and tossed it through a window to his estranged wife in a bid to prove his fidelity, a Philippine newspaper reported on Thursday.

The man wrapped the severed member in a newspaper and threw it through the window of his wife's parents' house in the northwestern town of Malasiqui, the Philippine Star said.

"So you will not suspect I am courting another girl," the Star said the man shouted before he hobbled off into the night.

His shocked wife gave the severed penis to police, who sought the help of an embalmer to preserve it until her husband could be found, the paper said.

2003-02-27T10:55:00.000-05:00

This Sucks!

In a few hours, I should be the proud owner of a new vacuum cleaner. It’s finally time to put Old Hoovie to bed. Hoovie has served me well. He’s been with me for many years and, save for an episode last summer when he decided to start spewing sparks, has kept my house dust and kitty hair free. I shall miss him.

Now, here’s my dilemma: vacuum cleaners have evolved in leaps and bounds over the years. I am overwhelmed by the available choices. Canister or upright. HEPA filter or unfiltered. Bag or bagless. Imported or domestic. Red or black. Twin chamber or single chamber. Corded or cordless. The choices seem to be endless.

I pine for the simpler days when we used to sweep floors with a broom and beat rugs with a paddle.

2003-02-22T23:54:00.000-05:00

Cruel Winter

We just learned that Michael’s twenty-three year old nephew perished in the nightclub fire in Rhode Island.

This stage will be dark for a while.

2003-02-22T14:13:00.000-05:00

The Tongue Is Mightier than the Sword

While my father was alive, not unlike most Cuban-Americans of their generation, both my parents were steadfast Republicans. My father used to call me a commie, pinko, fag because I once identified myself as a Socialist—Socialism and Communism were, in his book, synonymous. I am a political aberration in my family; one of my close relatives ran as a—gasp!—Republican for the Georgia legislature a few years ago.

After my father passed away, my mother miraculously changed her political affiliation to the Democratic Party. I didn’t ask her why; I just quietly and gleefully accepted it. Many years ago, I vowed that I would never discuss politics with my kin.

Then Madeline Albright publicly used the word cojones—in Spanish, the vernacular for testicles—during the Clinton administration. My mother, of course, was profoundly offended by Madam Ambassador’s coarse language and appalling behavior. She promptly re-affiliated herself with the Republican Party.

I hope my mother never reads this site. I will be surely and swiftly disowned and disinherited.

2003-02-20T18:42:00.000-05:00

A Curse On All Your Houses!

I ventured out in my car for the first time in a while. I had things to do, places to go. The roads looked clear. The weather was relatively balmy for February. The Boston drivers—and shoppers—were, however, as rude and brainless, if not more, than usual.

To the ass wipe who cleared the snow around his car in front of my house and left a five-foot pile of snow on a sidewalk that took me four hours to clear: I know who you are, you fucker! I wonder how loudly you are going to scream when you find your car with four flat tires in the morning.

To the cunt in the white SUV with North Carolina plates who cut me off on the Jamaica Way: May your snatch be forever filled with the purulent cheesy discharge of a drug resistant yeast infection.

To the yuppie scum with the flat tire—again on the Jamaica Way: Get off your fucking cell phone, get your ass out of the car and change your fucking tire; you are creating a three-mile traffic back up, you useless piece of shit!

To the prick who was carrying the television set out of Best Buys and could not open the door: Learn how to at least make eye contact and smile if you can’t thank somebody for holding a door open for you, you ill-mannered fuck.

There! There! I feel so much better now!

Can you feel the love?

2003-02-18T08:02:00.000-05:00

Fuck It All!

Twenty seven inches of snow have fallen in Boston and the Nervous Weather Nellies are saying that there is more to come this afternoon.

I can’t go out my front door; there’s a three-foot drift in front of it. I can’t go out my back door; it’s blocked by a wall of snow. Thank the Great Hedgehog for windows; I’ll have to climb out one and trudge to the garage to get the gear to clear the walks, the driveway and a path to my mail box. At least I don’t have to dig out my car and I have enough food and drink to last me a week.

I can’t see my driveway, or my shrubs. My garden statue of St. Francis—please don’t ask—is buried in a bank of white powder. The steps leading to my front door are no more; they are covered by more than two feet of snow.

Where is that bottle of Bombay Sapphire? I need a drink.

Fuck it! Fuck it all! I want to move to Miami.

2003-02-17T19:25:00.000-05:00

What I Pine For

I give you one of my favorite views of my city during my favorite season of the year.

This is the view of fashionable Back Bay from the Esplanade at the mouth of the Charles river. The seemingly small dome on the left of the photograph is the Hatch Shell where the Boston Pops hold their annual Fourth of July concert. The blue monolithic building is the Hancock Tower; I used to work in the thirty-seventh floor of that building. Magnificent views!

I give you yet another one of my favorite Boston views: the financial dictrict bathed in early morning light as approached by boat.

I pine for summer. I pine for strolls along the Esplanade while eating ginger ice cream.

2003-02-17T16:41:00.000-05:00

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

As much as I hate winter—the fact has been established—I love a good blizzard, particularly when my pantry is well stocked.

It has been snowing steadily in Boston all day. Light, fluffy snow playfully swirling on the ground, blowing off the rooftops. I can barely hear the sounds of a city slowly coming to a standstill.

It’s the perfect time to curl up with a book—Alex Beam’s Gracefully Insane looks like a good bet—and a cup of hot chocolate while a loaf of homemade bread bakes.

I won’t think about having to shovel two feet of snow tomorrow morning. I’ll just let myself enjoy its beauty; its pristine whiteness. I’ll read my book. I’ll sip my chocolate. I’ll watch eddies of snow swirl in my yard until the wonderful aroma of bread beckons me to the kitchen.

You can expect a less poetic post tomorrow, particularly if I write it after I clear the fucking sidewalks of a corner lot, a driveway and fifteen steps leading to my front door.

2003-02-15T12:01:00.000-05:00

No Paparazzi!

Why won’t those picture hounds leave us alone? Why? Why? Why?

We tried to go out for a nice romantic dinner yesterday but had to come back home for Chinese take out.

The price to pay for one’s fame.

2003-02-14T08:45:00.000-05:00

Love You! Mean It!

2003-02-13T14:40:00.000-05:00

Household Saints

Having been raised Roman Catholic, I have a tendency to revert to the days of my childhood when we prayed to saints for everything. Catholics have patron saints for everything. I mean everything.

St. Dymphna is in charge of mental disorders; St. Augustine of Hippo is in charge of brewers and theologians; St. Bernadine of Siena is in charge of public relations; St. Dominic Savio is responsible for choir boys and falsely accused people; St. Isidore of Seville does computers, computer users, computer programmers and the Internet; St. Margaret of Clitherow is in charge of business women; and the list goes on.

Here is the saint that helped me with my affliction. My beloved St. Rocco. Thank you, Rocco. Thank you for everything. I'm back to my jolly self thanks to my doctor's mastery of the scalpel, massive doses of analgesics and your divine intervention. I owe you. I owe you big!

2003-02-11T10:04:00.000-05:00

Back on the Saddle Again

I’m back—thanks to the miracle of a minor surgical procedure, Demerol reveries and lots of Michael’s TLC and delicious homemade chicken soup. Incidentally, I want to publicly apologize to Michael—he’s a saint—for putting up with my crankiness. I am a caretaker’s worse nightmare.

It’s nice to be among the living again. I was beginning to feel a little like this man. I’ll be convalescing for a week and catching up with the world. I’m off to perform my morning ablutions. I’ll be back as soon as I have something witty or relevant to post.

2003-02-06T19:06:00.000-05:00

News Bulletin

There is no cause for concern. I have not posted in a few days but I am alive and kicking. I just have not been well for a week.

Nothing I should mention here. Let’s say that it was a pesky but painful little problem that landed me in Demerol Land—ooh, look at the pretty, puffy, fluffy clouds!

I ought to be back in full force once I run out of these magic little pills.

I do not hold myself responsible for anything posted in this site while under the influence of Demerol. Wheeeee!

2003-01-28T13:32:00.000-05:00

Get Thee to the Cinema

People who know me know that I am a big fan of Pedro Almodóvar. If you haven’t watched any of his films, I highly recommend that you do. The man is a brilliant director. He has given us further evidence of his talents with his new film Talk to Her.

The plot is brilliant. The direction and the acting are flawless. The cinematography is exquisite. And you’ll also be treated to the haunting voice of Caetano Veloso.

2003-01-27T13:05:00.000-05:00

The Questions They Ask and the Answers I Want to Give Them

I’ve always hated job interviews. I am very good at presenting myself and my skills. I do, however, have a difficult time answering certain questions or responding to certain statements made by some interviewers, particularly green Human Resources types. I now give you a sampler of questions and how I really want to answer them:

Where do you see yourself a year from now?

I see myself sitting on a jewel-encrusted solid malachite throne plotting to take over the world—deep in the cavity of an extinct volcano in my private and secret island in the Indian Ocean—surrounded by black leather thong clad humpy minions. I see myself making the final adjustments to my Impeccable Taste and Anti-Stupidity Ray machine that, once fired, will eradicate toupees, Capri pants, animal prints and inanity from the face of the Earth.

Why are you here?

Well, that is one stupid question that I ought not to answer, but I will. I’m here because I’m looking for a job and, after you allegedly read my resume, you asked me to come in for an interview. Please stop asking me idiotic questions. Let’s talk about what the job entails and the skill set necessary to perform it, the organization, salary and benefits. Incidentally, your mommy didn’t spot the mustard stain on your tie before you left the house; try blotting it off with a little cold water. By the way, wasn’t The Count awesome on Sesame Street this morning?

B>We are just like a family in this department. How do you feel about that?

I don’t get a very good feeling about that. Really. However, it may be helpful if you are a little more specific about the type of family. You look like you watch a lot of television. Can you provide me with a comparison analysis of the department’s interpersonal dynamics and a sitcom? Leave it to Beaver? Gilligan’s Island? The Osbournes? The Addams Family on Acid Having a Bad Trip? Incidentally, if it is the latter, can you let me know if you are auditioning for the Uncle Fester character? I’ve been ready and wanting to read for that role since 1971. I am also fluent in Cousin Ittish.

How do you feel about working long hours?

I feel that, unless one encounters dire and extenuating circumstances or one is surrounded by ineptness and incompetence, one ought to be able to do one’s job in eight hours. I feel that a lot of people often waste a lot of time being a family in a corporate setting when they ought to be spending time being employees. Well, let me get off my soap box and give you the short answer: I hate working more than eight hours a day unless I am being paid overtime and in my line of work, overtime is never an option.

Well, you certainly sound like you could be Corporation What a Waste of Time material. I’d like to set up an interview between you and the department manager.

Let’s not and say we did. You people sound like you’re running around in circles with one foot nailed to the ground and screaming somebody stop me!; you sound too much like my former employer. Why don’t you take this job and, say, shove it! Incidentally, cool Scooby Doo lunch box!

2003-01-24T09:54:00.000-05:00

And Now, for Something Completely Different

The weather pundits are telling us that relief is on the way. They predict that the high temperature Sunday will be a balmy 34ºF—a veritable heat wave. Break out the shorts!

I need to be reminded that Spring is around the corner. I need to be reassured that deciduous tress—now bare of leaves and dormant—will return to full leaf splendor in a few weeks. So, until I can get here to traipse among the wild flowers, I will plan an outing here this weekend to walk among acres of indoor greenery. And I’ll be looking forward to this event . It heralds the greening of New England; it lets us know that the halcyon days of summer are near.

I’ve never liked Winter. More clement Summer temperatures always bring out the best in me. I am beginning to wonder why I’ve chosen to live in these latitudes. I’m beginning to think that it may not be a bad idea to chuck it all and start life anew somewhere like, say, South Beach.

2003-01-23T10:23:00.000-05:00

getaclue.com

I am fed up with people bellyaching and whining about the Bloggies—no, I am not going to link the site. People! This is the internet: the largest fantasy-based reality in the universe!

This country is about to go to war. Women’s reproductive rights are slowly being eroded by a Republican administration led by a dim-witted cowboy. Research for incurable diseases like cancer and AIDS is sorely under funded. Children are going to bed hungry every day. Homeless people are freezing to death. Lesbians and gay men are still being treated like less than first class citizens. Elderly people cannot afford to heat their homes. The poor are denied health care. And people are bemoaning about how their peeps—or themselves—did not get nominated for a Bloggie. Christ!

The Bloggies are a popularity contest. It’s not a real award. It’s a fucking image that you can post on your site. It’s a sequence of ones and zeroes that translate into an picture. It's an artificial ego booster.

Do you want to do something worthwhile with your time? Yes? Go volunteer at a homeless shelter. Call your representatives in Congress and demand more funding for medical research. Go to an extended care facility and read to a sight impaired person.

People. Get a fucking clue!