*sigh*
I feel so let down this year. Le scandale of doping has me so bummed out. With entire TEAMS being bounced because of doping, it feels like 1998 all over again. (Though Miss Midwesterly's friend had the best "lemons out of lemonade" take on it that I've heard so far...)
The upside is that it bounces Levi Leipheimer right into the top 3, with a yellow jersey kinda reachable.
Wouldn't that just chap the asses of the French if another American won by default?
Friday, July 27, 2007
CAUTION: HARRY POTTER SPOILERS!
Just kidding.
To my friends: if you want to talk about it, there are lots of other people besides me to do it with. Somewhere around the Goblet of Fire, I lost interest.
And for all you perverts out there (and I know you're out there) Emma Watson turns 18 on April 15, 2008. You can start your creepy countdown now. But just so you know, the Karmic retribution for having "I could legally fuck her" countdowns is that somewhere in your town, someone inappropriate is thinking about YOUR daughter and wanking in the shower. Could be her band director, her soccer coach, her SAT prep coach.
Probably, though, it's that 50 year old divorced guy who lives next door to you.
To my friends: if you want to talk about it, there are lots of other people besides me to do it with. Somewhere around the Goblet of Fire, I lost interest.
And for all you perverts out there (and I know you're out there) Emma Watson turns 18 on April 15, 2008. You can start your creepy countdown now. But just so you know, the Karmic retribution for having "I could legally fuck her" countdowns is that somewhere in your town, someone inappropriate is thinking about YOUR daughter and wanking in the shower. Could be her band director, her soccer coach, her SAT prep coach.
Probably, though, it's that 50 year old divorced guy who lives next door to you.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Addiction is a Choice
As a firm believer that addiction as a "spiritual sickness" or "disease" is just a big pile of steaming horseapples, and that 12-Step programs are downright dangerous, I am waiting, waiting, waiting for someone in the scientific community to grow enough balls to say so.
That being said, I read the Time cover story, then followed the blog here and here, then this Slate article, I have a few questions that I want to explore further, but in short, they are:
1) Are there any other "diseases" in the medical canon besides addiction that can be self-diagnosed? The conventional wisdom is that you're an alcoholic if you say you are. Can I walk into my doctor's office and say, hey, doc, I've decided that I have cancer, hand over the Oxycontin! Or go to a shrink and say, I have anxiety, hand over the Xanax. Oh wait, I can do that last one.
2) I had a discussion with a pal who is a member of the cult -- er, I mean, a devoted AA (and I have never met an angrier group of people) -- and when I told him I did 90 days but decided it wasn't for me, his response was, "Then you're not really an alcoholic." But the logic doesn't follow. If I stayed, and became a devotee of the AA Way, would that mean that I was just an alcoholic with a high bottom?
See what I mean about a load of crap? Why is no one in the medical community willing to step out and really test and study the efficacy of 12-step programs, when the evidence is right there in front of them that THEY DON'T WORK. I've heard 5% success rate. Most diseases have a spontaneous remission rate of about... oh... 5%.
Sadder still, I've sat and listened to people who have been in and out of AA something like 20 or 30 times say "It Works." Oh, really? I'd say, looking at you, that it doesn't. And everyone who "fails" out of AA takes all the blame on themselves. They say they failed the program. WHY DOESN'T ANYONE EVER SAY, THE PROGRAM FAILED ME.
That being said, I read the Time cover story, then followed the blog here and here, then this Slate article, I have a few questions that I want to explore further, but in short, they are:
1) Are there any other "diseases" in the medical canon besides addiction that can be self-diagnosed? The conventional wisdom is that you're an alcoholic if you say you are. Can I walk into my doctor's office and say, hey, doc, I've decided that I have cancer, hand over the Oxycontin! Or go to a shrink and say, I have anxiety, hand over the Xanax. Oh wait, I can do that last one.
2) I had a discussion with a pal who is a member of the cult -- er, I mean, a devoted AA (and I have never met an angrier group of people) -- and when I told him I did 90 days but decided it wasn't for me, his response was, "Then you're not really an alcoholic." But the logic doesn't follow. If I stayed, and became a devotee of the AA Way, would that mean that I was just an alcoholic with a high bottom?
See what I mean about a load of crap? Why is no one in the medical community willing to step out and really test and study the efficacy of 12-step programs, when the evidence is right there in front of them that THEY DON'T WORK. I've heard 5% success rate. Most diseases have a spontaneous remission rate of about... oh... 5%.
Sadder still, I've sat and listened to people who have been in and out of AA something like 20 or 30 times say "It Works." Oh, really? I'd say, looking at you, that it doesn't. And everyone who "fails" out of AA takes all the blame on themselves. They say they failed the program. WHY DOESN'T ANYONE EVER SAY, THE PROGRAM FAILED ME.
Wanted: Grim Reaper. Must be Cute and Furry, Have Loud Purr
I don't think he's a harbinger of death, I think he's a spirit guide, or a Reaper in the spirit of Dead Like Me.
Monday, July 23, 2007
And Now, Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Crankiness
So I went onto Barnes & Noble, looking to see who was going to be reading at Union Square or Astor Place this week, and goddamme if there isn't ANOTHER fucking book that some guy wrote about his dog.
You know what? I love my pets. I love them dearly, and I will be very very sad when Mambo finally kicks it. Unless he's got a painting growing old in some secret spot in the apartment, that won't be very long from now... he is nearly 17, after all. That's like, 125 in people years. A Portrait of Dorian Cat.
But jeez louise, do we have to be subjected to five books a year that are people eulogizing their damn dogs?
After getting 250 pages of fatuous crap published about how loyal, devoted, funny, friendly, and playful your dog is, will you actually have the energy to say 250 words at the funeral of a parent?
Last note on this: is it my imagination, or do the title characters of these sappy-crappy memoirs all have names that start with "M"? What is it about "M"? Marley, Merle, Morrie -- oh wait, Morrie was an actual human being. The book was no less fatuous crap than any of the dog books, but at least MORRIE WAS HUMAN.
You know what? I love my pets. I love them dearly, and I will be very very sad when Mambo finally kicks it. Unless he's got a painting growing old in some secret spot in the apartment, that won't be very long from now... he is nearly 17, after all. That's like, 125 in people years. A Portrait of Dorian Cat.
But jeez louise, do we have to be subjected to five books a year that are people eulogizing their damn dogs?
After getting 250 pages of fatuous crap published about how loyal, devoted, funny, friendly, and playful your dog is, will you actually have the energy to say 250 words at the funeral of a parent?
Last note on this: is it my imagination, or do the title characters of these sappy-crappy memoirs all have names that start with "M"? What is it about "M"? Marley, Merle, Morrie -- oh wait, Morrie was an actual human being. The book was no less fatuous crap than any of the dog books, but at least MORRIE WAS HUMAN.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Beautiful weekend
Did you ever have a weekend that is just... perfect? I mean, from the time you wake up till the time you lay yourself down to sleep.
Well, I had one of those weekends. Just fun and engaging, and lots of great conversation and interesting people...
Friday night went to the Stack for "one perfectly chilled glass of celebratory wine." Then got to talking to a guy at the bar about music, guitars (he took one look at my little kitten paws and declared that I need to switch from the dreadnought to a parlor and that would solve all of my problems), politics, guns... you name it. Then his wife joined us and the conversation expanded to design and art and commercialism, and gosh, four perfectly chilled glasses of celebratory wine later, I toodled on home. If it's possible to have a crush on a couple, they are good candidates.
Saturday was one of those perfectly clear, warm and un-humid New York City weekend days where you meet up with an old, old friend, go to a movie (even one you dislike, as I disliked this one -- I let myself be talked into the latest "Die Hard" and spent most of the movie thinking to myself, "I'm a Mac!"), stroll through the East Village, eat New York's best burger with onion rings in the backyard of a tiny pub (soon to be reviewed here) served by a sweetheart of a little girl who just celebrated her 21st birthday (bless her widdle heart), then stroll to the Marshall Stack and commune with not just the bartender but the other patrons at the bar.
Gotta tell you, the Marshall Stack is just that kind of place -- you go in, sit down, and end up chatting with everyone around you. I've played drunk Scrabble with friends at the Stack, which says something for the quality of patron. It's not a curved-brim-baseball-cap or tan-in-a-can kind of crowd. Oh my god, dare I say it -- it's full of .... gulp -- GROWNUPS! Matt has somehow created a poseur-free place which, in New York City, and especially on the Lower East Side, is a very, very special thing.
Witnessed a car accident while I was outside smoking, strolled back in, picked up my phone, calmly said to my friend, "I just saw a car accident at Stanton and Orchard," and dialed 911. When I went back inside, one of the girls at the bar admired my poise. "Wow, you were so calm about that." I kinda thought, what else am I supposed to do? Scream and cry? It was a car accident, not a plane flying into a building.
What a nice, nice weekend.
I know the nice days are so boring to read about, but they can't all be about fucking married guys, hating on skinny white chicks on the subway, and ranting about George Bush. And the really nice ones just need to be remarked.
Well, I had one of those weekends. Just fun and engaging, and lots of great conversation and interesting people...
Friday night went to the Stack for "one perfectly chilled glass of celebratory wine." Then got to talking to a guy at the bar about music, guitars (he took one look at my little kitten paws and declared that I need to switch from the dreadnought to a parlor and that would solve all of my problems), politics, guns... you name it. Then his wife joined us and the conversation expanded to design and art and commercialism, and gosh, four perfectly chilled glasses of celebratory wine later, I toodled on home. If it's possible to have a crush on a couple, they are good candidates.
Saturday was one of those perfectly clear, warm and un-humid New York City weekend days where you meet up with an old, old friend, go to a movie (even one you dislike, as I disliked this one -- I let myself be talked into the latest "Die Hard" and spent most of the movie thinking to myself, "I'm a Mac!"), stroll through the East Village, eat New York's best burger with onion rings in the backyard of a tiny pub (soon to be reviewed here) served by a sweetheart of a little girl who just celebrated her 21st birthday (bless her widdle heart), then stroll to the Marshall Stack and commune with not just the bartender but the other patrons at the bar.
Gotta tell you, the Marshall Stack is just that kind of place -- you go in, sit down, and end up chatting with everyone around you. I've played drunk Scrabble with friends at the Stack, which says something for the quality of patron. It's not a curved-brim-baseball-cap or tan-in-a-can kind of crowd. Oh my god, dare I say it -- it's full of .... gulp -- GROWNUPS! Matt has somehow created a poseur-free place which, in New York City, and especially on the Lower East Side, is a very, very special thing.
Witnessed a car accident while I was outside smoking, strolled back in, picked up my phone, calmly said to my friend, "I just saw a car accident at Stanton and Orchard," and dialed 911. When I went back inside, one of the girls at the bar admired my poise. "Wow, you were so calm about that." I kinda thought, what else am I supposed to do? Scream and cry? It was a car accident, not a plane flying into a building.
What a nice, nice weekend.
I know the nice days are so boring to read about, but they can't all be about fucking married guys, hating on skinny white chicks on the subway, and ranting about George Bush. And the really nice ones just need to be remarked.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Friday Rambling
1) Sometimes you forget, really, the things that make New York amazing. Happening upon this guy in Union Square subway station, ripping out a note-perfect "Sweet Child O'Mine" on the violin took me all the way back to my youth, to my white-trash, Kansas-loving days. Hard to see on his website, but he was actually kind of hot, for a guy named Michael Shulman. I love that somewhere his mamma is probably wringing her hands and moaning, "Where did I go wrong?" I give the kid credit, he's found a way to be a dorky violin player AND probably get laid a whole lot.
2) And sometimes, every now and then, something good happens to someone you love. Namely, ME. Dream job came through, I start on 8/1. It's a little bittersweet, because I have actually begun to love the place where I had this freelance contract up in the burbs. Best thing about the dream job? Oh, hell, who knows? I'll keep you posted, but one things for sure, I'm about to become a whole lot better-dressed because of it. (That's a hint).
3) Small-world story, at the current gig -- there's this woman there, totally gorgeous, completely sweet, and we liked each other immediately. 3 weeks in, she and I are having a casual conversation, she admires my lotus ring and I tell her where I got it. She knows the store well, since she worked in the area. Where? I ask her. D____ C____ she tells me. I AM ON THE FLOOR. She worked for the same assholes that I did. Oh MY GOD, I say, you're THE Cynthia? The one who got fired on her birthday? We traded war stories, and it turns out that she had been subjected to the same sexual harassment that I had, as had two other women she knew who had left the company. I had a moment of happy schadenfreude thinking, "We are out here in the world, telling everyone what kind of people they are." And I realized that there are more of us than there are of them, which would explain why at a couple of jobs I interviewed for I got this response, "Ohhhh, you worked for D___ C___? I've heard not-so-good things about them." Karma's a bitch, ain't it? (Here Jane laughs her most evil laugh and says "NO, Mr. P, I expect you to DIE!" You know, sometimes I'll throw out these little pop-culture references and I truly wonder if anyone actually notices.)
4) Another reason to love being an adult: I ate a big cupcake for dinner TWO NIGHTS in a row this week.
5) Wednesday was nothing if not an adventure in commuting. Going to work: Train pulls out of Grand Central. Train sits in tunnel for a long time. Train pulls back IN to Grand Central. Metro North kicks us off of train and makes us get on another train, combining THREE trains worth of passengers into one. Our 40 minute train ride takes well over one hour. Total Going to work time, door to door: 2.5 hours.
Then, coming home, train pulls into Grand Central at 6:30 pm, right on time, emerge into the main waiting room to find it eerily empty save the dozens of cops and National Guardsmen directing us firmly, but urgently, to LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. Weird, sinking, anxious post-9/11 feeling as I emerge onto 42nd Street at Vanderbilt to see more cops, firetrucks, a man being rushed by on a gurney by EMT's, three other people being tended to by other EMT's on the curb. And still no idea what's going on. I call my friend Alisa. "Hey, can you turn on Channel 1," I ask her, "and tell me what the fuck is going on up here?" I am walking rapidly away from Grand Central while, surprisingly, some nudnicks are walking TOWARD it to gawk. Hello? Tourists? When you see a whole lot of firetrucks and cop cars, you'd best beat-feet it in the opposite direction. Do you remember what happened six years ago? Net-net, big steam pipe explosion, big crater in Lexington Avenue, blah-blah-blah, and Jane had to walk to 14th Street on a sticky, humid evening. Break for the bathroom in blissfully-cool Barnes & Noble. Total Coming Home Time: 3 hours.
Kids, that's FIVE and a HALF hours commuting on Wednesday. The Dream Job couldn't have happened soon enough!
6) The old Married Guy I Used to Sleep With called me to congratulate me on the Dream Job. Call me a cynical old bitch, but looking back, he's only nice when he thinks there is something in it for him. He's never nice for niceness' sake. I hung up the phone and said out loud, "Not ONE DOLLAR of my business will you EVER get again, you prick." And, to be honest, it felt good.
7) My current hero is Keith Olbermann, for hammering, hammering, hammering the impeachment issue every night of the week. Plus, he's the hottest dorky guy on television.
8) Here's my idea for Michael Vick: Every time he throws an interception, or loses a football game, NFL fans get to shoot at him, douse him with water and electrocute him, or repeatedly pound his head against the ground until he's dead.
No seriously, please BOMBARD his sponsors (which include Nike, Rawlings, AirTran Airways and Hasbro), threatening a boycott if they do not cancel his contracts. I mean, his contracts must be null and void because dogfighting is illegal, right? There must be some clause in them about doing illegal shit, right?
Then, write to the NFL and the Atlanta Falcons and demand that he be fired immediately. Before someone throws the whole Barry Bonds shebang in my face, just remember that whatever Barry Bonds is doing, he's doing it to HIMSELF. Michael Vick participates in a lowlife form of animal abuse, against creatures who have no voice to speak for themselves.
And that, my friends, is just one Jane's opinion.
2) And sometimes, every now and then, something good happens to someone you love. Namely, ME. Dream job came through, I start on 8/1. It's a little bittersweet, because I have actually begun to love the place where I had this freelance contract up in the burbs. Best thing about the dream job? Oh, hell, who knows? I'll keep you posted, but one things for sure, I'm about to become a whole lot better-dressed because of it. (That's a hint).
3) Small-world story, at the current gig -- there's this woman there, totally gorgeous, completely sweet, and we liked each other immediately. 3 weeks in, she and I are having a casual conversation, she admires my lotus ring and I tell her where I got it. She knows the store well, since she worked in the area. Where? I ask her. D____ C____ she tells me. I AM ON THE FLOOR. She worked for the same assholes that I did. Oh MY GOD, I say, you're THE Cynthia? The one who got fired on her birthday? We traded war stories, and it turns out that she had been subjected to the same sexual harassment that I had, as had two other women she knew who had left the company. I had a moment of happy schadenfreude thinking, "We are out here in the world, telling everyone what kind of people they are." And I realized that there are more of us than there are of them, which would explain why at a couple of jobs I interviewed for I got this response, "Ohhhh, you worked for D___ C___? I've heard not-so-good things about them." Karma's a bitch, ain't it? (Here Jane laughs her most evil laugh and says "NO, Mr. P, I expect you to DIE!" You know, sometimes I'll throw out these little pop-culture references and I truly wonder if anyone actually notices.)
4) Another reason to love being an adult: I ate a big cupcake for dinner TWO NIGHTS in a row this week.
5) Wednesday was nothing if not an adventure in commuting. Going to work: Train pulls out of Grand Central. Train sits in tunnel for a long time. Train pulls back IN to Grand Central. Metro North kicks us off of train and makes us get on another train, combining THREE trains worth of passengers into one. Our 40 minute train ride takes well over one hour. Total Going to work time, door to door: 2.5 hours.
Then, coming home, train pulls into Grand Central at 6:30 pm, right on time, emerge into the main waiting room to find it eerily empty save the dozens of cops and National Guardsmen directing us firmly, but urgently, to LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. Weird, sinking, anxious post-9/11 feeling as I emerge onto 42nd Street at Vanderbilt to see more cops, firetrucks, a man being rushed by on a gurney by EMT's, three other people being tended to by other EMT's on the curb. And still no idea what's going on. I call my friend Alisa. "Hey, can you turn on Channel 1," I ask her, "and tell me what the fuck is going on up here?" I am walking rapidly away from Grand Central while, surprisingly, some nudnicks are walking TOWARD it to gawk. Hello? Tourists? When you see a whole lot of firetrucks and cop cars, you'd best beat-feet it in the opposite direction. Do you remember what happened six years ago? Net-net, big steam pipe explosion, big crater in Lexington Avenue, blah-blah-blah, and Jane had to walk to 14th Street on a sticky, humid evening. Break for the bathroom in blissfully-cool Barnes & Noble. Total Coming Home Time: 3 hours.
Kids, that's FIVE and a HALF hours commuting on Wednesday. The Dream Job couldn't have happened soon enough!
6) The old Married Guy I Used to Sleep With called me to congratulate me on the Dream Job. Call me a cynical old bitch, but looking back, he's only nice when he thinks there is something in it for him. He's never nice for niceness' sake. I hung up the phone and said out loud, "Not ONE DOLLAR of my business will you EVER get again, you prick." And, to be honest, it felt good.
7) My current hero is Keith Olbermann, for hammering, hammering, hammering the impeachment issue every night of the week. Plus, he's the hottest dorky guy on television.
8) Here's my idea for Michael Vick: Every time he throws an interception, or loses a football game, NFL fans get to shoot at him, douse him with water and electrocute him, or repeatedly pound his head against the ground until he's dead.
No seriously, please BOMBARD his sponsors (which include Nike, Rawlings, AirTran Airways and Hasbro), threatening a boycott if they do not cancel his contracts. I mean, his contracts must be null and void because dogfighting is illegal, right? There must be some clause in them about doing illegal shit, right?
Then, write to the NFL and the Atlanta Falcons and demand that he be fired immediately. Before someone throws the whole Barry Bonds shebang in my face, just remember that whatever Barry Bonds is doing, he's doing it to HIMSELF. Michael Vick participates in a lowlife form of animal abuse, against creatures who have no voice to speak for themselves.
And that, my friends, is just one Jane's opinion.
Friday, July 13, 2007
And on a Seriouser Note
Two things
1) My dream job, which I never heard from after my GREAT interview with them (sorry, I'm feeling grammatically challenged today, and there was just no way to for that to make sense), resurfaced... They haven't even finished first interviews -- TWO MONTHS LATER -- but the woman who would be my boss said, "I haven't met anyone I liked except you." She should just hire me and be done with it. Right? And save me from the reverse-commute-with-no-benefits.
2) Awhile back, I told my Dad if he needed a kidney transplant he could have one of mine. Well, I may be called on that. Part of me is saying, What the fuuuuuuck? The other part of me is saying, Well, I have two kidneys and only one dad. I can live with one kidney, but it would really suck to live with no dad. Granted, he's almost 80 and probably doesn't have much time left anyway, but I have never in my life encountered someone who likes being alive more than Marty. It would be nice if we could keep him here for a few more years. *GULP*
1) My dream job, which I never heard from after my GREAT interview with them (sorry, I'm feeling grammatically challenged today, and there was just no way to for that to make sense), resurfaced... They haven't even finished first interviews -- TWO MONTHS LATER -- but the woman who would be my boss said, "I haven't met anyone I liked except you." She should just hire me and be done with it. Right? And save me from the reverse-commute-with-no-benefits.
2) Awhile back, I told my Dad if he needed a kidney transplant he could have one of mine. Well, I may be called on that. Part of me is saying, What the fuuuuuuck? The other part of me is saying, Well, I have two kidneys and only one dad. I can live with one kidney, but it would really suck to live with no dad. Granted, he's almost 80 and probably doesn't have much time left anyway, but I have never in my life encountered someone who likes being alive more than Marty. It would be nice if we could keep him here for a few more years. *GULP*
Some Thoughts on Men for Friday
1) When you introduce us to your friends by saying, "This is my very dear friend Jane," we are well aware that it's code for "No! No! I'm not sleeping with her! OF course I'm not sleeping with her!"
2) When you introduce us to your friends by saying, "This is Jane," we also know that it's code for, "I want this guy to think I'm sleeping with her."
3) Just because a really drunk homosexual hit on you once, that doesn't mean you are catnip for gay men. So quit walking around saying, "The Gays love me."
4) One pair of flat-front pants does not make you a metrosexual. Generally you let your hetero DNA show by filling up your pockets with shit, anyway. What the hell are you carrying in there that you've got these two tumors on your thighs? Do yourself a favor, buy a purse.
5) We're thinking about what it would be like to fuck you, too. More often than not, it gives us the full-body shivers. And not in a good way.
6) Are you color blind? Make sure you take a woman with you if you need to buy a pair of brown shoes, or suffer the fate of walking around with what appear to be two oversized slices of pumpkin pie sticking out of your pant legs. Make a note: ORANGE is not BROWN.
7) Please don't text message us pictures of your dick, thinking it will make us hot. We have a hard enough time not laughing at it when we see it in person.
8) If you do feel the need to text or IM or email a naughty message to us, at least be imaginative. And NEVER, EVER spell it "c-u-m."
I just needed to get that off of my chest. I feel better now.
2) When you introduce us to your friends by saying, "This is Jane," we also know that it's code for, "I want this guy to think I'm sleeping with her."
3) Just because a really drunk homosexual hit on you once, that doesn't mean you are catnip for gay men. So quit walking around saying, "The Gays love me."
4) One pair of flat-front pants does not make you a metrosexual. Generally you let your hetero DNA show by filling up your pockets with shit, anyway. What the hell are you carrying in there that you've got these two tumors on your thighs? Do yourself a favor, buy a purse.
5) We're thinking about what it would be like to fuck you, too. More often than not, it gives us the full-body shivers. And not in a good way.
6) Are you color blind? Make sure you take a woman with you if you need to buy a pair of brown shoes, or suffer the fate of walking around with what appear to be two oversized slices of pumpkin pie sticking out of your pant legs. Make a note: ORANGE is not BROWN.
7) Please don't text message us pictures of your dick, thinking it will make us hot. We have a hard enough time not laughing at it when we see it in person.
8) If you do feel the need to text or IM or email a naughty message to us, at least be imaginative. And NEVER, EVER spell it "c-u-m."
I just needed to get that off of my chest. I feel better now.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Chertoff Has a "Hunch"
What I can't seem to grasp is how any editor in the country would deem this newsworthy.
Having a hunch that someone, somewhere, wants to attack us, sometime, is like saying, hmm I have a feeling the sun is going to come up tomorrow morning!
Pay close attention to this. Call me cynical, but I believe it can only mean that someone, somewhere is firing up shredders and finding ways to hack into server host systems to wipe them clean. And I'm not talking about the ones with the DC Madam's database of users.
Just call it a hunch.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Occipitally Obsessed
Ever since I read this article a few weeks ago, I find myself staring at the back of men's heads wherever I go -- on the subway, walking down the street, sitting on Metro North.
Then I slowly scan the rest of the person to see if there's anything that screams "GAY" or "HETERO" about their clothes, grooming, etc. It's like a little test for myself, to see if my gaydar still works.
What can I say, it's a way to pass the time and it beats doing the jumble, right?
Then I slowly scan the rest of the person to see if there's anything that screams "GAY" or "HETERO" about their clothes, grooming, etc. It's like a little test for myself, to see if my gaydar still works.
What can I say, it's a way to pass the time and it beats doing the jumble, right?