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Monthly Archives: December 2007


So y’all remember that National Coming Out Day paraphernalia I got from Human Rights Campaign a couple of months ago?  And how I thought it was some one’s less-than-subtle way of encouraging me to come out to my dad? Because I’m not a member of Human Rights Campaign, and why would they know my work address?

 It turns out out they know my work address because I gave it to them when I became a member of Human Rights Campaign.


I’ve been getting these emails from “Joe Solomese” that I thought were spam for months, and I finally opened one today, and Joe Solomese is apparently the man in charge at HRC.  I probably signed some petition of theirs at one point, and signed up for membership without thinking about it.

I kind of feel like I need to get off their mailing list.  I’m not really comfortable associating with them after they continued to support the Hate Crimes bill once transsexuals had been eliminated from it.  I’m still considering getting those “Not without my Trannies!” buttons made.  We’ll see.


But so while we’re on the topic of mysterious mail, I got a mailer filled with confetti today.  Nothing else.  Just a note saying “Hi!” written on the inside.  No return address, either.  The postmark says “North Metro Georgia”, which is meaningless.

One thing is clear, however: whoever sent it has spent enough time around me to know that I’m ruled by my infantile desire for instant gratification, and can’t stop myself from ripping into things (gifts, bags of food, and of course mail) with ferocious abandon.

So now there’s confetti all over my living room.  Awesome.

As per usual, my first guess as to the sender was Erin, but the “Hi!” isn’t really in her handwriting.  And I don’t think Ashley would do something like that; she only likes to torment me in person.  And Ms. McDaniel doesn’t send me things that aren’t practical, readable, or edible.  I’m at a bit of a loss.

If any of you would like to confess, feel free.  All will be forgiven.  I just need some closure.  And possibly a new Dust Buster, if you’re feeling especially guilty. 

M, who’s on maternity leave, called today to tell me they think her water’s broken, and if it is she’s going to come in later in the week to pick up her last paycheck and show us her son.  If not, she just wants us to mail the check to her.

I really want her to call up tomorrow morning and say “Well, got THAT taken care of.  See you this afternoon!” Just because M’s hardcore like that.  I really miss working with her. 

I kind of hope she lets me hold her baby, too.  I’m just so glad he’s going to make it out alright.  Best of luck to you, Spawn-of-M.  Always be true to yourself.  Only grow facial hair if you’re too lazy to shave — never as a fashion statement.  You’ll just look trashy.

To date, I have only bought one Christmas present, and only because I instantly thought of the recipient when I saw it.  The rest of you are either getting Moonstruck Chocolates, something from the Made in Oregon store at the airport, or Ya Ya’s Herb Flavored Popcorn (the most deliciously seasoned air-popped corn product ever made).  Feel free to voice your preferences in the comments.  Or, if you want all three, I can probably make that happen, too.

People I’m going to see when I’m in Georgia are also invited to select the limited-time-only Dinner-on-Andrew option.  Restaurant of your choice.  Dessert included.  Bag of Ya Ya’s Herb Flavored Popcorn as a take-home gift.  It’s a very nice package, all things considered. 

Ashley, we can totally go to the Sundial if you want.  It’ll probably be easy to get a reservation for the nights between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.  You can order champagne.  I’ll even remember to bring my debit card this time.

I’ll leave you with some music.  This week we’re going to have three songs bound by the common theme of being a guilty pleasure for me.

Song #1 is my favorite Carole King song.  You’ve probably heard it; it was hit way back when.  It’s sentimental to the point of embarrassment, and I always want to cry when I hear it.  The lyrics aren’t exactly profound (best example: “The times you were born in may not have been the best, but you can make the times to come better than the rest.”  Yeesh), but one of the reasons I like this song is that it illustrates how you can have pretty uninspired verse, but as long as you really believe the words you’ve written, and the melody is good, and you really sing it like you fucking mean it, your audience will always forgive you.  Part of what makes music so subjective and difficult to talk about is that the whole is (when it’s good) exponentially greater than the sum of the parts. 

This also ties for 1st with Forever Young in the category of Songs I Think Should be Played at More High School Graduations.  I think it would serve as a really good litmus test to see which moms (read: mine) really care about their kids.  It’s pretty safe to say that all the ones who do won’t be able to stop themselves from bursting into tears when the first notes of this come on.  I feel like really loving your offspring means occasionally being sentimental to the point of embarrassment. 

Be forewarned, though: the You-Tube video for this is a bunch of insipid Mary Cassatt paintings.

Song #2 is just awesome in the most flat-out ridiculous way possible.  Semantically questionable title?  Check.  Super self-important dance beat? Check. Grandiose proclamations issued in French right before the song’s climax? Check PLUS.  Ashley used to work out to this song, and that’s one of the reasons we’ve remained friends for so long. 

The video is even more absurd, because a song like this really calls for an all-out production of a music video, complete with epic story line and special effects.   Instead, we’re offered a sad little performer and her baton.

Song #3 is by the Bee Gees and some Australian girl named Samantha Sang.  I just think it’s a nice Sunday Drive song.  I also respect that is unapologetic for being as 70’s AM as it is.


It occurred to me yesterday that the part about turning 21 I’m really looking forward to isn’t the going to bars part, although that will be nice.

The part that’s really got me stoked is finally being able to rent a car so I can haul tail out of this rainy-ass valley and into the desert, where I can sit by a hotel pool with a cigarette and a mimosa and pretend to be a reclusive movie star hiding out in Palm Springs for a few days.

Yeah, so it pretty much rained here all weekend, which wouldn’t have been so miserable were it not for the powerful wind blowing the rain up onto everybody’s face. This made going out a huge, hypothermia-inducing nuisance.

But I did finally drag my ass out of the house on Sunday to go see the Bob Dylan movie, which was very well done, if a bit confusing to someone who knows jack shit about Dylan’s life or music. I like how they got Juliane Moore to play the Joan Baez character, though. It’s not the obvious choice, but it ends up being completely appropriate. Even better — and possibly the result of drug consumption –, though, was casting David Cross as Alan Ginsberg. I know. It just…it blows your mind every time his wacky, bearded face shows up on screen.

Today’s song was selected with Ashley in mind, but I think the rest of you will enjoy it, too. There’s this girl at work named Heather with whom I’ve jointly decided there needs to be a Fleetwood Mac Period of Quiet Reflection everyday at work. It would be like the ones they had at school, except less about passive-agressively inserting prayer in public schools, and more about the awesomeness of Rumours. The pre-selected FMac song will come on at some random point during the work day, and as soon as it does, everyone in the store has to shut the crap up for the song’s duration, and ponder the beauty of Stevie Nicks ethereal voice in the context of Lindsay Buckingham’s Utopian guitar chords. We feel this will serve as a much needed decompression time for customers and employees alike.

The only small schism we’ve encountered during the initial planning phase is over which song should be played. Heather’s pushing for Rhiannon, while I’m championing this one.