Entries from March 2015 ↓

The Way Things Ended Over the Years via Alanis Songs

2002 Loving someone who was only capable of loving himself

2009 Dragging it out far too long

2012 Accidentally discovering he’s cheating really stings

2014 Physical violence leaves a lasting mark

2015 Longing for things that never came to be

Glitter Bombs and Sharp Objects


So I’m kind of clumsy. As a kid I had cuts, scrapes, trips, falls, broken bones galore, you name it. Not that I’m not coordinated. I think I just get lost in my head and collide into things. At least that’s what I like telling myself because it makes me sound pensive instead of clutzy. Years ago I was trying to open one of my niece’s birthday presents. And c’mon, it takes the freakin’ jaws of life to get a kids toy open these days. Am I right? So I reached for the closest sharp object near me. The cake knife. Covered in cake and frosting. Now, if I hadn’t been so determined to get that damn toy open so I could play with it, I mean wait, uhhh, so my NIECE could play with it, I would’ve considered the fact that a slippery giant knife isn’t the best thing with which to open tiny zip ties. And then… SLICE. Pain. Red. Everywhere. My right forefinger had been sliced to the bone. 20 minutes later as the blood continued flowing prolifically, and as I was getting woozy from shock, we hopped in the car for the hour-long drive to Fresno. Six stitches later, I was fine. Except for the impairment of not being able to use my right hand in its various important work and recreational activities. And of course for the impact said incident had on my reputation within my family. To this day, every time I’m using a knife at home my niece or sister or mom says, “Don’t let Uncle A use the knife!” Hardy har har guys.

All that to say today I used a straight razor to shave for the first time ever today. To be fair, it’s a cool old-timey safety razor setup. I’ve owned it for about a month and have been hesitant to use it until today. All that joking about me being bad with sharp things must’ve finally made me insecure about my own abilities. Anyway, I’m happy to report that nary a knick or cut on my cheeks or neck. Hooray! Take that family. Now please hand me that big knife so I can open this super tiny object… 😉

Moving on, I bought kitty litter yesterday. I know, I know. You’re all like, does this guy have a point to any of his damn stories?! Hang with me here. This is going somewhere. The litter I buy is that cool salt crystal stuff that desiccates and evaporates so it eliminates smell and lasts super long and is good for the environment. I bought a 50lb bag of it and just as I was lifting it into the trunk of Jean Luc, the bag split open and blue and white glittery crystals spilled everywhere. Luckily I moved quickly, flipped the bag around, and only lost a couple of cupfuls. But now the trunk of my car is glitter bombed with sparkly blue and white crystals. I kinda like it. And it’ll absorb odors and look cute at the same time. I’m sure the novelty of this will wear off fast as these crystlas break down into powder and then I’ll just be annoyed at having a dusty trunk. Okay, I lied. No real point to this story either. My bad. #sorrynotsorry

So that’s the story of my last 24 hours: sharp things and glitter bombs. The end.

Planning Ahead (aka Totes Masc Bro)

You all know I’m a planner at heart. I’ve always looked one step, nay ten steps ahead. I booked my July vacation back in December. It’s just how my brain works. With that in mind, I’ve decided to look out into the future again and plan accordingly. With the Kill the Gays Bill advancing toward the ballot in California, I’ve decided to change my ways. If it passes, then every citizen will be legally allowed to execute anyone known for having participated in gay behavior by shooting them in the head with a bullet. I’ve decided I like my brain just the way it is, sans bullet. So. From this day forward I’m renouncing my former hey gurl hey ways. No more gay sex. Oh man. That’s gonna be really tough. Because let’s be honest. Sex is amazing. But gay sex is stupidly ridiculously fucking amazing. I’m just not sure it’s worth a bullet in the head. Well… maybe *some* of it is. Am I right? But I digress. I’m going to have a ceremonial jockstrap burning party in my backyard next weekend. I invite all you homosexuals to join me in saving your souls (and your lives) by burning your sex toys, jockstraps, and other sundry gay-themed props and costumes that could identify you as a dude who digs other dudes. (We won’t be hassled because people burn shit out here in the Bayview all the time with no problems from the po-po.) I’m also looking for a library to which to donate my decade-long collection of adult-themed entertainment. Someone’s bound to make good use of it (for research purposes only, obviously). I’ve also decided to spend more time in the Marina befriending the straight bros up there and learning some their bro-y gestures and phrases. And no more gay bars. Instead I’ll be spending more nights at straight parties and clubs. Maybe some of the stinky rude pushy straightness will rub off on me. And I’ll simultaneously find out what straight dudes wear at da club (What else DOES one wear besides a tank top that you strip off less than 5 minutes after arriving at the party? Inquiring minds would like to know.) And finally, if all else fails, I’m going to buy the book “Being Straight for Dummies” on Amazon and study up. All this begins today. Wait. Make that Monday. Promise. Oh wait. Crap. Maybe next weekend. Seriously guys. Soon. Pinky swear. No not pinkies. Pinkies are soooo gay. You know what? Keep checking back in. I’ll create a Google Calendar with important dates charted along the straight-conversion-pathway and share it out soon. Stay tuned.


The Case of the Missing Pajama Bottoms

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So a few years ago I hired a maid. Vilma. She’s amazing. I love that she’s as sweet as can be. And that she walks around all day saying, “Hola GATO” to Puck. She loves that I try my darnedest to speak to her in Spanish. But there are the most amusing little quirks.

Like how she never matches my protein shaker bottle lids with the color of the bottle. Or how she hangs up my workout shirts with my tank tops. Um…. While my workout shirts are sleeveless, they are certainly not tank tops and they go in a drawer not on hangers. Ugh, straight people will never understand this important difference. And how when she hangs up my tanks and workout shirts, she clearly doesn’t recognize the ROY G BIV color coding system I’ve put in place and she gets it all messed up. And of course there’s the constantly swapping of towels between my roommates bathrooms and mine. Now, to be fair they are both charcoal grey. But mine are longer and theirs have different embroidered texture lines in them. So it’s an easy mistake. I guess…

But the most curious thing to ever happen in these many years is the random disappearance of my plaid pajama bottoms this week. I can’t find them anywhere. I’ve looked high and low. In drawers. In the closet. In the linen credenza. Under the bed. I even looked in with the tank tops in case she got really confused on that whole topic and hang them up out-of-color-code (because, lesbihonest, where would you hang up multi-color plaid? Um. Wait. There’s totally an answer for that. Never mind.)

Anyway. Nada. Desaparecido. I mean… They’re totes cute. And comfy. And I miss them. I know she stashed them away somewhere. Ooooh, maybe I should check with my mismatched shaker bottles? Or in the pantry? Or in the guest room?? I might start posting missing pajama bottoms signs around my house in case the cat spots them and can report back to me. Stay tuned. More to come on this developing story…

And a Raver Was Born…

The year was 1997. It was sophomore year, I was living in Mather House, and I was meeting all sorts of new friends that year (with Marcine​ as my social shepherd). One night we met these weird dudes and went back to hang out in their dorm room to talk about weird stuff. One of them put on some music. An album. (Back then they were still on CDs). I was transfixed. My quasi-photographic memory that typically allows me to recall conversations and details from just about any experience throughout my life was rendered useless that night. I will never remember what we discussed. The music had consumed me entirely. It was new. Different. Amazing. I asked what it was and Eric​ (one of the weird dudes from that night, but who would later become one of my life-long friends, albeit sometimes still delightfully weird), said, “it’s Homework.” Um… huh? “Oh, it’s Daft Punk and their album is called Homework.” I sat and listened and closed my eyes. Nothing would ever be the same. This music took me to new places. Sure the country music, oldies, and pop music I grew up on was (and is) still amazing. But this spoke to me. After Homework was over, Eric put on some Chemical Brothers. Again, mind blown. The next day I went directly to Newbury Comics and bought both albums. And thus a raver was born. Phat pants, Burning Man, big bouncy dancing, hippie-raver commune, and all. And I owe it all to that one random night in Eric’s dorm room in 1997.

Stop Ruining Channing Tatum for Me!

I didn’t think anything could have ever made me dislike Channing Tatum in a wrestling singlet. That is, until I watched Foxcatcher on the plane today. What the hell was that and how dare they ruin a half-naked Channing Tatum for me?! That’s ok, I’ll forgive Chan Chan for this one blunder. Magic Mike XL is coming soon at which point I will still show up to the theater wearing my custom t-shirt that says, “Channing Tatum Get In My Butt Now!”


Vanilla Ice

Yo VIP, let’s kick it! This was absolutely my favorite song during my 8th grade year. I can still sing every lyric from heart and it’s the only song I will ever sing at karaoke. Also, if you watch this again (as I just did) you might notice some striking similarities between my dance style and Vanilla’s: the bounciness, the spins, and the bigness of it all. I like to think I have a little more rhythm than that white dude in the video. But then, we Leos are known for our delusions of self grandeur. Word to your mutha….

You Have No Power Over Me!

“You have no power over me,” Sarah proclaimed to Jareth in the movie Labyrinth. Similarly I declare, “your screaming baby has no power over my narcolepsy.” I fell asleep during the plane’s taxiing (as I always do) this time with said shrieking baby directly across the aisle from me. And I slept almost 1.5 hours, waking up with the shrill being still belting it out. Thus further proving that my super power really is that I can sleep anywhere, anytime, through anything. I am Sleeperman!


House Music

As some of you may know I’m more of a recent convert to house music, having cut my teeth on breaks, DnB, jungle and psytrance over a decade ago. But some really good house music has been making shake my booty on the dance (and gym) floor recently. Like this set that was totally killing me tonight at the gym. I was turning it out with my spontaneous giggling and uncontrollable fancy feet, garnering more than a few confused stares and judgy glares. Whatevs. Listen and shake your thing just like I did. Enjoy!

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