Why It Rules To Be A Superhero!

My fascination with superheroes (apparently a jointly held trademark of Marvel & DC Comics) is well -documented. Since I've been on a real kick lately (In addition to my usual toy addiction, I've even bought some comics recently!), I decided to cheap out with a list serving as tonight's post.

10. Super Powers - Can you leap tall buildings in a single bound? Nope. Can I? Not unless a clown's chasing me. But since 1939, Superman has been listing this on his resume. X-Ray vision would be a gold mine to our perverted friends and let's face it, who hasn't wanted to be able to fly while sitting in traffic? Personally, I'd want the ol' telepathy/telekinesis combo. Moving objects from afar (remote control, anyone) and reading/manipulating people's minds? High on my list. I never said I would be a super hero if the opportunity arose...

9. Secret Identities - Peter Parker can bungle around and always manages get the best shot of Spider-Man. Bruce Wayne is an unmarried millionaire and the worst anyone suspects is that he's an alcoholic or deep in the closet. If you or I could use our pathetic lives as a mere cover-up for a truly exciting nightlife, maybe we'd complain less. I know I would. OK, I wouldn't, but I'd be nicer about it.

8. Hidden Hideaways - Think of it as the ultimate tree-house or fort you never had as a kid. The Batcave, The X-Mansion...hell, Wonder Woman has an invisible plane!!! Most of us can only unplug the phone, pretend we never got the email, and call in sick to work. All of our escape options pale in comparison to intergalactic travel and hiding on the astral plane.

7. Arch-Enemies - Come on, admit it: you always wanted one.

6. Celebrity - Yes, indeed, superheroes are famous; iconic even. Not only would you have public adoration (although Ann Coulter would find some reason to hate you, no doubt), think of all the free swag that come you way! And unlike actors or politicians, you'd actuall do things that deserve all of the attention and praise. Which would you vote more noteworthy - stopping the plot of a madman with a frozen smile or being a madman with a frozen smile and a cult membership card to prove it?

5. Sidekicks - All of the work, so little of the glory. Sidekicks (or "hero support" for those of you who have seen Sky High) are nimble and adorable, walking 'n' wisecracking targets; built-in bait for you to set out. If well trained, the assistance can come in handy in a fight. I also imagine they're good at running errands like picking up dry cleaning and hiding bodies and such. And when you're ready to retire, you can pass on the family business. You'll have to develop thick skin to shrug off the rumors but ain't nobody's business but your own.

4. Weaknesses - Sure, the deadly effects of Kryptonite or having your hands bound (look it up - it was once Wonder Woman's nullifying weakness) sucks. But if you've only got one, it's only fair that A) it's a big and B) it's not common. To be felled by the common cold or something like fire (pity the poor Manhunter from Mars) would just be humiliating.

3. Immortality - Ever notice that they just don't age? More to the point, they don't die (and if they do, most don't stay dead). With the exception of immortal Amazons, this defies logic, except in soap operas and comic books. Whatever the reason, fighting Nazis in World War II and managing to also see the turn of the millenium without so much as a gray hair would kick ass.

2. Be Your Own Boss - There will be times, as with all of those who are self-employed, where the demands of your customers cuts into your personal time. But stopping an out of control train or a meteor heading for Earth still beats the hell out of punching the clock and answering to a pencil-pushing micromanager who...I'm sorry, I promised myself I'd keep this post free of my issues. Almost made it!

1. Make A Difference - Unless you've got the fortitude of Mother Teresa, your day-to-day business is never going to affect a whole planet at once. If you're lucky and dedicated enough, you might have the ripple effect and see postive results from your work eventually. But if you could get vaccines and food around the world fast than Santa delivers useless toys to kids, you'd see immediate results. Thinking globally and acting locally would be easy, since everything's local when you can break the sound barrier. The good karma and publicity couldn't hurt. If Heaven exists, you'd had a business-class seat. If not, at least you'd get to go on Ellen.

That's all I can manage tonight. See you all in Bizarro World!

-J.

This Post Was Sponsored By The Up, Up, & Away Committee.

The Trouble With Balls.

I've been taking it easy this past week at the gym. I don't know how I jacked up my shoulders and neck muscle, but I did. The culprit, I suspect is sleep. The one drawback to using Ambien is that I sleep a little too well. More to the point, I think I sleep too hard. The rub here being that when I used to toss and turn and sleep for only a couple of hours at a time, I didn't have time to lean too hard into my shoulder and twist it. Now I wake up rested but with this dull pain that lasts most of the day. I'm sure stress at work isn't helping, either. I suppose I may have to bite the bullet and see a doctor about it, but as much as I like to effects, I want to avoid being prescribed a muscle relaxant. My local pharmacy knows me well enough as it is. Sleep-deprived, depressed, anxious...do I really need them to add "tense" to the list?

In any event, taking a week off from the usual routine was rough. I skipped a week of both my Pilates and chisel classes. Oh, I wasn't a total slug - I ran the treadmill and ellipitical and burned plenty of calories in place of the toning excerises. But I could totally feel the difference. So when the Princess said she was free for chisel tonight, I took it as a sign from above that I needed to go. Actually, the excerises tha stretched my shoulder muscles felt really good. I think they helped more than a little. The ab workouts, on the other hand were pure torture. Not having really worked them for a week left my midsection looking doughy and unwilling to comply with the instructor's insistence to "engage." If pain were currency, my abs would be buying me ahouse right now. (Of course, we all know this means I have to go to Pilates tomorrow night and get the muscles to conform. Luckily, I can ask my teacher to modify the upper body stuff to keep me from hurting myself and/or swearing loudly in the middle of class.)

The most painful routine tonight was where we had to hold an exercise ball (much like the one atop this very post) with our feet and lift our legs while holding our upper body in sit-up position. After 15 reps, I was ready to give up every secret I'd ever been told and a few I wasn't even sure of. Then she announced we could take a half-second breather (yes, I'm exaggerating) and then do another 15. Bakground: last year, I had a major freakout on a ferris wheel when I realized it would be going around a second time and I wouldn't be able to get out of the moving cage of death I was in until we'd spun around one more time. I wasn't medicated then, so my freakout tonight was definitely more internal and involved no screaming or swearing. But inside, it was pretty much the same.

I soldiered through and promptly collapsed on my couch upon arriving home. In a downpour like there was tonight, I could tell the difference between my sweat and the rain. The sweat was hot and painful, like little reminders of my masochism. The rain drops were blessedly cold and numbing, helping me remember that one day I'd be dead and free of the pain of abs and body dysmorphia. Crap - another condition to add to the list. Oh well, I felt a lot better after eating my salad and watching some mindless TV. And when annual trip to San Francisco with FB & The Princess comes in May, I won't remember this pain. I'll be too busy stuffing my face with clam chowder and checking out all of the hot guys looking at my ass.

At least, that's what I tell myself to justify the $45 a month.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the No Gain Committee.

You Know What?

I really hate it when Blogger tells me I'm "Forbidden" from viewing my own freakin' blog. Yes, all it takes is hitting "Refresh" and I'm magically allowed again. But that's like my roommate telling me I can't go into my room and then relenting after I say, "Pretty please." Bite me, sez I. Not that you asked, bu Kiddo said that it was OK to blog out loud every once in a while recently. So there. Anyhow, today's post is about my thoughts about music. I can't help but think about it lately.

Have you ever noticed that every Mom 'n' Pop Thai restaurant has some form of snoozy adult contemporary radio playing? At least all of the ones I frequent do. Whatever - so long as I can get my regular helping of Lard Na (or Rad Na, or Lad Nar, or Rad Nar - it doesn't translate well), I'm good. I can manage the occasional dose of cheesy love song dedications if there's something yummy to distract me. But when The Princess and I are trying very hard to discuss important issues (her upcoming Roller Disco party, our next trip to San Francisco, etc.), Michael Bolton is an evil curve ball to throw a boy's way. I may have to start bringing my iPod just in case I need a little PJ Harvey to scare the power ballads away.

At the gym, I usually have the 'Pod blasting as I sweat (Cyndi Lauper's been the workout du jour as of late) on the treadmill or ellipitical or train the circuit. All they have in that room are two TVs and the chatter of morons on their cell phones. The free weight room is another matter. They have no TV and the weirdest soundtrack ever. The first time I worked out in there, it was a hair rock reunion. I'm talkin' Warrant and Whitesnake, here. You could practically smell the aerosol. Finally the Pretenders "Back On The Chain Gang" saved my ass. The next time I went in, I expected something similar. Instead, I got an earful of "Whoomp! There It Is" and some of the hottest south of 1994. Remember "Poison" by Bell Biv DeVoe? So does some sick bastard at my gym. The free weight gods have been kinder as of late - I got a nice block of '80s hits the last few times.

At work, we have the worst hold music in the world. I know this for two reasons: I have to transfer a fair share of calls to other departments, thus, I am on hold a few times a day. I also know this because I was recently selected to be "The Voice" of our new phone system. (Don't get too excited for me - all I got was a free floating holiday,, although I hear I may get paid to do a radio spot...) Over the course of my little recording sessions, I've become quite intimate with the awful smooth jazz guitar my voice will be paired with. I don't know which I hate more - the music or having to hear my own voice try to sell me banking products.

My favorite music of late is during my Pilates class. My teacher fluctuates between classical and Tibetan monks. She has a fear of the throat singing, which amuse the cruel bastard in me, but mostly I just like the relaxation. Although it is a little weird to do a jackknife to Pachebel's Canon in D, I must say. I always expect an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to break out. I've never been, but I imagine that it's like a Pilates class, only with coffee and donuts.

Anyhow, that's my ramble for the evening. We now resume our regularly scheduled program...

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Pilot Radio Committee.

Just Take The Money and Run, Already.

I made a quick run to Hollywood & Highland yesterday with my former blogging partner. Everyone's favorite student needed to snap some shots for a school project. It was your average Sunday in Cinema City^TM - there was a premiere (Ice Age 2 - I can punfully painfully say it looked "cool" because they laid out man-made ice/snow in lieu of a red carpet) that blocked off the street and foot traffic to the Chinese Theatre. As usual, there was more than one Spider-Man roaming the crowds - and as usual, they were all sorely in need of some athletic support. It's always a trip to see the tourists freak out when Jason spooks them in a hockey mask. Personally, I'm more scared of forgetting to validate my parking and paying an arm and a leg to wander the Virgin Megastore. Luckily, FB found the perfect belated gift for the Princess' birthday (I'm not tellin' - she does read this thing occasionally!) so we got out for the standard 4 hours for $2 .

But everything has a trade-off - nothing is for free in this world. Before we could get to the overpriced art of people-watching, we would have to suffer a little. You know how you see someone and just know that destiny means for you to cross their path? I don't mean in that nice, "Our eyes met from across the room..." way. I'm talking, "I saw this dude, and I knew he was eat up way more of my time than he was worth." Well, I saw this dude and, well, you know. I tried in vain to go the long way around to get the elevator out of the parking structure. The shifty bastard made a quick turn and seemed not to notice the handsome pair passing him by, trying to avoid eye contact. But then it happened. His thoughts were as fragmented as his outfit was boring.

"Hey, I can ask you guys for - yes, that's what I'll do - I'll ask you." At this point, every human being as a choice to make: you can either stop or run. Being reasonably assured we weren't about to get mugged, and being nicer than either us care to own up to, we stopped. I can tell you now - there is almost nothing in my past I would do over. Most mistakes I would leave intact - you know, that whole it-made-me-who-I-am thing. But if God gave me one moment to do over, it would be a toss up between the night I drunkenly thought it was a good idea to go home with a an equally drunk USC frat boy or the decision not to keep walking and pretend I hadn't heard Mr. Freak-O ask for a moment of my time. Who am I kidding? At least I don't remember the drunken night.

OK, so the long and short: he was supposed to meet somebody who didn't show. He needed to get to Studio City. He knew how and supposedly knew where the subway station was. In any event, 5 minutes after his diatribe began (He thought out loud at one point, "God, this is like a Seinfeld episode...") I'd finally had enough of his yammering. I think I faked polite better than Meg Ryan faked that orgasm in When Harry Met Sally.

"So, do you just need to three bucks for the subway?" I said as I reached for my wallet. At this point, $20 wouldn't have been too much to ask.

"Yeah. I'm really sorry. Thanks so much."

"Don't worry about it. We've all been there."

We made sure he knew where the subway station was and let him on his way. After exchanging some bewildered looks, we tried to figure out what had just happened. Personally, I think he was either a wanna-be screenwriter or a never-will actor out for an adventure to go back and tell his workshop class about.
As we walked into the Megastore, I saw the jerk getting directd toward the subway station (Hit the sidewalk and make a left, moron!). The friendly tourists seemed to not have given an money. I imagined people helping him with the ticket machine and fellow riders pointing out what stop he needed to hop off on. I was ready to choke a bitch, but something shiny caught my eye.

What pissed me off when I thought back on it wasn't so much the time and it certainly wasn't the money. I've had to break twenties buying a pack of gum I didn't need to have 75 cents for the bus before. It was that I may have just given time and money to someone who helps give my hometown a bad name. Lousy bastard was probably one of those transplants who moved here, went to USC film school and expected to be a "self-made" millionaire based on his mediocrity in a year or two. There's a reason they call them pipe dreams: you'd have to be smoking crack to believe it's gonna be that easy.

Improbably, what helped me out was the friendly guy behind the counter at Virgin. As he rang us up, he commented on our purchases and complained good-naturedly about how the store becomes little more than a walkway when events like movie premieres or award shows take over the boulevard. He mentioned that it was nice to be closed on Oscar Sunday but that three non-working days in a row hurt his paycheck. If this guy, with his tats and his reddish-pink hair had asked me for directions, money, or something equivalent, I'd have given with a smile. At least he had something to say.

It's all I ask, really. I hope you expect and get the same of me.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Native Sun Worshipper Committee.

Briefly...

...and, no, this about another Undies Weekend. I kept my pants on for the most part on Saturday & Sunday.

I got the chance to screen Summer Storm, a sweet film that here!TV will be showing and which is getting a run in some American theatres after a successful run on the festival circuit. My HomoMojo review can be found here. Show me some love and I'll buy you a drink if I ever get the chance. :)

I'll be back with a real post tonight!

-J.

Is that a Tiara or a Halo?

Dearest Princess,

There was time - longer ago now than I ever thought possible - when we didn't have each other. A world before rambling phone conversations, My So-Called Life
and Madonna concerts. On your birthday, I can't help but reflect on the fact that you've been a gift to me for more than a decade now. I have been better for it and I only hope I haven't let you down too often.

I sometimes think that in an alternate reality, we were born as twins and shared a bathroom growing up. (In this reality, my lil' sister and FB were born into the same family as each other, sealing the cosmic deal of our spiritual siblinghood.) I can only imagine the fights over hair dryers and the competitive piano lessons we would have had when we were kids. But I also figure that playing He-Man & She-Ra would have been a lot of fun.

In this reality, you have been my constant, my touchstone to the day to day process known as life. I know there have been times I've been that to you. There were plenty of times we got off course and seemed to miss more than we caught. But when you fled to Europe that one time, I knew something was missing. When you cam back, I felt the beat of a heart I know inside and out. You've seen me at every moment: train-wreck-in-progress, happy, sad, silly, funny, working it all through. I've seen you in love, broken hearted, overcommitted, passionate and tired of it all. I've been frustrated by you plenty, as I'm sure you've been frustrated by me, but I've never tired of you. Your Courtney Love/Lilo-like rambles have always made perfect sense to me, even if they left the world scratching a collective scalp.

It's funny how we owe so much of our bonding to boys. The boy we both liked in high school. The boy who introduced us because you observed that I flirted in the same way. The boy I fell in love with who still makes both laugh until our sides hurt. And the boy I was who grew up alongside the prettiest girl in the room. Nobody ever quite gets the litany of explanations we have for moods: fat day/full moon/only child/whatever. As long as I have you to simply nod and say, "Yeah" when I complain, nobody else has to.

I checked - Hallmark still doesn't make that "You're like a brother/sister, thanks for prom, congratulations on your graduation - have you seen a floating Coke - well, like you know, whatever..." card. A simple "I love you" will have to do.

I love you.

Let's do this best friends thing forever, OK?
-J.

This post was sponsored by the Feliz Cumpleaños Committee.

Consequence.

A funny thing happens when you don't see your father for over a year (it was November of '04 to be precise - the surprise visit was mentioned in my third post) - he ages in ways you might never have noticed if you lived in the same city and hung out from time to time. I wonder what I must have looked like to him - thinner and blonder for sure than the last time we met. But does my age affect him as much as his affected me tonight? Yes - for those of you wondering, I'm still in a rambling mood.

Last time he and my mother surprised me by showing up on Thanksgiving day. This time around, he's in The O.C. on business and was nice enough to drive two hours just to have dinner with me. There's a lot of catching up to do. Trying to compress a year and a half into an hour and a half is like trying to squeeze me into a pair of 30 waist jeans: it may happen, but it's not going to look nice. Luckily my dad is light on words and a good listener - at least he seems like a good listener. The consequence of being married to my mother for 35 years is that you learn to tune out the boring parts and cut straight to the chase.

I suppose the time away from my folks also gave me some perspective on how being their kid has shaped me. The consequence of being my father's son is that watching him build a bunch of computers and diagnosing broken copy machine, or as they call them now "multi-functional reprographic systems." (Does anything have one name anymore?) gave me a base of knowledge I never thought much of. As such, I'm not a true computer geek, but I've always taken being computer literate for granted. This, in turn, has made me the mini-IT guy for my co-workers. Apparently, it's a rarer commodity than it should be to be familiar with your ope torating system in the workplace. And being that I'm a nicer guy than I'd like to admit, I help plenty of people out with Excel spreadsheets, copier issues, etc.

The consequence of being my mother's son is that I have a fairly decent command of the English language. As a kid, when I wasn't playing with one of my million action figures, I had my nose buried in a book. I've always been good at writing, although I haven't always enjoyed it. And her tendency to stick up herself by way of the pen (she's an angry letter writer from way back) definitely found its way into my bloodstream.

Of course, there are other consequences - some much more profound than others. My dad's quiet strength has the flipside of being too quiet at times. I've definitely inherited that. And my mother's tendency to overdramatize her passion has also found its way into my bloodstream. We have a tendency as a family to speak of almost nothing too emotional. And I'm quite a passive-agressive Gemini to be sure - I can very often be very vocal without actually saying what it is I feel. At least I used to be - nowadays I think I could stand to rein in my opinion from time to time. Still, I suppose it's better to be an Open Book-on-tape blaring at full volume than to be an old family photo album nobody looks at anymore.

This weekend, FB said something to effect of me being smart. I argued that intelligence is nothing more than a form of energy and everyone has it flowing through them in different ways. FB wouldn't be caught dead cracking open half of the books on my shelf, but is patient and skilled enough to knit and draw and paint. There's a woman at my work who is about as imcompetent as it gets, but she speaks three languages other than English. I, on the other hand, can't recall simple square roots when questioned on the fly. My roommate says I have a mind like a steel trap because I can recall all sorts of inane factoids on command. However, I haven't the ability to memorize a phone number or anything mathematic - if not for calculators and programmable phones, I'd be lost. And yet my friends would mistake me for "smart." One of the consequences of being my parents' son is that having overanalyzed both of them and their strengths and weaknesses, I know where I fall short and where I stand tall. (Which reminds me - I don't remember my dad being so short, either.)

What does any of this mean? It means I just took up a few minutes of your time working out the thoughts in my head. That's the point of this whole thing, right?

Night.
-J.

This post was sponsored by the I'll Be Funny Tomorrow, I Promise! Committee.

Warning - Rambling Ahead...

Before I get to tonight's pithy thoughts, I offer an update: Underwear Saturday was the best. Now, I didn't spend all of the day in my skivs, but once I was done going to the gym, eating lunch, buying toys and comics, and walking around Burbank, I settled down, put on my favorite Superman t-shirt and the Chosen Undies and watched some television. Behold, I found both Project Runway and Real World/Road Rules Challenge marathons. I still can't believe Chloe won and that Beth hasn't been murdered. Regrettably, I also finished watching Boogeyman. In a word: Lame. In a few more words: I could have written and directed something scarier and smarter with nothing but the spare change in the pants I wasn't wearing while watching this stupid waste of time. The only fear I had was that the movie might not end. Mercifully, it did, although not before subjecting me to the weakest looking CGI Boogey ever. Thank God for that one-two-three punch of He-Man/Batman/Superman on Boomerang.

A full moon's coming tomorrow. Whether that actually means anything, I'm not sure. But if nothing else, people prepare themselves for weird stuff as our local satellite comes 'round. And when people prepare themselves for something, they're rarely disappointed. (Except for those overprepared Y2K people - they got shafted.) Nevertheless, I always manage to have the best conversations as the moon is in full swing. Take tonight's conversation about religion. The Princess and I got onto the topic on our way to the gym. Basically, we were discussing how relationships are not about being perfect, but really about accepting someone's imperfections. It's all about gauging what you're threshold is. It sound unromantic (something I've been fairly accused of being more than once) but love is more than anything emotional negotiation. You barter something you value for something your partner has that you want as well. And you accept certain add-ons that under other circumstances you might not generally. You love the way he makes you feel when he smiles, but that means you have to accept his Celine Dion collection.

Religion is usually a major point in this. Both the very religious and the strictly secular can have issues when their loved one doesn't follow the same line of thought. Basically, the Princess and I concurred that it comes down to realizing that core values can be the same under totally different structures. Ultimately a commitment to justice and fairness and equality doesn't have to be tied to any particular faith system. However, when it is, it tends to be very important to the believer and that needs to be respected. As someone who has more than lapsed from organized religion and even spirituality outside of academic discussion, I can sympathize with the non-believers on this one. But it also gives me perspective on the reasons that build up people's resistance to the R word. In Buddhist thought, there is the object (for instance, a truck) and then there is the word for said object ("Truck") and that crowds the room. One too many things for only one existence. I think of religion in the same terms. There's God and then there's the words for God. The room gets crowded and the words overtake the message.

Am I rambling here? I feel like I am. Anyhow, for me, it all comes down to overthinking and not thinking enough. It's knowing when to be quiet and when not to shut up. Things like love or religion or something like how nice kisses feel don't necessarily bear explaining. They just exist in a space all their own. The irony that I'm writing about this isn't lost on me. The writer William S. Burroughs said once, "Language is a virus from outer space." Laurie Anderson later built a song piece on it. In addition to my conversation with the Princess, my appreciation for both of those existences prompted this post. One, two, three too many things about one existence. Am I overthinking it? Maybe. I'm just glad to be thinking.

And for the record, Celine Dion is a dealbreaker. I don't care how you make me feel when you smile at me.

Happy Monday!
-J.

This post was sponsored by the Rambling Prose Committee.

Idol Hands...

I knew undies would generate readership. Plus, I can only imagine the hits I'm gonna get from the Claymates and Clayters (get it? Caly haters...eh? eh? Ah forget it) or people looking to glimpse Colin Farrell's Irish Schwing. Anyhow, posting about my coming weekend (non) plans made me look forward to them and carried me through the hecticness that was today. Remember how I said that I was oddly unaffected by my work stresses? Today I hit the wall. Not literally, of course, although there was a close call. Of course by the end of the day I was in a better mood. My trick? Every time I felt a little down, I went to my happy place: The 1st Official Undies Weekend of '06.

And I did a little practicing tonight. Rather than go to the gym (my butt's still sore from last night's Torture Session Pilates class), I heated some frozen chicken strips, poured a glass of cream soda, plunked down on the couch and watched some bad horror flicks. First up: the last twenty minutes of The Grudge. Now I loves me some Buffy, so I can't be too hard on dear old Sarah Michelle Gellar. Despite a crappy story and near lack of suspense, she sold the scared act. And I have a long-standing crush on Jason Behr, so ugly long hair or not, I watched faithfully. I don't exactly want those twenty minutes back, but I won't be tuning in to the rest of the movie next time I catch it on cable, either.

Next up: Showtime's craptastic new series Masters Of Horror., courtesy of my cable's OnDemand function. Masters? Hardly. The "plot" passed as this: two urban legends (killer hitchiker and guy who kills innocent hitchikers) kill a bunch of people separately before meeting up with Fairuza Balk and then lamely fighting over who gets to kill her, but never actually get to it. If I suffer through Fairuza Balk's overbite, then I expected to be rewarded with her on-screen death. That chick's just gotten freakier since Return To Oz first traumatized me.

Then it was onto a little of Boogeyman, starring that 40 year old who plays the eldest child on 7th Heaven. I didn't get through much of it, but I suspect if I'd finished it, I'd have been disappointed by the lack of blood. Basically, I think it'll be like the WB's Supernatural - poorly written and acted, not all that scary, plenty low-budget and totally lacking of shirtless guys worth looking act. I'll keep y'all updated on that one.

(And yes, I do realize how very WB my viewing habits were tonight.)

Perhaps the scariest thing on the schedule was the American Idol results show. I'll admit to not having watched since season 1 (I was pretty much done when they voted off Tamyra Gray) but I do come back for the hilarious auditions each season. But since I watched the godawful show on Tuesday, I had to see who got kicked off. Spoilers ahead for those of you who care: The Amazon was voted off, as was Michael from Good Times. John Mayer Jr. and Noxeema Jackson didn't make the cut, either. Each of them got one last chance to trash a song on national television before their exit. Still safe: someone's parish priest, a perfect clone of last year's winner, a Bizarro clone of last year's runner-up, and this evil Harry Potter kid who I'm convinced will kill everyone before the show's over (part of the reason I'll keep tuning in, actually). Least annoying to me: Mandisa (I like her mostly cause she looks like she doesn't get along with the other contestants), Ace (a little too much of a pretty Scott Stapp for my taste, but I can see the appeal) and Chris. Mostly, I just like looking at that last one.

Scary viewing, indeed. Not only because it doesn't even come close to being listenable karaoke by my high-falutin' standards, but because I watched the whole freakin' thing! OK, not exactly - I flipped over to Boomerang and watched a little He-Man during the farewell performances. But I still stayed until they threatened to suck me into The O.C. I know I would have been stuck once I got a taste of male shirtlessness, so I turned the set off.

Besides, like I said before, I'm sure I'd just have been disappointed by the lack of blood.

Until next time,
-J.

This post was sponsored by the What's Lazier - watching TV mindlessly or writing about it? Committee

This calls for an underwear weekend...

I don't think I've ever been as busy as I have been lately. Oddly, the crushing amount of work isn't stressing me out. I wonder sometimes if I'm in denial about how bad things are or if I've reached that passive-agressive stage of acceptance. In any event, my blogging - both here and on HomoMojo has suffered and so has my ability to return phone calls, emails, etc. I opened my Inbox this morning to find that I had 130 new messages waiting for me. Luckily, about half were junk (why does everyone think I need Viagara? I'm on enough pills as it is...) and the other half were non-pressing emails that I could glance over. Like my sleep, I have a mantra: I'll catch up eventually.

And "eventually" finally has a target date: this weekend. My roommate is in Vegas until Sunday evening and I have only one concrete set of plans - to hit the Rose Bowl Flea Market (anyone remember when FB and I got burnt to a crisp last year? Good times...) on Sunday. With the apartment empty, the refrigerator stocked, and no obligations to speak of, you can bet your ass that I will be eating Girl Scout cookies (the unholy trinity of Thin Mints, Trefoils, & Tagalongs), watching reality TV (here's hoping to a Real World/Road Rules challenge and/or Project Runway marathon. Also, Boomerang is showing a bunch of Batman cartoons these weekend. And I don't plan to change out of my pajamas (aka known as a t-shirt and my undies) unless I feel the need to make a trip to the gym at some point. I suppose that's a possibility, but I can't really see myself waking up in time for 10am Pilates class on Saturday. Still, a boy needs his cardio, especially when he's put on 7-8lbs in the last month.

So why am I telling you this on Wednesday, instead of Friday, when this magical lost weekend will begin in earnest? Duh! Cause I need a reason to get up and go to work tomorrow. The sooner I get Thursday done, the sooner Friday comes and sooner I get to that beautiful moment of underwear-only bliss. I've even picked out the pair. See Exhibit U. And no, there will be no pictures of me wearing these. I leave that to bodies more ripped than mine. If you want dirty pictures, I have some screenshots of the Colin Farrell sex video and I even managed to find those scandalous webcam pictures of Clay Aiken trying to entice a guy to his hotel room - allegedly, of course. Email me.

Other than that, I've got nothin'. Sorry - visit Tottyland if you want to see the hotties. We mostly do screwball pseudo- intellectual humor 'round these parts.

Nighty!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the No, I Will Not Be Dancing To Bob Seger! Committee.

Before I get to posting, I have to ask something. Does this picture to the right make any sense to anyone?

Luckily, I was just in there to wash my hands before eating, but rest assured of one thing: If I'd had to make the moral decision between grossing myself out or following the edict of a fast food establishment, I would have flushed the toilet paper. If they have sewage problems, they should get a plumber out or install a bidet. And if this is the problem that comes of their food, I will not be frequenting my local Great American Steak & Potato Co. again during my lunch hour, no matter how busy Sharky's is.

Onto more pressing news...

On Friday, I had a pleasant reunion with someone I went to the high school seminary with. For those of you who remember, this was not the dirty birdy who tried to booty call me this past September after reconnection on MySpace. No, this was simply someone who I hadn't seen in about 12 years and who had fond memories of me as I did him. We got together for tea (he's on a juice fast) and remembered old times while catching up on what's happened since high school. He came out some time ago (something that surprised even my Gaydar^TM) and is a choir director for his local church. It was nice to reconnect with someone from the past who isn't a total freak and who I can see myself hanging out with again. Seeing as how nobody I know was sent by their parents to the baby priest academy, it was more than a little gratifying to discuss the experience in hindsight with someone who went through it as well. He was a little more chaste than I was in the environment (No backstage area, bathroom stall or storage closet is safe while I was in attendance.) But living away from home at 14 and dealing with sexuality and bad food on top of the usual things like acne and failing Algebra is a unique ball of wax. It's good to have someone around with a frame of reference.

On Saturday, I hung out with my girlfriend and her mom (plus her tres cool aunt) and upon returning home, Mr. McBoingBoing came over and we sat around and had some conversation and a few bottles of wine. Honestly, sitting around and talking seems like the best thing ever lately.

And last night I fell asleep at 10:30pm and didn't wake up until 8:30am this morning (don't worry - I didn't have to be at work until 9am). Being an adult sneaks up on you, I tells ya. At least that means, I'll be done with zits soon, right?

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Flush It, Dammit! Committee.

Is there such a thing as an Inactive Top?

When I'm out shopping for clothes on a budget, ROSS Dress For Less rarely lets me down. They've got a kick ass selection of husky boys' Levi's. At 14, these pants were too long and too wide for me. Sadly at 28, they're just the right fit. Anyhow, while perusing the aisles, I couldn't help but chuckle at the sections supposedly reserved for "sportswear." That term always makes me picture 80's-style headbands, leotards and leg-warmers all of the ladies who went to Jazzercise^tm classes wore so religiously. For better or for worse, it turns out they're referring to athletic socks, jock straps, and those shorty shorts Bill Clinton tortured us all with when he would go for his Presidential runs. (I won't even get into what the term "Presidential Runs" has me picturing. Ugh.). I looked for the "Active Versatiles" section but came up empty handed, so to speak.

But I digress...


My point is: Shouldn't everyone - top, bottom, versatile, undecided, decline to state, other... - be "active" in such situations. I mean, it''d be rude to sit there like you're asleep, without making a sound or at least feigning pleasure for the sake of your partner. Those of you with more puritanical values (and what exactly are you folks doing here?!?!) might prefer a nice quiet evening copulating through a sheet. To each his or her own. I think we should be "active" with the lights on from time to time. But not if you're into leg-warmers and Clinton-style shorties. Then keep the lights off. Only you need to know you're wearing that.

***

In other gay news, my friend at work has the coolest boss. Her son - her high school aged son - is openly gay and she loves it. She told my friend that she looks forward to being a PFLAG mom as he gets older and sees a real benefit to having a gay son. She even has a few pro-homo stickers on her car! She wondered not too long ago if people would think she's a lesbian. Not because she cares, but because she thought it would be funny if they did. Jeez - I can barely get my mom to say the word "gay" with singing the theme to The Flintstones. Times change quickly. When I was in high school, almost all of my friends knew, but I didn't come to my parents until my early twenties. To have the courage to do it as a junior in high school is amazing. And to be the kind of parent who accepts and loves their child unconditionally and with gusto shouldn't be an oddity, it should be an everyday thing. But because it's not, this mom rocks. Not surprisingly, she loves me. Hopefully this means she might hire me into her department should the opportunity arise. Gay or straight - we all need to use our connections wisely.

Thanks for connecting tonight. After an extended hiatus, I will be back on HomoMojo tomorrow night. I will try and save some creativity for this space, but at the very least, you'll find a link to it on tomorrow's page. See ya then!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are Committee.