Who I Am: A Q&A

Below find the depths of my pointlessness plumbed by those of you who read this site in the past few days.

Favorite drink: Dark rum & diet cola, well-iced, with a lime wedge.

If you are what you eat, then I am: Dead meat, I guess, though the more abstract “Too much!” is also an appealing — and I think accurate — answer.

Worst habit: There is a Sniglet to be made of “tedious” and “tenacity”, and when it is coined, I shall replace this sentence with that word.

Turn-ons: Brazen sexuality, ability to “ride the reference train” (to steal a great phrase from “Cad”), nontraditional hair colors, and ridiculously low-rise jeans.

Favorite cartoon: The first crop of Roadrunner cartoons. Especially the catapult gag.

Favorite animal: Dogs, for companionship, and monkeys, for their potential as Comedy Gold.

Favorite pet anecdote: There are so many, and nearly all from one dog. Hm. I once witnessed the Old Man, who ate mice and dirt and newspaper, refuse even to taste a proffered burger from White Castle.

Favorite kind of music: Rap, I s’pose, of the West Coast variety — but also calypso, reggae, lounge, blues, classic rock…

Favorite movie: The Mosquito Coast.

Favorite number: The over

Pipe-dream future aspiration: Reasonably compensated writer. Food writer. Travel writer. Novelist. Comedy writer. Whatever.

Most desirable feature (of yourself): Meticulous attention to fairness

Least desirable feature (of youself): Obsessive need for fairness

What you desire in a mate: Lust, reliability, and independence — for both of us.

Amusingly misguided former aspiration: I wanted to be a veterinarian once, until I learned there was more to it than petting the patients.

What you don’t desire in a mate: Clinginess, indifference, affectation

First crush: Lady Jaye, as I recall.

Did your eye heal?: So far, so good. Next followup is 7/21. (Two followup appointments would seem to indicate that the original injury was more serious than I thought.) Kind of you to ask.

Describe yourself in one word: Memorable

Describe yourself in two words: Acquired taste

First car: 1982 Buick LeSabre. White outside, burgundy inside. I miss you, ACME One.

How would you like to die? Far down the road, quickly, and with no one made upset by the event.

Anybody else want to bring it?

Pride Pride

At Barb’s demand, I wore the Punisher t-shirt to Pride. Brought some amused looks, but sadly, no action. Also discovered that in the absence of metal crowd barricades, distributing t-shirts in the Pride parade is not unlike distributing bags of rice to befamined refugees. Fortunately, we were possessed of enough foresight to get drunk well before we actually had to run the grabby gauntlet, which made it much easier.

The ECI (Eye Candy Index) was very, very high at the parade — whatever your tastes — and was not entirely offset by the presence of a great deal of anti-eye-candy. This would not warrant mentioning but for my realization that there is no actual term for anti-eye-candy. Eye Spinach? Eye Tequila? (Maybe…) Eye Castor Oil? Wait.

Eye Haggis?

I like “Eye Haggis”.

Can we keep it?


Look who else had an above-average weekend, albeit one with fewer lesbians than mine.


Anecdote: At the wedding I attended Saturday, around 1030 pm the DJ — by request, mind you — transitioned directly from something like “Summer Wind” into the Cantina music from Star Wars. (Which you will, doot deet doot deet doot deet doo, now have in your head for an hour or so, and I’m very sorry.) Upon hearing this, the numeric majority of wedding guests reacted like concertgoers before whom Charlie Watts has just begun to tap his cowbell for “Honky Tonk Women”.


Who I Am: A Q&A will be published tomorrow. Final contributions to this piece — which was inspired by Repete and which led to the kind of confusion normally associated with British stage comedy — should be sent here.

Little Help?

I need advice and assistance on two things:

Pete has called me out for having no biographical information of any substance on this site. While this does make it easier to tell extravagant lies about myself and thus facilitate trysts with hot girls dazzled by the glamorous fastlane life of a dyspeptic jerkoff, I can see his point. Should I vanish from B&T on the same day that a notorious cat rapist is led off to prison, he might like to think that he hadn’t been amusing himself all these months with the musings of the notorious Pussy Fucker. Assuming he wasn’t, a bit of bio might have soothed his worries.

So I’ll take questions. What do y’all want to know? Ask away.


Query Two:

In light of a point recently made to me about unkind hope-raising vis-a-vis wearing a Punisher t-shirt to the Chicago Pride Parade, I must ask: What should an unsightly, graceless, fetish-unaffiliated man wear to said parade? I don’t want to commit any inadvertent breaches of etiquette, here — I hate when I show up to things in my mesh tank top and daisy dukes and everyone else is wearing khakis — especially because it’s my first Pride Parade and I’d hate to leave a bad impression.

That Is So Not You

The Year Of A Thousand Weddings continues, and this past weekend, I was honored to be actually given a role in one of the four out of that thousand I’m actually pleased about attending. (You other three know who you are. I hope.) I was cast in the role of “Usher #2”, and prepared for my role by helping little old ladies across the street while drinking whiskey and flirting shamelessly with passing girls. (It’s called “Method”. You want to play your part right, live it. Great ushing is worth suffering for.)

Everyone knows that a major part of any good show is costuming, and I was measured some months ago for a gratifyingly smaller than expected tuxedo. I went to pick the tux up the night before the wedding — both were in Sheboygan — during which suitfetching American Express proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are seriously on the ball with this identity-protection business.

I try on the tux. Everything fits, though there is a moment of concern when I note that my tuxedo shirt is more sheer than is required for polite-company tattoo concealment. Swiftly and with my usual flair for fashion, I work out the solution: If I keep my jacket on throughout the ceremony, and then have four quick Myers & diets at the reception, I can take off my jacket and not care about hoisting the Jolly Roger. Perhaps there’ll even be a bridesmaid or two that will find this dashing. (Or, at least, I’ll be able to think they do.) I take the shirt, jacket, and pants out to the clerk and ask them to re-package them, as if I do it it’ll look like I balled it up and threw it into the truck bed overnight. I supervised the re-bagging of the shoes myself.

I then handed the tailor my American Express card, which he ran through the little slide machine and which was promptly rejected with an angry note and a demand that we phone the home office. Turns out my card tripped the theft protection alert, or whatever they call it.

Here’s what makes me happy about this:

I have gone to Vegas and dropped fifteen hundred on this very card in three days. From AmEx: crickets.

I have gone to Key West more or less on impulse, checked into some seriously unusual accomodations, and bought dinner from a beach vendor on this card. Not a peep.

I have dropped $225 in a barbecue shack on Beale Street, $300 at a Wildlife Park in San Diego, and I-don’t-recall-how-much at 4am in a topless bar ten miles from my house; all on this card, and all of them no problem for AmEx.

But let me try to charge $150 in a men’s store in Sheboygan, and it takes two maiden names, three addresses, a blood sample, and a notary public to convince them I am who and where I say I am.

It’s actually kind of flattering.

Stupid Interesting Thursday

The problem with a really great post — geez, if I do say so myself. I meant “one that flows as easy as that” — is that then something like “Hey, guess what amusing advertisement I saw on the train this morning” sorta loses its impact. How do you follow an act like metal eyeball sliver? I got nothin’, here.


Seriously, what do I do? Book reviews? Recipes? CD recommendations?


You keep scrolling, thinking I’ll pull some free entertainment out of my ass. I don’t know why. I told you today I just wasn’t going to get it done. This is just the Rebound Post — I had a good time with the last one, now there has to be a quick-and-dirty before I can get serious again.


Plus, now I won’t keep comparing the two — the funny stuff, the tone, the length, the feel, the cleava….what was I talking about, again?


Oh, yeah, I was stalling. Right. Filling a buncha space. This is the kind of spot into which I’d usually stick Compliance, but I burned my monthly freebie already.


Okay, I’ll throw you a bone, but only one. Here’s how to play “Happy Birthday” on a touch-tone phone:

1 1 2 1 # 6
1 1 2 1 # 3
1 1 # # 8 4 1
# # 6 4 2 1

Write it down.


But that’s it. Tapped. Left it all on the page, today. Gave 110%. Took my best shot. Brought my lunchpail and did the job.

By which I mean, wrote some bullshit that’ll inspire me to write something better soon.

Embedded Report

How was your day?

I ask not out of any real interest, of course, but as a tiny psychosocial experiment. Call it the Theory Of Day-Quality Relativity.


My day began on the uglier side of 6am with bright sun on my face. This is more or less customary in the summer months, but the puddle of pillow-fluid that traced directly back to my own personal right eye socket was something new. I gingerly and nervously attempted in a number of novel ways to ensure that the eyeball was still properly installed, and discovered to my immense relief that it was so. That decided, I initiated further investigation into my current Eyeball Performance Level and discovered that a bit of something was causing all the pain and leakage. Grit or sand or something.

There are a number of tricks to dislodging a pesky bit in one’s eye. I tried them all — upper lid out-and-over the lower, the reverse, opening my eye in a pool of water, showering with my eyes open, flushing the eye with some kind of sterile fluid poured into a grotestque little eyesucker-shaped cup, weeping — nothing worked. Went to work, and gutted it out until twelve, when I gave up on the pain and drippage and went to the doctor. My reluctance to do so was not based in doctorphobia, this time, but in a deep and profound desire not to pay $50 to have a medical professional tell me “You’ve got something in your eye”.

The eye doctor — whom I have been going to since I was about four and who has, since my last visit, thoughtfully added to her practice an indescribably fetching assistant — tells me that I have something in my eye. After dyeing the surface of my eyeball a festive orange, she peered at it through the most amazing upright microscope, and said something to her lovely assistant, which sounded to me grave. (In fairness, everything any doctor says about me sounds grave to me.)

I said “Beg pardon?”, very politely, and she said, “I said you have an embedded foreign particle.”

“Embedded” was not on the list of things I was hoping to hear just then. It was in fact so far off that list that it hadn’t occurred to me as a possibility. The idea that something could be “embedded” in my eyeball — still can’t read it without cringing, canya? — wasn’t even on my radar. (Tops on the first list was “Why don’t I recline the exam chair and leave you and Roxy here alone for an hour or so while the drops take effect.” “Embedded” was so far off my radar that it wasn’t even on the Other List, which I won’t discuss except to say that number one on that list was “Eyeball Cancer.”)

Then it got better. The doctor put a few drops in my eye, told me to relax, and then came at my eye with a Q-Tip the size of Yao Ming. I asked her what she was doing, and she told me she was going to poke my eyeball with the giant Q-Tip until she was able to gouge out the bit, and hopefully the eyeball wouldn’t rupture first, though if it did that wouldn’t be all bad, as she was a payment behind to her dealer, and eyeball reinflation surgery is a goddamn gold mine, hahaha, so hold still.

It’s a good thing she spends a lot of time with toddlers.

She got it out, the bit, and said, “Oh, it’s an iron filing.”

That’s when I did something really, really dumb. Ready for this shit? Dig me: I asked her how she could tell.

Brace yourself.

She said, and I quote, “Because there’s a rust-ring on your eyeball.”

Isn’t this a nice little story?

True: The hole in my eyeball previously occupied by a sliver of metal now has even tinier bits of pitted and discolored metal in it in a sort of decorative fringe around the original eyeball puncture. I have been given drops for this, some kind of Eyeball Formula Rustoleum, and have to go back on Monday morning because it the rust ring doesn’t dislodge of its own accord over the weekend, the doc has to “go in and get it”. I’m so excited about this, I rushed back to work and hurriedly Googled “French Foreign Legion”.

That was my day.

How was your day?

…na na na na…hey hey hey…

One down, one to go. The shirt got it done, but I shoulda taken up the lucky-underwear loan.


If you don’t know what this references:

“Tell ’em ‘Dave Chappelle came to visit me in the hospital and whooped my monkey ass at some Street Hoops.’ ”

Then you are missing out badly.


On the train this morning, I saw an ad promoting the Chicago Country Music Festival. As best as I can tell from the picture, the Festival is being headlined by Willie Nelson, Whitney Houston, and Christopher Moltisanti. Also from the picture, I deduce that Christopher joined the Witness Protection Program and is now touring with a gay rodeo.


I need to balance my life’s vices. I have more or less stopped eating food — Operation Fifty Pounds was an unqualified success and has morphed directly into Operation Eighty Pounds — and am diligently working to excise the last remaining influence wielded by my own internal Tobacco Lobby. This leaves two openings. Do I promote Lechery or Drunkeness to fill the vice-presidency left open by Gluttony, drag Sloth out of retirement to take Smoking’s seat on the board, sign a free agent, or look to the draft? Advice?

Na na na na…

Ethics 501
Final Exam

Let us say there is to be a big meeting, and at this big meeting several careers might come to an abrupt and premature halt, or at least be substantially sidetracked, thus disrupting some people’s lives for months or even years and causing monstrous and chaotic repercussions for months and months in the lives of those that remain employed. The fallout could poison a lot of people for a lot of years, and would have an impact felt, literally, around the world.

In the hopes that that tiny psychic push would be the last bit of force needed to derail the Karma Train from the Wrong Track and plunge it into the frigid depths of Lake Payback, would it be wrong of me to wear my lucky shirt?

Happy Birthday Emily!

Be courteous, kind and forgiving,
Be gentle and peaceful each day,
Be warm and human and grateful,
And have a good thing to say.

Be thoughtful and trustful and childlike,
Be witty and happy and wise,
Be honest and love all your neighbours,
Be obsequious, purple, and clairvoyant.

Be pompous, obese, and eat cactus,
Be dull, and boring, and omnipresent,
Criticize things you don’t know about,
Be oblong and have your knees removed.

Be tasteless, rude, and offensive,
Live in a swamp and be three dimensional,
Put a live chicken in your underwear,
Get all excited and go to a yawning festival.

O.K. everybody!

Be courteous, kind and forgiving,
Be gentle and peaceful each day,
Be warm and human and grateful,
And have a good thing to say.

Be thoughtful and trustful and childlike,
(O.K. everybody on this!)
Be witty and happy and wise,
Be honest and love all your neighbours,
Be obsequious, purple, and clairvoyant.
(Let ’em hear you outside!)

Be pompous, obese, and eat cactus,
(Everybody sing!)
Be dull, and boring, and omnipresent,
Criticize things you don’t know about,
Be oblong and have your knees removed.

(Ladies only)
Be tasteless, rude, and offensive,
(Now the men)
Live in a swamp and be three-dimensional,
Put a live chicken in your underwear,
Go into a closet and suck eggs.

— Steve Martin

Registered Lech Offender

“If a guy says of an obscenely underage girl that ‘she’s gonna be hot when she’s older,’ he really means that she’s hot right now.”


What’s the correct voltage at which to set my electroshock therapy machine to stop my R-complex’s constant leering at Emma Watson?

(Man, she’ll be hot when she’s older…)