Respect My Authority

We have dipped the torches in kerosene, and sharpened our pitchforks. The villagers are getting ready to storm the castle. Well not quite, we actually are getting ready to take on city hall. It's the residents against the gigantic gay resort, part one.

In a previous story I told of how they plan to tear down the church at the end of our block and build a five story, one hundred and twenty five unit, gay resort/hotel complex. Now obviously it's not the gay part I worry about, that's actually a plus. It's the traffic and noise thing that has caused the entire neighborhood to be up in arms. In an attempt to block the complex, this past Thursday an anti G-resort meeting was called for all who wanted to attend. So many irate citizens showed up that folks were spilling out of the room, and out into the hallway.

About a hundred and thirty people came to the meeting in a very pissed off and angry mood, and after an hour of people coming up with all sorts of cockamamie ideas, it was finally decided that we'd have a petition, and all show up at every city hall, and zoning meeting en masse. What's more, each block in the neighborhood was to have a block captain to make sure everyone signed the petition, and showed up at the meetings. Guess who was named block captain for our block.

Thank you, thank you. I want to say that I am humbled by your choice and trust in me, and I pledge that I will fulfill my role as Block Captain to the best of my ability. Yes, I am the block captain. Of course the fact that I was the only person from our block to show up at the meeting might have something to do with that.

Fat Boy

I walked out into the living room and there in the middle of the room was the kitty litter box. That it was in the center of the room was strange enough, but the fact is we keep it under a counter in the kitchen (Yes I know, not very appetizing, but it's the best spot, close to the garbage can).  How the hell did it get there? The cats aren't strong enough, the only possibility was Chandler. Sure enough I found him cowering in my office, the look of shame on his face. He had apparently caught his dog collar on the lip of the cat box while partaking in that irresistible delicacy, cat poop encrusted with scoopable litter. I can only assume he tried to back out of the thing and dragged it all the way into the next room.

I’m fairly certain that if I left Chandler alone in a room with unlimited food, he’d eat until he exploded. Chandler eats everything. Everything except dog food designed for overweight dogs, which he will leave in the bowl until he feels he might starve to death, and then he’ll only eat it grudgingly. He'd rather eat the cat poop, or lizards, or even a stick he found out on the street.


Speaking of exploding, Mark must have noticed that I lost a few pounds while we were in Chicago. I opened the freezer and found a load of ice cream sandwiches and my favorite, Blue Bell pistachio and almond ice cream. On top of that he’s been whipping up some scrumptious dinners lately, and baking cakes and cookies. I don’t know if he’s trying to kill me with food, but it might have been a mistake to finally go over to the lawyers and sign that will. I should have put in a clause that cut him out if I died from too much cholesterol.

Photo Friday

Glenn Beck's 'Restore Honor' rally in 

Washington D.C. is not without precedent.

 

Video Thursday

 

So Sari Chandler

When I was a kid, my dad would drive us to grandma's house and I'd stare out the car window at the neat little homes occupied by Polocks, Lugans, Micks...... oops I mean Polish, Lithuanians, and Irish. Just a year later my dad would take the exact same route to grandma's, and all the faces of the neighborhood would be changed. They'd all be black, the result of the most nefarious scheme in real-estate, blockbusting.

I thought about that when Mark took me to an Indian restaurant in Chicago a couple of weeks ago. The place was on West Devon Avenue on the north side, and the last time I was in that neighborhood, thirty years ago, it was all Jewish. In thirty years the place had gone from delis and 'wholesale' stores, to a little slice of India, albeit without the smell. There was not one Jewish business left, it was all saris, phone card stores, and travel agencies that only seemed to book tours of India or Pakistan.

Mark has taken me to an Indian restaurant before, in Fort Lauderdale. It wasn't very good. I couldn't be sure if I was eating cat or goat, even though the meat was listed as chicken on the menu. That and the overwhelming smell of the curry made it not a very satisfying experience. The place Mark had picked out for us this evening, however, was not that bad, and the fact that we could bring our own bottle of wine helped immensely.

One of the best things about going out to eat with Mark is that he is always confident that he can make what we just ate better, and on the way home he promised that he'd be trying to cook Indian food when we returned to Florida. Well he did, and it was. Mark made some Indian fish that was spectacularly good, followed the next day by something called tandoori chicken. The chicken was orgasmic. In fact it was so damn good I asked him to make it again, and it was just as good the second time. He blew that Indian restaurant out of the water. The only problem with eating all this Indian food is the gas. Poor Chandler, he likes to sleep on the bed snuggled right up against me, and I pretty much kept him up all night long doing the tandoori toot.

Meet the Candidates

I would make such a horrible news reporter. Last Wednesday a gaggle of gay candidates had a 'meet and greet' at our favorite bar, including the 'One strike, your dog is dead' guy, Ken Keechl. So Mark and I went. What pisses me off is that I had the video camera in my pocket, and in the heat of all the discussions, I forgot to pull it out and at least get something on it.

When Mark had suggested we go and talk to the candidates, I asked myself, is that such a good idea? I've been with Mark many times when he starts talking politics, and he tends to get a bit frenetic. His arms start flailing, his voice rises to a pitch that only dogs can appreciate, and before you know it he's throwing out malapropisms left and right. As a precaution, when we arrived, I headed straight for my favorite bartender and ordered a couple of drinks. I hadn't noticed that we grabbed two bar stools next to a pair of guys wearing all the accoutrement of political sycophants. They had on the candidate tee shirts and buttons, and applauded wildly every time their favorite candidate was mentioned. By the time I got the drinks and turned to Mark, he was already enmeshed in a heated discussion with them about Ken Keechl.

"You guys are tea baggers, aren't you?" one of them said, as he stabbed the air with his finger.
It was too late. The discussion had apparently turned into an argument, and every time I tried to interject, and explain that I just wanted to ask Ken Keechl about the dog law, I was accused of being a tea party crazy guy. After a few back and forth hysterics between Mark, the tea bagger guy, and me, I finally broke down and turned into my dad. "You're a fucking nut, that's what you are, a fucking nut." I shouted. That did it. The bartender and everyone within earshot looked at me, and the two guys stood up and walked away.

Where they went, was right over to Ken Keechl to give him the 411 on the guys laying in wait for him at the bar. Instead of going the other way to avoid us, he came over and engaged us in a very civil conversation about his dog ordinance. I have to give him credit for that. He explained that the problem was with the judges misinterpreting the ordinance and not the law. I then suggested that maybe he should change the law so it wasn't quite so ambiguous, which he agreed to look into. I told him that if he was sincere about that I'd consider voting for him. He then smiled, looked into my eyes, and said, "Oh, just between you and me, I can't lose." and he walked away.

( Note from the future, past. Ken Keechl did not have it in the bag. He did not win that election.)

What it might have looked like if I had taken a photo.

Paper or Plastic, Asshole

Once in a while I say things out loud that I really only meant to think. This morning, while at the supermarket to stock up on cat food, I blurted out my true feelings.

You have to understand that it had been building since we walked in the door of the Publix. The first thing I encountered as I pushed the cart through the door was an obese woman and her kids. They were blocking all access to the store while she scanned the sales brochure looking to see if she could afford to pack on more fat. With a gentle nudge of the cart against her ass, she finally got the hint and moved on only to reveal another obese couple. This time it was two gay 'bears' chatting away in the middle of the aisle, probably comparing notes on what removes back hair better, Nair or Epilady.

After negotiating my way past them, I finally got to the pet food aisle where I encountered a man standing in front of the cat food with his cart. He was staring intently at the shelves, oblivious to all around him, seemingly trying to levitate the cans into his cart. It wasn't working so I squeezed myself in between him and the cat food to retrieve a case of Nine Lives, and a bag of Friskies. This apparently awoke him from his trance, and excusing himself he pushed his cart over my toes, and moved it a whole three feet down where he continued to stare at the cat food.

I am not a good shopper. Mark seems so at ease in a store. It's like he was born to roam the aisles, and is naturally drawn to the best deals. He slips between the fat people, and around the displays like a cat on a hunt, while I lumber through like a crazed bull. That's why when I approached the checkout counters, and spotted two short lines out of the five, I started rolling fast towards them, scaring people out of my path. Just as I got to the first one a young woman pulled into the lane. Fine, I kept moving and went for the next one, except the young woman changed her mind and she went for that one. That's when I blurted out, "For Christ sakes, make up your mind!"

I didn't mean to shout it out, but something snapped and out it came. The reaction was swift. Heads spun around to see who the asshole was, and the young lady shrunk back, sputtering apologies. I have to tell you, I did feel like an asshole, but at least I was the first asshole in line.