Photo Friday

Video Thursday

If they had computers and video cameras in 1959, this could have been me.

I saw this on the Jimmy Kimmel Show and I just had to share it.

This kid will make a good drag queen. He lip syncs with the best of them.

Lez Bowling

Monday night was bowling night, and for the second week in a row we did okay. Despite my team of spastic bowlers we finished the first half of the season in third place. The second half is another story. As of Monday we were tied for second to last place. In my lifetime, I have never been on a team that finished first. Not in bowling, or little league, not even in fourth grade when I managed to finish third in the classroom spelling bee. I got a nifty little statue of Jesus for that one, which is still around the house here somewhere, unless Chandler ate it.

I was on a bowling team that finished in second place once. About twenty five years ago, my friends Dennis, Russell, and I formed a team and joined a league. The particular league we joined was an all lesbian league, and because we occasionally drank at the lesbian bar, they allowed a team of gay men into their secret lesbian world. Okay, maybe they were confused by our mullet haircuts and flannel shirts, but by the time they figured us out we were already bowling. It was on this league that I bowled my best game ever, a two seventy eight. At the end of the season, it turned out that my high score was the highest that season, and at our bowling banquet I got a trophy to commemorate that game. I really felt great. The trophy had my name on it, my two seventy eight score below that, and up on top was the likeness of a bowler with long hair and a skirt. This totally pissed me off, how dare they do that to me. I hadn't worn my hair in that style since I left the hippie commune in 1972.

Are You Sure Today Is Monday?

One of my biggest fears about aging is losing my memory. I don't want to end up roaming around a house full of strangers who tell me I'm related to them. It would be embarrassing, and confusing to hear, "Uncle Alan, for the last time, I am not a drag queen, and this is not a gay bar!".

I used to have a pretty good memory, but over the last twenty years or so I have found that I tend to forget a few more things than I used to. I forget movies that I have just watched the week before, and I am horrible with peoples names. I seem to remember folks dogs names just fine, and often have to refer to my neighbors as, Fritzy's mommy, or that woman who walks Chase.

Saturday, a friend of mine brought over a bunch of old house paint for me to take, along with mine, to the hazardous waste collection site on Sunday. I had about fifty old paint cans I wanted to get rid of, and my friend had seven. Once a year they collect all the poisons, solvents, paint, and old batteries accumulating in peoples homes and sheds, at one place here in town. I offered to take all of my stuff and my neighbors stuff over there because he would be out of town Sunday. I don't know if this is an indication that my mind is going, but today, Monday, I now have fifty seven cans of old paint in my shed.

Crap Happens

Today is Saturday, and as usual I always get up long before Mark. Every morning around seven, Chandler starts making noises to go out, and I have to get up and take care of it. The routine is that I greet him at the gate that keeps him separated from the cats, give him his hugs and kisses, then escort him past hissing felines out to the dog run. While Chandler is out peeing and pooping, I go into my office and turn on the computer. So I'm sitting there, checking up on the news of the day, contributing to the demise of newspapers, and I get a whiff of something bad. I smell dog shit. I spin around in my chair, and there it is. Laying like an old log in a clear cut forest, one single turd about five inches long in the middle of a cushion on the office sofa. This is the first time my dog has pooped in the house since the first week he lived here. I have been bragging for six months about how good he has been, and how easy it was to house break him, and now the little guy has let me down. I now know how my mom felt when I flunked seventh grade.

It is later in the day, Saturday, and the turd incident is behind us. Chandler knows that is was wrong to poop on the couch that we use for un-announced house guests to sleep on, and I am busy cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. Another custom at our house, is that while I load the dishwasher, Chandler takes the opportunity to lick all the gravy and sauces dripping from the loaded dishes. It's sort of a hillbilly pre-rinse. Suddenly, Chandler starts screaming and pulling away from the dishwasher. He has somehow hooked himself on the lower rack and is trying to back away, ripping the loaded dishes out of the washer and dragging them across the kitchen. Now the dog is screaming, I am screaming, and just for the hell of it, Mark comes running into the kitchen screaming and flailing his arms about, begging the 'lord Jesus', don't let there be any blood. There was no blood.

Poor Chandler is cowering in the living room, Mark is hyperventilating in the bedroom, and I am cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. As I pick up the shattered dishes and try to put the dishwasher back together, I get a whiff of something horrible. What looked like gravy spattered on the refrigerator and cabinet, is actually dog poop. Chandler literally scared the crap out of himself.

Just another day at my house. They don't all go this way, in fact, often it is quite peaceful here. So if anyone is tired of all that cold and snow up north and wants to take a nice tropical break, come on down. Call first though, otherwise you might have to sleep on the office couch.

Photo Friday

Fun With Willy's Hat

Dirty Ole Honky

Video Thursday

Chandler Goes To The Bark Park

I sure have a weird, maniacal laugh.

Burp

Ancient Roman Vomitorium

Men. Women. Vomitorium. In every tavern there should be three doors, with one of those words on those doors. No reason to disgust those of us who don’t over-imbibe, with the sickness of those who do.

Again this morning I heard the squeals of horror coming from the bedroom. I ran to the door and looked in. There was Mark running through the room screaming, holding Fat Kitty while she spewed her morning vittles across the floor. You have to be fast when the cat starts heaving. First you have to get her off the bed, away from the carpet, and then aim her towards a floor area that will be easy to clean. Next, you have to be faster than Chandler, who looks upon this as an opportunity to gorge on his favorite food, cat excretions. Moments after fighting off Chandler, and cleaning up Fat Kitty’s mess, I heard Mark scream again. Fat Kitty had one more morsel to expel, and she did it with panache. It shot out of her mouth, arced across the room, and landed conveniently, in front of Chandler. This time I didn’t fight him for it.

I know that the word vomitorium doesn’t actually refer to a room in which vomiting is done. It is a theater entrance/exit, but it is so descriptive of what the cats do in our bedroom, I think the dictionary people should consider amending the definition. The cats obviously look upon our bedroom as their personal puke palace, and will come in from the carpet-less living room just to hack up lunch, so why not vomitorium.

Vom-i-to-ri-um [vom-i-tawr-ee-uhm] (noun)
1. An entrance/exit under theater seats.
2. A room where bar patrons can disgorge their drinks to make room for more liquor.
3. Mark and Alan’s bedroom.

American Idle

I didn't enjoy the audition portion of American Idol so much this season. They apparently were trying to be 'nicer', which of course makes the show crappier. I watch American Idol solely for the train wrecks and to hear Simons bitchy, catty, comments. After all, isn't laughing at other peoples misfortunes what makes our lives seem all that much better. Of course I don't laugh at every misfortune. Watching my neighbors get evicted from their foreclosed home isn't funny, but watching Simon Cowell rip into William Hung seems like innocent fun. Except of course for William Hung, but at least he took that embarrassment and parlayed it into a career for those who enjoy listening to a human who sounds like a dog vomiting.

In past years we have had the likes of Kenneth Briggs, who Simon called a Bush Baby, and his buddy Jonathon Jayne, who like Hung managed to make something out of losing. So I get to laugh, the losers get to go on Jimmy Kimmel, make a few bucks, and be famous for fifteen minutes. Where's the harm?

Well at least American Idol has a few crazies in the final thirty six to keep me interested. Tatiana, who sobs, giggles, and begs for another chance is fun, and Nick "Norman" Mitchell who is not fun, but he will be the Sanjaya of this year. One contestant I am looking forward to is, Nathaniel Marshall, the sobbing drama queen, who has more parts of his body pierced than Bonnie and Clyde. I just hope he doesn't go berserk, rip out his nose ring, and use it as a weapon to attack Paula Abdul.

Dog Fight

Almost every time I eat, a little bit of food ends up on my shirt just above my belly, it used to fall all the way to my lap. My expensive mattress that was supposed to last ten years, has a noticeable sag on my side while over on skinny-ass Mark's side it's still as firm as the day we bought it. I can't tie my shoes without unbuckling my belt, that is unless my belt is already unbuckled because it is just more comfortable that way. When I walk, my thighs rub together and my ass cheeks chafe. I find I go through more containers of baby powder than a woman with octuplets. I probably wouldn't have so many problems with my feet if they weren't trying to support thirty three percent more weight than they did twelve years ago.

And the war against fat goes on. I know all you skinny bastards are saying, "Just don't eat so much", but you have never lived with Mark. Last night, for dinner, we had a delicious salad of greens, citrus, and goat cheese, with a light vinaigrette. The main course was Swedish meat balls on egg noodles. I know that doesn't sound too bad, but it was followed by Mark's homemade strawberry shortcake smothered in whipped-cream, and not the kind that comes in a can or tub, but real cream, whipped up with sugar. I challenge anybody to resist that dessert.

Every day I start out with good intentions, then around five in the evening Mark starts cooking, and Chandler and I find ourselves hanging around the kitchen drooling, and hoping for a morsel of food to come our way. I know I've lost all hope when I find myself diving for the same piece of meat that Mark has thrown to the dog. This morning I will try again, and I hope that I find the will power to eat with moderation today. That would please Chandler, he hates the competition.

Photo Friday

For days I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out who the new Attorney General, Eric Holder, reminds me of.

Finally I got it!!

Howard Sprague from the Andy Griffith Show.

Video Thursday

Girl with 8 week old puppy at Fort Lauderdale airport

The puppy had a better seat than I did

MGM Grand

We are in the car and Mark is going nuts again. This time it's because he's stuck behind a driver worse than him. I know I've called Mark the worst driver in the world before, but the truth is there are worse, and we are behind one of them right now. The car in front of us is one of hundreds of thousands of Mercury Grand Marquis here in Florida, all driven by the same old geezer who bought it the year before he retired. This particular MGM (Mercury Grand Marquis) is a faded grey beast that is barely moving, and is sputtering along on seven cylinders. The odor of gasoline is so strong that Mark is afraid to get too close, for fear it may burst into flames any minute. Unfortunately his turn signal, that has been on for the last mile, indicates he is going the same direction as we are. I don't know why Mercury Grand Marquis's are the auto of choice for the old retired buzzards of Florida. Maybe they like the feel of all that metal around them as they accidentally jam on the accelerator instead of the brakes, and go flying through the window of the 7-Eleven. Or maybe it reminds them of the 1950's, when cars weighed two tons, and had fins with a wingspan wider than a DC3. I just hope as we are sitting behind him at the stop light, and the gasoline fumes are wafting through our open windows, that he doesn't flip a lit cigar out of the window.

If It Quacks Like a Duck, Walks Like a Duck, It Must Be Alan

As a kid, I once whined, cried, and begged my mom to buy me a pair of cowboy boots. She must have been having a hard time that day, because she actually gave in and bought them for me. I loved those things and wore them everywhere. Yes, I wore them everywhere, for about two days. The problem was and still is, that I have feet more appropriate for a duck than a human. My heels are narrow and The area around the ball of my feet are wide. After two days of being Cowboy Al, my feet were rubbed raw and painful blisters had formed on top of huge painful blisters.

I further degraded my feet as an adult, when I decided that spending the least amount of money for a pair of shoes was more important than buying shoes that fit correctly. For years I clomped around Chicago in ill fitting shoes, made in Poland of questionable materials. After years of bad shoes, my feet became more and more painful, and I found myself walking less and less. Even with the foot surgery I had last year, my feet still wouldn't be considered fit for use on most humans. I have actually considered having them cut off and then be fitted with those high tech springy, fake feet. I hear you can run fast on them.

Sunday, Mark and I went to the mall, and while Mark scoured Home Goods, and Marshalls, for more crap to bring home, I went looking for shoes. I don't like to shop for shoes with Mark, because he always tries to talk me into buying something fashionable, and I like to get what feels good. Unfortunately what feels good usually looks like something my grandmother would wear, and this time was no different. I found a pair of shoes that look awful, but on my walk around the block with Chandler this evening, I was glad I bought them. They felt good, and I'm pretty sure they don't make me look like Donald Duck.

The Warmth of the Sun

Last week it got down to thirty three degrees here at 'Casa de Alan', and I along with the rest of South Florida acted like the pussy's we are and bitched and moaned about the bitter cold. How, you wonder, did a guy who grew up in Chicago and faced temperatures in the -20 degree range become such a whiner about how cold it is in Florida? Like they say, my blood has thinned over the twenty years I have lived here. It is so thin that I wonder why it isn't just seeping out through my skin. Also, I was pretty much a pansy about the cold when I lived up north. That is after all why I moved here, to be warm despite all the crabby old people, loud New Yorkers, and rude French Canadians, who I have had to put up with these many years.

One reason the cold feels so bad here, is that I own an old house that was not built to keep out the cold nor to keep in the air-conditioning. The windows are leaky little slats of glass, that pass the air like an old man eating chili. Then there is the so called "furnace", which is actually no more than a glorified space heater with a high powered fan, that sucks up kilowatts of electricity at a fantastic rate.

The fact that we don't dress correctly for the cold, is another cause of our discomfort. Most of the year we walk around looking like bums in our shorts, tank tops, and flip flops, then suddenly one day the weather changes and we've forgotten how to dress for it. On the night I crossed over into Florida, twenty years ago, I took off my winter coat and threw it into a trash can. After all, I wouldn't ever need that thing again. I found out later that December, when the temperature dropped to twenty seven degrees on Christmas Eve, that I probably should have kept the coat. At least I have the fact that cold spells never last long here to keep my spirits up. This week the temperatures will shoot back up into the eighties, and I can put my heavy winter coat back in the closet for another few years. Hopefully the dog hasn't dragged my flip flops off too far.

Photo Friday

One degree from ice skating on my pool
(Thursday Morning, February 5th)

Video Thursday

At Sidelines in Wilton Manors Florida

Hazardous Waste Removal

(Photo courtesy of 'The Hostess', and her dog Simon)

It must be rough having a dog in a cold snowy place. No matter the weather, you have to take the dog out to go poopies. At best you have a dog run right outside the door, but still you have to convince Fido that he must go out into that frozen wasteland, and that you won't forget him. That's why some people only have a cat, a pet that poops inside like civilized people do. The only problem is they don't flush.

While I was out in Palm Springs, California for five days, I called home every day to make sure Mark was feeding the dog and that he was giving Carlotta the cat, her pills. My biggest fear was that I would come home to a house full of dead or starving animals, because pet maintenance is not one of Mark's strong points. What was most disturbing, was when I called, and Mark told me, "I haven't had to scoop the cat box all weekend. Chandler has been eating the turds and is keeping it clean.". This is the one thing I've been having a hard time communicating to Mark, Chandler is not a garbage disposal! I knew that Mark would not actually scoop out the kitty litter. That's why I kept my visit out west down to five days. Any longer and I would have come home to a mountain of kitty poop, and that odor that you can only get in a crazy cat lady's house.

I try to clean the cat's poop box out at least once a day. If you leave it any longer it becomes a major excavation project, and requires more than the little pooper scooper that I normally use. It's not too much of a job, but as I am removing the little cat nuggets and urine clumps, I have to ask myself, is letting an animal take a crap inside my house really all that civilized?

Things That Smell

I don't like perfumed things. I use unscented soap, unscented deodorant, and I insist on unscented detergent to wash my clothes. After years of breaking out in rashes, I finally figured out that it was the perfume in those things that made me look like a giant strawberry, and itch like I had fleas. I am so sensitive to perfumes, that if I walk down the detergent aisle in the super market, I usually have a sneezing fit so violent that other shoppers are running away, and mothers are throwing themselves over their children to protect them.

If I had to do without the unscented products. I would probably end up like the older lady I ran across while shopping the other day. She was a stinker, she smelled horrible. The smell was so bad that I gagged out loud, and much to Mark's embarrassment, I blurted out "What smells like goat crap?". I know it wasn't just me, because two young women walked by and visibly winced and held their noses. I felt like yelling after them, "It's not me, It's that goat woman over there!!", but I kept my mouth shut for fear of inhaling more of the stench. The worst part is that she was with friends, who obviously weren't very good friends or they wouldn't have let her out of the house smelling like that.

Lately, Mark has been using a new body wash. I have asked him to stop, because he now smells like my grandmother. Not that my grandmother smelled bad. In fact she had an odor of perfume, combined with the smell of chicken soup and Lysol, none of which are really bad. It's having that smell on Mark that's so disturbing. It brings back memories of being two years old, and my grandmother holding me on her lap, pressing my face against her large bosoms. I'll never forget looking into that cleavage and seeing her lace hanky stuffed down there. For years I believed that women's breasts were meant to be used for storage. It might explain a lot of things about me.

Grandma and Alan, sometime in 1950