You're Not Santa

When I was a kid, there was a woman who I always saw around town, who dressed and acted like a man. I can only assume that she was a lesbian. I have to say, it took balls to dress like that, and be the only lesbian in a small town back in the nineteen fifties. It must have been hard to be the only gay in town.

Saturday was 'Wilton Wonderland' day on our main street. There was a small Christmas parade, and a tree lighting ceremony, along with caroling by the Gay Men's Choir. It was nice, but it got me to thinking. Maybe Wilton Manors has reached the tipping point wherein it is too gay. Of the hundreds of people strolling up and down the street, there were only a handful of families with children. At the far end of the street, a forlorn Santa Claus waited in vain for the children to come and get their photos taken with him. When a couple of children did show up, they got red carpet treatment, and got to visit with Santa for as long as they wanted.

I guess I understand why families would be put off by our towns Christmas festival. One store front had a hunky "Santa" in nothing but red underpants sitting in the window, attracting a large crowd. And as nice as the caroling was, as soon as it was over the music switched to loud, gay dance club music. Meanwhile, drag queens in their best holiday wigs seemed to come out of nowhere, scaring me, and the few children who were still around.

I don't think it's a good idea for people to only live with their own kind. That's how prejudices start, and xenophobia sets in. It seems that our little town, which was quite different when I moved here nineteen years ago, has become a gay ghetto. I wish it was a little more diverse, but at least it's a ghetto with cute shops and good restaurants.

Mmmmm, Goat Cheese

It's funny how you can tell a lot about a neighborhood just by going to the local supermarket. For instance, the Publix Market at Coral Ridge Mall. That store is in a area dominated by a lot of older Jewish people, and old French Canadians. I really don't like to go to that store very often because I spend most of my time reaching for things off the high shelves for the old ladies who think I work there. Meanwhile, while I am getting bran flakes off the top shelf for the old ladies, their husbands, who can barely see over the top of the shopping cart, are banging into my ankles because they can't see me.

Here in our neighborhood, Wilton Manors, we have a little Publix that is more like a gay club with snacks. It's just weird to be shopping for groceries while guys are parading up and down the aisles in muscle shirts and short, shorts. Besides, it tends to distract me from my reason for going there. More than once I have forgot the very thing I went to the store for, because I was stalking some guy in the dairy aisle.

Friday, Mark abducted me after a haircut to go grocery shopping at Albertsons, which is in a heavily mixed area. By mixed I mean, old, young, gay, straight, black, white, brown, but by no means wealthy. It is an absolute freak show, and though I don't like shopping, at least it is entertaining. In the course of a half hour of shopping, I saw a middle aged man wearing a long page boy haircut with sideburns taped to his face, a tall fat man with a tiny backpack talking to himself, and a fat woman verbally bitch slapping her husband in the meat department. I felt like I fit right in. The only bad part about shopping that day was the old man who smelled like a goat. He seemed to cross my path at every turn. The only time I didn't see him was when I was in the soap aisle. I'm sure he's missed that aisle many a time.

Photo Friday

Young man, if you have time to play games, you have time to clean your room.

Video Thursday

Hey, it's hard to come up with a new story every day. That's why I started Photo Friday. In an effort to continue with high quality stories (sort of), I am inserting Video Thursday into the mix. I have had this video camera since last Christmas and only used it twice. Now I have a reason to use it more. Yea, I know, home movies yuck. If anyone wants, I am open to 'guest blogger Wednesday'. If you have a good story, especially about me, write it up and I'll use it. Unless of course it's dirty, or I don't like it.

Well here is the first 'Video Thursday', titled "I'm Ready For My Closeup Mr. Mark", starring Chandler and Fat Kitty.

Bad Doggy

Chandler is coming up on eight months of age, and I am constantly amazed at how smart he is. I hate to say it but he is much smarter at this age than Molly was. For one thing he has a very definite and vocal way of telling me he has to go out and do poopies, and he doesn't stop until I let him out. Unfortunately, he also knows that if he fakes it, daddy will open the door and let him out, allowing him to run around outside and play. There is a slight difference in his "I want to go out and poop" bark, and his "I want to go out and play" bark. The real one has a sense of urgency that he just can't reproduce if he is just screwing with me.

As for chewing on furniture, Chandler has only damaged one table leg and one chair leg, and after a reprimand from Mark, I think he knows not to do that again. The chewing thing went just a little too far last Wednesday. Mark had me bring in a rug from the shed that we removed because Molly had puked on it. For an hour I got down on my knees and scrubbed that carpet with upholstery cleaner until all evidence of Molly's sickness was gone and it looked like new.

The next day I left the house before Mark got home from shopping. Fifteen minutes after I left, Mark returned home to find the newly cleaned rug shredded. Apparently Chandler had been waiting for just such an opportunity to destroy the rug. He had determined that all he needed was a ten minute window, and when we presented him with it, he went to work on the rug. I am not sure what his motivation was for destroying the rug. It might have still smelled like Molly, and he resented that, or maybe he knew it would really drive Mark crazy and around here we always enjoy seeing Mark blow his top. It's sort of entertaining. Whatever it was, Mark did go crazy and screamed so loud and long, that neighbors up and down the block were asking me, "what did Chandler do now?".

That Porn Star Must Be Really Old By Now

Back in the early 1950's my dad brought home a new television. He took one power cord and plugged it into the wall. He then took one antenna cable and connected it to the television. Within minutes we were able to watch all four television stations in the Chicago area. Sure, the screen was only about ten inches across, and the picture was only in shades of grey, black, and white, but we didn't care. Television watching was so simple for me back then.

Over the last thirty years I have watched my television habits get more and more complicated. It started with my first VCR tape machine. Cables going from the antenna to the VCR and then to the television were connected. Next, I added satellite television and more cables and equipment were needed. This was followed by a surround sound, and a DVD player, which was also tied into my stereo system. In time it became so complicated behind my television that I didn't know which cables were going where, and some times I even duplicated the efforts causing sound to come blasting out of speakers I didn't even know I had. It got to the point that I was terrified to even look behind my television for fear of accidentally unplugging some cable that would render me television-less, and cause me hours of trial and error plugging and un-plugging. In ten years no dust mop, broom, or vacuum has seen the back of my entertainment center. It is just a scramble of cables, wires, and huge dust bunnies.

Saturday I installed my new HD television. First I retired my VCR, because I realized I hadn't even used it in years, other than to look at a twenty-five year old porno tape. Then I started removing cables. After pulling out about five miles of cable and wires, I was able to remove the old TV and all the components on top of it. I then positioned the new television, the new DVD player, the satellite box, and the sound system amplifier where I wanted them. After an hour of partial guessing and some actual reading of the instructions, I had it all re-cabled, and ready to go. I have a picture, and sound, so I think it will all be good, that is until the satellite installer comes on Thursday to upgrade the satellite system. But of course that's his problem.

Must Go Shopping, Must Eat Brains.

“A stampede of shoppers in a Valley Stream, New York, Wal-Mart on Friday morning left one worker dead and at least three patrons injured after an impatient crowd broke down the store doors and trampled a seasonal employee.” Five o'clock, Friday morning. Mark has awakened me, and we are on our way to a 'Door-buster' sale. I pretty much hate shopping of all kinds, and to actually set the alarm so that I can go shopping with Mark doesn't seem likely, yet here I am. I have always considered the mobs who get up the morning after Thanksgiving to go shopping before the sun has even come up, to be insane. So I must be insane. What could possibly get me to do this? How about a large screen, high definition, television for forty percent off?

A few years ago, Mark had me drop him off at the Circuit City store at three in the morning so he could be first in line to buy some electronic piece of crap that we didn't need. When we pulled into the parking lot, it was apparent that Mark would not be first in line. What appeared to be a party at a trailer park, complete with little coolers, lawn chairs, and portable televisions, was actually the line to get into Circuit City. As I pulled out of the parking lot, Mark disappeared into the crowd. Four hours later, the jangle of the telephone pulled me out of a pleasant sleep. It was Mark, "I'm ready! Come and pick me up, and bring your credit card!". When I got to the store, I walked in looking for Mark, and found myself enveloped in a wall to wall mob of zombies clutching packages and dragging boxes towards the checkout counters. Behind the mob were rows of what used to be display shelves, torn apart and stripped bare. On the floor were discarded signs, cardboard, and a few children. As I tried to get through the crowd looking for Mark, it was as if I were caught up in a giant intestine that was slowly working me through it, only to pop me out like a turd at the exit, on the other side of the store.

This year was different. Instead of trying to get our new television at the most popular store, 'Best Buy', we decided to go to Sears. For some reason people do not think of Sears as a 'Door-buster' store, and we were able to walk in at five in the morning, find a salesman immediately, buy our television, and be on our way home by five fifteen. There were no crowds, no lines, and plenty of product on the shelves. In fact it was so easy, that if I owned Sears stock, I'd sell it first thing Monday.