Overheard at Thanksgiving Dinner

Yet again, taken out of context, the following could raise an eyebrow or two.

4-year old nephew: "Do you want to be a bad girl?"

4-year old niece-in-law: "Well, yeah!"

***

bro-in-law: "He usually does OK if he gets the head into his mouth and not just on his lips."

***

And it's this last one that has reenforced my faith and confidence in the suburban undercover white trash family unit.

4-year old nephew: "Ow! Uncle Kenny, she hurted my dick."

Uncle Kenny: "Well, that's what bad girls do. Just be glad it was only her hands."

Now I'm not sure how my nephew managed to pick up that adultish slang word, but it's better, if only marginally, than my own family's slang word of "mister" when referring to the penis. (My mother was a registered nurse for heaven sakes, you would think she'd be able to use the clinical terms comfortably with us.) The last time I visited my nephew he left me stunned with his reaction to my seemingly innocent request to stop doing Ninja-style kicks near my groin. Upon one of a little-too-close-for-comfort attempts I snapped, "Hey, watch it, mister!" To which he replied, "I'm not mister…! THIS is mister!" and he proceeded to flash me. YIKES! As a gay man, I'm living under enough misconceptions and irrational stereotypes already, the last thing I need is a preschooler doing that and someone walking in not having been there for for the first half. So yes, I'm glad he's moved on in his slang vocabulary because the chances of me calling him a dick and getting a repeat performance are far, far less likely.

Listen to this!

A few years ago I had a special opportunity to visit New York City for a weekend. So totally not long enough to take in all that is the thriving, full of life, a story around every corner, metropolis. The group I was part of were given a private sightseeing tour of Manhattan and one of the places we stopped was the site formally known as the World Trade Center. It was a powerful and reflective experience. It was at the site that I first learned about StoryCorps. This fascinating project's mission is to honor and celebrate one another’s lives through listening. I dig that. So when I learned of the National Day of Listening taking place on Friday, November 28, I jumped right in head first.

Now if that date sounds vaguely familiar, you might recognize it better as Black Friday…the day of the humongous day-after-Thanksgiving Day sales where people camp out waiting for stores to open where they can then proceed to elbow, push, and trample their way to the limited-quantity half-off old-fashioned kettle corn popper they never knew they needed or will ever use more than once. Needless to say, there's going to be some competition for time that day.

Well, I don't know about you, but this year I've learned to embrace the simple truth that "the only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind." —John Allston. So maybe this year is the year to start thinking more about the quality of our actions rather than acquiring more possessions. Heaven forbid the economy gets any worse because people stop buying things altogether, so please feel free to get out there and spend some money. All I'm suggesting is that maybe society would be a little happier, the world a bit nicer, if we made positive actions as much of a priority. Actions like listening, truly listening, to someone.

I've used StoryCorps' online tool to build my list of questions to ask the various important people in my life. My family will be easy to interview, but my friends and I will be separated by many many miles, making for a bit of a challenge. We'll just have to wait and see if technology can come to the rescue. (I'm not worried at all.)

So if you're at all interested, even just a little bit, in participating in the National Day of Listening, click on over to the website and get ready to make a new personal connection, or deepen an existing one, and start building a positive legacy that will out live the two dozen tube socks you scored for a dollar.

Entertainingly unfortunate line breaks

A friend of mine and I were chatting the other day about how we both enjoy TV Land and classic sitcom from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. After I mentioned the delight I take in watching I Love Lucy on Sunday mornings enjoying breakfast, he shared with me his relief learning something unexpected about a certain president-elect. Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending how you look at it — the chat window was just wide enough to cause me to do a total double-take.

This is what I saw:

Can you figure out what he was talking about? Here's a hint… think 1960s sitcom, New Rochelle, and an ottoman/tripping hazard.

NaBloPoMo 2008: FAIL

So just barely a little more than half way through the month and NaBloPoMo and I missed posting last night. I have failed NaBloPoMo 2009. And I have absolutely no regrets because I missed it for a very good reason.

Life is all about the choices we make, the actions we take. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing about Sunday.

Where the boys are...

Single Rider Tour 2008 — part nine in a series

Yesterday I rated the three theme parks I visited, but there was an interesting difference between them that I didn't mention, namely, which park had the hotter guys. Totally not important — which is why this didn't impact the park's scores — but it's at least a little interesting.

While the concept of "hot" is relative when it comes to appearance, there are certain aspects that tend to remain consistent over a wide audience; how fit a person is.

I'll be the first to admit that I tend to be attracted to guys that many other's wouldn't be, especially when it comes to facial features, but since this is my blog, this bias is totally acceptable. I didn't take any photos to backup my findings, as that seemed a little too creepy.

What I find the most interesting is that the male guests were most attractive at Magic Mountain and least eye-catching at Disneyland. I have no idea why that would be the case. I would have thought that Disney, having the highest ticket price, might have an advantage — though they did let me in — but that was clearly not the case.

Maybe the hot guys are attracted to the park with the highest number of thrill rides? No clue, as most of the hot guys at Magic Mountain were obviously straight and the mind of the straight guy is as mysterious to me as the mind of women is to straight guys. I did see a few gay couples at Magic Mountain, which was kind of cool, so maybe I should have asked them.

Not sure if my findings are consistent with others, I don't believe there's been a lot of research done on this. What about you? Have you noticed a trend in where attractive guys (or girls) tend to flock to? Any theories on why?

Redefining an "extreme" vacation

Single Rider Tour 2008 — part five in a series

Well, maybe calling it a "vacation of extremes" would be more accurate. For the past three days I've been surrounded, more or less, by crowds of theme park-goers, riding thrill ride after thrill ride, and generally looking for mass marketed entertainment. While I did find a couple opportunities to flex my artistic side by way of photography, I wouldn't fully embrace the arts until today, and with that take a complete departure from the entire vacation so far.

The day started on a good note. And while I missed hanging out with The Writer before he left for work, Betty's breakfast recommendation made up for it. The place: Patrick's Roadhouse. The vibe: beyond eclectic. The food: deliciously comforting. The service: refreshingly personal and friendly. I'll eventually have some photos to post, once I'm back home (I'm writing this at LAX sans internet). I'm not really a big breakfast guy — unless it's breakfast for dinner — but I went to town on my food. Thanks for the recommendation, Betty! You've created another fan for this friendly and funky place.

I finished eating sooner than I had thought I would and with my admission time to the Getty Villa still more than an hour away I elected to take a drive north up the Pacific Coast Highway and threw on the soundtrack to the movie Grove to provide the score to my mini-roadtrip within my vacation.

It was a beautiful drive. Fortunately the speed limit was slow enough that I wasn't just blasting by the views without being able to appreciate what I saw. The ocean looked stunning as the clouds danced on the horizon and the waves entertained the surfers. I made it all the way through Malibu to Zuma Beach where a film crew was setting up. I looked at the time and realized it was time to make a u-turn and head toward my original destination. Oh how I wish I could have spent a little more time at the beach. The beach has always been a grounding force for me. Something about walking barefoot on the cold, damp sand helps me feel more connected to the world I live in and reset perspectives. Not to mention all the hot surfer boys changing into and out of their wetsuits in the parking lot. That 300mm zoom lens would have been quite handy for stalking six-packs. But alas, the boys of L.A. is a topic for a future post.

Pulling up to the main gate of the Getty Villa was breathtaking. The landscaping was amazing. Little did I know that I hadn't seen anything yet. The use of stone, tile, and cement was stunning throughout the pathway leading to the museum entrance. Not really sure where to start, I hopped into an orientation tour that was about to head out. That proved to be a wise decision because while the grounds aren't overwhelming expansive, within 30 minutes I knew where everything was and had mapped out in my mind what might be photo worthy.

There were a lot of wonderful sights to behold, and aromas to delight in. Yes, I said aromas. The herb garden, while not in full bloom, provided subtle yet soothing aroma therapy as I sat on a bench soaking in the sun, feeling the tension from the previous day's strenuous activities slowly start to ease. The collection of Roman artifacts and statues were impressive and I was thrilled to learn that non-flash photography was allowed (for personal use only, of course). Keep watching as I'll have a flickr album posted soon highlighting my visit to the Villa.

Before I knew it, it was time to head back toward LAX, with a quick side trip to The Writer's office to drop off something he had forgotten to take with him that morning. Personally I think it was just an excuse to see me before I headed back to San Francisco, but either way it was just nice to be able to see him again. It had been too long since our last face-to-face visit. Hopefully our next in-person visit won't be too far away. Before I climbed back in my car he extended his hand for a farewell shake. Upon clasping hands, he went in for a hug too. That was nice. I'm a big hugger. But for some reason most of my close friends aren't. Never have been, now that I think about it. Not to bring up the past, but Carlos hated hugging. Well, mostly I think he just hated hugging me, because he seemed to have no problem hanging off people he had just met. Anyway, my point…hold on a sec, they're making an announcement about my flight.

DELAYED! By at least an hour and a half due to weather issues at SFO. Lovely.

Now where was I? Oh yes. Hugs. So I was little surprised that he offered a hug. I never thought of our relationship of being one that would include a hug. But maybe after a certain number of years, six for us so far, one reaches hug eligibility status. My point is, and I do have one, that the hug was nice and a great way to end my visit to L.A. and my visit with a distance-separated friend.

Well, without photos to post, and not wanting to go off on another odd tangent (admit it, that hug part was a bit weird, right?) I think I'm going to save this to my local drafts folder in MarsEdit — thank heavens for MarsEdit! — and go in search of some hydration. I'm parched and not capable of surviving an hour-plus long flight with all that dry, recirculated air.

Always Remember...

Single Rider Tour 2008 -- part four in a series

...to make sure you unplug and take your laptop's power adapter you before you check out of your hotel. Otherwise you'll end up like me and typing this on your iPhone. Thank goodness for the App Store, I was able to find a lightweight app to help me keep on posting. Unfortunately now all my pics are stuck on my powerless laptop and I won't be able to upload them until I get home.

Today was a good day. Slept in (bed was too comfy, and I was exhausted) so I didn't get up to Magic Mountain until noonish. Which was fine because the park was pretty empty. Being a single rider didn't matter much as the lines were so short that the longest wait was only 20 minutes, and that was for the mind-blending X2, which left me questioning if my brain and body could withstand much more coaster riding. A quick trip on an old favorite put away any concerns and I wound up riding 7 coasters in 3 1/2 hours. By the end, I was really starting to feel the effects of all the g forces.

Ah, yes...but now my single rider tour is coming to a close. After 3 days packed with theme parks, people, and thrills, tomorrow I swing to the opposite side and chill out with a little quiet culture at the Getty Villa.

Well, it's nearly time for bed. Not sure what time I'll need to roll outta here, but my guess is it'll be the same time The Writer has to head out for work. Betty told me about a great breakfast place on the way up to Malibu I might be able to check out if I get on the road in time.

See you tomorrow.

Posted with LifeCast

Like a nun spinning around on a mountain top...

Single Rider Tour 2008 — part three in a series

That's how I'm feeling right now. Dizzy. Clearly I've overdone the thrill rides in such a short amount of time. Maybe the rain that moved in over Knotts Berry Farm early in the afternoon was a sign for me to call it a day so I could recover enough to be fresh and ready for X2 on Sunday. The two coasters I did squeeze in were decent, but nothing to write home (or here) about. I'm curious to see how they stack up against the other rides from this trip. Rest assured that I'll be churning out comparison charts as soon as I'm home.

Today did hold a couple treats. First, I had lunch at the famous Mrs. Knotts Chicken Dinner Restaurant. It was a lot of food for a very reasonable amount of money. And the chicken...so moist and juicy. It wasn't very crispy but it was certainly delicious.

My second treat was reconnecting with a friend from the good ol' days back in SF. The Writer was generous in his offer to let me crash at his place while I'm down here. We went out for dinner tonight and it was so fun to catch up as well as reminisce about the past. It's been a couple years since we've hung out, but we picked up where we left off as if no time had passed at all. I'm very fortunate that I have people like that in my life.

Alright, it's late and I'm exhausted. Relaxing vacation is an oxymoron for this trip. Time for bed. Pray for Sunday sunshine!

10,000

Wow. I just noticed that I finally hit the 10,000 visitor mark. Neat! I'm sure if this blog was more interesting it wouldn't have taken a year and a half to reach such a milestone. Oh well. I write what I know. (The rest I make up.)

Most adorkable new TV host this season

Not that I've had a whole heck of a lot of time to actually watch much TV, but I did happen to catch The Works recently on the History Channel and found host Daniel H. Wilson to be utterly adorkable. Being that The Works is a brand new show and we're at the start of a new TV season, I'm ready to proclaim Mr. Wilson to be the most adorkable new host in all of the kingdom of television. I realize that such a proclamation might be somewhat ironic being that he is a man of science (or at least mechanics, the popular ones to be sure) and I, having not exactly complete exhaustive and comprehensive research into the matter or followed any sort of scientific method whatsoever, am so eager to make said proclamation. What can I say, I go with my gut. There's a lot of it these days, it's hard to ignore it so I usually just go along along with it.

So there you have it. As promised a new post that managed be both geeky and gay. And short. Wow! It's a three-fer!

The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Kenny Ray

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Life imitating art imitating other art. No, that wasn't a typo. Here's how it went down…

A recent phone call with Hooters (the person, not the place) inspired me to break out my Camp DVD and enjoy another viewing of it. The lead actor, one Daniel Letterle, was just so — and I know this is going to sound even gayer than I want it to — intoxicating that I ended up googling to see if he'd been in any more movies. Fortunately he had a couple follow ups and so I loaded up my Netflix queue and waited by the mailbox. With the amount of quality TV running thin these days (can't believe it's still almost 5 months until Lost returns with new episodes) I've been working my way through my Netflix queue pretty fast so in almost no time I opened my mailbox to find "The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Ethan Green" waiting for me. It's a low-budget (in a good way) film based on the popular comic strip of the same name. A comedy peppered with hunky guys was just what I needed to keep me pushing out of the funk I'm in, but in addition to the laughs, the sighs, and the "holy six-pack abs" I found was a wake up call.

Smack dab in the middle of the movie Ethan has a little walk and talk with him mother (played so gloriously by Meredith Baxter of Family Ties fame). Ethan has been steady downward spiral and Harper (his mom) finally levels with him. And me. This is what I heard…

Consider for a moment that you're having the Kenny Reflex. You get close, and then you pull back. Kind of like a rubber band. Just when you have something good … you do something to sabotage it. That is the Kenny Reflex and you've been doing it all your life. You're afraid of getting close, you're afraid of what you're going to hear, you're afraid of what you've got. And you are going to live in this little box of fear unless you change. Get some courage, darlin'.

I got called out. By a character in a movie. A movie based on a comic strip. Maybe it was because the lines were delivered by Mrs. Keaton, er, I mean Meredith that it made me pay attention. While certain semi-recent people have definitely deserved the boot because their part in the relationship had become toxic, she was totally right. I live in a box of fear. Fear of rejection. And, this is where it gets weird, fear of acceptance. That last part is way too deep for me to get into right now as the ear ringing is back and tearing my brain in twain. But it's giving me a good deal to think about over the next couple weeks while concluding what to do about the "glum chum dilemma."

Go rent or buy Camp and TMUSLOEG, both are very enjoyable flicks! Besides, supporting independent cinema is good karma.

Angel gets the gold medal

Too bad cock-blocking (the visual kind, not the While you were ordering drinks I told that hot guy you were talking to that your rash is probably not contagious anymore…Hey! Where did he go? kind) isn't a recognized event, or Angel would be a world-class cathlete.

Here he is sticking the tricky off-axis back horizontal double block. Even with a difficulty rating of 4.6 and the obviously biased German judge, his flawless ear to speedo synchronization could easily win more medals than Michael Phelps. If, of course, censoring speedos during the men's synchronized diving finals with your ears was a medaling sport; it's still just an exhibition sport I believe.

Something I've always wanted…and finally have.

When I was but a wee tyke, TV commercials had a pretty powerful impact on me. They made me want things. They made me beg for things. Sugary breakfast cereals. The latest whiz-bang toy. Fishing rods that collapsed to fit in your pocket. Unfortunately for an active pre-preteen consumer like myself, I had to rely on good ol' mom and pop to finance such pursuits. And 99 times out of 100, they failed to recognize the enormous significance of the item requested.

My mom being somewhat of a health-nut never bought us anything even remotely fun for a breakfast cereal. If we were lucky, we'd get granola with raisins, but the rest of the time it was puffed millet or Uncle Sam Cereal. I would have to sneak over to my neighbors house and covertly raid their Fruit Loops and Cookie Crisp supplies when they weren't watching.

As far as toys went, anything involving guns or violence were always passed on, and again, I would have to turn to the kids in the neighborhood for a little GI Joe action. Or in a pinch, there was always my sister's Barbie dolls. Hmmm…I wonder…

While my family would drive the hour to the lake to go waterskiing, that was the extent of our aquatic sportsmanship so I never learned out to fish, which means that now I have a fear of getting lost in the woods and not being able to survive because I can't catch a fish to literally save my life.

It may seem odd that after 30 years I'm just now living out a childhood dream. Sadder still is that I probably could have done so much sooner, but simply didn't realize it. That dream? To have a Snoopy Sno-Cone Maker of my very own. Growing up I had a love of all things Peanuts, partly because there's a narrow connection in our extended family to the creator of Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and the rest of the Peanuts gang, Charles M. Schulz. For some reason I just figured they had stopped making toy long ago and thus, never really thought about it again until I saw it advertised at the bottom of an email from CreativePro.com. Instantly I flashed back to my youth and could vividly remember how much I wanted one. Within minutes I was smiling at the order confirmation screen, brimming with self-satisfaction.

When it finally arrived, Betty helped pop my sno-cone making cherry — apparently she's a pro when it come to making sno — and after a quick assembly process we started cranking away. Maybe the shaving blades of the original version were sharper back in the day because honestly making sno for one serving took more than a lot of effort, it took a long time. How on earth did kids power this twenty or more years ago? Oh that's right, they were all amped up from the sugary breakfast cereals. As my first taste of the icy and sweet treat hit my lips, I felt like a part of me had been completed.

A random passerby asked what we were doing (all that ice scraping produces an obscene amount of noise and can attract the wrong kind of attention) and Betty filled him in on the fulling of my childhood wish. He saw it as me trying to complete a bucket list, which brought a whole mortality level into the conversation that was kind of a downer. Fortunately all it took to distract me from thoughts of my now apparent doom was another cold. syrupy-sweet jolt of cherry flavor. That, and a muscle cramp in my forearm.

Single Rider

It all started back in high school when I got my first set of wheels. A 1969 Chevy Malibu. A borderline muscle car (if it had a bigger engine) it was a rather butch vehicle for me, and I liked that. I also like that it was a hand-me-down from my dad and sort of symbolized a bit of a passing of the torch or the extension of a legacy. More importantly, to me, it symbolized freedom.

If I wanted to go somewhere, it was up to me. Hop in the car, and go as far as a tank of gas would allow. During the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, I could most often be found tearing up the deserted roads in the rolling hills east of town. The speedometer went up to 120-mph and I liked to see how close I could get to the century mark on the flat straightaways before having to brake hard before the next series of hills. Cranking the likes of Jesus Jones, Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch, C+C Music Factory, Vanilla Ice, Seal, Roxette, Madonna, Wilson Phillips, Depeche Mode, B-52s, Janet Jackson, and Amy Grant (yes, I had a varied taste in music, still do) on KWOD 106.5 FM during my long solo flights of back-roads fancy left me with a high, a sensation I find myself longing for whenever I'm feeling tied down. If I was lucky, "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News would hit the airwaves and I'd be transported into a state or nirvana pretending I was in a flux capacitor equipped DeLorean back in good ol' 1985. (Hey, I'm a geek, what did you expect?)

Back then, those joyrides-for-one were a time of self discovery. Thinking about the past, the future, and how to just keep making the most of the present. I had come to terms with the part of me that I had to keep secret, so getting away from everyone, even for a couple of hours, allowed me to drop character and just be me with me. Those were good times. Necessary times. And affordable times with gas under a buck a gallon.

I've never outgrown that need for solitary adventure. Throughout my varied collegiate endeavors, I would often find that the perfect study break to mentally refocus was usually a brisk drive on Silverado Trail through the vineyards of the Napa Valley (29 was always too crowded) or Hwy 1 around Half Moon Bay and points south. Heck, sometimes a good get-myself-lost-in-the-city drive would do the trick.

My first major trip by myself happened in the latter half of the 90s when I was given the opportunity to visit South Korea for a week, all expenses paid. There are so many great stories to tell — including slow dancing with and being serenaded by a woman at the same time — but such tales are for another time.

The next major solo trip was for what I consider my first "real" vacation, meaning that I was working a real job, making real money, and was using real vacation days to take my next globetrotting trip. Where did I end up? The Jamacian Outback. Click on the link if you've never heard of it. It is to this date probably my most daring and relaxing getaway ever. And yes, it too is filled with plenty of stories that will one day be told here.

The last big adventure-for-one was more than four years ago and I've got the itch to fly solo again. This time, though, I've got a few more shackles tying me down (mortgage, work, inflation) that are making it challenging to take the trip I want need to take. Not willing to let those things stop me, I've decided — and I know I'm tempting fate by even mentioning it here; the cookie told me not to — to take a shorter, more realistic road-trip down to SoCal and hit up 3 theme parks in three days. I've priced it all out and provided I can get those days off, it looks like it will be a wicked fun and still affordable thrill-seeking good time. Which brings us back to the title of this post. For those of you not familiar with the term, "single rider" refers traveling by themselves who is allowed to skip ahead the ride's queue and fill any open seat on the ride. It's an amazing time saver! The downside is that you're not able to share the thrill and experience with anyone you know in the moment, which depending on your outlook might not be so bad after all.

There you have it. I'm embracing my Single Rider status because I realized that at the end of the day, you're only going to have the trip you're looking for by going it alone. And if you want to share the memories with someone else, bring a camera and post your pics on Flickr. You won't have to buy the camera a seat on the plane and it won't work itself into a gay rage about how loudly you snore.

Why aren't you re-watching: American Beauty

I'm so ashamed. I'd forgotten how excellent American Beauty is. I had been putting of watching it for years. It's literally been sitting on myself, still in the wrapper, since the day I bought it 5 years ago. What a fool I've been for taking it for granted all of this time. The storytelling. The characters. The performances. The music. The cinematography. The art direction. It's a modern masterpiece. Kevin Spacey and Annette Bening could not have been more perfect. Thora Birch is entrancing. Wes Bently is engrossing. Chris Cooper is gut-wrenching. And Allison Janney is surprisingly heartbreaking even in the scenes where she doesn't say a word.

The DVD has been retired back to its case for an hour already but the high you feel from watching something truly exceptional and so utterly captivating is sticking with me. I feel so inspired to create, to reinvest time into the pursuit of the film making ambitions of days gone by, to remind everyone there's a experience waiting for them on DVD that outshines brainless summer television broadcasts and big-budget popcorn flicks at the theater or pretty much anything made in the past 10 years and you owe it to yourself to watch it as soon as you can. And apparently I was inspired to write the longest sentence in the history of this blog. Phew! If you've got a DVD player and receiver capable of processing DTS 5.1 soundtracks, I highly recommend watching the movie with the DTS 5.1 soundtrack over the Dolby Digital 5.1 soundtrack. I won't bore you with the details, but your ears will thank me.

Open a nice bottle of red wine—it isn't required to make the movie amazing, but trust me, it ties in perfectly even if only from a color pallet perspective— and watch this movie tonight!

Eighteen Candles

On über stressful days, I want nothing more than to come home, have a little comfort food for dinner and enjoy a little comfort movie for relaxation. Today was one of those day.

The food: Spinach Lasagna from Trader Joe's

The movie: Sixteen Candles

Now the lasagna from TJ's is a relatively new discovery for me, but Sixteen Candles, well that's whatcha call a "classic." I watched it so many times growing up that I can recite entire sections of the movie a la Rocky Horror-style, and actually have at a small 16mm screening of it at a central valley university many summers ago. It was there that I saw a gay couple for the first time; they were so adorable together and I was both admiring their courage and envious of their love. What I'm getting at is… it's impossible for me to feel down after watching it, especially the ending… the lights off, on the dining room table, with the cake, the candles, and, of course, Jake Ryan.

Jake Ryan was probably my first crush. I was knee-deep in puberty the first time I saw the movie, and before I knew what gay was, I knew I wanted Jake Ryan. Hell, I still do. He's dreamy. Both the character and Michael Schoeffling who plays Ryan. Sadly, Michael retired from acting many years ago, just before I graduated high school, so his body of work isn't huge, but it's quality and really, once you're Jake Ryan, you've pretty much set for life.

I wish I had more in common with Molly Ringwald's character of Samantha (wasn't Molly absolutely perfect?!), specifically ending up lip-locked on a table over cake with the man of my dreams who sought me out. Unfortunately the only thing we really share is that my family once forgot my birthday. You've probably already figured out how old I was when that happened. It was my senior year in high school and come to think of it, my school forgot my birthday, too! I remember getting into a public disagreement with our principal over when my birthday actually was. What can I say, it was a really small high school — only 29 seniors, 9 of them were boys — and as the student body president I just couldn't let him think he was right when he was so very wrong. Other than that, I just let it the day play itself out and sure enough, it wasn't until the next morning that I weepy-eyed mom woke me up apologizing for forgetting my birthday. I just chalked it up to the fact that I was adopted and remembering such dates were optional; it says so in the adoption papers I'm pretty sure. Long story short, while the guilt was there I did not reap any rewards from it. Which was fine as I hoped it just made me more like Sam in the movie which would mean I would end up with my own Jake Ryan someday soon.

That was forever ago and, obviously, I'm still Jake-less. Part of me is always the optimist so I'm still holding out hope that maybe I'm just 20 years behind schedule and that my Jake and I will finally find each other and we'll slowly lean in and kiss in the darkened dining room. The penultimate romantic moment. That is until the thirty-six candles on my cake set us both on fire.

In the meantime, I shall happily survive swooning vicariously through DVD. *swoon*

He held my stripped nuts in his hand…

Today really didn't end up exactly as planned. I got up this morning and on a whim took a quick shower in order to skeedaddle over to the movies to catch up on my must-see summer movie list which I had been a little slacking on. Caught up with "The Incredible Hulk." After that I picked up a sandwich and headed over to a different park than yesterdays outing, a better park with better grass and a better water feature, for an impromptu picnic and to continue reading When You Are Engulfed in Flames. The gentle breeze and steady white noise of the fountain in front of me made it easy to get totally lost in the pages or wonderful stories. The comfortable folding canvas chair I picked up at a drug store helped my body relax as well. Before I knew it, more than 3 hours had zoomed by and it was time to start my Sunday routine of Target and Trader Joes. Blissfully relaxed I merged into freeway traffic. Barely minutes later, BANG! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! "Oh shit!" was the only thing that I could exclaim as I frantically tried to get my car over to the shoulder amidst the Sunday drivers who had apparently never heard the term before and rather than drive a sane speed instead chose to believe they were on the Autobahn. There goes anything even remotely resembling "blissful" and/or "relaxed."

I'm not the complete nancy boy others might mistake me for, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty under the hood with simple routine maintenance or changing a flat — I've even changed a tire on the 101 by SFO on the median shoulder (it's really more of a suggestion of a shoulder than a real shoulder) with cars whipping by at breakneck speeds (not unlike today) — but so help me, I couldn't get the bolts loose to get the bad tire off. Seriously! They were on way too tight and even putting my full weight into it had wouldn't get them to budge. Worried that I might cause the car to fall off the child's toy they call a jack and crush my foot trying to get the bolts loose, I had no other option but to call for roadside assistance. To his credit he showed up sooner than originally estimated and while I filled out paperwork, he took his chances with the tire swap. While he worked his mechanical magic (with the aid of some real tools), I stood out of the way and out of the hot afternoon sun wondering why the universe feels compelled to balance things out like that.

Couldn't I just have a nice relaxing day or weekend? Must it be cut short with a potentially life threatening predicament? Yes, I realize that I'm being a bit melodramatic, and yes, it's really more a coincidence than part of the universe's doing, but it feels good to be able to put the blame on something outside my control. I didn't notice that my roadside guardian angel (whose name was actually Angel, go figure) had come up to me while I was lost in thought. When I finally became aware of his presence I realized that he was apologizing for stripping my nuts. That's funny, I didn't know I had gotten lucky. Then I looked down to see a pair of horribly mangled orbs of metal. My lug nuts! And they were practically unrecognizable. I was a little surprised when he asked me if I wanted him to put them back on and let the next mechanic battle with removing them or simply leave them off. "Um, you're probably more an expert on these things than I am, but wouldn't it be unsafe to drive with only half of the lug nuts holding the wheel on?" I quizzed? He sheepishly agreed and turned to put them back on the car. When he was done he reminded me not to exceed 40 miles per hour and not to drive further than 50 miles on the Radio Flyer wagon wheel of a spare. Thank goodness it's Sunday and absolutely no tire shops or auto repair places are open because heaven forbid people who work 10 hour days Monday through Friday ever want to get some work done on a freaking weekend. Now I can go straight home without the distraction of buying new tires, or picking up the week's worth of groceries that are part of my Sunday ritual.

I have a habit of dwelling on the negative rather than the positive and so it was no surprise that I began to get down about having to take surface streets to and from work, which more than doubles my commute time. Plus with issues at work the next couple of days, I wasn't sure I'd be able to get my tire replaced within 50 miles because I live just far enough from work that one full commute would meet or surpass the quota and I'm not sure I can take any time away from work to get this fixed. While I'm sure things will work out, right now it doesn't seem possible. But, then again, at least I'm not dead. I should be happy to be alive and a stranger's help in getting my nuts off, even if they were a bit too manhandled in the process. Better manhandled than not handled at all, or say the saying goes, right?

Parking it

Taking a cue from yesterday's successful adventure-for-one, I decided to make today my own and make part of the city my own as well. One of the things I miss about my last apartment back in San Francisco, was that it was central to everything. I didn't have to drive to go grocery shopping, or to get take-out, or to go to the movies. One of the advantages of a city like SF is that it's compact, growing vertically rather than spreading horizontally like the sprawl taking place all around it. Some of the sprawl can actually be a good thing when it's put to good use, or should I say spared from being put to use. There's a great park that I knew existed but up until last night I didn't realize could soon be a place to hang outdoors and just chill with a good book. So for nearly four hours today I sat on a (rather uncomfortable) bench beneath a shady tree and got lost in the stories of David Sedaris' latest book, sometimes laughing out loud with only the ants milling beneath my feet, sometimes on me, around to hear. It was so nice and relaxing, the occasional runner, cyclist, and overhead plane the only distraction and even then just barely. If the bench was more comfortable I would have stayed longer, but alas, there were errands to run and another movie to see—though not solo this time around.

As for tomorrow, I think I'll be heading back to finish up the tome, hopefully on a more comfortable seating surface. I may also bring my running shoes and make use of the great trails that border and sometimes overlap the rivers and creeks which quietly make their way on the outskirts of the highrises. I set a goal on Nike+ to burn 2000 calories in 30 days so I'd better start working on that. Time to stop parking myself on the couch and start getting myself to the park instead.

You. Must. Go. See. This. Movie.

I don't mean to build up expectations for it, but Disney/Pixar's WALL•E may just well be the best movie of the year. That's right, I'm predicting that every other movie this year will not surpass WALL•E, because it has more heart, soul, and flat-out emotion than any movie I've seen so far this year. And I've seen a lot of them. Sure, I'll give you that Iron Man is still the movie to beat as far as Summer flicks go, but ultimately WALL•E far and away wins the big race. It may not have the gorgeous visuals of Finding Nemo, nor the whimsey of Monsters Inc., but where it might lack in those areas, it makes up for in its ability to grab a hold of your heart from the very beginning and never let go. The most emotionally investing and emotionally satisfying Pixar movie so far. Stop reading this, check your theater listings and then GO SEE THIS FILM!

Oh, and the short film serving as an appetizer to WALL•E's main course is equally wonderful. Pixar is at the top of their game. I'm so relieved that they are still living up to their mission that story is king.

Bedtime story

Angel has been especially needy when it comes to constant attention recently. I don't know if it's the season, or the weather, or just his part of his cycle of feline moods, but whatever it is it can be a bit of a challenge as he seems to always be underfoot, literally. And if I'm sitting then he must, of course, be sitting on me. Usually he restrains himself to sitting on my lap, but sometimes he likes to mix it up and attempt cozy up on my stomach, or chest, and once, my face (don't ask). It usually cute and I like to cuddle with him when watching TV and such, but when I'm trying to eat dinner after a 10 hour work day, it can also be a nuisance. Especially when it comes to cat fur ending up in my mojito salmon with brown rice. Ack!

Last night was warm here in the valley, and as such we were both restless. TV was worthless — nothing good on — and I wasn't in the mood for the commitment a DVD would certainly require. I also wasn't in the mood to contend with a cat that could not be satisfied with any amount of petting, scratching, stroking, or massaging. I turned on the air conditioning (a rarity as I'm a bit of an energy miser these days) and decided to finally crack opened the newest David Sedaris book, When You are Engulfed in Flames, I had picked up at my favorite Target over the weekend. I started to read, the familiarity of his writing immediately filling the void that was causing my mental restlessness. Meow? I keep reading. Meeeoow. I turn the page. Meeooooow! My concentration starts to shift. MEEEEEEOOOOOW! Right in my ear! With the book in my lap there was no room for Angel which was none to his liking. It was too hot to have 15 pounds of hot fur heating up my bare legs so I set him on the ground and proceed to read out loud in an attempt to regain my focus. Angel, apparently a closet Sedaris fan, immediately settled down, stretched out on the carpet and soaked in the first two chapters I read to him, quietly purring to himself into a peaceful slumber. Who knew all we both needed was a bedtime story.