Please don't give any "Milk" money to Cinemark, Century, and CinéArts theaters

Some of you out there on the interwebs may have read recently that Cinemark CEO Alan Stock made a nearly $10,000 contribution to the Yes on Prop 8 campaign. You remember that campaign, don't you? The one designed to, if passed, to take away the rights of same-sex couples to marry. Well it passed. I still can't believe that it did. I honestly thought that my fellow Californian would care at least equally for the happiness and rights of humans beings as they do motherclucking poultry. I was wrong.

Well, in just a few days, "Milk", the film about California's first openly gay elected official, Harvey Milk, a San Francisco supervisor who was assassinated along with Mayor George Moscone will open in theaters. [trailer: HD | iPhone] And guess what chain is ready to reap the financial rewards for showing this much anticipated film? That's right, Cinemark. It can't be denied that "Milk" will draw a large audience from the portion of the population that is gay. But hell if I'm going to let any of my money ultimately end up in the pockets of a person who doesn't believe I should have the same rights that he does.

So I ask you, the moviegoing people of the world, regardless of your orientation, if you go to see "Milk", please do not see it in a Cinemark theater, or any of its subsidiaries. The third-largest theater chain in the U.S. also operates theaters under the name Century Theatres, CinéArts, and Tinseltown. Please avoid these theaters if at all possible.

"But Kenny, how can I easily find a theater near me that isn't part of the Cinemark brand and putting money into the pocket of Mr. Stock?" Good question! Please check out the NoMilkForCinemark.com and BoycottCinemark.com websites for tips and alternate viewing locations. In the San Francisco Bay Area I highly recommend AMC Theaters (their projection and presentation quality tends to be far superior to that of Century and CinéMark anyway), Landmark Theaters (the best place to see the best in independent film), and, of course, the world-famous Castro Theater (which you might just spot me and Hooters standing in front of as extras during the filming of "Milk").

GKR's word of the day

soulstraight (sōl•strāt)

n.

Similar to a soulmate, used to express the deep friendship, emotionally intimate, but fully platonic relationship a gay person has with a straight person either of the same or opposite gender.

Origin:

2008; GKR

If you were gay, you'd be my soulmate. But it's cool having you for a soulstraight.

***

I'm so lucky to have both a guy and girl for soulstraights. Right now, where I am in life, I wouldn't trade them for my actual soulmate.

Home. Alone.

It's been two weeks since Angel got his wings and he flew off to be reunited with his mommy and daddy. I really thought that I would miss his furry presence more than I do. But as it turns out I am really enjoying coming home and not having to immediately turn my attention to his special brand of "pay attention to me, and only me, you live to serve me" thinking.

Every day at work, countless times during the day, I'm called on by my peers to help answer their questions, troubleshoot their issues, and make their work a little bit easier. The trade off is that it tends to make my own work day a little more challenging. So after providing personal attention to everyone but myself during the day, it's nice to come home and not have to worry about anyone, or anything else, and finally be able to take care of myself.

I've noticed that I'm getting more and more aware about how much time I have for myself. Kenny-time. I've lived with more than a dozen roommates in the past 10 years and while it can be nice to have someone around the house — especially to be there when I'm changing a lightbulb just in case I fall off the ladder — I'm willing to take my chances for the relief and relaxation that comes with knowing that my homelife is on my terms.

While I've contemplated getting a pet of my own after Angel took flight, a beagle perhaps, I'm really not sure I'm ready for that, at least not until I'm able to reclaim my own time at work. Or get married. Oh, wait…scratch that last one.

Angel meets his guardian angel, bites hand that feeds him

Angel, the ebony ball of feline fur I'm kitty sitting until his relocation paperwork is all figured out, had to move into temporary housing last week while I attended a conference up north. His vet offers basic yet practical accommodations, plus they know him and really, who is better at caring for pets than the vet, right?

I opened the door just a few minutes before they closed for the weekend and the place seemed deserted. I heard some music way coming from the back of the office so I just waited patiently and give Angel a little more time to acclimate to being back at the vet. Before long, he emerged from the rear. Gabriel. I wasn't expecting a really cute latin guy to walk through the door, but I kept my surprise in check.

After explaining why I was there, he prepped Angel's equivalent to the hotel room I would soon be living in for a week and we talked about Angel's dietary needs general disposition. The conversation flowed easily, as it should for what it was. Soon it was time to move Angle from carrier to cage. This proved to be a bigger challenge than either of us expected. Angel pinned himself in his carrier good and Gabriel and I had to carefully coax him out. Angel's efforts to remain in the carrier were simply not meant to be and we convinced him to finally exit his transport.

As Angel explored his new 2-foot x 2-foot world, Gabriel and I continued our conversation, drifting away from talking about Angel and moving on to more less specific topics. Normally I have a hard time talking to an even half-way attractive guy, but it was different talking with him. If my timing was better I could have stayed and talked with him for hours, or at least until he had to lock up and head home, but I had still had to run to the office and pick up conference supplies and finish some last minute work before running home to pack and begin my drive north. When I realized this I suddenly became very self aware that I was going to have to find a graceful exit. In the blink of an eye, I went from someone who might actually be confused with a suave guy to someone who clammed up and started what would be just another awkward silence in my dating (and non-dating) life.

I looked at the watch that wasn't on my wrist — I'm pretty sure he noticed I wasn't wearing one — and said I had to head out. I'm sure it sounded more like an excuse than an actual reason, but he smiled anyway and my heart skipped a beat at the already building anticipation that if I hadn't just blown it with the awkward silence and "gotta run" moment, that I would get to see him again when I returned to take Angel back home. My next three hours on the road found me over analyzing my chance meeting with Angel's guardian angel, Gabriel. To be honest, I'm not even sure he's on my team, but there's no ring, and there was the tiniest blimp on my GAYDAR. This is where I should point out that my GAYDAR is often more wishful than accurate. So, really, no point in getting my hopes up.

****

One week later…

I'm back in my own county, driving up to the vet's office, secretly hoping that Gabriel would be there to greet me. I pause, take a deep breath, and walk through the door. "And you are…?" a cold voice asks. Damn, it's the vet. She always has this look on her face like she doesn't trust me, which I don't understand. I look over to the reception desk and see another woman, not Gabriel. I was both disappointed and secretly relieved. I explain who I'm picking up and as I'm saying Angel's name, lo and behold, Gabriel rounds the corner, our eyes meet, and smiles appeared on both of our faces. He said he'd get him and the bitchy vet retired to her office.

Standing side by side, assuming our positions from a week ago, it all felt so natural again. As he gathered Angel's food and carrier, we made small talk about Angel's stay. Turns out that not more than 10 minutes after I left the previous week, Angel had a bit of a panic attach that lasted the entire week. He wouldn't let anyone near him, howling and hissing at anyone within visual range. I sighed, as that's exactly what he did when he first took up lodging with me. He remembered that from our talk the week prior. Promising!

Less promising was the chances of getting Angel to calm down and get into his carrier. He was reacting as though we were trying to kill him, rather than to take him back to familiar surroundings. To make a very long story just a little less long, it took 15 minutes, a net, and Angel peeing on us three times, to get him safely into his carrier. Gabriel was so kind and compassionate — swoon! — during the ordeal he earned major bonus points. At this point there was three of us standing around Angel's carrier as he howled his protest, Gabriel, myself, and the lady from reception. This made talking with Gabriel, let alone the possibility of asking him out, less than realistic. So instead I settled the bill (a fraction of the cost of my own conference lodging), apologized again for Angel's "problem child" behavior, and made my way to the car.

Within seconds of leaving the vet's office Angel's howls had transformed into quiet meows, the same kind that he makes whenever I've had him in my car. But at that moment I could care less about his happiness as I wondered how I might be able to find an excuse to ask Gabriel out with Angel about to board a plane bound for his actual mommy and daddy.

Without a doubt, such thoughts will preoccupy my weekend and possibly even my upcoming vacation. But before I can think that far ahead, I must tend to one pee-soak kitty cat before he sits on my bodily fluid-free (feline or otherwise) sofa. As on Angel takes flight, with another soon take his place to snuggle up with at home? Stay tuned…

****

I just realized it's been more than a month between updates. Now that the nightmare work hours are behind me, I'll have more free time to, for better or worse, write. Fear not, this blog is by no means dead.

Guess what I've been doing in the shower!

I'll admit, I didn't come easy at first. But after hearing about it on the radio I just had to give it my best effort. The first couple days were almost painful; it just didn't feel natural or even right. I wanted so badly to tell someone about my experimentation, to see if they've tried it before, but didn't in fear that I might jinx myself and never fulfill my goal. After a couple weeks of careful and conscience effort it started to become enjoyable, and finally just a regular part of my morning routine. What can I say, it feels good! But I still kept it a secret. Actually, I did mention it to Betty midway through my third month, and she was very encouraging but also understanding why I hadn't told anyone. Now, nearly five months later, I'm ready to come clean, so to speak.

I've been successfully practicing the art of the Navy shower! Why? What were you thinking it was? Oh, well now that's just dirty…

I didn't tell anyone sooner because a cookie told me not to, and I'm not one to go against the advice of a fortune wielding dessert. And while I could do a bit better — extra long hours at work has me all tied up in knots and it's taking more mental fortitude not to slip back into the old "Hollywood shower" ways — and conserve even more water, I'm still proud that simply by turning off the water when lathering up or brushing my teeth (yes, I'm one of those people, but I multitask by conditioning my sexy mullet at the same time) or shaving has saved over 1500 gallons of water in the past 60 days, an average of a little over 25 gallons a day! Unfortunately my water company charges a hefty flat service rate with a tiny metered fee on top of that so even though I cut back 33% on my daily water use I'm really only saving a little over $2 each month. But knowing that I've saved that much water already by simply changing a small part of my routine has me wondering how else I could be saving water. Or electricity. Or fuel.

Sure, all the big company's these days are touting about how "green" they've are because it's a buzzword in the media right now. I don't buy it. It's all for show. I bet none of the execs in these "green" companies would ever think to turn off the water while sudsing up. I may not have an MBA from Harvard, or drive a flashy $100,000 car, or make multi-million dollar donations to offset my carbon emissions, but at least I've taken the first step to actually live green in my own life. Well, a little more green. Baby steps, ok?

By the way, I won't even tell you how long it took I spent looking at iStockphoto.com for photos of sailors in showers. But diligence pays off…and I'm all about sharing the wealth, all $2 of it. Enjoy! And when your done, don't forget to take a Navy shower.

Sometimes it's the little things

Sometimes it the little things — like making someone smile so big their eyes look swollen shut — in an otherwise exhausting day that gives you a reason to come back again tomorrow.

Home Alone: Going for Broke

I promised Betty that I'd get some posts, um, posted in the month of December and with the last day of the month quickly approaching, I'd better take a break from all the remodeling tasks (and the Futurama marathon currently playing on Adult Swim on Cartoon Network) and post something. I have another post that I just realize is still in "Draft" mode that I need to publish too, but first things first.

Many of you in the blogiverse have no doubt been wondering what the heck is going on with the remodeling project. And to answer the question everyone is asking... no, it's not done yet. But that's actually ok because if it were going any faster, I'd be completely broke at this point. The fewer hours the contractors work, the less it costs me each week and right now I'm anxiously awaiting to be able to sell some stock after 12/30 so I'm not hit with short-term capital gains tax. But after that I'll be able to refill my reserves and crank up the speed. I'm also going to take back some of the projects from the contractors and finish them myself (installing baseboards, painting, minor rewiring work, etc) to save some cabbage.

It's been kind of nice being home during this past week (company break) and actually having people to talk to. The contractors are really nice guys, friends of a relative-in-law, and fun to converse with (which is good because I'm probably paying for said conversations). With as long as this whole process is taking, it's really good that T-Snake and Carlos aren't here, as it's been challenging enough for me to "rough it" with only a working faucet in my bathroom and a microwave for cooking. Trying to manage these conditions with two other people would be a living nightmare, literally. I'm not sure if they see it that way, mostly because neither side has made much of an effort to stay in touch, but as I write this I don't really care. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself. But honestly, it's really for the best and I need to accept that and look to the future, not the past.

Anyway, the countertop that I finally selected (why is it so hard for me to decide on things like this?) looks amazing after the contractors roughed it into place. Take a look at the pics and see for yourself. The following slideshow actually starts in the future and goes backward to the early days of the project, when I still had money to spend on things like food.

Just under the wire

Ok, just got home a little while ago and had to get my home wifi set up since it had been taken down for the installation of the new bamboo floor. BTW, the floor looks real nice and should be all done by the time I get back from LV.

I'm feverishly doing laundry and trying to get the final arrangements for the weekend taken care of so the pics of the trip will have to wait until Tuesday-ish. Who knows, I might even get a full night's sleep tonight.

See you tomorrow from Vegas!

Irony is a bastard, part II

Where last we left our hero, he had just arrived home after a long day at work to find that something in him home was amiss. And now, the conclusion of "Irony is a bastard."

Even with the jolt of adrenaline that comes out of surprise or fear, my mind was still slow to process information and now I'm turning on all the lights and sniffing the air to determine where the burning oder is coming from. My immediate thought was that it had something to do with the dishwasher's wiring, which was the most recent addition to the kitchen. The kitchen was hazy, and now I was starting to feel a bit dizzy. On my approach to the dishwasher, something else catches my eye. There's a small indicator light on the range glowing orange. At first, in my tired state, I ignore it and continue on to the dishwasher, but then I realize what the orange glow actually indicates: one of the surface cooking elements is on. Indeed, I can feel warmth coming from the direction of the range and now focus my attention on turning off the inappropriately turned on burner.

I'm standing in front of the range, looking at it, trying to make sense of what I see in front of me, and the facts I know to be true. Only 3 of the 4 burners work. Actually, let me clarify. I only use 3 of the 4 burners because one of the knobs is missing so I just ignore that burner entirely, so all of my recent experience with the stove top revolves around the left rear and two front burners. And that's why I'm confused. All of their knobs are off. But clearly one of them is on; I can feel the heat radiating as if I'm standing near a campfire. I hold my hands about a foot above each of the 3 burners yet none of them feel like they're giving off heat. Now, chances are that if I had not been so tired, the empty pan on the "dead-to-me" burner that is visibly smoking would have immediately jumped out at me as the source of the problem, so I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it took a minute or so for me to arrive at the conclusion. Without a control knob, that burner shouldn't have been on at all. I can't remember the last time I even used that burner. Actually, the last time that burner was used was when Carlos left a kettle on the still-on burner and it cooked dry and got so hot that some of the enamel from the pot fused to the coil element. Just another incident to add to my collection of "roommates burning down the house" fears. And even now, with no one living in the house except me, I know have to worry about strangers burning down my house. After removing the smoldering pan from the stove — burning my hand on the scorching "stays-cool" handle in the process — and turning off the offending burner, I open all the windows to let out the reportedly toxic fumes that had been building up for hours, and then head up stairs to lie down for a while in hopes that the room will stop spinning.

Lying there, I can't help but think about the several occasions that T-Snake set off the smoke alarms late at night after getting high and deciding that pan searing a steak was the only thing that would remedy the ensuing munchies. My solution? Ban him from cooking steak ever again. His solution? Take the batteries out of the smoke alarms so the next time he attempted to cook while high in the middle of the night wouldn't wake me up. Of course, he never remembered to replace the batteries which would explain why the smoke alarms were ringing when I got home. Staring up at the ceiling, I close my eyes, slowly letting the anxiety of what just happened mix with the still fresh memories and fears of my ex-roommates near-fires. Like a flood, the anxieties take over and I just loose it. I'm paralyzed with the fear of what almost happened and, at the same time, I'm sobbing uncontrollably. Only later would I see the sick irony of what happened.

After I'm finally able to regain my composure, I head back downstairs to revisit the scene. The surface of the pan has noticeably changed color, taking on a yellowish tinge compared to its identical sibling. How could this have happened? When I'm finally able to crawl into bed for sleep, I feel the anxiety start to return, my muscles tensing up and unconsciousness only comes in short intervals until my alarm goes off.

I have to find out what happened so I contact my realtor. He assures me that he's not sure but will get to the bottom of it. I tell him that considering the circumstances, I'm not paying for the inspection. He doesn't necessarily agree with that decision, but he doesn't disagree with it either. Whatever. He gets back to me to report that they turned on the stove as part of their inspection. I find that odd because I had told my realtor that the stove was not going to be included in the sale of the house and didn't understand why it would have been inspected. "Oh, that's right," my realtor says. Not exactly an answer to bolster my confidence. Then I ask the $64k question: did you chaperone the inspectors, or did they alone access my house? There's a pause and then an answer I was both expecting and not. My realtor did chaperone the inspectors, and also went through the house turning off lights and appliances as they finished each room, and went through the house one final time before leaving to make sure that everything was off that should be off. I'm stunned. I'm crushed. I'm furious. I tell him that I'm going to need some time to decide how to proceed. Minutes later I contact his manager and ask to fire (no pun intended) the realtor and cancel my contract with them.

So where does this leave the home sale now? Well, my house is not on the market and I'm not sure when it will be. But when I'm finally ready to list it, I can promise you it won't be with that company. Maybe I'll do a "for sale by owner" … because if you can't trust yourself not to nearly burn down your house, who can you trust?

Irony is a bastard.

Frequent readers (not that there's many, if any, left due to my lack of updates in the last nearly two months) may recall that I'm in the middle of remodeling my house to sell. If you care to refresh your memory, you won't have to travel very far back in blog-time — seriously, it was just two posts ago — to catch up on the details. Go ahead, you can do it now if you want, I'll wait for you...

...Just let me know when you're finished....

...Done? Oh, sorry....

...OK, looks like most everyone is back now so let's go ahead and continue.

So back at the beginning of September I hired a Realtor to help me sell my house. I actually got a team of Realtors excited about putting my house on the market. They were impressed at the remodel's progress and we're supportive of the decorating decisions I had made. I was on cloud 9. Then they told me what they wanted to list the house for. Bye bye cloud. And, worse, bye bye breaking even. But that's the risk that comes with owning property; no guarantees you'll be able to get more for it than you paid. It was a hard pill to swallow at first, but after doing more research it was obvious that the market was taking a tumble. Part of me thinks there's some conspiracy involving real estate investors and the media to start a panic to make the headlines of "plummeting values" and "disappearing buyers" into a reality for their benefit. But that's a rant for another time. Long story short, I accepted the facts and decided to keep moving forward.

My Realtors couldn't have been nicer, we really hit it off. Due to my insane work schedule and the quickly approaching extended business trips that would keep me away from the whole process, we decided to move forward as quickly as possible. Step one: sign the contracts. Check! Step two: termite and home inspections. Well, this is where things went terribly wrong.

The morning air was surprisingly crisp the morning I put my spare house key in the key box clamped on the door handle. This was the day I would find out what needed to be repaired in order to get my home on the market and hopefully sold before my competing neighbor's home. The combination was tricker than it looked and I spent more time than I had allotted for the procedure than planned and now I was running the risk of being late to work. Mind you, I'm at work before my boss about 90% of the time, and I stay later than her about 80% of the time, but I'm still worried that she's just looking for a reason to get rid of me. But, again, that's a theory for another time.

At work, the projects kept coming fast and furious. Even the simple projects took forever because nothing is ever simple in our world. Having to play tech support for the people on my team — and other teams, too! — didn't help in my ability to keep on schedule. Or have lunch for that matter. By 5:30pm, most of the building was empty, except for me and a couple other people whose colleagues end up dumping stuff on before heading home to be with their families. Single office workers, do you know what I'm talking about? Like the expectation is that it's no big deal for us to stay late just because we aren't married or have kids, while our married counterparts get to play the "family card" whenever they don't want to stay late. Hey, married people, just because I didn't go and get some girl knocked up doesn't mean that I don't have my own shit to take care of back home. At least you aren't going it alone but rather you have a significant other (and possibly some really cheap labor in the form of kids) that can help out at the homestead while your at work procrastinating and then handing off to us on your way out the door. Those of us who are partner-free almost deserve it more simply because we don't have that extra person around. Am I alone in this? PLEASE leave a comment and tell me what you think! But I digress. So the other guy still at the office is getting ready to leave which would leave me there flying solo. My brain power is fading, as is my vision from staring at computer screens for the past 12 straight hours. His argument on why I should just go home while I'm still functional enough to drive can't be beat so I give in, set my system to start its nightly backup process and turn off the lights behind me even though they'll turn off automatically in less than two hours anyway.

The walk to my car is painfully long but only because I've been sitting so long that I've lost much feeling below the waist. The 10 yard trek feels like miles and before the feeling can completely return to my legs, I'm sitting again, hands on the steering wheel, thinking about whether or not to get take out food or just make something to eat at home. I decide on cooking then put the car in drive and navigate the reverse of my morning route. It's late enough that there's not much traffic still on the road and the drive becomes a blur as I lapse into autopilot. Before I know it I'm getting off at my exit with just 5 more minutes to go before putting my car in park, shutting off the engine, and locking the doors behind me.

The air feels crisp again, kind of like the morning's. Walking up to the door I'm briefly thrown off by the key box attached to my front door. Then I remember that it was so that my realtor and the home inspectors could get in and complete their duties while I was tied up at work. Walking in the front door I'm almost immediately thrown off again, but I'm not sure by what. Everything looks the same, where I left it in the morning, but something is definitely off. At first I chalk it up to the fact that I'm exhausted and suffering from low blood sugar from working through lunch. But no, something is definitely not quite right. It's surprisingly warm in the house, as if someone had been running the heater. Well, they would have done that as part of the inspection I suppose. I turn on the light in the corner. Adding more light in the room reveals another clue; it looks slightly hazy in here. No, wait, my eyes are just tired from all the computer work. I shrug it off and take a deep breath in anticipation of letting out a great sigh of relief of finally being home before 10pm for once. Drawing the air into my lungs I pick up on something that smells like iron and burnt plastic. This time I can't come up with a reasonable answer as why my house would smell like that and I get an instant jolt of adrenaline … something in my house is burning!! But what?!

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened next and why irony is such a bastard. And yes, there's a chance that I'm using the word "irony" in the Morresette sense rather than the true sense. It makes for a better title so get over it already!

Does my hair whorl make me look gay?

I may have asked some really "out there" questions before, but this may not be so far out there as it may seem. And really, it's less about looking gay than it is that may have to do with being gay. Weird, huh?

Here's the deal, apparently there might actually be some science to Gaydar and New York Magazine recently had a very interesting and detailed article on that very topic. Things like the direction of hair whorl, density of thumbprint, finger proportions, and hand dexterity might actually be specific to sexual orientation. Who would have guessed that gay men are more likely to have a counterclockwise hair whorl? I have to give author David France credit for once placing a personal ad describing himself as "gay-acting/gay-appearing" in stark contrast to the typical ad seeking "str8-acting." (I'm so over all those str8-acting gays…you're not so str8-acting when you're getting double penetrated by two power tops!) But now it would seem that vocal patterns and physical gestures may not be the only things that outwardly hint at orientation. But what could this newly discovered biological uniqueness mean? It raises some very important moral and ethical questions to say the least.

I won't spoil the rest, it's such a great article that you should read it for yourself. (Yes, that's the last link I'll put in there for it.) And when I said it was detailed, that's another way of saying it's much longer than a typical blog entry so give yourself some quality time to read it.

The three kitties have turned into one ginormous elephant in the room.

Ok, let's get the mega-sugary syrupy part over and done with, here's the additional pictures of the kitties. God, they were so sweet and we had really bonded. The pictures were taken while I was on my way to the Humane Society. Logic and reason had to prevail if the kitties were to have any real chance of survival. I've been thinking about them all day. And even though I was the only one to have taken care of them—at all—in the brief time they were in our company, both Carlos (who played with them for a few minutes before abandoning them because he wanted to go to his room) and T-Snake (who never ever saw them) had gotten the idea that adopting the kitties was a good idea and done deal. It was while I was cleaning up the copious amounts of shitty kitty crap that the reality of being a pet owner kicked in. Reality is a bitch.

When they came home from dinner T-Snake burst into the house giddy with the (never confirmed) notion that he was going to get a kitten or kittens. For the next 45 minutes there was a lot of back and forth (I'll spare you all the mind numbing and illogical details) and T-Snake was doing everything in his power to manipulate the outcome into his favor of getting a cat. He kept claiming that he's very qualified for taking care of pets, having raised more than any of us. I believe what I see and nothing I've seen him do would indicate he's capable of such a responsibility. I could not in good conscience entrust the tender fragile life of one of these rescued kittens into the care of someone who doesn't even do his share in cleaning his own litter box (aka: bathroom) or bedroom—the same bedroom whose stench still makes be gag when I walk by when the door is open—but was not mentally able at the time to put get that point across without possibly insulting him. OK, I can hear everyone out there saying in unison, "but you fucking own the house, and it's your right to take a stand." And you would be right. To be fair I wouldn't entrust the kitten(s) lives in my own hands right now, either. None of us are realistically able to make that kind of commitment right now. But I digress.

Ultimately I had to play the landlord card and say "no pets" which I thought—as any logical person might—would end the conversation. It did not, and even though Carlos said he respected my judgement and decision, it started to feel like I was being made out to be the bad guy. Hell, I'd rather be the bad guy and do the right thing, than then nice guy by doing the wrong thing. When I tried to—on eggshells, as to not bring out Carlos' close-minded defensive persona that's become such a frequent visitor—address the fact that I had tried stop the "house meeting" before it started and avert the 45 minutes of pointless round-and-round, Carlos started doing what he always faults me for, he began talking over me and interrupting me. And then when I asked if I could finish what I was saying, he cut me off and said "Wait, let me finish." The double standard that has become a growing roadblock in our communication over the past year finally broke me. I snapped. And they were not ready for what I told them next; the new elephant in the room.

And I'll tell you what that elephant is…tomorrow. (I'm such a tease!) As an added bonus, I'll share with you the deleted content that didn't make it into tonight's big reveal. Think of it as a blog post with bonus features!

What's the big 'deal' with Vegas?

Like what I did with the title? Deal… like in poker… as in gambling… pretty cleaver, huh? Yeah, well, they can't all be funny.

So I'm finally fully recovered from Vegas. Can't say that everyone else who was there is yet. Maybe it's just a case of Vegas withdrawals. The Bettyfest trip was a highlight of my life. That's right, I said LIFE. Ok, so I'm still in my early mid-thrities with my "whole life" ahead of me, but seriously, it's going to be hard to top Friday night at the HOB Foundation Room, followed by a visit to OGs (both down and up stairs) where I helped to change at least one person's life, and then meeting a lovely Scottish groom-to-be named Steven wearing a kilt [NSFW] and black leather corset who let me chomp on his ball gag [NSFW]. Yeah, that was just our first 12 hours in town.

But the real highlight wasn't so much the drinking and debauchery that took place as it was getting to drink and debauch with the people I was with. Being around Betty, Hooters, Whisky, Jack D, Hootie, Q, and the famous Joe Speaker—who, by the way, is like way hotter than anyone has a right to be—was the real jackpot of the trip. It would have to be, because I gave away all of my actual money playing poker, the slot machines, eating amazing food, buying dress shoes (AND a $50 belt that I could have picked up at the local Wal-Mart for a five and change) to get into clubs, and stuffing the crotches of damn hot (yet suspiciously homophobic) male strippers dancers. Bet you thought I was getting all sentimental there with all that jackpot talk, huh. Don't second guess the K-Ray. The sugar high from the box of Tagalongs® I polished off an hour ago has faded and the bitter coldness of reality is setting in again.

Plus we just had an earthquake.

To wrap this up, allow me to share some very important lessons learned in Vegas:
1. Stick to the same liquor the entire time and you can function on barely any sleep
2. Even strippers have standards
3. I finally understand how blinds work in Texas Hold 'Em
4. Hootie can sing like no one's business
5. While life takes Visa apparently Joe will only take off his shirt for American Express

Good times… good times.

Not just another redneck's blog

Wow. All of a sudden I'm feeling overwhelming pressure to write something interesting, witty, or wise in this, my first post. Clearly I should set some expectations…

Kenny Ray's Blog Level Agreement (BLA)
Kenny Ray (that's me!) will maintain the following standards for his blog. If at any time these standards fail to be met, you have permission to feel superior.

1. I will try to post something a minimum of one (1) time a year
2. Postings will be interesting to at least me
3. If you are offended by anything I've written, it just means the rest of the world is more open minded than you are and you have a long personal journey ahead of you filled with self discovery, introspection, and development
4. No refunds
5. I like dick

OK, if #5 was news to you, you obviously haven't read the title of this blog… which is a little like going to a movie theater's box office and asking what movies are playing. Look if you can't take the 3 seconds and 10 brain cells necessary to look at the marquee, than I'm sorry I can't help you and you should probably start with something a little easier… signing up for AOL might be more your speed.

Whoa! That was kinda bitchy, even for me. Not the best foot to get started on, huh? Sounds just about right. Welcome to my blog!