I might be a carpenter now, but I'm not Jewish

So I’ve just been building some furniture. Nothing exquisite, just some small wooden cubes that will do double duty as coffee table and additional seating. It’s actually been quite fun. I came up with the design (very simple), bought the materials, cut, assembled, and varnished them. Then I attached foam to the outer surface. Today, mom and I (she is very handy) worked on upholstering them. She then decided that they needed to be lined inside. That was okay, except for the fact that I had already suggested that (a suggestion she vetoed, incidentally, requiring me to buy the nice plywood and varnish it, now all for naught). But hey, who’s bitter? Not me! They really will be quite cute when they are finished. I’ll take a picture and if I can figure out how to post it, I shall do so.

Bicycle

I was riding my bike today. This one part of the trail I ride crosses a heavily trafficked intersection and I stopped to wait for the walk signal, as had four other people. Two of them are serious riders: the kind who wear helmets and spandex and actually look good in their helmets and don’t call their spandex “manties”. The other two were a couple, a man and a woman. As soon as the light turned, the serious riders were off. I let the couple go next, since I am at some level a decent guy, and then followed behind. As we are riding, I am noticing that the guy seems to have adequate command of his bike. Not so, the woman: she was weaving like a drunken sailor. Together, they formed a blockade I could not maneuver around, and believe me I tried. Every time I did, however, it seemed like she sensed my intention with her evil bitchdar and moved swiftly but wobbily to block me. Since I was rapidly becoming irritated, I decided to back off and slowed down. I did this for two reasons: 1) I am trying to work on my rage issues and 2) the bridge was coming up, and you have to pedal like hell for a stretch to build up enough steam to be able to surmount it, and if I stayed behind the couple, there was no way that was going to happen. I let them get WAY ahead of me, which secretly irked me, because here I am like a chump, behind these other two chumps, getting left in the dust of the serious bike guys who had blasted away from our little cluster right at the get go. Anyway, the couple finally reached the bridge and, again, the guy did okay, but the woman was like “la la la” and wobbling worse than a Weeble. In the meantime, even though I am far away, I pick up some velocity here, since it will be my turn on the bridge next. And, sonofabitch, don’t you know that the woman STOPPED in the middle of the bridge. Then she got off her bike and started to foodle around with it, as though her ability to ride the bike up the bridge was somehow the BIKE’S fault, and started walking it up the bridge. As this is happening, I was in the midst of my rapid approach, even having reached the point where I downshift gears so I can get more power to ascend. I come to a screeching halt (which I mean literally; my bike brakes are noisy) at the foot of the bridge, which causes the woman to turn around and look stupidly at me. It takes every shred of my restraint to keep myself from shooting her a dirty look and audibly cursing her name and parentage. Because there is no way in hell anyone buy Lance Armstrong could cold start a ride up that bridge, I had to get off and walk my bike up as well. This was a particularly sore point for me, since I take it as a matter of pride that I can ride up the bridge in the first place. To be forced to walk was just a further insult to my dignity. Plus, it is tiring on the shins. I finally reach the top, and dammit, there they are, admiring the view of the ROAD. I must stress that had they gone perhaps sixty feet further to the bend, they would have been able to look out onto the water, a view which many riders avail themselves of during a moment of respite. This made me want to beat them about the head and neck, which although I refrained, the thought of doing so kept me motivated through the rest of my ride and part of the afternoon.

I'm too sexy for my blog

For some reason, I am suddenly being deluged with offers for sex. I know: I can’t freaking believe it either. Although, it is not like I am a rock star and guys are throwing themselves at me as I walk down the street. They are doing so online. Yeah, takes a little of the shine off, doesn’t it? Before I further slander my own name, allow me to assert that I am not some kind of online sex-addict, haunting the chat rooms until my next trick comes along. Chat rooms happen to be the only place I can “meet” people without getting the equivalent of exposure of a five-packs-a-day smoking habit and/or having the penetrating beat of the house music damaging my hearing. Damn, I sound old. At any rate, I find “chatting” an amusing little pastime; I’ve even made a couple of friends (but nothing more) online. My profile is very modest (yet witty) and I did post ACTUAL pictures of myself (unlike those bitches who don’t look anything like the pictures they have posted in their profile… or so I have heard), so I am mildly bewildered as to why I seem to be such a hot commodity. Or I was until I started looking at the pictures of the guys who were IMing me. Yeesh. I thought all gay men were required to be somewhat attractive. Apparently, the mullet is not the exclusive domain of the lesbian, as we once thought. Also, many of them are old enough to be my father. Some of them even use that as part of their pitch. Others want me to do things to them that, well, let’s just call it a big “Ewwww” and move on. Most intriguing have been the offers for three-ways, and there have been more than a few. Almost all of them have come from real dogs. Except the latest one. And that's all I'm going to say.

Manties

I have a confession to make: I am addicted to these new spandex under shorts I bought at Target. I LOVE them. And yes, smartasses, they DO make them in a size big enough for a tub of guts like me to pull on. And no, that’s not the reason I have been so silent lately; I was simply busy with the end of the school year. My new drawers have a lovely, silky feel (unlike other spandex I have had occasion to touch) that is reminiscent of a baby’s skin. But that is not the best part about them, not by far. See, they are underwear, right? And spandex, too. All of that combined with the silkiness… well, it’s like giving your goody package a special hug. Allow me to clarify one thing: I do not, and never would, wear them to work or any other place I would expect to encounter the general public. That would just be wrong on so many levels and in so many ways. But I do wear them bike riding (people whizzing by you don’t count as public), and to mow the lawn (screw the neighbors), and sometimes when I sleep (on the rare occasion I wear anything to sleep. Note: I ALWAYS wear something when I am a guest in someone’s home or am sharing a room with other people). I have decided to christen my newfound joy in life manties, a combination of the words man and panties. I don’t expect it to catch on, and could frankly care less if it did as long as I get to keep wearing them.

Purple-headed warrior

I have finally started riding my bike again after my accident. The delay was mostly due to the fact that I was still recovering and busy at work, not any hesitation on my part to “jump back in the saddle.” Although now, knowing what I know, I may have to find a different form of exercise. Let me get right to the point: my bike helmet makes me look like Special Ed. I bought the damn thing after my accident: I’d always sworn that the first time I had an accident that involved me hitting my head (assuming it was nonfatal), I would purchase and wear a bike helmet from that day forward. Of course, I must have subliminally added that the bike helmet would also have to make me look mentally deficient. There’s nothing in particular about the helmet that shouts “I have a disability!” but the combination of my punkin head and the glossy purple shell puts me a strand of drool away from riding the short bus. I would show you, but I already have to endure the shame of riding past people on the Pinellas Trail; I don’t think I could bear the indignity of even the slim possibility that people all over the world can revel in my shame.

Ten questions

This summer, I am going to be part of this training about teaching writing and the people in the various groups have to figure out a way to introduce themselves to everyone. My friend Tammy used the ten questions from the Bernard Pivot interview (also known as the questions superfreak James Lipton asks in Inside the Actors Studio). These are my answers:
1. What is your favorite word? succulent
2. What is your least favorite word? vagina
3. What turns you on or what is your favorite thing? If we are talking “turn ons”, then I would say an athletically built guy with a hairy chest, hairy legs, and a goatee; if we are talking favorite things then I would say silicone cooking implements of any fashion (Note: these would not ever be used in conjunction with each other)
4. What turns you off? Assholes, by which I mean jerks
5. What sound or noise do you love? Mmmmmmm
6. What sound or noise do you hate? My father’s incessant belching
7. What is your favorite curse word? God fucking dammit
8. What other professions would you like to attempt? astronaut
9. What profession would you not like to do? The guy who cleans up elephant shit at the circus
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive? So, how surprised are you!

Stuff

Why do people assume that I am okay with racially insensitive remarks? I mean, do I look like a racist? Sure, I’m white, my head is practically shaved, and I do speak with a bit of a twang. Oh. Anyway, I think that racism is the only thing that truly shocks me: it’s just so… ugly. Perhaps it’s just that I don’t imagine that people could be that way, or the fact that I simply cannot tolerate prejudice. Yes, we could go into the whole “you can’t hate the haters” philosophy, but I think that is bullshit. Each of us is endowed with free will and the ability to choose how we will live our lives. If you choose to dislike people because of the color of their skin or because of who they love, then you are a waste of skin. I feel perfectly comfortable choosing to hate you for being a dumb fuck. You can whine and cry all you like about how you were raised that way, how you didn’t never learn no better (because I assume you are some kind of white-trash hick), but bottom line, you are choosing your actions. End of story. Nothing is more empowering than realizing you are the captain of your own destiny, that you are free to make choices about your life. For instance, I am at the crossroads of the biggest choice of my life: should I succumb to the dark forces within me, forces I thought long ago vanquished, and become the bitter, negative, cynical, jack-ass I once was? Or, should I keep the tiny ember of hope (that’s really all I have left) aflame, and have faith that the things I want, that I need, for my life to feel complete, will come to me?