Step Into My Parlor…

You’re free to fuck around and leave shit here and there. But start attacking me or other commenters and I will cut you…

…r comment out of my blog.

So seriously, play nice.

Oh, and: cats, lolcats, loldogs, fashion, politics, hot guys, hot girls, and other fun shnitz I find on the internet.

You’re welcome.

Oh, and in case you haven’t had enough of me, I’m here, here and here:

Movie Review: Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Very few movies push me to dust off my blog and actually put my thoughts to paper (or what you young whippersnappers now know as touchscreens), and not just keystrokes of a Facebook status update. This is one of them.

But in order to really truly appreciate the artistry of this movie, you’ll have to have seen this one:

Please ignore the three subsequent sequels. And this hot mess:

But anyway, going back to the re-imagining of the rise of the Planet of the Apes. From a technical execution, this movie was nearly flawless:

Pacing: Brisk and engaging. Unlike many prequels, this was the Goldilocks of the movie-making world – not too fast, not too slow. Enough to keep you engaged at all the key moments that really hammered down the story, but wasn’t afraid to propel you forward to the next one.

Set Design: Inspired. I think Director Rupert Wyatt has a great aesthetic – from the beautiful interiors of the GenSys offices, to the industrial/clinical feel of the labs, to the pseudo-fun and subsequent horrors of the holding pens. God is in the details and she was everywhere in this movie.

CGI: It’s hard not to applaud Weta’s execution in anything they do. But in this movie, they were very careful in the use of computer-generated actors, exactly opposite to the broad, sweeping CGI world that was Avatar or even King Kong. As always, Andy Serkis was mesmerizing as Caesar, an impressive feat considering he only had four words of dialogue in the entire movie.

Cinematography: That was some of the best camerawork I’ve seen all year. Both the tight shots and the panoramic vistas highlighted the movie’s rich palette. It wasn’t gimmicky, nor were there trick shots for the purpose of having trick shots. The cinematography complemented the story as it was being told.

Where this movie really wins is in the storytelling. And the one word that captures it all: restraint.

***SPOILER ALERT*** READ NO FURTHER IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW THE ENDING (which, come on guys, this is a prequel. You know how it ends.)

The Rise of the Planet Apes reels you in on the premise of seeing modern medicine go awry. You know you’re going to see animal testing. You know it raises ethical questions. And you expect a sermon on the pulpit about how animal testing is baaaaad and how God will smite the homosexshals for getting married, blah blah blah (ok, maybe you weren’t expecting the last part).

What you get instead is a very timely storyline, without the soapbox and the pamphlets and brimstone and hellfire, but a nice little “oh by the way, this is how animal testing is done. It’s a bitch of a process, isn’t it?”. And that’s enough to get you emotionally invested in Caesar’s ragtag gang.

Director Rupert Wyatt, with amazing restraint, hammers down all the “whys” and “how-did-this-happens” of the original movie. From why they created the brain-boosting drug, to losing astronauts, to the spread of the disease that killed the humans and allowed the apes to rule the world and run late-night infomercials.

Save for some scenes where they clearly ignored the laws of Physics, this was a win-win-win all around. And let’s face it, since when did Hollywood really pay attention to natural laws? Case in point — all the impossibly high silicone breasts in most any chick- or dick-flick.

So in summary: amazing technical execution, a clean but rich visual palette, and phenomenal story.

My only gripe is James Franco.

4.5 out of 5 stars.

On How To Love

I do not have a degree in psychology. I do not have any special training on the analysis of human emotions. I have not written any papers, nor have I published any books. Many can argue that because of my sexual orientation, the development of my ability to form mature emotional responses is stunted. It has been eleven years since I found my self, my voice, my identity. I don’t know what my “teen” years hold.

What I do know with immovable certainty: I have lived, and laughed, and loved.

I live with the knowledge that my first love has passed, in every sense of the word. We laughed, bewildered, discovering each other and this strange new world, breaking tradition and refusing to cave in to the pressures demanded of us by society. He loved me until the day he broke my heart. And I loved him until the day he passed away.

I had to learn to live with hidden bruises, to endure a man who I thought would be the last person on earth to take me as I am, and all my emotional baggage. I tried to laugh off the pain, the questions from concerned friends and family members. He loved me when I was nothing – curled up in fetal position, tending to wounds that were both visible and invisible. Until I finally found the gumption to stop his fists from connecting with my body ever again. He taught me a valuable lesson: to love myself, to stop finding my “better half”, because I am whole.

Love isn’t about martyrdom, but rather the ability to discern if his happiness is the source mine. It’s not about sacrifice, but the desire to elicit a sparkle in his eyes. It doesn’t have to be about dousing yourself in expensive cologne, but holding a vanilla pod in your pocket, because she adores the smell of cold ice cream. It’s not about dying for the woman you love, but how life would be unbearable without her.

Love is about long, philosophical conversations on the virtues of selfishness and laissez-faire capitalism. It’s also about giggling uncontrollably when the dog farts. It’s about nights at the symphony, and nights on the couch with a really, really bad movie and wine that comes in a box. It’s about hands accidentally touching, and how that, in and of itself, is electric! Love is the world coming to a stop with a kiss. It’s about your ass sweating, meeting his mother for the first time.

Eventually, love is going to be about soccer games and choir practice and girl scouts and sleep overs. It will be about grounding a mangy teenager for failing Spanish because of his lazy friends and for the umpteenth time will she put on something more than underwear before she heads out to the mall with hers. Love will be about hiding in the dark, watching her come home from a first date. It will be about him asking for advice on how to pop a question, and you remember how, thirty years ago, you were just as jittery when you were down on one knee.

Love is watching him sleep, drawing strength from the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest; gaining inspiration from his smile, the way he wrinkles his nose or furrows his forehead. How his voice moves you to conquer empires. Love is about feeling his heart beat next to yours, even from half a world away.

Yes, I do know some things with immovable certainty: I have lived, and laughed, and loved.

And I am eternally grateful for that gift.

Original Pilipino Music?

I’ve been to countless choral competitions in auditoriums across the nation and many symphonies and musicals at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. That’s not to say I’m a total snot who admires the “bouquet” wafting out of a brandy sifter as I arrange my smoking jacket while perusing the latest political cartoon from the New Yorker. Far from it. In fact, Katy Perry, Bruno Mars, and Charice Pempengco are dueling it out of my car CD changer right now. But I have never attended even a single pop concert event in Manila.

 

I’ve never attended because local singers aren’t producing anything worth crap. It’s nothing but one bad cover after another of “Love Moves in Mysterious Ways”, sappy love songs, and wrist-slitting interpretations of “Time of My Life”. I swear if I have to hear another local “artist“, I’m going to strangle a cat and stuff it up my ass. As for foreign acts… Well, I’m not crazy enough to shell out several thousand pesos and my ovaries to see a miniature version of Beyonce with binoculars.

 

Chuvaness wrote an interesting piece about why foreign concert events are so expensive to stage in Manila. When I jumped to the actual news article that triggered it, I couldn’t help but kick a puppy in disgust.

 

In an interview with ABS-CBN News on Friday, Alcasid seconded Filipino pop diva Kuh Ledesma’s suggestion to regulate concerts of international recording artists in the Philippines.

He said higher tax rates must apply to international artists who wish to hold concerts here.

“We must push for higher taxes on foreign shows and lowering of taxation sa local concerts,” he said.

 

So… let me get this straight: Filipinos already have to shell out TWICE what Singaporeans would pay, just to hear the abominable screechings of Justin Bieber, and you want them to pay MORE? Could it be because you want to discourage foreign acts from coming to Manila? Gee, I wonder why?

• Could it be because you represent an organization of talentless, second-rate, trying hard, copycats?
• And that the aforementioned copycats are threatened by REAL artists?
• And to avoid drawing attention to the fact that Nokia’s ring tones have more originality than their “songs”?

It’s called competition. And in a free economy, it brings out the best for the consumer. Those of us that actually want to listen to good music. You whine and whine about how nobody seems to support Original Pilipino Music or OPM. Well, we might start supporting it if it were actually ORIGINAL Pilipino Music. Artists that are actually writing world-class music, or performing for a GLOBAL audience, and not just the cows and chickens in their barrio.

So you know what, Ogie and Kuh, although I respect and admire your combined body of work, your lack of artistic backbone is appalling. Fuck you very much.

Finding My Balls

Totally disregarding the fact that my last post was Thanksgiving 2009, something really set me off today:

I’ve sworn off agnosticism, which I now call cowardly atheism. I’ve come to the position that in the complete absence of any supporting data whatsover for the persistence of the individual in some spiritual form, it is necessary to operate under the provisional conclusion that there is no afterlife and then be ready to amend that if I find out otherwise.

The quote above is from Avatar director James Cameron.

Dear Jim,

Why the hate? In fact, why do atheists always seem to have so much hate? Every major book I’ve read on the virtues of atheism seem like very angry books. I know that you’re not trying to “convert” anyone into atheism as “conversion” is one of the hallmarks of religion, but it truly wouldn’t hurt to use a little more sugar, no?

It takes balls to fess up that you just. don’t. know. None of us do. Sure, we can all point to the signs (or lack thereof) that there is no god, but there are also everyday miracles that defy a logical, scientific explanation. You can boil down “attraction” to pheromones and synaptic misfires, but not even the most empirical formulas can explain why we love who we love.

Being in a place of ignorance just means that you’re in a place of learning. I’m happily unaware. Is there a god? I don’t know. But I’m willing to find out either way. I’m Burn and I’m an out and proud agnostic.

Stop with the hate already and bring us more blue people!

Hurt

You all proudly call yourselves members of the Seventh-day Adventist Church in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. And I congratulate you on that distinction. As members of the church, you saw it fit to break a mother’s heart. I’m sure you had “good intentions”, hoping to show my mom my “sins”. But I question your “intentions” and I question my “sins”.

My life has been fraught with hardships, mistakes, sorrow, and grief. It is also filled with battles won, mountains climbed, and lessons learned.

More importantly, I am as close as I can get to self-actualization on this part of my journey, therefore my life is an open book. I am just as happy sharing my life in the real world as I am online, where I am blessed to have the ability to document this journey, good and bad, in this wonderful thing called Facebook. I see you’ve spent countless hours digging through hundreds of my pictures, and chose to highlight to my very conservative mother some of my “worst indiscretions”.

As my mother, she has been privy to every major mistake, and I have personally shattered her heart a million times over. I would like to think I have redeemed myself a million times over, as well. I have always had the strength and tenacity to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start anew. I am proud of the mistakes I have made, and I am INTENSELY proud of who I am today because of those mistakes.

You played no part in raising me to be the person I am today. The only value you have added is this experience, now, having to deal with your well-intentioned but poorly-executed “intervention”.

You exemplify the cliché of rumor-mongering, self-righteous churchgoers. You choose to turn a blind eye to your ridiculous situation: that for a small group of “faithful believers” being “persecuted” in a repressive regime, you’ve managed to fracture your community into two disparate groups with differing beliefs! And not just that, you’ve actually started to sow hate and discord by ruthlessly speaking about each other behind each other’s backs! You’ve destroyed credibility and relationships from within (it helps that I’m an expert in information gathering, no?).

I am a productive Filipino, earning a living that puts me in the top 10% of the income bracket for this country. Through talent, hard work, sleepless nights, and sheer willpower, I have built a home filled with items that allow me to live a life of relative comfort. I am part of the 2% of the world’s population that can claim ZERO debt. But that’s not a measure of success.

I share my life with a man who I know loves me unconditionally, and who I would gladly take a bullet for. We have a home filled with love where we freely discuss Islam, Buddhism, Jainism, The Book of Mormon, the Bible, and The Talmud. We are surrounded by books on every major philosophy, movies from every major genre, and eat Adobo on Monday, Tandoori on Friday, and Baklava for dessert. We are both constantly curious about this amazing world and her people, and do not discriminate on the basis of age, race, sex, sexual orientation, or religion. We are blessed to be surrounded by friends who return the favor, and love us for who we are. But that’s still not the true measure of success.

I define my success by my ability to pronounce an oath: I swear by my life, and my love of it, that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for the sake of mine.

I am Burn Tan-Hoyumpa.

My life is none of your business.

I want to have nothing to do with yours.

You have hurt my mother and father, by meddling in something you have no right to stick your noses in.

You owe them an apology. I don’t need or want one from you, because your words mean less than nothing, if that’s possible.

I hope you can find the wherewithal to focus on enriching your own lives, instead of finding fault in others. I hope you find the same peace and contentment I feel when I sleep at night.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors, and for our paths to never cross again.

On Theism

Written in response to this urban legend…

I find it hard to reconcile a god that would provide water for Hagar’s dying child and yet allow millions of children to be tortured in Treblinka and Auschwitz Birkenau.

But then again, it’s not the concept of god I find abhorent. Some people need to believe in a higher power. What I find absolutely revolting is the concept of organized religion. Every major conflict in the history of mankind can trace its roots to a group of people believing that their god is better than someone else’s.

As an agnostic, I think dismissing the problems of the world on the absence of “god” in society is juvenile. Blaming someone (or in this case, the absence of someone) for something is far too simplistic, built on an incredibly warped system of logic. “The dog died because I asked daddy to leave”. And people don’t question the fact that the dog died because it had cancer,not because the child asked daddy to leave.

(Have I confused you yet?)

Do I have a right to complain? Yes, absolutely. I cannot prove nor disprove the existence of god. I’m an agnostic.

I make an honest living, I pay my taxes, I do good unto others. I don’t judge on the basis of sex, sexual orientation, race, religion, or belief. I think everyone is created equal*. I have no prejudices.

What right does the Catholic Church, or the Republic of the Philippines, or the General Conference… What right do they have to say that as a homosexual, I don’t exist?

I choose not to have a theistic figure in my life because I don’t accept any theory on “faith”. Accepting a concept on faith is conceding to the fact that it cannot be taken on its own merits. I believe in reason and logic and my own natural inquisitiveness.

I have a right to complain.

I’m going to step down from my soapbox now.

(*except for the poor and the ugly. Just kidding**. LOL)

(**maybe)

Have You No Sense of Fucking Decency?

A convicted felon is running for the presidency of the country I love, my home.

Have you no sense of decency, Joseph Ejercito “Erap” Estrada? Have you no. fucking. shame?

You are the second most corrupt president of the Republic of the Philippines, bested only by a tyrant who brought us from a position of power equal to the United States in our region — to the mire we are stuck in today.

You made it to the top ten list of MOST CORRUPT LEADERS OF THE WORLD, embezzling nearly 80 million US DOLLARS from the coffers of my country and robbing from her people.

As if that wasn’t enough, you actually had the audacity to sign for the accounts holding that money with a fake name so sinfully unimaginative and so stupidly looking like your own original signature (and here I am tempted to say “you dumb fuck” but my mother raised me to be a lady).

How Much Do I Hate You?

Let me count the ways:

1. When asked “why are you running for the presidency”, I could maybe have kept my bile down had you spouted off some bullshit like “to serve the people”. But NO.
   • You wanted to defend the honor of your mother who died thinking you were a criminal. Which you ARE.
   • You wanted to “raise your children” to know that their father fought for the “truth”. Your children are grown, corrupt, politicians. So yeah, good job on that, you dumb fuck.
2. You’re a fucking idiot for announcing your candidacy before actually filing it with the Supreme Court
3. Half the people you said would be on your senatorial cabinet won’t even acknowledge you.
4. You were OUSTED not even before you hit HALF of your term as president
5. You’re unbelievably stupid
6. You’re sinfully UGLY:

Have you no shame? Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of fucking decency????

And I’m not talking to Erap. I’m talking to YOU.

You of the masses. I’m talking to YOU, FILIPINO. If you vote for Erap, have you left no sense of fucking decency?

Anyhoosits.

I’m going to wrap this up and start looking for a pineapple plantation.

What for, you ask?

To harvest every freaking pineapple and shove it up your ass, Erap. And then I’m gonna go after every low-life single-brain-celled MORON who voted for you. And I’m gonna shove it up theirs.

Sideways.

Author’s note: I take liberty with Joseph Welch’s rhetoric against Senator McCarthy, one of my personal favorites.

Hope

Busy through much of Friday night, I fell asleep in the wee hours of Saturday morning to what I thought was the refreshing sound of raindrops on my balcony.

I awoke 10 hours later to news that Metro Manila had received a months’ worth of rainfall in only 6 hours. The city that I love was in crisis, and all I could do was stare in horror at the news, and move my car from the basement to the upper podium levels.

I resisted long and hard to post anything related to Tropical Storm Ketsana (aka Typhoon Ondoy). As one of the very few lucky ones to have lost next to nothing, I felt guilt about my good fortune when compared to this:

And even more devastating news here.

Through it all, we see the bigger picture:

That we as Filipinos have been destroying our own cities with wanton disregard. That our politics comes before our problems. That our government is powerless.

…

That our spirit of bayanihan brings us together in times of need. That our sense of charity is alive and well. That chivalry is not dead. That we have not lost hope. That we believe in tomorrow.

That there is still light (and laughter) at the end of the dark.*

Stand strong, Manila. We will rebuild.

*From one of my kids and now registered midwife Flucian, who is a kick-ass trainer and a brilliant mind.

Things I Don’t Understand – The Leash

And yet you won’t allow gays like myself adopt children?

REALLY?

(PS: Deidre, I’m still workin on your meme. It’s a-comin)

Mapplethorpe Has Nothing on Me

One of the things I love the most about traveling is the people.

One of the things I hate the most about traveling is the people.

Having nothing better to do on a Sunday morning, I decided to enjoy the cold front that I brought with me from Dallas to Houston. I parked myself at a corner starbucks and settled in with my copy of Tolkien’s masterpiece Lord of Charrings “The Lord of the Rings”. I have a tendency to get completely immersed in my book, and just as I burst into flaming glory proclaiming

“In place of a dark lord you shall have a QUEEN! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the dawn, treacherous as the sea, stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love ME. And. Despair.”

..these two yuppies walked in, ordered their drinks, sat in the table behind me, and addressed the United Nations Peace Council. It wasn’t a volume that subtly hinted, “hey, it’s ok for you to hear this, we’re cool like that”. It was a volume that DEMANDED you drop everything you were doing, crane your neck to its breaking point, and pay some goddamned attention.

I’m dubious the world needed saving on a Sunday morning, and by two yuppies at that. And sure enough, their conversation was sinfully dull. What’s worse: they weren’t even talking to each other. They were both mouthing off on their respective bluetooth headsets.

Throwing caution to the wind (and forgetting that I am in the great state of Texas, where guns grow from trees), I picked up my blackberry and launched into an equally loud conversation with one of my personalities.

So I wake up and there are singles stuffed in my underwear. I’m confused, but pleasantly surprised. But it gets better. I stand and suddenly my butt explodes in a starburst of pain! I go into the hotel bathroom and realize there’s a dead cat’s head sticking out from my ass and what looks like jumper cable marks on my nipples. Cables that I then found in the tub, next to a passed out latino midget. I really need to figure out what the hell happened last night.

I look up and make eye contact with one of the assholes, and wink as his face crumbles into a look of sheer disgust.

They must’ve set some kind of Guiness record for fastest departure from a Starbucks.

And now back to the liberation of Rohan.

I Clearly Need Medications

Disclaimer: This is not a paid advertisement

There is a pill for everything. Depression? Check. Acne? Check. Can’t get it up? Check. Weird tingling sensations on your leg late at night? That’s not just a product of my sick, twisted imagination, it is an actual valid medical condition (Restless Leg Syndrome), AND there is an actual pill for it.

But I thought this was pushing it:

Not happy with your eyelashes?

Yup, there’s a pill for that too. Swallow a little tablet and grow your wimpy frail eye lashes into thick luscious curls that you can crimp or curl or wait, what?

Avitable posed a question to his adoring stalkers readers. What would you do if you won the lottery?

I’d totally get in on this pill-popping phenomenon. And here are the first four pills from The Demigod Pharmaceuticals:

Instant Fleet Week. Not getting enough sailors or military men in your life? Sailoril’s got you covered.

Not happy with your abs? Easy, breezy, beautiful, sixpackamette. You may not be born with it, but nobody needs to know.

Studies have shown Vampirin helps prevent irritation from rabid Teenage Twilight fans. Vampirin should not be taken with anti-depressives as they may result in violent reactions when the name “Edward Cullen” is mentioned.

And the final and biggest cash cow:

Walmartazone is a required vaccination for all visitors to the United States. It helps prevent this.

You’re welcome.

Probably Should Skip This if You’re Fat (Like Me)

Disclaimer: I am in no way an Adonis in the traditional sense. I’m incredibly narcissistic, but that doesn’t mean I can qualify for Miss Universe. I’m fat, I’ve got imperfect skin, cellulite is a permanent fixture in my life, and all those beers are catching up to me. But…

I’m a work in progress. I go to the gym, I attempt to eat healthy even when I’m traveling, and I have a fairly healthy self-image in that I know I need to continue to work towards a healthy physique. The hotness is a nice byproduct (and one I’ve already got anyway. Oh snap!)

That being said, I want shoutout to all the other lovely fat people out there: don’t be a hypocrite and don’t be a victim. If Abercrombie & Fitch won’t hire you as a store attendant, or you get turned down as a model for LA Fitness, don’t run crying to a lawyer and sue. Our society is brand-centric. And a brand isn’t just about a squiggly trademark symbol. It is the feeling invoked by a product and its overall image. And fat really doesn’t fit into the overall brand scheme of Balenciaga.

Stop. Being. Victims. Take personal accountability for who you are. You don’t have to make a change. You can make peace with your body. You can love your body. And you should!

But if you don’t, taking the stand of a victim isn’t the way to go. Grow up. Stop whining. Make a change.

The AntiBitch – Episode 1

Today I think I read one too many blog posts that were nothing but bitching and griping and general boo-hoo-woe-the-fuck-is-me. And honestly, it’s just exhausting.

But I realize it’s incredibly easy to write about something when you’re upset, but writing about happiness is the mental equivalent of inducing labor on a pregnant man.

So today I’m making a conscious effort to be thankful…

1. That in these tough economic times, I still have a place to go to where I get yelled at for a late report. And that the vending machine ALWAYS has diet coke.
2. That my man tits or mits (thanks, Avitable), are shrinking and actually getting some definition, which is: (n). less gross than before.
3. That for an overweight ‘mo, I’m oddly confident in short shorts (so boys at the Renaissance Inn in Weston, FL: I hope you have health insurance because reparative eye surgery is pricey).
4. That despite giving up some luxuries (like food and water and manicures), I still consider myself the richest guy in the world because I have this and this in my life.

What are you thankful for?

Weird Demigod Widgets – Episode 165: Why Yes, It IS All About Me. Again.

So I haven’t blogged in a while. And I agonized about apologizing for it, but a super awesome kick-ass blogger once told me that the answer to life, the universe and everything was 42.

Or I might be mistaking my life for a Hollywood movie again, but whatevs. Life comes before blogging, so I’ll stop blogging about blogging and get on with the actual blogging, no?

(And PS, this was totally ripped from this other super awesome kick-ass blogger)

I Can’t

• stand baked beans. Or spiders. Or squid. Because they’re chewy. Not spiders, squid. Fried squid is chewy. Spiders are hell on earth.
• go a day without some profanity. But I can’t constantly be a potty mouth because my mama raised me to be a lady, ass face. See.
• control my face. Whatever I’m feeling will register on my face like a big, bright, broadway marquee: be it unbridled glee, incremental annoyance, or some stench wafting up from someone’s ‘pits. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, my heart is my face.
• go a day without peanut butter. Seriously. Sometimes I think it’s better than sex. No offense, hun. OMFG. Brilliant idea, hun: you, me, peanut butter, and clothing optional. Thoughts?
• edit myself. Clearly.

I Can

• sing at a Mensa level. I can sing doing pretty much everything. And by everything, I mean “sex”. And by “sex” I mean “cleaning”.
• get lost virtually anywhere except airports. I once got lost inside a 5-bedroom apartment, true story. But I have never, EVER missed a flight.
• be a real bitch but still love you. Because I believe that loving someone doesn’t always mean sugar and honey and cupcakes and unicorns. That shit’s for sissies. I believe that sometimes, loving someone means sometimes kicking them in the ass every so often to help them build their strength. Also, I believe in world peace. *Curtsy
• cry at a TV commercial, and often do. But only the touchy/cheesy ones. Not like the ones for Valtrex.
• color within the lines, which I consider a major character flaw. For all my carpe diem bravura, I have severe authority issues and ALWAYS play by the rules.

I Won’t

• allow myself to be silent about my beliefs. Equal rights. Gay Marriage. Respect for others. Ban baked beans.
• let these two go hungry. Or hairy. They will be fondled. They will be caressed. They will be spoiled rotten. (Go on, click on the link, I dare you).
• let this go hungry. Or hairy. This one will be fondled. And caressed. And spoiled rotten. (TMI Alert. You’ve been warned)
• go into debt in the pursuit of happiness. Because a materialistic kind of happiness isn’t really happiness at all, it’s just more junk you can’t take with you. Unless you’re talking about the Mazda CX9, then I guess I can be buried in it.
• fear death because it reminds me that this moment is the only one I’ve got. And I choose to be happy in it.

I Will

• stop and smell the roses. Even if some flowers give me the wheezings. And of course, there’s always the risk of swallowing an alarmed bee.
• always dance like nobody’s watching. Or like somebody’s filming for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Is that show still on?
• wonder when I’m going to have my Susan Boyle moment. Because I’m definitely crazier than she is and damnit I can sing.
• fight when I know I am right. And not be afraid to rhyme about it.
• apologize when I realize I’ve been wrong all along. And still be unafraid to rhyme about it.

I Shouldn’t

• be so quick to judge. I’m sure the ugly, dumb, fatso has valid opinions too. After all, it wasn’t too long ago that I was an ugly, dumb, fatso.
• obsess about my body so much. It’s managed to come through for me when I needed it most. I heart you, body. You and me should spend some quiet alone time later with my “electric toothbrush”.
• reveal too much information. Lord knows what potential bosses might think.
• stop reading books midway because the author cant hold my ADD together. Wait, what?
• facebook so much that I actually use it as a verb.

I Should

• get a gun. How many gay democrats do you know that own a gun and can actually shoot it intelligently?
• work harder towards my dreams of being a mom (minus the sex transplant, thanks very much)
• really try to control my peanut butter addiction because seriously, I can’t continue to have three “back up” jars just in case nuclear winter becomes a reality and the government starts to ration peanut butter.
• try to control my emotions about my politics. As long as I’ve got my girls and my man, I should be good.
• have this whole World Peace thing figured out by now. Let me get back to work.

Internet, Meet The Other Personalities Sharing This Body

How I Met Your Father — A Continuing Love Story

Of the thousand and one things I want to write about: my recent trips, deaths, births, weddings, health scares, and general hat ass-ery, I found these bits and pieces in my old drafts folder and felt compelled to dust it off and see what it looks like in the light…

This one is for our kids, Gabriel and Katelyn.

Your father is my home.

We could be living in a second-floor apartment that floods, or a roach-infested hole in front of a refrigerator-repair shop (both true), or turning tricks on some dark street corner to support a ruinous habit of collecting Faberge eggs (might not be true). Whatever the situation is, as long as I am holding his hand, I know I’m home (Gabriel, now would be a good time to help your hurling girlfriend tie her hair back so it doesn’t get in the vomit).

In a world where two strangers meet on a Monday morning, get married by Tuesday at lunch, are cheating on each other by Wednesday, and discussing who gets custody of the pets by Friday… 6 years is (apparently) epic. When people find out it’s been that long, we used to have to pay for their reparative jaw surgeries.

That’s quickly followed by “so how did you guys meet?” (or more often than not, it was “how long were you trolling online for this one?”)

Ok kids, grab a blanket, some popcorn, and try to stay toasty. Katelyn, stop hitting your brother with his mitt. Here’s the story of how I met your father…

Would You Rather Wednesdays – The Facial Edition

Hello my internet lovelies. Let me preamble with I am so seriously behind on reading and writing (and ‘rithmetic?) but I just really needed to get this WYRW out of my system.

If you’re new to Would You Rather Wednesdays, Maxie over at ihatesomuch invites discussion on many soul-searching and thought-provoking moral dilemmas.

This is my attempt at cracking open your skull, scooping out your brain and unceremoniously dumping it at a fork in the road, hoping that it will take the road less traveled (for reasons that will become obvious shortly).

So without further ado, let me present this week’s

The Facial Edition

Would you rather:

Cry tears of 99% liquid amoebic diarrhea OR have a fully functional reproductive organ on your forehead?

Things to consider:

1. Tears of poo. I mean, seriously.
2. Tear ducts are connected to the nose. What happens when you just pass gas?
3. Sappy love stories, reminiscing old flames, and onions are forever forbidden in your date itinerary.
4. Sneezing is the new sharting.
5.  If you’re a dude, you will need to have some fantastically ugly glasses to hold up your testicles, or risk bumping into things.
6. Your attraction to that hot copy girl, cute hygienist, or any dead body will be instantly apparent to anyone who can see your forehead.
7. Ladies, one word: MENSES

And if you comment with “eeewww that’s sick, why would anyone want either?” a penis will magically sprout from between your eyes, replete with some voluptuous ‘nads, and then start having anal leakage from your eyes.

Back from the Third World

To… well, the third world. But at least I’m in my comfy apartment.

I have a bajillion and one stories to tell and probably more pictures to post but I just want to say that Nana has finally been laid to rest.

And I can go back shopping. Starting with this:

Bloggy Phimpage

Needing to take a break from the dark and twisty places of my grief (and spelling, apparently), today I pimp out the bloggers out there that have made me laugh, chuckle, chortle, and shoot milk out my nose. My feed reader is like my little jewelry box: some are awesome new pieces that I constantly pick up, look at, and fondle. Some of them are oldies but goodies. Some of them just make me feel funny in my stomach… like a sneeze only better.

LiLu from LivitLuvit. She’s the Karen to my Jack. We would totally do the nation’s capital a LOT of good. Just as long as we don’t have to deal with the poor or ugly people. Besides, her B and my J opens up a world of sex puns! (And yes, I’m sorry I didn’t partipitate in this Thursday’s TMI)

Maxie from ihatesomuch. She’s LiLu’s lesbinim lovah who I am totally jealous of slash fascinated with. I have a feeling that the combined awesome of LiLu + Maxie + The Demigod + Tequila + Boys + DC will be too much for the space-time continuum and rip it into pieces, causing an alternate reality where everyone is born with pink fur, bunny ears, and salamander tails. Either that or I need to dial down my meds. (And yes, I’m sorry I didn’t participate in Wednesday’s WYR).

Martini Mom from I Need a Martini Mom. She’s doing what I should be doing: teaching second graders. Of course if you read through the archives of this blog you’d be hard-pressed to find anybody who’d let me alone around kids, much less teach them. Of course you wouldn’t read through my archives.

And finally, the most awesomest pimpage of all:

Remember this guy? Yeah, we helped him get on the Hot Blogger Calendar. Part Asian, Part shaved head, Part Dad, Part Kung Fu, Part Funny, ALLLLL sexy. (Don’t worry, Teddy Bear J, he only pops up in my dreams every other day now. I still wake up next to you, don’t I?)

So anyways, Busydad is totally flashing the internet. And he’s trying to win Best Mewbs (which isn’t the hippity hop spelling of “moves”, trust me). And I mean honestly, did I mention he was kung fucking fu dad? Yeah. So go vote on this piece of hotness.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a cold shower.

Goodbye, Nana

Dearest Nana,

You taught me to find tenacity in the face of grief, to find the joy in the pain, the find the light in the dark. You are strength personified, and today I celebrate your life.

Today you are finally yourself again, unencumbered by wires and tubes and bags and bandages. Today you see Pop-pop again after twenty years apart. Today you are finally at peace.

Thank you. For taking care of me. For feeding me vampire blood. For trying (albeit unsuccessfully) to teach me Mandarin. For nursing the infected rashes on my legs from lying around in the mud playing with marbles. And for ultimately fishing one of those marbles from inside my nose. Thank you for inspiring me to live.

I love you so much.

Tell Pop-pop I miss him, and that he still owes me  gum.

B