Trading Places

My sweetie sent me this today (My reaction below):

A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his wife stayed home.

He wanted her to see what he went through so he prayed:

"Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours while my wife merely stays at home. I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to switch with mine for a day. Amen."

God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish.

The next morning, sure enough, the man awoke as a woman.

He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, set out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their lunches, drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning, took it to the cleaners and stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping, then drove home to put away the groceries, paid the bills and balanced the checkbook. He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog. Then it was already 1 P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do the laundry, vacuum, dust, and sweep and mop the kitchen floor.

Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument with them on the way home. Set out milk and cookies and got the kids organized to do their homework, then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he did the ironing.

At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for salad, breaded the pork chops and snapped fresh beans for supper.

After supper, he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed.

At 9 P.M. he was exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went to bed where he was expected to make love, which he managed to get through without complaint.

The next morning, he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and said: Lord , I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh please, let us trade back."

The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied: "My son, I feel you have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things back to the way they were. You'll just have to wait nine months, though. You got pregnant last night."


My reaction:
Funny, but I think Mrs. Cleaver is dead. It's 2006. Let the kids take the bus. Schools have cheap hot lunches—use them. No one should have to stop at the bank these days. If you’re grocery shopping every day, you need a larger refrigerator. If you’re doing dry cleaning every day, you need a larger laundry basket. If you’re dusting daily, someone needs to see a dermatologist. Get a kitty door and let the cat poop outside. Kill the dog. Kids make their own beds...or they don't—life goes on. Shut their bedroom door. Buy a Roomba. I never met a kid who couldn’t raid the kitchen him/herself for cookies and milk.

My Graduation Show and Chicago!

Today was my graduation show from my comedy class with San Francisco Comedy College. Seventeen of my closest friends and family showed up at Rooster T. Feathers to cheer me on--thank you all!

The show went great, I must say. I remembered everything I wanted to say, except for one thing. When I was mimicking my right-wing friend's Bill O'Reilly action figure, I think I forgot to say, "We've all heard quite enough about your dead son, Mrs. Sheehan." But no harm done.

After the show, we rushed off to see Chicago, the band, in concert. We had invited our friend, David. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. He was disappointed to learn that Renee Zellweger would not be in the production.

We enjoyed ourselves at the concert, but I must say, Chicago isn't the same without Peter Cetera. There's a youngish stand-in singer for his signature songs. He does a fine job, but you just know that if Cetera ever offered to come back to the band, the newbie would be out like yesterday's dryer lint.

But Cetera's not coming back, and I think I know why. This is the first rock concert I've been to where there's a trombonist on stage the entire time and playing in nearly every song. At other rock concerts, maybe you see a trombone on one song, sort of as a fluke. I vaguely remember a trombone riff during a Guns and Roses concert. I'm not sure.

Now, I used to play trombone when I was a kid, so I like the instrument. I was impressed with the trombone guy's mad skills. But let's be honest, nothing screams 1970's leisure suit, dentist office waiting room Muzak like trombone accompaniment. So, until this trombonist takes a hike, Peter Cetera is likely to stay away.

The partially original Chicago opted to regale us with a few too many songs from their newest album. Um, yeah, you know what, Chicago? Didn't come to hear any of your new crap. Give me the classics. You've got about a dozen greatest hits albums. Hey, I know. Lose the warm up band, and you all can play your groovy new material at the beginning of the show while most of us are still finding a parking space and buying an outrageously priced pint of pale ale.

Saturday, in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July.

Technorati tags: O'Reilly, Comedy, Chicago, Cetera

JonBenet Ramsey Suspect

I swear that's the same pencil-necked dude I saw working at Geek Squad in San Jose. They should look into that.

His mugshot with the Boulder County Sheriff's Department was just released. You have to love their up-lighting effect to make the suspect look as creepy as possible. Nice job! "Enjoy your chardonnay on the plane ride, Mr. Kerr? Good. Smile!" Time magazine won't even have to Photoshop it! Maybe they can add an audio clip to it with a sinister laugh--"Huah, huah, huah!"

You think you're some sort of comedian?

I took the leap. A crazy, nutty leap. For the past few weeks, I've been a fully matriculated student of the San Francisco Comedy College. Having fulfilled all of the admissions requirements--the check cleared--I began learning the art and science of funny under the tutelage of longtime comedian Kurtis Matthews, in July.

And now, I'm preparing for my graduation show at Rooster T. Feathers at 156 W. El Camino Real in Sunnyvale on Saturday, Sept. 2 at 4 p.m. I'll be one of about a dozen graduates, each given seven minutes to perform. I've learned that I get a lot more laughs when there are actually other people in the room, so I encourage my friends to show up and plan to have a good time.

What's my act about? Well, I can only tell you what it's not about. You can rest assured there'll be no watermelon smashing, no Jack Nicholson impressions, no confetti throwing and most importantly, no trans fats.

That's my time. You've been a great audience. Tip the wait staff, and drive safely.

Where the heck have I been?

My apologies, dear readers. I have been busy helping a close friend, Clark Williams, with his campaign for San Jose City Council. Clark is going to be a hard-working, effective, ethical representative for the neighborhoods of his district. Until election day on Nov. 7, I probably won't have much time to write here. If you would like to help Clark's campaign in any way, please let me know.

Hop on the "Mel Gibson's an Ass" Bandwagon!

Here, let me give you a hand. Just push that clarinet player over a bit. Welcome to the bandwagon! It's about time you realized Mel Gibson is an obnoxious, bigoted ass and unworthy of your entertainment dollar.

I've known that since 1992. Here's why (and I apologize that quoting Mel Gibson will result in the most profane language that has ever appeared in this blog):

In 1992, Gibson was interviewed by the Spanish newspaper, El Pais.

Asked about the stereotype that actors are usually gay, Gibson stood up, grasped his buttocks, and declared, "This is only for taking a shit...They [gays] take it up the ass." He then asserted his heterosexuality in a curiously defensive tone. "Do I look like a homosexual?" he demanded of the reporter. "Do I talk like them? Do I move like them?"

I may be the only guy you know who never saw Braveheart, The Man Without a Face, or What Women Want. I never saw the last two Lethal Weapon movies. Passion of the Christ? Need you even ask?

That's because, unlike this recent anti-Semitic incident, Gibson did not apologize, did not claim it was "the booze talking," and did not appeal to the gay community for help. He did not ask to meet with leaders of the gay community with whom he "can have a one-on-one discussion to discern the appropriate path for healing."

If this is the end of Mel Gibson's career, that's a good thing. That his blatant anti-gay remarks 14 years ago weren't enough to do the job is a real shame.

Camping it up in Russian River

This weekend, we went camping in Guerneville with some good friends. Now, I do like camping. I'm not one of these wusses that needs running water and electricity to survive through the weekend. My favorite kind of trip is isolation camping--—hiking into the woods far enough that there'’s not only no other humans with you, but there'’s no sign that any other human has been there before. You pack everything in that you need, and you pack it all out save what you buried in a hole a few dozen yards from your tent.

The trip we experienced had all the discomforts of camping without any of the joys of getting away from it all. Isolation was not the name of the game. Our tent was situated approximately 8 inches away from one of several tents belonging to a four-family contingent from an unidentified eastern European country. About a dozen children ran amok all day long. I now know what it would be like to be held captive for two days at the Moscow Chuck E. Cheeslowski. We didn'’t share a common tongue, except for the universal language of the plaintive scream. Imagine all the guests at your average Circus Circus hotel separated not by two layers of drywall but by a thin layer of nylon fabric.

A bathroom with indoor plumbing was located 200 yards away, while we had two Porto-potties 50 yards from our campsite. Apparently, portable toilets have a capacity equal to what 12 families (including four of eastern European descent) can produce in 36 hours. Tragically, we were there for 48 hours.

Somehow, the children actually slept through most of the night--—perhaps their parents spiked their sippy cups with Stoli--but the adults jabbered into the night. I kept dreaming over and over that I was an extra in a sequel to The Hunt for Red October. But then, I kept dreaming of going to the bathroom. When going to the bathroom involves squirming out of a sleeping bag, rolling off the air mattress (inevitably waking up your boyfriend), feeling around for a flashlight, unzipping the tent, only to stumble through a makeshift Chechnyan village to get to a maxed-out fiberglass shitter, one tries his hardest to sleep through the night even with a full bladder.

So, I kept dreaming about peeing, over and over again. I dreamt this morning that I was back in high school and could barely make it to the bathroom and then I was having a terrible time aiming for the urinal. Fortunately, I woke up before I started dreaming about sitting in a warm hot tub.

This was all particularly disappointing because we had believed we were staying at a gay camping resort. That'’s what The Willows used to be, but now has, as the owner told us upon check in, a very diverse crowd. It'’s a sad thing that they've gone mainstream. It was equally distressing to see that the once-famous Fife's Resort had become a shadow of its formal self, now catering to an upscale clientele, its legendary T-parties a faint memory. To give you an idea of how it would feel, imagine that you took a family trip to Disneyland, only to find out that it had been bought out by Wal-Mart. You go in and you're greeted by an old man in mouse ears huffing "Welcome to the happiest retail space on Earth!" Your kid groans when you insist on braving the line for the "Haunted Housewares" ride.

Outside of the "accommodations," we had a great time. Our friend Keith whipped up a gourmet dinner of capellini with prawns sauteed in a garlic lime sauce. Jack brought homemade cheesecake. We saw one of the comedians from our Atlantis cruise, Shann Carr, perform on Saturday night at Triple R Resort. We bypassed the $10 cover charge without even realizing it. On Sunday, we canoed up the Russian River with a picnic lunch, followed by some fun in the pool at the Triple R. One of our other companions, Greg, helped us appreciate all the birds (and bats) in the area--—ospreys, sparrows, blue jays, killdeers, turkey vultures, herons, king fishers and a bunch of others I can'’t remember.

Guerneville, as a well-known gay getaway, still has its appeal. But The Willows campsites are for the birds.

San Francisco Gay Pride Recap

We started out the day with a marvelous brunch with friends who live in a beautiful house with great views of downtown San Francisco.

The company and food were fabulous which saved us from (1) actually bothering to go to the parade and (2) having to eat overpriced booth food.

Yes, we travelled all that way to the City and didn't even go watch the parade. We decided that the parade is merely the route most people take to get to the festival. We did have it on the television while we ate quiche and drank mimosas. Or maybe it was a re-run of last year's parade. It's hard to tell.

We did head down to the festival after the brunch. As expected, everything was pretty much set up exactly how we left it last year and the year before.

Without any expectations of a memorable moment, I actually had one. NFL football player, Esera Tuaolo, belted out a beautiful song at the Asian/Pacific Islander stage. And then, Robert and I caught him as he was leaving to take this photograph.

Esera is an inspiration. After a successful football career, he came out of the closet and he's been a vocal advocate for equality since then. He and his partner have two adopted children. Their family is so adorable. I even joined Esera's fan club, so I was very pleased to get the chance to meet him today.

To San Francisco Gay Pride We Will Go

Once again we are going to San Francisco Pride. I've probably been to Pride 10 times out of the 15 years I've been out. I should be invigorated and inspired to join hundreds of thousands of people to celebrate our freedom and rally for equality, but I find myself dreading it.

We're going to a brunch at our friends' house (the good part) and then heading to the parade and festival (the part I'm dreading). After waiting in a 20-minute line to pee in a Fiberglas hut, eating a $6 teriyaki chicken thigh on a stick, I'll shoulder through a boisterous crowd of hundreds of thousands for several hours, returning home exhausted and sunburnt, leaving any feelings of invigoration and inspiration way back on Market Street. Staying home, working the Sunday Times crossword sounds much more appealing.

Not all "the gays" go to San Francisco Pride every year. Someone has got to keep the rest of the Bay Area fabulous today. Contrary to popular belief, it's not an obligatory annual pilgrimage. No one's taking attendance, anyway, so they can't confiscate anyone's gay card for missing the event.

I'm one of those people who tries to keep expectations low, so if we see something truly fascinating, it'll be doubly rewarding. If, as I suspect, the parade and festival will be surprisingly similar to every other San Francisco gay pride parade I've been to, I won't be terribly disappointed.

Last year, we made the effort to squeeze ourselves over to the main stage to see one of the headliners. A free concert with a band I've heard of is kind of a treat. But now I can't even remember what band it was, but I do remember that they only played two songs I'd ever heard of, and the acoustics at the Civic Center were atrocious. At least it was something to look forward to.

I checked the billing to see what I could anticipate for tomorrow. Well, it's slim pickings. Danny Glover is one of the bigger names. He'll be on the main stage, but I have no idea what kind of act he has. Will he narrate a documentary film?

Jennifer Beals is one of the grand marshals, but unless she gets out of her convertible and pulls me over the barrier to teach me how to flashdance, I can't get myself excited about that.

Other grand marshals include a friend, Robert Bernardo, announced as "the first openly-gay Jewish, Filipino commissioner in the City of South San Francisco." Really? The first? Well, it's about bloody time. Thank you, Robert, for breaking down the walls for all the rest of the openly-gay, Jewish Filipinos aspiring to serve as commissioner in the City of South San Francisco.

We'll go around the festival and probably run into some old friends we haven't seen since, well, we bumped into them at last year's festival.

There. I think I've sufficiently lowered my expectations.

A Triumph at Bay to Breakers

I have neglected to write about our experience running in the Bay to Breakers in May. If you haven't heard of it, Bay to Breakers is a quintessential San Francisco institution, a 7.46 mile race from the Embarcadero to Ocean Beach.

The race is famous for the centipede teams and outrageous costumes (and lack thereof). I think I saw about three dozen naked runners. Fortunately, the majority of them were in pretty good shape. The most surreal moment of the day came right at the beginning of the race when I saw a naked guy with a disposable camera taking pictures of other people.

If you know me well, you may have heard me say that I run "only when chased." Running hurts. That high feeling runners describe? That's never happened to me. In high school, when the football coach made us all run one mile after a long, hot practice, I finished dead last.

When I exercise, I typically need to have the duration and intensity of the regimen imposed upon me to some degree. That is, I'll walk 30 minutes on the stair climber because I only have to make the decision once, as I enter my preferred program. I can finish an hour long yoga class, because once I've started, I feel committed to finishing.

Running outside or on a track is a different story. I am constantly fighting the urge to stop. Every step is a new decision. While some people hum or breath to the rhythm of their pace, I am chanting, "I must stop. I must stop. I must stop." And I usually do.

But for some reason, I got motivated to train for this race. After two three-mile runs in the hills at Stanford, I felt I could actually run the majority of the 12 kilometers. As it turned out, I ran most of it, and only walked when pains started shooting through my knees.

Another tradition, for some unknown reason, is to throw corn tortillas at the beginning of the race. As we made our way to the starting line, we walked on top of a huge blanket of corn tortillas. Quirky, but a clear falling hazard.

After the grueling Hayes Street hill, the rest of the race is a steady decline which works for me. Once we entered Golden Gate Park, every crappy garage band in the greater Bay Area had set up a street performance every few hundred yards. The urge to get out of earshot provided a good motivation to keep on running, but I don't think that was their intention.


To motivate myself, I tried to keep up with an Austin Powers guy (one of three I spotted). I figured I should at least be able to beat a guy in a crushed velvet leisure suit. And then I determined that I would not be outpaced by a guy who was pulling two kids in a Radio Flyer wagon. Later, I set my eyes on the red-pajama-clad Thing One and Thing Two (and a superfluous Thing Three and Thing Four). To my delight, I beat all four of those little house-trashing creeps.

My time was 1 hour, 30 minutes, exactly. It may not sound impressive that I finished in 13418th place, but that doesn't account for the fact that we didn't cross the starting line until 25 minutes into the race. To put it another way, about 47,000 people finished behind me, and that ain't bad.

The trippy part was watching a replay of the race on television later and seeing the Kenyan guy who won. While he finished in under 35 minutes, he and I were in the same race. We ran the exact same course. You don't get that in any other sport. I can't plop down 25 bucks and play in a baseball game with the New York Yankees or race a car with an Andretti.

After the race, a number of people were promoting future runs. I actually feel like I want to do this again. Yesterday, I just bought some better running shoes. Am I a convert? I don't know about that. But next year, I want to beat that Harry Potter and all those Elvises.

The U.S. military still thinks gays are crazy

The Associated Press reported today that a Pentagon document classifies homosexuality as a mental disorder, decades after mental health experts abandoned that position. While the rest of us have moved on to debates about gay marriage, the Defense Department still thinks we're sick in the head.

Next, they'll discover a document that reveals that the Pentagon believes that masturbation causes blindness, that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs, and that drinking Pepsi after eating Pop Rocks will make your stomach explode.

I was never in the military, but after talking to a few people who have served and after watching the HBO special, Baghdad E.R., it's beyond me how this old chestnut (as Dick Cheney called the military ban in 1991) survives. When you see doctors, nurses, and orderlies working in the green zone hospital, you can see that it's a job, albeit a very dangerous and stressful one. It's a workplace, and I can't understand why anyone would care if there was an out gay man or lesbian working there.

Dear ol' Dad

Hey Pop,

One time, when I was about 12, I got so mad at you I swore that I would never, ever speak to you again. It had something to do with a sibling squabble where you, rather uncharacteristically, blamed me without due process. As has been evident, my pledge didn't last long, and I've got to tell you, I don't regret that a bit.

You know the quote from Mark Twain: "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

Well, I never thought you were ignorant, but it did take me awhile to realize how fortunate I am to have such a stand up guy for a father. I've been thinking about some of those things you have done that annually put you in the running for a "World's Best Dad" trophy. Like when you came to Dad's Day at my nursery school (I love that picture of me cutting our pancakes while you looked on, sitting in a chair intended for a four year old). And when you carved my pinewood derby race car when I was a Cub Scout, guaranteeing victory in the competition and my first trophy. And all the family camping trips we went on. And all the goofy jokes you told us. And all the fishing lures you tied for me, knowing they'd soon be stuck to a log a the bottom of the lake. And when you took me hiking to Horseshoe Lake, just the two of us. And when you chaperoned my junior high school Valentine's Day dance and performed fake wedding ceremonies. Though you made me cringe, my friends always thought you were so cool. And when you took me to see The Blue Lagoon, my first rated R movie. And when you helped me with my physics project which involved dropping a bowling ball and a softball at precisely the same time to see which falls faster. And for coming to all of my football games, band and choir concerts, school plays, speghetti feeds and talent shows. And the way you accepted me when I came out and how you've welcomed each of my partners into our family.

And a thousand other things you did to make me into the person I am today. But for the record, my brother had no right to change that channel. I was watching that.

Happy Father's Day.

Hometown Buffet of the Seas

One of the reasons I had never gone on a big cruise before is the very fact that people rave about all the food. Some boast that they will order two entrees at a time, or if all the desserts look good, they'll order all of them.

Here on land, buffets are bad news for me. I'm so cheap, I feel like I have to get my money's worth. And if there's something really tasty looking, I have the urge to try it. My best strategy is to stay away completely. Once last year, a gourmand friend invited us to celebrate his birthday at the Super Buffet. I showed up to greet the celebrant, but immediately left without eating.

But once we decided to take the Atlantis cruise, I resolved that I would enjoy myself, try to get some exercise, and make healthier choices.

We did okay. It could have been worse. We did make it to the gym, but when we realized there was no buffet line in there, it lost it's luster.

We discovered the "Aquaspa Cafe" that served healthy, light entrees and desserts. One late afternoon, we enjoyed a couple of these entree plates and a healthy dessert or two. We found that these plates served as a delightful appetizer to preface our five course meal at the main restaurant.

By about Wednesday, I started to ask myself whose idea it was to pack all these tight jeans that barely fit me before the cruise. I feared that by the end of the week, I'd be wearing my gym sweatpants to the buffet line. My stomach seemed to be expanding to the size of a Mylar balloon. Five course dinners no longer left me feeling bloated. By midnight, we had enough room to stop by the late night buffet. I had completely reverted to old eating habits.

It was with great trepidation that I stepped on the scale when we got back at home (on an empty stomach and bladder, stark naked, of course) to assess the damages. To my delight, I hadn't gained any weight.

Which left me thinking, if I can eat like that and not gain weight, why have I been denying myself five course dinners and chocolaty desserts?

But alas, I have to factor in the fact that on the ship, we were on the go all day long and went to at least six dance parties. We canoed and went on a couple of nature walks. That's quite a bit more active than my typical routine of sitting on my rear for nine hours a day in front of a computer screen.

As soon as we boarded, we even signed up for a yoga class scheduled for Saturday morning at 9 a.m. It sounded like a good idea at the time. After dancing 'til dawn on Friday night (We're not as wild as that sounds--sunrise was at 2:30 a.m.), we ended up waking up at 11:30. Even if we hadn't lost an hour from moving back to Pacific Daylight Time, we never had a chance.

Float plane adventure in Juneau

We were in Juneau at the dock getting ready to board a sea plane and this guy from our ship said, "The air here is so much thinner than back home in Texas. We're from Dallas where it's only about 500 feet above sea level. Here, it's like 5000 feet."

Yes, he really said that.

We're in Alaska, but I think most people have no idea where that is. I think most people on this ship think Alaska is a big island down and just to the left of California and bordered by a thick red line. And that Hawaii lies right beside it, which begs the question, why don't we just take the ship for a little day trip to Waikiki and get some mai tais. Goodness, it's only a half an inch away. Well, I'll tell you why we can't do that. It's because of that red line.

There was a straight couple getting on our plane with us. They were from another cruise ship. They were telling us that the weather for them has been terrific. I asked them if they've been having all of their T-dances on the pool deck, but she didn't quite understand the concept. She said her ship is mostly older folks and that she is old enough to be my mother. She thought I was young. Let's just bask in that for a moment, shall we?

We got in the plane and the pilot was pretty casual. He said one of the passengers could sit in the co-pilot's seat. I was not comforted by this. This ship has people on it who think the sea plane is taking off from 5000 feet above sea level. I do not want them to be my co-pilot.

The pilot quickly went through some safety precautions, told us where the exits were and, importantly, where the barf bags are. Another passenger asked if we were supposed to turn off our cell phones. He said, "Sure." Sure. Hmm. What does that mean? He asked again: "So we're supposed to turn them off?" "Sure." OK, then. I guess I'll turn it off. I don't want my cell phone to trip up that altimeter into saying we're at 5000 feet above sea level. We've got that guy from Dallas for that.

We're back!

Our Alaska adventure was grand. I'll post some photos and musings in installments to avoid overwhelming you and me.

The highlight of the cruise was flying over the Juneau snow field and some glaciers. Here are a few of those photos:

Going up to Alaska

In an unusual move, I've been packing for a trip a full 18 hours before the departure time. That's only because we're leaving for Vancouver tomorrow right after work. On Sunday, we'll be aboard the Celebrity Infinity for a cruise to Alaska. A gay cruise, no less.

The cruise company announced that there will be a special guest on board. We've made some guesses: Megan Mullally (promoting her new talk show), Margaret Cho (because she's a party animal), or Sean Hayes (has nothing better to do; vying for permanent gig in cabaret lounge).

As we're packing, we're watching these young whippersnappers in the National Spelling Bee. I've concluded that I'd only be a decent speller in Hawaii. And that there are quite a few words out there I've never heard. And that advanced spelling is a fairly useless skill. Perhaps, I'm suffering from weltschmerz. I suppose there ought to be a least a few living humans able to spell these words.

Sorry, loyal blog readers, for such a lapse in entries. I've been busy, and my laptop had a major malfunction. I have a little bit of advice for my friends: back up your hard disk. Recovering data from a hard drive is expensive. Now I've got a fancy new external hard disk to sync to.

And more good news. My laptop, which used to take at least five minutes to boot, now is ready to roll in about one minute.

Grizabella and her pet guardians/owners

The Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors passed an ordinance last week calling for the word "guardian" to be added to any reference to pet owner in county documents.

I protest. I am not my cat's guardian. I am her 24-hour on-call masseur.

Grizabella knows all she has to do is meow and nudge my arm with her wet nose to get the massage machine to kick in. Sometimes, I think that's the only reason she sticks around.

And that we feed her, groom her and clean up her litter. And serve as a heating pad in the winter. She's got a good thing going here.

Last night she was particularly lovey-dovey, still high from playing with a new catnip toy Robert got for her. If she were a drinker, I think she'd be one of those affectionate "I love you man!" kind of drunks.

Next week is Be Kind to Animals Week, but I doubt our little princess will notice the difference.

Curb my enthusiasm

Isn't this just lovely? Not the Japanese maple, silly. The curb! We're finally done painting the fire lane. When I volunteered to check into the cost of having someone come out to repaint our townhouse complex curbs, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And I was getting into it myself. I could have gone with the painting company that wanted something like $1,500 to paint a couple of hundred feet of curb, but instead, I volunteered to do it myself, thinking it might be fun way to spend a pleasant Saturday morning. Oh, and I volunteered Robert to help.

Our complex has just 12 units, so when things have to get done, one of us has to step up and coordinate. Normally, it involves calling a company out to take care of the job--cleaning the gutters, repairing a fence, hiring a new landscaper. Rarely does anyone actually do the work themselves. I figure that such a visible job as painting these curbs and saving my neighbors some dough would score me at least two years until it's my turn to take on another project.

Having inherited a bit of my dad's perfectionism, I decided to scrape off as much of the old paint as possible. This, I found, was most effectively done by hand with a metal scraping tool and a wire brush. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Well, I could stop. I got tired frequently and stopped. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights and I stopped. But I couldn't stop what I had started and admit that I had made this harder than it needed to be.

Neighbors walked by and saw me hunched over, scraping, dripping with sweat and proposed various methods that might be easier. One neighbor brought his electric sander out and tried it out on about 50 feet of curb. While a few flakes flung off, I'd describe it as more of a buffing than paint removal. At best, he created smooth, shiny, flaking paint. I thanked him for his contribution to the job, and later scraped his section again when he wasn't looking. Another neighbor pitched in, using a razor blade. His method was fairly effective, but after about two hours, he remembered he had somewhere to go.

The job was left half done for weeks because it rained nearly every day in April. If we had hired a company to do it, no doubt my neighbors would have been up in arms to see scraped curbs left unpainted for weeks. Yesterday, I had the day off, so I put in another four hours and today we finished the job. I have a whole new appreciation for the term "curb appeal."

I've been noticing how poorly maintained many fire lane curbs are. Even in our local swanky mall, the curbs are blackened with tire marks, chipped and flaky. The required 3-inch-high markings of "FIRE LANE" and "NO PARKING" in white lettering which are to be placed at intervals of no less than 50 feet are faded and illegible.

Last night, I dreamt of paint scraping. Paint was flaking off in large strips. I peeled and peeled until an entire wall of paint came off in one piece, giving me the kind of pleasure one gets in peeling an orange and ending up with one solitary piece of orange peel. You don't get pleasure from that? Oh. Maybe it's just me.

While I scraped, I tried to remember the last time I'd really had a hard day of back-breaking work. We don't have much of a backyard and what we have is really Robert's baby. It's been awhile. A masseuse recently commented on how smooth my feet and hands are, completely free of calluses. I recall as a kid that hands like that would be hidden in one's pocket for fear of being ridiculed by classmates who were up with the cows every day. I took pride in having summer jobs that gave me blisters, a farmer's tan, and a reason to wear cowboy boots without looking like a poser. Those days are long gone. I have a masseuse, for Pete's sake.

I also thought about going down to the local Home Depot and hiring one of the dozens of day workers who loiter in the parking lot, waiting for a job. I probably could have had the job done in one day. Unlike me, whoever I had hired probably would not have taken 30 minute breaks every 45 minutes. I'd probably have to pay less than $100. What a strange world we have created where I can pay a guy $100 to work under the hot sun for hours, while I made more than that sitting in a climate-controlled conference room on Thursday afternoon for a quarterly business review meeting where my primary responsibility was to sit and listen.

And I thought about the people who think that it is those willing workers outside of Home Depot who are ruining our economy. And all the people--including me--who take for granted all the hard working immigrants who mow our lawns, clean our dishes, mop our floors and paint our fire lane curbs. We have forgotten how hard a hard day's work really is, if we ever knew at all.

This most recent wave of anti-immigrant sentiment seems to have popped up out of nowhere. All of the sudden, "illegal immigration" has lurched into the top position of social concerns. With the president's ratings down and the Republicans fearing they'll lose one of the three branches of government they dominate, they're pulling out all the stops to create another wedge issue. No surprise. It's worked for them before (Look for the anti-gay marriage amendment to rear its ugly head again soon in a big way).

On May 1, an unknown number of immigrants are planning to skip work to protest proposed federal immigration policies. One of our local business owners is worried that he'll be left bussing tables at his restaurant, A.P. Stump's Chop House in San Jose. In the Mercury News, Mr. Stump said, "I told them I'd terminate them. If they strike, they'll shut me down. I'm loyal to them, giving them two weeks off if they have a baby or something, and that's not showing loyalty if I've got $30,000 in lost business.''

Wow. Two weeks off if they have a baby or something. What a prince. Never mind that the Family and Medical Leave Act requires larger employers to give 12 weeks of unpaid leave for having a baby or something. And how's their medical plan, Mr. Stump? They do get dental and vision, don't they? Do you contribute to their 401(K)? I didn't think so. But you are loyal, not firing them for having a baby and all.

While I plan to be at work on Monday, I'm glad I spend my day off doing some hard work, reminding myself how it is mostly luck that I have the opportunity to choose whether I ever want to work that hard again. Most of the people who will skip work on Monday are doing the best they can with the cards that they've been dealt. While I cringe at the way our economy exploits them, I am awfully glad they are here. In a couple of years, the curb is going to been to be painted again.

Tony Snow was not Bush's first choice

Tony Snow from Fox News will soon take the place of Scott McClellan as the White House press secretary. Snow was not the president’s first choice however. Three other candidates turned down the offer.

The president’s top choice was the silver-tongued, former spokeswoman for the Bartlet Administration, CJ Cregg. When informed that Ms. Cregg is a fictional character on the television show The West Wing, the president was undeterred: “Living in a fictional world for nearly eight years can only be an asset to Ms. Cregg in this position.” After considering the offer, the character responded that she would turn down the offer to spend more time with her fake boyfriend from Thirtysomething.

Second on the list was perky, former Survivor contestant, Elisabeth Hasselbeck, who now sits on the sofa at The View. Turning down the offer, she said she would find the position stifling. “I prefer to keep doing what I’m doing, robotically echoing right-wing talking points every morning here on The View. Many more people listen to our ‘Hot Topics’ chats than ever watch those stale White House briefings."

“Plus,” she said, “We just lost Meredith to The Today Show. If were to leave, Ms. Walters would get really mad, and you don’t want to make Ms. Walters mad.”

Next on the list was Teller, the speechless half of the duo Penn & Teller. The Mute Community praised the offer as an encouraging gesture of inclusion. Teller had no comment on the job offer. Upon hearing of Teller’s non-reaction, the president offered to triple the salary. “He’s our man!”

An Epitaph for George W. Bush

First the peaceniks said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a peacenik.

Then the liberals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a liberal.

Then the international community said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was an American.

Then the traditional conservatives said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a traditional conservative.

Then the families of fallen soldiers said I was wrong, and I did not listen because there are no soldiers in my family.

Then the soldiers themselves said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a soldier.

Then the centrists said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a centrist.

Then the generals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a general.

Eventually, there was no one left to tell me I was right but myself.


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"Unsuccessful in every effort to find a plausible pretext to attack Iraq, Bush has now conveniently redefined terrorism, and thus his next target, by alleging that selected nations produce 'weapons of mass destruction.' "
--Act Now to Stop War & Erase Racism (A.N.S.W.E.R.) in March, 2002.

"There is clearly a threat from Iraq, and there is clearly a danger, but the Administration has not made a convincing case that we face such an imminent threat to our national security that a unilateral, pre-emptive American strike and an immediate war are necessary. Nor has the Administration laid out the cost in blood and treasure of this operation."
--Senator Ted Kennedy, September, 27 2002.

"A military attack on Iraq is obviously criminal; completely inconsistent with urgent needs of the Peoples of the United Nations; unjustifiable on any legal or moral ground; irrational in light of the known facts; out of proportion to other existing threats of war and violence; and a dangerous adventure risking continuing conflict throughout the region and far beyond for years to come."
--Former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark in a letter to the United Nations on Sept. 20, 2002.

"France will vote 'no' because she considers tonight that there is no reason to wage a war to reach the goal we set ourselves, that is the disarmament of Iraq."
--French President Jacque Chirac, March 10, 2003.

"The price of U.S. occupation of Iraq, the price of U.S. empire in the Muslim world, is terror. The Islamic terrorists of 9/11 were over here because we were over there. We were attacked by suicide bombers in New York for the same reason that our Marines were attacked by a suicide bomber in Beirut. We took sides in a religious civil war, their war, and they want us out of that war. The fifteen hijackers from Saudi Arabia did not fly into the World Trade Center to protest the Bill of Rights. They want us off sacred Saudi soil and out of the Middle East. Is there anything over there--oil, bases, empire--worth risking an atomic bomb on U.S. soil?"
--Patrick Buchanan in Where the Right Went Wrong, Sept. 1, 2004.

“The reasons for war were wrong. They were lies. There were no WMDs. Al Qaeda was not there. And it was evident we couldn’t force democracy on people by force of arms.”
--Mike Hoffman, of Iraq Veterans Against the War, as quoted in Mother Jones, Oct. 11, 2004.

"We are losing our best and our brightest in a country that we are destroying, that was no threat to the United States of America. Iraq was and still is no danger to our safety and security, or to our way of life. The weapons of mass destruction and mass deception reside in this town: they are the neocons who pull the strings and the members of Congress who have loosened the purse strings with reckless abandon and have practically given George and company a blank check to run our country into monetary and moral bankruptcy."
--Cindy Sheehan, Sept. 15, 2005

"The argument for going to war with Iraq was based on intelligence that we now know was inaccurate. The information the American people were hearing from the president -- and that I was being given by our intelligence community -- wasn't the whole story. Had I known this at the time, I never would have voted for this war."
--Senator John Edwards, Nov. 13, 2005 in The Washington Post.
"I now regret that I did not more openly challenge those who were determined to invade a country whose actions were peripheral to the real threat--Al-Qaeda."
--Lieut. General Greg Newbold in Newsweek, April 17, 2006.

"...In the lead-up to the Iraq war and its later conduct, I saw, at a minimum, true dereliction, negligence and irresponsibility; at worst, lying, incompetence and corruption.
--Gen. Tony Zinni, former commander in chief of United States Central Command in The Battle For Peace.