book_of_daniel: (Default)
...my calf looks awesome!

book_of_daniel: (Default)

It has been two years, 9 months, 7 days, and a handful of hours since I signed the final papers on the financial boat anchor I lovingly call my mortgage and my little blue house on the edge of the hood. 

Homeownership has just not been the dream I always imagined it to be.

My house and I, which I used to lovingly refer to as Ammityville until my local homo-witches advised me to stop doing that, have what I feel to be a very complex relationship.  We exist in a kind of 30 year commitment détente where we both seem to be holding our collective breaths and watching the other to see who blinks first. 

The house is going to win.  It’s inevitable.  I’d sell tomorrow if I could but seeing how we’re in a Depression that just is not going to happen anytime soon.  For better or for worse, the little blue house on Lexmont Road and I are stuck with each other for a while.  Perhaps a long while…so I’d better begin making with some Bob Villa level shit sooner rather than later.

It was during one of my failed attempts at Villa-ness in the back yard two weeks ago that my next door neighbor Dick surprised me with an envelope and an invitation.  A little background:  Dick is my 70 year old neighbor who has saved my ass numerous times in the last three years.  He introduced himself to me during Hurricane Ike when he showed up with a ladder as my back porch was pulling away from the house.  He’s been my neighborhood co-raccoon killer; monitoring and dispatching all the critters we’ve caught in our linking back yards.  (48 so far…in a year and a half…we’d have killed more but the trap I bought for 30 bucks on Craig’s List finally broke beyond repair six months ago.)  And every time it snows, Dick shows up with his snow blower and clears my driveway and sidewalks.  In 3 winters I’ve never had to shovel snow.  Not once.

We love Dick.

Shut up.  We do.  Bitches.

Dick and his wife Sharon love me.  I really don’t know why but they do.  So when Dick wandered into my back yard as I was sitting on the pavement cursing the damp corner of my outside foundation, he immediately had my full attention. 

“We’re having a surprise party for Sharon next Saturday for her 70th birthday and we’d love it if you could come,” he asked sounding sincere.  As if the hand delivered invitation wasn’t sincere enough. 

My mind raced.  I had potential overtime at work that weekend.  Hell, it was Pride Weekend.  Surely I had plans for Pride in place already.  (I didn’t.  I’m grossly unpopular in Columbus these days.)  I had so many damn chores that needed to be done for Ammityvil…er…Morning Glory Circle.  Besides…it was PRIDE weekend!  If I didn’t have plans, I at least wanted to THINK I could make plans. 

“Ok.” I told Dick after about a half a second.  “I’d be happy to come.”

…because we love Dick.  This cannot be stressed enough.

A week came and went and suddenly it was the day of the party and I had a million things to get done.  I did some chores around the house.  I did laundry.  I went out and bought Sharon a gift.  ($25 dollar gift card to Applebee’s.  Dick and Sharon LOVE Applebee’s.)  I did a little more waterproofing voodoo.  I trimmed and I cut the grass.

It was while I was cutting the grass that another neighbor caught up with me to chat for a few moments.  Pansy is the neighbor who lives on the other side of my little blue house.  Another original homeowner…there are LOTS of original homeowners on my block…she’s always reminded me of Mrs. Louder from the Drew Carrey show. 

“Are you going to Sharon’s party tonight?” she said in a whisper.  I wasn’t sure if she was whispering so Sharon wouldn’t hear us 3 houses, 2 trees, a few dozen kids, and a barking dog away…or if she just didn’t know who else in the hood had been invited and didn’t want to flaunt our in-crowd status at the Lexmont event of the season.

“Yep.  I’m going.  What did you get her?” I asked curiously.

“Applebee’s gift card,” she replied all smiles.

“Good choice”

“Dick and Sharon love Applebee’s!” she said louder as if to affirm her good taste in gifts. 

Pansy actually tried to date Dick about 25 years ago when they both worked together at Sears.  (I’ve heard this story about a dozen times from a few different sources.)  I guess they went out a few times until Dick started seeing the new girl in the store. 

The new girl turned out to be Sharon.

“So do you know where the party is supposed to be held at tonight?” I asked quietly to go along with her whisper.  “I think I know but I’m not sure.”

“I did a dry run earlier this week.  You can follow me and we’ll go in together!”  Pansy was getting more excited.  Her whisper was getting louder and louder by the second.

And so began my date with my 72 year old next door neighbor the day of Gay Pride.

Uncle Arthur wept.

At the appointed time, Pansy eased out of her driveway and I followed along behind her to a little BBQ joint and party pavilion out at a local airfield on the west side.

Pansy was so excited she drove right past the turn off to the restaurant and I, not knowing any better, followed her. 

A few miles down the road I think she realized her mistake and pulled off to the side of the road and came scurrying back to my jeep. 

“I think I missed it!”  She was so embarrassed.  “I’d better follow you!”

“Ok Pansy.  Let’s roll.” 

Eventually, I found the place and once there we hurried inside so we wouldn’t run into the birthday girl and ruin the surprise. 

The party itself was pretty elaborate.  They’d rented out a big Pavilion at Bolton Field and had the BBQ joint there cater the event.  70 or 80 people were there when we walked in the door and more came after us.  The Buckeye Alumni band had been hired for the occasion and the pile of gifts by the door was substantial.   Judging from the stack of cards between all the boxes, I had a feeling Dick and Sharon might never have to purchase a meal at Applebee’s ever again.

With the exception of our hosts, I didn’t know a single soul there except for Pansy…who was telling everyone we came across the story of how she got lost on the way to the party and I’d managed to find the place for the both of us.  (As if I’d followed her trail onto the Arctic Tundra and found her stranded in an igloo after 20 years then hiked us both back to safety using only the sun and my natural sense of direction as a guide.)

In reality I’d driven two miles and made a left. 

Sharon arrived.  Everyone yelled surprise.  She cried.  She mingled.  She introduced me to her daughters and grandkids.

“Oh YOU’RE Dan!”  I heard over and over again.  “My parents/grandparents LOVE you!”

Apparently I’m huge with the septuagenarian crowd.  Who knew?

The BBQ was…adequate. (Mine is so much better.   They even messed up the scalloped potatoes.  Who messes up scalloped potatoes?)  The band came out and at some point everyone was marching around the pavilion in a long line behind Sharon who was co-leading the group while waving a sparkly baton with the world’s oldest Majorette as the band played OSU fight songs. 

It was as surreal as a David Lynch movie. I think Laura Palmer marched by once or twice.

(Where is all this going?  What am I rambling on and on about?  The payoff...such as it is…is coming.  Chill.  We’re almost there.) 

While we were seated with a few neighbors from down the block I’d never met before…more of the 70+ crowd…Pansy and I sat together a good part of the night making small talk and taking in the sights.  She talked about her boyfriend of 19 years who just died this year and I bitched about home repair stuff and projects I couldn’t seem to complete.

“I should introduce you to my handyman!” she offered.  “His name is Bill.  He did my bathroom, and my back fence and he just put the ceiling fans in my bedrooms a few weeks ago.  He’s not certified or anything but while he’s looking for a job for his degree he’s does all kind of handyman work.  He’s really good!” 

I nodded and smiled.  A good handyman reference is like gold when you own a house and don’t know how to fix things for crap….

“He’s a sweetheart and does a lot for me.  I’m not sure what he’d charge for things but he’s pretty fair.  He’s in his mid 40’s and single like you.  I just think he’s too picky though…”  And then she leaned forward, lowered her tone, and said in a little bit of a conspirator’s tone, “He’s the only gay friend I have…”

And there we were.  The day of Gay Pride and here I was talking to this nice older, lonely woman and I was faced with a choice.  I thought my neighbors knew I was gay. I just assumed everyone knew by now.  And if Pansy didn’t know, NOONE on the block knew.  I swear to God I thought I’d dropped a huge honking hint or two in the past to Dick and Sharon and one or two others but I guess I never just came out and said it to anyone.   A gay neighbor?  That kind of thing does NOT stay secret on Lexmont Road.

…and so I paused for a moment.  I considered the timing.  I considered the venue.  I considered the reaction.  I considered the gossip.

And then I considered what day it was and I said Fuck It.

“Pansy, my dear.  You have TWO gay friends.”

“What did you say Dan?”

I waved a kind of peace sign up in the air in front of her: also the international sign for the number two.

It took a moment.  It took two actually.  Then she got it.

“Omigod!” she gasped.  “Really?”

“Yep.  Really.   You didn’t know?  I assumed everyone knew or had guessed or figured it out by now…”

“Oh no, Dan!  I had no idea.  I don’t think anyone else knows either!”

“No big deal either way,” I told her downplaying the conversation.  “Some people know. Some people don’t.  I’ve been single since I bought the house so it’s just never came up before.  People find out if they know me long or well enough.”

She nodded quietly; digesting the information slowly.  She was either confirming some facts or suspicions she’d had all along or she was mentally preparing the speed dial list of neighbors she had to call when she got home in her head.  Either way, I was prepared to let her have her fun with it.  Pansy needed some fun and I think being privy to this before anyone else knew just tickled her to death.

“So tell me,” I tried to ask casually.  “Tell me about this single, mid 40’s gay handyman friend of yours...”

_______________________________________________________________________

And now I’m torn.  I do have a few projects I’ve been afraid to handle on my own.  Two in particular that have nagged me since the day I first bought the house.  (I need a new side door on my garage and I need a bathroom fan installed.)  And now faced with this gay mid 40’s handyman prospect, I find myself confused, unsure, and a bit conflicted.

Oh.  I’m going to hire him. I’m sure as HELL going to hire him.

I’m just conflicted on whether or not to put up a Pay Pal button soliciting y’all for donations for house repairs and/or blind handyman dating prospects…

…or just wait a while until I have a face pic in hand first. 

What?  He’s a handyman.  He’s got to have references somewhere right?

book_of_daniel: (Default)
Evil Friend Jack messaged me yesterday asking about a specific LJ post I'd written years ago titled "Nice."  (Crazy Christian meltdown in a sub shop story kind of deal....)  For a couple of years now EFJ has raved about a fabulous new friend named Jamille whom he met at Pensacola two years back and he wanted the link to the story so he could share it with her.  While Jack himself is of questionable moral fiber, I was quite sure from his glowing praise of Ms Jamille that she was, in fact, a fabulous individual so I complied. 

It took a little bit of searching...because I haven't read it in years myself...but I found the link and forwarded it on. 

Everyone wave hi to Jamille.  *  Hi Jamille!  *

I didn't realize I'd started this journal in 2004.  My God I'm becoming an old man.

LiveJournal used to mean something different to me when I first started blogging.  Amidst endless whining posts about carbs, dating, and dieting, I used to find that if I let my mind click just the right way I could occasionally turn out some material that didn't quite suck.  Some of it, in fact, I was almost proud of at the time.  Some of it I still am proud of to be quite honest. 

Here's a tip for everyone out there.  Don't start rereading your journal from 7 years ago unless you've got plenty of time on your hands. 

I skimmed through 4 years of Live Journal tonight.  Some of it was shockingly bad.  Some of it was melancholy as hell.  Some of it triggered memories of things long forgotten.  Some of it brought back a lot of joy.

And some of it...just a little bit...made me remember what it felt like to write openly and freely without any of the baggage or blocks that eventually wore me down.

I need to write more.  I HAVE to write more.  Writing used to bring me so much joy.  I don't know how I ever forgot that.  Even if it doesn't come as easily to me as it used to, I owe it to myself to make more of an effort. 

Anyway, while rereading LJ tonight, I came across some of my favorite older posts from many moons ago.  Some of you have been here with me all along and might remember them.  Some of you are newer.  With that in mind, I copied down a few links to some of the older stuff tonight both for myself and Evil Friend Jack...some stuff I'm not sure even he remembers.  Hell, some of it I didn't fully remember.

...and that's why I'm bringing a few links to it back here tonight.  The best part of these posts is that they all happened.  They don't record or document anything important.  They're just common, stupid events I happened to witness and view through my own twisted perspective.  I miss that perspective.  I want it back.  Maybe...just maybe...reminding myself of these stories will help me regain that lost sense of perspective once again.

Here are a couple of them if you're curious...  (Posted publicly for the first time in years....)

The Carbon Dating of Gwen Stefani

Postal

Feels Like the First Time

Threat Level Index Cheddar  Because [livejournal.com profile] double_ohsteven  asked for it...





book_of_daniel: (Default)
Eagerly looking forward to May 21st.  It's going to be so much easier finding parking downtown for Sunday brunch after the Rapture. 

(Sorry.  I made myself LOL with this one...)  

Spring

Apr. 15th, 2011 12:17 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)
The time has come; for you to lipsynch for yo...no...wait. That's not right. Let's start over.

The time has come; for you to cut the damn grass for the first time this year. FOR YOUR LIFE!


...and don't fuck it up.

Quiet

Apr. 11th, 2011 10:33 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)

Ok.  I’m not dead.

There.  I said it.  Let the rumors be dispelled.

I realize it has been a long time since I posted here but contrary to appearances I haven’t completely given up on Live Journal.  I still check in daily and I still take comfort in the fact that most of your lives are as messy and screwed up as my own. (Some of you are just a mess.  Seriously.  Some of you are just an ad for Cymbalta waiting to happen….) I’ve just been feeling…quiet…for some time now.  After years of working through my own issues in the public forum of Live Journal, this time around the ferris wheel I find myself adopting a new philosophy in regards to my own changes and struggles:

The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club.

The second rule of fight club is…

I’ll get chatty again eventually.  It’s inevitable.  I may even renew my expired LJ paid account;  thus bolstering the economy of the Russian populace.   And I’ll still pop up on occasion to make snarky comments here and there in your own journals.  But for now I’m enjoying the silence, being off the grid, and the sheer laziness of it all. 

How lazy?

*Insert witty journal ending here.*

Third

Feb. 3rd, 2011 03:34 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)
About 100,000 years ago...give or take a full moon or two...a slightly younger version of myself had an entirely different life.  At the age of 18 I packed everything I could into my 1982 Ford Mustang and got the hell out of Dodge.  I wasnt enrolled in school although my parents may have been under a different set of assumptions.  (There was a divorce brewing.  They had a lot on their minds and wasnt really paying attention.)  With 200 dollars in cash and more than a little hutzpah, I landed in Boston, Massachusetts to make a name for myself, be as gay as I could be, and begin my ascent into fabulosity.

Jesus God I was stupid.

While unquestionably stupid, I have to say I wasn't a complete idiot.  Within six months I had two jobs, a stable place to live, and one or two friends with which to split value priced menu items from Mikkie Dee's. One of the aforementioed jobs was at what was once called a "community bank".  Granted, this was 100,000 years ago and things were slightly different.  People would bring in their sparkly rocks and animal skins into the bank, I'd put them in the back with the other sparkly rocks, and make slash marks on the cave wall to indicate their deposit. It was all very civilized.  So civilized, in fact, that I decided to start a retirement account.  19 years old and I thought I needed to worry about retirement.

No, I know what you're thinking but you'd be wrong.  I wasn't smart. I wasn't foreward thinking and mature.  Once again, I was stupid. A 19 year old with two jobs, two roommates, and a rusting Mustang just does not have the cash equity to begin savings for retirement:  a fact I learned very quickly and harshly.  Within two months I'd stopped my retirement contributions in lieu of...you know...eating...and promptly forgot about the $78 dollars in some faceless corporate account sure that I'd never see it again.

This organization, the CBERA, did not forget about me though.  For years they'd send me statements showing my $78 dollars and for years I'd just throw the statements in the trash.  Eventually the statements stopped coming and for that I was glad.  I was no longer reminded of my failure and that was just fine by me. 

Again with the stupid.

Fast forward to the now.  While looking at my teeny tiny retirement account at Denim Hell, I noticed a side account with $633 dollars just kind of hanging out with mine at T.Rowe Price Retirement, Inc.  I had no idea or recollection what the account was so I just assumed it was some Gap thingee I'd forgotten about.  
 
You see, dumb is fleeting.  Stupid leaves a stain that lasts a lifetime.

Eventually I got curious enough about the account to make a few calls and lo and behold, my little $78 dollars from Norwood Cooperative Bank had grown up into a little $633 account from Norwood Cooperative Bank.  (I believe that's the approximate spelling of the bank's name.  At the time we just used animal symbols and what y'all now call hyerogliphics.) 

More calls were made and I decided to just roll the little bit of history into my anemic Denim Hell acount and be done with it.  It all seemed like such a civilized idea at the time.

That was four sets of paperwork ago.  I'm no longer civil.

My third set of signatures went to into the mouth of Satan's retirement plan last week and today I got the phone call I was expecting telling me that they'd forgotten something else and could I please fax a new draft in as soon as possible, thank you very much? 

Voices were raised.  Inuendos about farm animal/human parentages may have been made.  It's all a blur.

So what's this post about?  Hell if I know.  I haven't posted at all this month and this seemed like as good a topic as any. I'm rusty at this.  Perhaps if there's a moral to this story it's that one should never question the animal husbandry skills of the retirement associate handling your shiny rocks and animal skins from the Paleozoic era.  

Yeah.  That'll work.  More wisdom to come shortly...  Rusty wisdom from the Paleozoic era...

Clean

Jan. 20th, 2011 02:57 pm
book_of_daniel: (head crusher)
With the snow falling outside, three days off ahead of me, and a pantry full of delightful munchie things, I am today officially luxuriating at home in flannel sleeping pants, a big fleece shirt, and my favorite new buzzing, vibrating, twirling toy.

It's quieter than the last one and while it's supposed to be "eco friendly" how many of us really look for that in buzzing, vibrating, twirling toys?

Gutter people.  Pull your minds out of it.

Yesterday Lowes delivered my new High Efficiency - Eco Friendly Whirlpool Cabrio washing machine.  Today I'm taking it for it's first test drive.  Sure it's brand new and had great reviews online, but seriously, I have my doubts.

Last month my old washing machine began to die and it did not go quietly into the night.  Of course, since it was a Craig s List purchase three years ago for $100 bucks I didnt mind so much.  Like leaving a hooker sore and exhausted, I'd gotten my money's worth out of it. 

...and so began a month of researching, obsessing, and general OCD related mania about the washer replacement.  Sales ads were memorized.  Sales people were left weeping tears of blood in my consumeriffic frenzied wake.  I became the Tasmanian Devil of appliance sales.

To make things worse, the old washer didnt just die.  It was DYING...which meant I had time to go over every option 10 or 12 times in my fevered brainpan.  I had the OCD luxury of basking in the decision and delaying it for a long as possible thereby prolonging both the pleasure and the pain of my own neurosis.

I had time....that is until I didn't anymore.  I had time until the old washer finally gasped it's last breath and dervished it's last load Saturday night and passed beyond the veil.  And so it was with a heavy heart that Sunday morning I compacted all my obsession into a little mental cube and went to Lowes and laid down the Emergency Credit Card of Power. 

Once the deed was done I seriously wanted a cigarette. 

I had a model picked out two weeks ago.  A lovely Samsung model that had amazing reviews. I even went to buy the damn thing but every Lowes in the area was temporarily sold out of the model I wanted.  It was that day that the huge scrotum'd sales bear cub.....

...seriously...it was like he was trying to cover a bowling ball with a handkerchief...

...presented me with the option of a super duper top of the line clearance set of Samsung appliances.  Do you know those appliances at department stores you walk by and look at and just laugh because they're priced so ridiculously high?  Yeah.  These were that set.  The washer was originally $2100 and the dryer was $1800.  They had more bells and whistles than a bells and whistles factory.  The controls made the space shuttle look user friendly.  The washer had a silver bar to oxidize the water at lower temps.  And they were lavender and gorgeous and I admit I got a little wood going.

They were also on clearance. 

"These are the last of this model in the entire Ohio area" big scrotum'd salesguy said.  "The washer is on clearance for $1300 and the dryer is on clearance for $999.  I can make a call though and I can give them both to you for $1000."

My credit card screamed but my soul went "sproing".

He also had two matching stands for the set for $200 dollars a piece but offered them to me both for $150.  Bastard.

I didn't jump.  I didn't buy them.  I had to go home and research and regroup.  I practically ran screaming from the store in tears like a big bossomed girl being chases in a horror movie though.  Committing to spending five or six hundred dollars for a washer stung like a bee sting but an impulse buy of $1200 could potentially put me in the garage hanging from the rafters like a pinata. I had to think.

"Buy the damn things or I'll disown you!" my mother commanded after hearing the story.  "They sound WONDERFUL and what a price!"  Her voice dripped with the familiar sound of appliance lust.  (I didn't sleep for days after the call.  I dare not close my eyes in fear that tone of voice would return to haunt me.)

....and I almost did.  The reviews for them were great.  Lowes was having an 18 month zero percent offer.  The stars seemed to be aligned. In the end, however, I just couldn't do it.  I just couldn't justify a $1300 dollar purchase...$1000 for the set...$150 for the stands...$150 for a five year warranty which I'd have to buy for something this expensive..plus tax...no matter HOW good the deal was. 

The sad thing though?  The truly pathetic part of this story?  I still want them. I still want to go back for them.  I think I hear them calling my name.

Lord I'm weak.

Anyway, the new washer is buzzing it's way through it's first load right now in the next room.  It sounds very odd compared to the old agitator style of washer I'm  used to.  It's supposed to use 2/3's less water and spin clothes out so dry that dryer time is cut in half to save even more power.  We'll see.  I have seven days to test it out and call Lowes to come take it back if it doesnt perform well.  It would be a big pain in the ass but it could be done...

...and then I'd be free to get my lavender lovelies.  My fighter pilot cleaning dreams.  My set of diamonds for the basement.

Who knew washing clothes could make you feel so dirty...
book_of_daniel: (Default)

First and foremost, thank you for all the well wishes and good thoughts last week in regard to my post about my sister.  After six days in the ICU, she was placed in the step down unit Friday morning and is doing better every day.  It seems she had a kidney stone problem that aggravated her gall bladder which in turn emptied itself into her pancreas.  It was pretty much the trifecta of abdominal car wrecks.  She's still in the hospital and will most likely remain there for another week while her pancreas begins returning to normal size but she's talkative to the point of bitching about the hospital diet she's on so I guess she's feeling better. 

A lot happened this weekend.  There's tons to write about but I'm exhausted.  Instead of fighting my typos tonight I'll just post a quick video clip of the nephew playing with some of his toys for his mother in the hospital to see...and cry over...  I took a lot of video but this is a quick peek at the boy in action...

 


Rocco and Grandma

 


 


No Spoilers

Dec. 1st, 2010 01:10 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)
Every now and then I like to mention my little redneck biker show Son's of Anarchy on FX.  It's raw, offensive, and occasionally outright brutal.  This last season was particularly dark and joyless so much so that there were times when I almost dreaded sitting through an episode.  Still I kept coming back not only for the incredible acting....I wish the could skip over the damn Emmys and just give Katy Segal an Oscar....but because this show can also surprise me like no other.  99% of every show I've ever watched is predictable to me. I can always see plot twists and character shockers coming a mile away.  Not so with Sons of Anarchy.

That being said, last night's season finale was probably the best hour and a half of television I've ever seen.  I have never seen a tv season finale so totally catch me off guard with plot twists and turns as I did last night.  And the best part....it all made perfect sense.  Nothing was forced.  Nothing was snuck in at the last minute.  (Well one thing but it made sense given the character...)  Every single piece of the last season fell into place in a way I never would have guessed or saw coming. 

Seriously...this was the best season finale I've ever seen.  If they'd have ended the show last night I totally would have understood. 

Weekend

Nov. 21st, 2010 11:52 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)
Tonight begins a long week for me here in Denim Hell.  I know it's a holiday week for most people but I talked my way into covering a shift Thanksgiving night to help pay for a cruise I'm taking from Mobile, AL with Evil Friend Jack the week of Mardi Gras.  I told myself last year that I wouldnt do this again but here I go.  Maybe next year I'll have the "orphans" dinner at my house for all my friends who can't face their families one more time. 

And maybe next year I'll be thinner.  And maybe next year I'll be financially secure.  And maybe next year I'll be in love.  And maybe next year monkeys will fly out of my butt on demand. 

Le sigh.

My weekend was not all that noteworthy.  I caught up on my DVR shows.  I watched the first four episodes of "Spartacus:  Blood and Sand" from Netflix.  (Here's a spoiler.  It's really bad except for the occasional dangling penis scenes.)  I did NOT shoot my neighbor's damn dog who barked Saturday night non stop from 9pm to 3am without stopping for air even once. 

Note to self:  Get a gun.

One little unexpected thing did happen Friday afternoon though.  As most of you know, I used to be a gamer.  First City of Heroes...then Warcraft...  Since I bought the house two years ago, I completely fell off the gaming wagon.  I'd try occasionally to get interested again only to fail under the boredom.  I just couldnt get the old addiction engine running no matter what I tried.  Well this weekend I got a beta testing invite to the upcoming DC Universe Online game.  Basically, it's a superhero genre game like City of Heroes but based in the same fictional  universe as Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, ect ect. ect.  You can't be those characters but  you can interact with them and mentor under them during the game. 

It's a geek thing.  Some of you wouldnt  understand.

I have to admit I was big geekin' when I created a character and immediately got contacted by Oracle to guide me out of a ship and then fight alongside Superman after he boom tubed in to smash some robots.  Similiar geek loving occured as I found the Watchtower teleporter and cruised around there for a while with other big name characters.  I think I'm going to like this one. 

Game play isnt bad.  The graphics are pretty impressive and so far the storylines are easy to follow.  Character creation isnt as involved as the ridiculous options available in City of Heroes but they're not bad.  And best of all?  The packages and asses on the male characters?  Dayum.  No Ken Doll city of hero syndrome here. 

Yeah my characters are sexy.  Sue me. 

Yeah.  This is my life.  Hypersexualized game characters and holiday overtime.  Go ahead.  Be jealous.

Schism

Nov. 10th, 2010 04:07 am
book_of_daniel: (Default)
Coming home from work at 2am and watching Glee followed by Sons of Anarchy may have been a mistake.  A big mother f*cking mistake.
book_of_daniel: (sissy)

Repost from last week:  I sent out sales codes to everyone who replied to last weeks original posting.  If you didnt get one you either didnt leave your email address or your email client sent it to your spam folder. 

I have more sales codes available.  The codes are good from November 11th to the 14th.  If you'd like one leave a comment...screened...below. 

Original Post:

Ok.  It's that time of year again.  The Gap Employee Discount sale...aka...Give and Get.

Here's the deal.

Between November 11th and 14th, you can save 30% off all Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, Banana Republic Factory, Piperlime, and Athleta merchandise.  You can shop online or you can shop in stores.  All you need is a discount code from me.  I have 50 codes I can send out so first come...first to grab the towel...first served.

For every dollar you spend with the discount codes, 30% of your purchase goes toward a charity of my choice.  As always, my charity is the Global AIDs fund (RED). 

I did not save anyone's address from previous sales.  If you'd like me to email you one of the codes, leave your email address for me in the comments below.  All comments will be screened.

For the more cynical among you, I do not get any kind of incentive for this.  It's just a company perk I get through Denim Hell a few times a year.  You can actually save quite a lot of money if you have Xmas shopping to do or just need some stuff for yourself. 

Go.  Spend.  Shop.


book_of_daniel: (Default)

This is an amazing read.  Take a moment.  It's not preachy or long but it is brilliant.  The picture of the kid is worth the click all by itself...

My favorite line, "I am not worried that your son will grow up to be an actual ninja so back off."

nerdyapplebottom.com/2010/11/02/my-son-is-gay/


book_of_daniel: (Default)
Ok.  It's that time of year again.  The Gap Employee Discount sale...aka...Give and Get.

Here's the deal.

Between November 11th and 14th, you can save 30% off all Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, Banana Republic Factory, Piperlime, and Athleta merchandise.  You can shop online or you can shop in stores.  All you need is a discount code from me.  I have 50 codes I can send out so first come...first to grab the towel...first served.

For every dollar you spend with the discount codes, 30% of your purchase goes toward a charity of my choice.  As always, my charity is the Global AIDs fund (RED). 

I did not save anyone's address from previous sales.  If you'd like me to email you one of the codes, leave your email address for me in the comments below.  All comments will be screened.

For the more cynical among you, I do not get any kind of incentive for this.  It's just a company perk I get through Denim Hell a few times a year.  You can actually save quite a lot of money if you have Xmas shopping to do or just need some stuff for yourself. 

Go.  Spend.  Shop.
book_of_daniel: (Default)
I think I'm going to retire in Belize.  Not tomorrow...but one day.  I've been doing a lot of reading lately about the pros and cons of retiring out of country and moving to Belize when I'm slightly older seems like it might be something that should be explored.  You need very little money to live comfortably in Belize which is good because when I retire one day I'll have very little money. 

Why am I thinking of this now?  I don't know.  I feel I need some kind of plan and...well...this is it.  Some of you may come and visit me in my hut and dine on lobster with me.  Some of you will not be invited.  Sorry.  Island life just wouldnt be the same if it wasnt ever so slightly snobby.




This weekend was the Circleville Pumpkin Show.  To those of you outside Ohio I know this means nothing but it's basically a huge ass country fair in a tiny town called Circleville that revolves around...wait for it...pumpkins.  It's a big deal in these parts and in 10 years of Ohio living I have never attended.  This year I set out to rectify that.

I was picked up at Morning Glory Circle by a few friends at 3:30 yesterday afternoon and off to the pumpkin show we went.  Two and a half hours of wedging my bulk into the crowded back seat of an Ion and we were still sitting in traffic on the highway trying to get into Circleville.  (This event is HUGELY popular and traffic in and out of Hazzard County backs up for miles...)  Daniel was not happy and a less than happy Daniel is a snarky, bitter thing to have in your car. 

Basically, we gave up.  Just outside of the hickville town in question we turned the car around and headed home.  On the way back we stopped at a much smaller, family farm that was offering carnival rides, bbq, fudge, pies, and pumpkins.  Someone in the car had suggested going to this place when we first passed it...

...me...

...but was rudely overruled by our navigating overlord.  The little farm shindig was nice but horribly, horribly over priced.  I did walk out with a small container of goats milk fudge and a smaller container of potato candy.  (insert yum here)  They had all manner of pies and cakes and canned goods at this place but I wasnt packing my Platinum card to bring any of it home.  A pumpkin roll was $22 dollars, a bag of homeade egg noodles $6, and pies were equally budget busting in nature.  I did get an apple cider slushie on my way out though.  $1.25.  Best $1.25 I'd spend in ages.

The goats milk fudge kind of rocked too which is good since I'll be making low monthly payments on it for the next six months.




Friday morning I had something of a minor confrontation with a Snufflupagan outside the local Walmart.  (Yes.  I was at Walmart.  Check the "People of..." site in the next few days to see me in my full glory.)  I was there to pick up my new contacts...more on that later...when someone stopped me to ask if I'd give money to the homeless.  I started to pull a dollar out of my pocket when I noticed the sign on his table.  He was from one of the local mega churches popping up all over the area. 

"Care to give to the homeless today?" I was asked.

"To a church?" I replied.  "No. Never.  You should be ashamed."

"What?"

"You're not working for the homeless.  You're collecting money for your church.  Money you'll deposit into your tax shelter for benefits you'll use to pay your preacher with.  You should be ashamed."

"Well god bless you sir.."

*Insert the official talk-to-the-hand call sign here*  "Save it buddy.  I ain't buying."

...and that was it.  My own little act of rebellion.  I'm normally not confrontational at all but he caught me in a mood.  A mood that made me immediately call Evil Friend Jack and brag that I'd just smacked around a Snufflupagan just to gloat in my own evil way. 

Snufflupagan:  (n)  Someone of any faith..christian, muslim, buddhist, ect ect ect...that believes an invisible best friend that only they can see or hear helps them through life and will smite you with eternal damnation for not believing the exact same thing.

Besides....he was outside a Walmart begging for cash.  I shop at Walmart because I HAVE NO CASH.  Wouldnt it be smarter to go stand outside a Macy's or a Bed, Bath, and Beyond and hawk you faith for your preacher's Mercedes?  Bed Bath and Beyonders:  Now there's some disposible income just begging for a guilt attack.



Contacts.  I bought some.  Apparently I'm blind again and was the last one to know about it. 

10 years ago I had lasik and loved it but lasik isnt permanent.  Over the years, my eyes continued to degenerate and this last month I just could no longer deny that my vision was dangerously bad.  While I can have my lasik redone this spring for free I needed something to get me through the winter without killing myself or others with the Jeep....not on purpose as some of you might guess. 

So, after 10 years free eyeballing it I have the horror of contact lenses again.  Me hates them but I've regained a level of visual detail that is truly staggering. That's a plus. The big minus to this newfound clarity of vision is that when I got  home I could see just how fucking dirty my house actually was.  All I could see was dust everywhere.  All I could see was fingerprints...and my kitchen floor?  Gods I was horrified.  I was so disgusted I cleaned more and harder than I have since my mother came to see the house for the first time.  (I almost died from clorox fumes.)  

Attention to detail is nice and all but damn, ignorance really was a dirty kind of bliss. 

Note to self: A seeing eye dog would probably lick that kitchen floor clean next time.  Screw that damn swiffer thing.

Spirit

Oct. 20th, 2010 02:57 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)



I did not get the memo from the Homo High Council this week that today I needed to wear purple.  I didn't see this posted in the newsletter.  I did not receive a fax, a text message, a tweet, or even a smoke signal that Wednesday, October 20th, was purple day.

My phone is on and charged.  My email accounts are active.  I checked my mailbox twice this morning and waterboarded my mail lady to see if she'd been holding out on me but I had less luck than Dick Cheney finding bin Laden.

Nothing.  Not a peep.

I'd still be clueless if it wasnt for the eggplant infusion of Facebook this morning.  Apparently most of you have friends better placed than mine on the Homo HIgh Council. 

Bastards.

I logged onto the website.  My contact information hasnt changed.  My dues are paid in full.  My discount card at Sally Beauty Supply still works.  I just dont get it.

Anyway, today is wear purple day.  Problem one:  I dont own anything purple.  Correction:  I DIDN'T own anything purple.

Pressed for time, I ran to a nearby big box mega mart...*cough*...and bought a purple shirt.  The fact that this big box mega mart...*cough*...isnt exactly gay friendly probably negates any homo karma bonus points but you'll have that when the Homo High Council throws you to the wolves.

The above picture is of my outfit today.  Purple simultaneously washes me out and flushes my cheeks.  It is not a Dan friendly color. I look like a stroke victim.  Never the less, this is my shirt of choice today.

So far I've had three people ask me if I'm a Vikings fan. 

Being as the gay lobe of my brain is already dominant for the afternoon, it took a while to formulate the proper response.  Gay brain worked through the question in this order:

Viking (noun)  A superior but expensive brand of top of the line cooking appliances.  A longtime sponsor of Good Eats on the Food Network.  ANSWER:  Yes I like Vikings a lot!

Viking (noun)  A hairy warrior type of man prone to violence, sexy furry skirts, and say something hats.  Visual Cue:  A few of those hot guys on the Capital One commericals.  What's in your wallet?  Nothing right now but your phone number would fit nicely.  ANSWER:  Hell yes.

Viking (noun)  A football player from Minnesota.  ANSWER:  Yes I'll take two.

I've distilled my response thus far to a simple yes.  This seems to satisfy the masses at large. 

Oh, and one person told me I looked like an eggplant. 

They're possibly dead now.  I didn't have on my furry skirt and say something hat but violence and I go way back together...
book_of_daniel: (stewie laser)
Grip:  Get one.

Barbara Billingsley was not your mom.

Tom Bosley was not your dad.

They were TV entertainers being paid to do a job; a job they did well.  Barbara did not bake you and your cub scout troop cookies.  Tom did not teach you to ride a bike. 

They are dead.  Death is sad.  It's sad the way that everything and everyone dies.  It's not "ripping and tearing your clothes in anguish on the internet" sad.  If you had died first neither one of these two people would have paused in their day to write an online eulogy.

Death comes in threes.  I'm dreading it.  I swear if Florence Henderson or Andy Griffith dies in the next week I'm shutting down the damn interent.  Shutting the whole fucking thing down and it will stay down until people take their big boy and big girl pills and grow the hell up.

You're on notice, Henderson.  Don't even think about it. 

Chicago

Oct. 13th, 2010 02:48 pm
book_of_daniel: (Default)

Anytime I've looked at LJ in the last two weeks with the intent of posting my mind has downshifted into some kind of weird fugue state of brain damage. 

Seriously.  That last sentence?  Ive written it four times and I'm still not sure it makes sense.  I havent even been able to post snarky comments in the journals of others.

The cobra has been temporarily defanged people.  Enjoy the respite.

This last weekend I flew up to Chicago to spend time with my...well I'd call them my best friends but in all honestly they're my chosen family.  It was almost a homofied "Big Chill" type of weekend except noone died and the only sex was among the couples involved.  (Ew.)  The weekend was a lovely time away from home with many of the heart warming and touching moments that make the ongoing project that is friendship so enjoyable and worthwhile.

But if your'e like me....and most of you are...you'd agree that the negatives and the bitching of said negatives makes for a much more enjoyable read.  Therefore, bring forth the bitches..

1.  Everytime I've been to Chicago...every single time...I've been sick.  It just happens.  I dont know why.  Colds.  Flu.  Infections.  Chicago just brings it out of...or puts it into....me.  Remembering my past ailments, last monday while I was in perfect health I decided to start taking some Airborne to preemptively strike at any pathogens in and around my voluminous personage. 

Within an hour of my first dose, I went from healthy and pain free to fevered, coughing, and a big ball of mucousy fun. 

"Well that's odd."  I thought as I blew my nose for the 40th time that first hour.  "I must have been just on the verge of illness.  Perhaps I should take more." 

I'm not bright when I'm sick.  I took more.  I got sicker.  Airborne jumpstarted my cold the way a nuclear power plant would jump start a car battery. 

I was sick most of the weekend in Chicago.  I felt bad.  I was weak and whiney a good portion of the time as we deathmarched around the city in 85 degree heat.  (It was October for chissakes.  I wanted fall...not Hawaii Five O.)  Guilt would creep into me as I went into huge, gasping, wheezing coughing fits and the patina of sick that I left over everything I touched grew thicker from my shame. 

Next time I go to Chicago I'll be sure to pack a stem cell smoothie and a full body laminate deep sea diving suit....perhaps my own air supply suctioned directly from the healthy pink lungs of orphans. 

2.  The airport in Columbus now has one of "those" scanners.  You know what I mean.  The scanners that take pictures of you through your clothes so detailed they're practically fit for a Manhunt profile or a craigslist ad.  The little drill sergeantina in front of the scanner was screaming at everyone...SCREAMING...to take everything out of their pockets.  The lady in front of me made the mistake of going through the scanner with her boarding pass in her hand and it was RIPPED away from her so quickly it gave her a deep paper cut.  As she stood in front of the camera for a moment, she looked over at me as if to ask, "What is going on?"  I tried to telepathically tell her that the perv in the box with the scanner was looking at her nipples and touching himself inapproriately and from the look of horror on her face I think I succeeded.

Then it was my turn. 

I stood in front of the scanner.  I gave it my best, "That's my dick you're staring at buddy" look and waited. The yelling seemed inevitable.  I was not disappointed.

"What's in your pocket?" the security thug yelled.

"Nothing.  I emptied them." I replied calmly.

"What's in your pocket?" he yelled again.  I reached into my pocket, fished around a bit, and after a good minute found a Rolaid stuck in a fold in a fold in the fabric.

"It's a Rolaid.  I didnt notice it." I deadpanned to the gestapo.

The gestapo then frisked me.  Full on, full body, third date kind of frisked me.

I wanted to be snarky.  I wanted to fight back.  I wanted to sneeze a double barreled sinus full of N1HI mucous onto the little tyrant.  I wanted to do a lot of things....but I didnt.  I did the one thing that the little Hitlers want you to do.  They want you to realize that the destination at the end of your flight is more important than being delayed by a minimum wage earning mall guard in a cheap uniform with garlic breath from their Chilis Too luncheon five gates up on the concourse. 

"You've already got a picture of my cock, you asshole." I telepathically ranted.  "Do you need to cop a feel too?" 

The force must have been strong with my telepathy that day.  Our glares locked and I'm pretty sure he got the point. 
 

*insert four nice days of comraderie here*


3.  On the flight home...short and to the point here...someone in the very small cabin of the plane shit themselves before we even got a chance to take off.  Like a massive, omigod what the hell did they eat, type of movement. There were no babies on board the plane so it had to be an adult.  There was a very old couple sitting directly across from me and, despite a lack of evidence, my suspicions rested firmly on them.  Now was this just because they were old and I was practicing geriatric profiling?  No. Well yes but there was more compelling evidence. Everyone else around me quietly reacted in their own ways to the slaughter house of airborne excrement assaulting everyone on that tiny plane....everyone but them. They never reacted.  They never acknowledged it at all and hence...in my mind..it became their issue.  An inverse of the golden rule of surreptitious emmissions passed down from childhood through time eternal:  He who smelt it, dealt it.

Retching aside, I wasnt mad. It must be a god awful thing to have to live with day in and day out.  I cannot even imagine.  However, their lack of responsibility didnt make the hour and a half in that enclosed airplane any easier for the other 70 people flying home to Columbus that night. 

And then I was home and home was good.  A good time was had by all and I've allowed myself to be peer pressured into "Words with Friends" on the iPhone.  (Note to world:  I suck at it big time.)  Tomorrow starts the diet again though.  Seriously, any bigger and the next flight I take I'll need to book a second seat. 


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