purely platonic friendly housewife wrestling

Here's an ad in our local craigslist's "purely platonic" section which fascinates me on so many levels. Its simplicity is its elegance.

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Housewife seeks wrestling partner - mw4w - 51

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Reply to: pers-615844528@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-03-23, 12:49PM CDT

Married 51 y/o athletic woman looking for another woman around the same age who would be interested in meeting occasionally for a friendly wrestling match.

Location: New Orleans

bacon and mango martinis

Friday night, to "celebrate" the end of my jury duty, Dennis and I went to the early happy hour at Phillip's Bar.
(which has a much nicer website than I imagined,btw)

Ordinarily Phillips is a Tulane hangout, decidedly preppy. On Friday nights, however, for a few hours it's a gay bar. The gays invade for a few hours, still decidedly preppy.
Come 9 pm, like Cinderella, the magic ends.
I've been there once, with him (But let's not relive that.)

While there, I had a mango martini (ok, but a bit fruity, in every way) and bacon. Instead of nuts, there was thick fried bacon on the bar, arranged like flowers in tumblers.
Nice.
That, in fact, was more of a lure than the cheap drinks.

While there, across the sea of madras, I spotted the friend of a friend's friend, the (only actually) nice boy met by Michael and me on the on the night of drunken lawyers
He was wearing the exact same pink lacoste polo. Is that the only shirt he owns?
He did look awfully cute in it, however.



Is it wrong that I kind of want one (not pink however)?
When I was 13 I owned a few...in various colors (never pink, however).

I was on the cutting edge of preppydom then. Now, not so much. Who knew I'd live long enough to see a return.
I'm not sure, but there seems to be something not quite right in wearing something one wore at 13, no matter what it is, but I do like the idea of one.

The Toast and Mr. Muir

I just got my latest copy of Men's Vogue. I've been subscribing since it first appeared and have been nothing but disappointed ever since. It's so skimpy, for one thing. Vogue is actually a pretty interesting magazine, I've always thought, so I figured Men's Vogue would be just as interesting. Wrong.

I'd pretty much decided not to renew the subscription, when I got the latest issue.
Boring cover...boring pretty much through and through, but there near the end is an article on an (almost forgotten) crush of mine, David Muir.
Damn you, Anna Wintour and your minions!



It's almost making me reconsider...well, consider reconsidering perhaps.

I first discovered him watching "World News Now," ABC News for the clinically insomniatic. He was reason enough for me to get up at 2 am.
Isn't he adorable?


By the way, in searching for pictures, (I'm far too exhausted to scan the Men's Vogue, sorry), I found this website. I'm not alone in my sickness, I see.

the death of bertha

I didn't feel up to posting about this until now. Maybe even now I'm not sure about it, but what the hell....

Last night, right after the crawfish boil rehearsal dinner, on our way home, Velinda and I were nearly killed.

We were violently hit on the side by a car who sped through a stop sign.

Thank God, that I saw a flash of light rushing toward us a second ahead of time, and was able to accelerate, so that he hit the rear side of my car, rather than the side. Or we would have surely been killed. We really would have been.

As it was, my car was spun violently around, 360 or more degrees and came to land on a fire hydrant, breaking a stop sign. My trunk was nearly knocked off completely. Everything in it was strewn from one part of the neighborhood to the next. There were tortilla chips and cheese (to be returned from the school fund raiser) everywhere, as well as paper and pieces of my car.

It's completely totalled, as was his car. Well, it was not "his" car at all, actually, but rather his step sister's car.

He was an 18 year old on a joy ride. He had taken the car off without her knowledge.

Soon the whole family was there, as were tens of neighbors. And soon guns were threatened to be pulled, in the drama that unfolded. It was really terrifying there.
I'm not joking when I say that we feared for our lives.

All in all the police were called 7 times. Two and a half hours later, after sitting in the darkness of a very sketchy area, they arrived.
Two and a half hours!

They'd been delayed by two robberies a few blocks away, a shooting and a suicide, all in the neighborhood.

Today I spent all day getting a rental car. I'm not sure what's going to happen now. The other parties admitted their guilt to the police and insurance agencies, so that's good, and the sister (owner of the car) has been nothing but kind. Turns out she's a graduate of my school. (small city)
I feel sorry for her actually, since she's having to cover for her step brother's irresponsibility, but she doesn't want him to go to jail. The family was completely crazy, threatening to kill the boy. She had to step in to protect him. It was unreal.

This morning on the phone with her she was in tears with me again. I'm trying to counsel her. Thank God for Velinda being there with me. She's a bit bruised up, and I'm a bit knocked about too, but we're safe, and that's all that matters.

I tell you, I have the worst luck with these cars. The battleship of a car I've long had is dead. Her iron sides have saved me more than once, actually.
I'm not sure what will happen now. I doubt I'll get much money from her insurance. Bertha was kind of old, and I certainly don't have the money for anything new, but I guess I'll worry about that later.

so-so friday

Today, being the good Catholic (shut up) that I am, I refrained from eating meat (shut up).

Traditionally, I assiduously try to go vegetarian for Good Friday, if not all through lent. There was a time when I was a de facto vegetarian, but that's a story for another time. Nowadays, one day a year is good enough for me.

Today I took myself to lunch at a Lebanese restaurant. It was early, and I got saddled with a surly waitress, not the lovely Russian girl with dreads who has usually waited on me.

I had the vegetarian plate. That's why I had gone. My past few experiences dining at restaurants alone have been a bit more pleasant thankfully. This one was not.

But if Jesus can die a painful death on a cross, I can eat hummus alone, right?

Tonight I'm going to a crawfish boil in honor of tomorrow's wedding. It's at a friend of the bride and groom's, so officially I will know no one there, but the two very preoccupied guests of honor.

If it's like every other such event I've ever been to (parties at which I know no one), I will make some awkward small talk to middle aged women from out of town. I'm sure I'll be patronizingly asked to teach them how to peel crawfish.

It's going to be a total white people event, if you know what I mean.

I'm kind of hoping to meet a few Methodists---a rarity around here. The bride's father is a minister, and her "whole family" (the groom tells me) have seemingly descended upon them.
He seems a bit scared.

answer

Maybe this photo will refresh
(or regurgitate?) your memories.

The poor guy whom only I seem to remember is Isaac Cohen, the model whom Britney vomitted on just post-divorce (she dated him too, but I'm sure he'd rather remember being vomitted on than dating her).

I wonder if she even remembers him? Somehow I doubt it.

I'm not sure why he stuck in my mind (except that he's cute, Jewish, and kind of pathetic in my mind) but he did.

nothing is more remote than the recent past

I wonder if I am the only person who remembers this guy, from the recent past.

What I want to know is why do such ridiculous things lodge in my head while important facts escape me?

He was (is?) cute, wasn't he? Poor thing. I wonder what he's doing now?

Peep show

(Just a bit of seasonal cuteness. Thanks, Robin)

it's the thought that counts

I've never served in a wedding.

In fact, I've only ever attended a wedding (of a non family member) once.

I have, however, been a pall bearer four times in my life.

That said, I'm invited to my second ever non-family wedding this weekend.
(Actually, I stopped going to family weddings except for those cousins whom I liked, a small number indeed, but that's beside the point.)

My friend Ben and his girlfriend are getting married. I'm kind of excited, though I won't know but one other person there, other than the bride and groom.

I have no idea what to buy, however. What does one buy for a young couple who owns a fully furnished, beautiful house in which they've been living for the past two years?

I was all set to get a gift card from Target (I love me some Target)--it seemed useful and innocuous--until the following conversation transpired at dinner the last time I saw them:

"Oh, that's a cute top you have on," a friend tells Ben's girlfriend.
"Really? thanks," she says.
"Is it from Target?"
"Oh, no. They have such cheap stuff there, you know?" she replies.

Ohhhhhhhh kay, there went that idea.

Anyway, looking for ideas, the other day, I asked my friend Dennis for suggestions. He's been to lots of weddings. He ought to know.

He offered no ideas, but a lot of bitterness. I must have hit a nerve.

His brother (a doctor) had gotten married about two years ago or so. He and the wife were just moving into a new fabulous home the week before (helped paid for by his mother). His sister in law had mentioned casually to him that she had, "$800.00 in Pottery Barn gift certificates cluttering up the place." Such a nuisance, I'm sure.

He really went off on those Pottery Barn certificates. I can't say I blame him, especially when he's struggling to buy Target furniture (and I'm digging through the trash for mine).

He had helped them move into their new home, helped them unpack boxes and boxes and boxes of still unopened wedding gifts.

Soon his bitterness had spread to me. Much like a smile, bitterness is contagious.

I mean really, where the hell is my beautiful wedding, huh, huh?

Anyway, no time to think about all of that now, I have to get shopping.

Angola

Inspired by my last post, here's the genius Gil Scott Heron himself, doing "Angola"

night zombies etc.

Tonight, on my way home, driving through "the devastation" at dusk, this Sufjan Stevens' song ("They Are Night Zombies! They Are Neighbors!" etc. etc. etc.) came on...somehow bizarrely perfectly in sync with the landscape, the way it sometimes happens, you know.
It was lovely.

Apparently he's never gotten around to making a video of this song, or something, because all I could find were several live performances with poor audio, and two really cheesy homemade "videos."

Here's him live (love the girls' movements):



And here's a bit of cheese. Close your eyes and ignore the video, or try to.



Now if only I had had a camera attached to the hood of my car tonight, I could have made my own.

Mary Ann and Mary Jane

Could she be any more adorable? I mean seriously.

Just sit right back and you'll read a tale... here...

555-2312

Can you tell where this is?
Yes, I know it's kind of obvious but just play along and try not to (cheat and) look too closely. Never mind. I know it's impossible.

There's even the phone number and her stationery storage location!

Here's even more information than you (but not I) could ever want

(thanks Michael. You know me all too well.)

soft serve

A post the other day at Frontier Psychiatrist's made me remember something from the dim recesses of my mind. I had almost forgotten (suppressed?) it.

I had my first gay date at an ice cream shop.
No, seriously.

It was an outdoor venue a few feet from a sewerage canal, but still...you'd have sworn we were in a 1950s sitcom.

Except there was no humor...at all. Well, that is until I think about it now.

It was all very innocent, and bizarre. It clearly set a precedent for all subsequent bad dates, that much I know.

I had met him by way of the newspaper. This was in the days before the Internet, if you can imagine. I had responded to the one other ad in the local paper for a gay male who was not old (i.e. my age now). I was 22 or so, and he was 19. At that age, even a few years seems like a lifetime, however.

I don't remember much of details, but I know we had a chat on the phone. It turned out that we were both shamefaced westbankers. Imagine that. We had a connection. I could even hear him trying to mask his accent with what sounded like some sort of pidgin Wasp.

So we decided to meet. He knew of a ice cream shop near his parents' house and asked if I'd meet him there. I nervously agreed. I had no idea what he would look like, neither did he.

All I knew was that he had "strawberry blond" hair, a term I had never before heard applied to a male. It's a term that no man should probably ever use, to tell you the truth. That should have been a clue.

He arrived a bit late, because as he said, "I had to get some product worked in my hair." Admittedly, he did have great hair. The fluorescent blue bug lights on the ice cream shop patio didn't do much to highlight his "strawberry blondness," but then they weren't doing me any favors either.

We sat down and talked. I honestly have no idea about what, but somewhere in his drone he mentioned that he had "modeled" for something called "Abercrombie and Fitch." I half imagined that he was making this up, because I had never heard of such a pompous, clearly ridiculous made-up name before.

He claimed that he'd been "discovered" by some sort of talent hunt and photographed for an ad, with a number of other such young people. To his credit, it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility, since he did look like a slightly off-brand Ralph Lauren model, but even as naive as I was then, I was doubtful.

Later in the conversation I found out that he was "independently wealthy" too. Model looks and independent wealth? Too good to be true, no?

His independent wealth, it turned out, was the result of a law suit involving his landing on his head after falling off of a building a few years earlier. The settlement was meant to help him with the severe brain damage incurred. He was spending it on expensive sweaters instead it seemed. Not a good investment.

The last time I saw him was in the park a few months after our first meeting. He announced that he'd changed his name. He was now to be referred to as "Kenyon, after the college." The ennunciation had gotten even more pronounced.

Then and there I made a pledge to steer clear of anyone who changes his name. It's a rule that's served me well.

Eventually, a year or two later, long after I had lost contact with him, I met someone at his college. Being nosey, I asked if he knew him. "Oh, yeah," he rolled his eyes. "I know him. Have you seen him lately? Boy, he's gained a lot of weight."

Somehow that made me smile inside.

Anyway, to recap: my first gay date was with a very pompous brain damaged male "model" at an ice cream shop near a sewerage canal.

What about you?

White People

I found this website:
Stuff White People Like
a while back, and every day I learn something new. It's so fascinating. I feel like Margaret Mead in Samoa or something.

Here's a random sampling:

#11 Asian Girls
#80 The Idea of Soccer
#1 Coffee
#44 Public Radio
#61 Bicycles
#8 Barack Obama
#63 Expensive Sandwiches
#62 Knowing what's best for poor people
#70 Difficult Breakups

gum and soda

The other day, I made a pilgrimage to the Hong Kong Market.



It's a former Walmart on the westbank that was converted a few years ago into a huge Asian supermarket, putting many of the smaller ones out of business (much like Walmart itself).

One walks through the sliding glass doors into a marble tiled atrium, pristine and clear, and within 20 feet, you're assaulted by the stench of, well, who even knows.

It's fabulous.

In the back, behind the bizarre display of produce (there were carrots the size of my forearm last time...and get your mind out of the gutter, please), is a wall of huge aquariums, 8 feet high, each swarming with live fish and...again, who even knows.

So, what did I walk out with from this Asian wonderland? Two dollars' worth of soda and fifty cents' worth of chewing gum.

But as one would expect from Japan, it's pretty cool.

Ramune soda is more fun to open than to drink (though it is pretty good). It's like a little science experiment to open the bottle. One must first detach the marble pressing tool, then press down on a clear glass marble. The marble then falls into a chamber in the top of bottle, which initiates the fizz.





The gum was less exciting, but the peach and the apple flavors did have robot tattoos on the inside of each label.
I'm wearing one now.

I guess some people just aren't from the South.

(thanks Robin)