nochd

An X-Ray of the Oven

2007-01-16T15:59:00.000-05:00

The first picture of my niece/nephew.
Methinks it may have a tail.
And an obscenely gynormous head.

In other words, a real looker.

'Tis The Groundhog Season

2006-12-19T19:52:00.000-05:00

I love writing Christmas cards. I love buying them. I like everything about the whole damn process. This year, we elevated the experience to a new level and made our own cards, thank you Shutterfly. We live in the desert, so what better picture to adorn the front of a card than a bedecked cactus.

Yeah, you're thinking "Like that hasn't been done before" to which I would respond, "Shut the fuck up." Anyway, back to my story of Christmas cheer. We spent a Saturday afternoon averting park patrol in the Phoenix zoo, searching for that perfect cactus Christmas card cover. We'd skulk around looking for a Saguro, making sure there were no nearby observers before we unloaded two grocery bags of decorations.

After much deliberation, we decided on a picture and I ordered 30 cards for the holiday. Even if I had free reign to all 30, I'd have to omit some people from the distribution list. The friend guillotine rears its ugly head.

The cards finally arrived last week and they were perfect. I might have squealed once or twice when I saw them.

Michael: So how many cards do you think you'll need?
Chris: I thought you were sending them.
Michael: I am. For my friends. How many do YOU need?
Chris: One. Wait. Maybe two.
Michael: What about your grandmother, brother, parents...
Chris: Okay. Three. Why are we sending cards again?
Michael: Because it's important to stay in touch.
Chris: Uh-huh. Can you address mine?

His cards are still sitting on his desk, untouched. So if any of his friends happen to read this, please know that Chris means well. He is just communicationally-card challenged. You'll eventually get one, it just may be Groundhog's Day by the time he mails them.

2007 Annual Budget

2006-12-06T19:11:00.000-05:00

For those of you that know my sister, you'll know she's not a quantitative gal. Excel? Sounds like a gay bar. Depreciation? Sounds like a skin condition. So when she was asked to provide a 2007 spending budget for work, I am sure she nearly dusted the floor, save for the fact she had on a smart new skirt/jacket ensemble from Ann Taylor and refused to get it dirty.

Now- she has landed a job to make any normal human being jealous. She currently manages marketing efforts in Latin America for a telecom/data provider. Trips to Mexico, Venezuela and Brazil, short work days, constant social interaction, fancy hotels.

I hate her.
But as her dutiful brother, it was not my position to judge. Merely to help with her mathematical shortcomings. So I present to you MFM's 2007 Budgeting Plan.

We Got Spirit, Yes We Do.

2006-12-04T15:40:00.000-05:00

I think I felt it coming on about noon yesterday. I’ve been avoiding it thus far, but crumbled under the pressure of my random visit to Homo Depot. I was only going to buy extension pruners (no comment) but made the fatal mistake of parking next to the Christmas tree stand. Kids were running in all directions with sap-covered hands and demonic smiles. Couple that with the incessant ring-ring-ring-ring of the Salvation Army donation ringer and I didn’t stand a chance. The holiday spirit is on, girlfriend.

I am going to temper it, though. I am really going to try. But with our house, it’s a travesty not to decorate the hell out of it. I mean, it’s a two-story craftsmen that begs to be decked. Last month, we cleaned out the garage and removed eighty years of build-up, abandoned furniture, old tools… AND five storage tubs filled with multi-colored Christmas lights. Apparently the previous owners switched to Buddhism or something. Chris saw the look on my face and told me that I could hold on to them, but c’mon. That’s like leaving a recovering heroine junkie alone in a medivac tent. The second he left me alone I would have been hauling ass to Lowe’s to buy a backup generator, extension cords, and industrial-grade stringing wire.

So I am going to play it cool this year. I bought three-pointsettias at the nursery yesterday and put them outside. That’s so tame it’s almost agnostic. And I thought we could maybe buy a wreath. A small one. For the front-door. But only if Chris doesn’t mind. And maybe an animatronic lighted reindeer.

Thanksgiving with the Walkers

2006-11-21T19:03:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow, Chris and I fly back to the East coast to spend the first holiday together with our respective families. We’ve been a couple for two years now, but have always celebrated the holidays apart. Maintaining separation around the holidays is the only way I’ve deluded Chris into thinking my family is (somewhat) sane.

We’ve recently become addicted to ABC’s Sunday night drama, “Brothers & Sisters”, in part because it reminds me so much of my own family dynamics: In the Walker family, no secret can be kept for longer than one episode, steel-plated body armour is a preferable substitute for thick skin, and drinking at any hour is the only acceptable breach of etiquette.
Can I get an Amen?

We've got two nights with his parents.
One night with mine.
And one night in a hotel to decompress.
Gobble. Gobble.

Am I Nancy Pelosi's Love Child?

2006-11-08T18:50:00.000-05:00

It felt like Christmas morning when I rolled out of bed. I knew the election results would be good- we stopped watching CNN last night after the polls confirmed that the Democrats had control of the House. (Although, Andersen Cooper could have told us that the Nazis had thrown a coup and we wouldn't have cared, really.) We didn’t know the extent of the power shift until I logged on this morning. Of course, my first inclination was to call all the Republicans I knew. All four of them. Since we already gave Darin unmerciful shit this weekend for hiding in his log cabin, I immediately moved down the list and gave my parents a call.

My mother answered. She’s no politico, but I still managed to do a little elephant stomping.

Then she completely stunned me.

“Did you know your father dated Nancy Pelosi?”

My dad has “Upstate Conservative New York Republican” built into his genetic code. The thought of Nancy and Steve shagging at the drive-in was as bizarre as George Dubyah making out with Natalie Maines from the Dixie Chicks.

But then I got to thinking… what if Nancy Pelosi WAS actually my mom? Now, I’m not trading in my own mother- she totally rocks. But, c’mon- having a mom emblazoned with the title of “Madame Speaker” is pretty close to rock-star status.

Maybe I will just start calling my mom "Madame Speaker" for the hell of it.

Tribal Membership

2006-11-02T17:09:00.000-05:00

Last night, Darin, Chris and I headed to the Arizona State Fair in search of the Pet Shop Boys. The state fair has been in full-tilt for a month, complete with dueling Ferris wheels, deep-fried coke vendors, and a host of dirty animals. The fair has also hosted numerous concerts throughout the month, and last night night was the Phoenix stop-over for the Pet Shop Boys' Fundamental tour.

The three of us thought the Arizona State Fair and the Pet Shop Boys made strange bedfellows, but then again, it was the wild, wild west. Reserved seating cost only 20 bucks, and for the chance to see a major band playing less than two miles away, we couldn't pass it up.

In my 30 years of concert attending experience, I have never been to a show that started remotely on-time. But with less than half the venue filled, the Pet Shop Boys were obviously anxious to get the hell out of dodge and the house lights dropped promptly at 7:02pm. The three of us were still shuffling to our seats as the crowd erupted around us, queens hopping and clapping like epileptic rabbits. We sat down to catch a breath and recover.

The first song began. The back-up dancers took to the stage. The crowd quieted in hushed expectancy.

Then I felt it.

tap. tap. tap.

I turned, only to set my sights on a rotund, one-eyed, heavily pierced Native American woman. Let's call her Woo-Woo.

Woo-Woo, in heavy whisper: "OMG! Have you seen Pet Shop Boys before??!! I have. I have seen Pet Shop Boys, New Order, Depeche Mode... I LOVE THEM ALL."

I nodded. I shot my "I don't give a shit but how nice" smile, and turned back around to focus on the concert.

Darin and Chris both shot side glances, acknowledging that I had indeed found a new girlfriend.

Then it happened again.

tap. tap. tap.

Maybe Woo-Woo thought we got off to a rocky start and wanted a little more slap and tickle.
I turned around.
She leaned in.

"Are you two together?" she said, nodding to Chris.
"Uh-huh".

She flipped a thumbs-up, extended her hand in a handshake, and blurted, "I love your kind! All of your people. You're just great!!"

I think I heard Darin swallow his tongue.

I nodded in acknowledgement. I mean, I like my people, too. I felt like I had exclusive membership to the tribe. I know she had good intentions and didn't see that she had indirectly shot the gay tribe down. But Woo-Woo only had one eye. I'll blame it on her tunnel vision.

Thurmonster

2006-10-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

My brother almost named him Dammit. He thought it would be the perfect expletive to yell in a dog park during a lively game of fetch.

"Dammit, SIT."
"Get over here, Dammit."

I could see the good Catholic mothers shooting glances of disapproval as they raced to cover their children's ears.

However, common sense won out. Perhaps the first and only time.
Stephen eventually settled on the name Thurman. And Thurman was instantly weaved into the fabric of our family.

We had always grown up with dogs. Stupidity and large size were prerequisites. Clancy was a clinically retarded golden retriever with an overactive pituitary gland. Maggie was a black lab rescued from the shelter. She wasn't very bright, had an abnormal fear of cars and sewer grates, and could bark the happy birthday song. And then there was Thurman. He was completely entertained with games like... "Find your Tail!" and "Eat the Stick!". To be honest, I think Stephen was fascinated with these games, too.

And while it could be argued that he suffered from an extreme lack of intelligence, Thurman was fearless. He had no reservations about stepping in front of a freight train to rescue a tennis ball. What he lacked in smarts he made up for with personality. We always said that if Stephen was forced to make a life and death decision between the family or Thurman, our shit was toast.

As fate would have it, Stephen won't ever be faced with that. Thurmonster had a severe seizure on Friday that ended with a final visit to the vet. Aside from a few tears at his own wedding, I don't think I've ever heard my brother's voice waver so much. Stephen said he went peacefully, chomping on his tennis ball until the end.
When he called me to tell me the news, I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. All I could do was look at our two golden retrievers and feel like I was on borrowed time.

To Kill a Mockingbird

2006-10-02T21:59:00.000-05:00

You've got one decision to make:
Is it his dancing or his vocals that will make him famous?

Hans and Franz

2006-09-26T16:32:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I made a visit to the gym. Personally, Sunday afternoons are an excellent time for me to lift. Anyone in their right mind has found a suitable excuse to skip and it's usually myself, the cleaning staff, and a couple of old folks glued to the same elliptical trainers they were on since last March. This weekend was no exception and I was happily progressing through my workout, enjoying the solitude.
When they showed up.
Apparently, the bus to the ASU kegger stopped short and this straight couple made a detour to 24-Hour Fitness. Why women confuse athletic clubs with dance clubs confounds me, but the chick was dressed like a hooker ready to drop a tab. I prayed to god that she avoided exercises requiring the decline bench. Her boyfriend was 6'4, looked like a model, was built like a brick shit house and probably couldn't count backwards from four. I hated him.
They strutted around the weight room like peacocks, pausing every now and then so that he could pose and she could stretch. I was curious about what they would be lifting today, because if her stretches were any indication, I expected them to be having full-on sex in a matter of minutes. After surveying their countless workout options, they settled on the most critical body part: the abs. And they couldn't just use a fucking machine to do ab exercises. They had to "move equipment"... and "arrange the weights". The flat bench wasn't good enough for crunches. They had to use that inflatable ball instead. My own workout derailed, I continued to watch in sick fascination as they spent the next forty minutes acting like torso contortionists. And then the kicker. As their routine neared the end, Adonis positioned himself on the ball to crank out one more rep. Because obviously the first eighteen sets weren't enough. Being the loving and supporting workout partner that she was, the girlfriend crouched in-between his knees and kissed him on the lips after every crunch.
That's when I tasted my breakfast for the second time that day.

Make Your Resume Stand Apart

2006-09-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

Right now my manager is struggling to fill a position on the team. we have been reviewing countless resumes, but the desired programming skillset and customer-focused personality are seldom offered in the same package. We've formally interviewed three candidates already and none seemed to stick. Today I reviewed seven more resumes.
And alas, I think I have found him. The search is over. One read of his "Interests and Activities" section, and I knew he would be the perfect programmer gone postal addition to the team.

"In general, I am fascinated with life itself and the endless process by which personal and overall meaning is derived. I enjoy effective human interaction and cooperation in association with the pursuit and achievement of desirable goals. Specifically, I thrive for the spiritual realm of organized competition and self-expression through athletics, arts, academics, and business."

I am not a career counselor nor a resume writer, so perhaps I may be out of line. But I'm confident that the words "spiritual realm" should never make their way to a curriculum vitae. Brent, take note.

WARNING: YOU HAVE ACCESSED A RESTRICTED SITE

2006-09-05T17:47:00.000-05:00

I spend a good portion of the workday quietly sitting in a cube, amidst a floor of technical engineers and internet security architects. I happen to be neither and, after listening to the technocratic shit that spews over one cube wall into the next, I really have no desire to change the direction of my career. Once in a while, though, these boneheads make me laugh.
Last week, there was an apparent issue with website blocking. I only know this because at about 6pm, a flustered architect waddled his fat ass into my cube in a frantic huff.

“You’ve got to help me. My team has gone home and I need to test a security patch.”

Umm… okay. A better start would have been, “Hello my name is… but whatever. I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I’m ready to accept my mission, Fat Technical Man.

“Could you pull up Playboy.com? Tell we what you see. I need to know if we’re blocking.”

First of all, he obviously didn’t want the web sniffer linking Playboy.com to HIS account. Sure, let the “random new guy that dresses well” take the fall. I may be queer, but I’m not a fucking idiot.
Secondly, even if he did guarantee me absolution, I could certainly come up with a better boundary test than Playboy.com- something with “sling” in the URL, definitely a foreign domain, perhaps some streaming video of a little sheep banging. Chalk it up to the QA analyst in me.
After this dim flicker of creativity, I realized that improving his test wasn’t my project or even my job. And this fat guy was just looming in the cube doorway, absorbing all the oxygen and blocking all the light. It was like he was using some creepy jedi-mind control. I couldn't breathe. I just wanted him to go away. So I mindlessly plodded in his request. Of course it didn’t work. I showed him my screen. He smiled and waddled away… his reason for existence staring back at me from the screen: WARNING: YOU HAVE ACCESSED A RESTRICTED SITE. No doubt I’ve been blacklisted as an internet porn addict now.

Bloggers in the Press

2006-09-08T11:08:00.000-05:00

I know I'm not the most consistent blogger. I probably post just enough not to piss off the limited number of readers I do have. As infrequent as my ramblings are, I really do enjoy it. I started this project because I admired the internet world that Chris had created with Boysbriefs. After a year and a half, Nochd has been a creative outlet, a vent session, even a shameless opportunity to collect some objective feedback.
There was a recent posting in Southern Voice today about the world of GBLT blogging. While the blogging fad may be waning, I think it's sucked in enough supporters to keep the movement alive. Check out the SOVO article. It's a good read. As an added bonus, the writer quoted Chris and included a pimpin' blogger profile and a snapshot of him in his supergirl costume.

Raised from the Dead

2006-08-21T19:09:00.000-05:00

While a part of me was at odds with the city of Atlanta, there were many traditions that I do, indeed, miss: namely, lazy Sunday afternoons with the fearsome threesome. Both Jantzen and Brent are gifted drinkers, with titanium reinforced livers and tolerances that were culled from years of practice, practice, practice. Sunday brunch was often used as a hangover cure from the ill-effects of Saturday night. Even though we had visited every fucking restaurant in the fruit loop at some point in time, we’d inevitably pile into the disco bus like lemmings and head to Joe’s. Call it a default. Call it unoriginal. I call it brilliant predictability.
For the first round, Brent toggled between two choices depending on his mood: if he was feeling super-fabulous (or had a couple of $ leftover from party weekend) he’d get a mimosa. Sssuper! Otherwise, he’d detoxify with a beer. Jantzen would guzzle anything cold and wet. I’d kick start the Lord’s Day with a bloody mary. (Some weird latent tribute to the Virgin.)
Sunday Brunch would undoubtedly run itself over into Sunday afternoon. The changeover line was a fuzzy demarcation. You never realized it happened. You just keep drinking. I can’t recall the specifics of what we used to talk about. There was a lot of weekend recapping and we had opinions on everything. We patched up relationships, tallied up the weekend’s greatest obscenities and commented on the tragedy at every other table. It was like Oprah meets Dr. Phil on the set of VH1’s 100 Greatest Moments. Sunday afternoon became Sunday night, the circle shifted as friends filtered in and out, and the bar tab began to assume the same properties as the federal deficit.
This was years ago, I realize. But yesterday, I spent the afternoon at a bar with Chris and Darin and we unintentionally resurrected the lazy Sunday afternoon from the dead. The reincarnation had a few changes, though:
Replace Joe’s with Charlie’s.
Replace a patio bar with volleyball net.
(Thankfully) omit obnoxious bar tab.
Substitute “fearsome threesome” with boyfriend and crazy blogger dude.
Thanks, Darin, for getting us out of the routine. Phoenix just started to feel a whole lot more like home.

Wigger say what?

2006-08-17T12:35:00.000-05:00

Chris is a self-proclaimed music snob. With ample reason, though. He deejayed his way through the college years at Auburn, his eclectic taste casting a wide net from hard core Goth to 80’s Punk. He’s got a good ear, and while he can’t sing worth a damn, he’s usually adept at picking out that obscure harmony or background vocal. He appreciates just about everything I throw at him. With one glaring exception. Miriam, brace yo self.
Chris just ain’t down with the hip-hop.
Maybe the Jeep Liberty ain’t thuggish enough.
Perhaps he feels detached from the hip-hop culture. Holla!
Maybe he hasn’t spent enough quality time watching Queens of Comedy and Brown Sugar.
It’s a relentless battle every time we get in the hoopty and drive to dinner. I be changing to one station, he be changing to another. And I be like,
“Yo biatch. Dat’s my jam. YOU MESSIN' WIT MY JAM!”
Then I smack da ho, take a nice long drag from my joint and high-five my bitches in the back.
Okay. Not everyone ~~needs to~~ is able to appreciate hip-hop. But here’s the kicker. Chris is secretly in love with Justin Timberlake’s new single. Like Gollum- He needs it. He must have it. He’s got no love for Kelis, but quivers when JT brings his sexy back? That is some painful, trashy shit to listen to.
But I like it now.

Rejection is one thing...

2006-07-28T17:38:00.000-05:00

...but rejection from a bank is cruel.

When moving to a new state, one of the prerequisite check list items is to find a local bank. Having just completed my MBA, I used my very powerful analytical skills to select the best institution for my financial needs. The process involved me driving the car around the block and stopping at the first bank I saw. Thus, Bank of America now proudly claims ownership to my thirty-two dollars worth of savings. And, while I can get approved for things like a home mortgage or even car insurance, I apparently am just too fucking ugly to get a personalized Bank of America Card.

Dear Mr. Carney:
We regret to inform you that your request for (1) personalized security check card has been denied because of poor picture quality.
Please contact customer service at 1-800-432-1000 for further information.

Sincerely,
Bank of America Security Card Photo Analysis Team

Slog

2006-07-26T11:50:00.000-05:00

Slog (slôg)
noun.
A mixture between a slug and a blog.
A blog that infrequently posts and/or is updated sporadically.
Nochd is a slog.

I’ve been away for quite a while. I would hide behind the excuse that Phoenix has no internet, but I’d be lying. It’s just taken me a while to feel settled enough to put together thoughts in cohesive sentences. (Chris would argue that I still struggle with that.)
We did make a successful jump from the east coast to the desert, sans casualties. We suffered a few injuries though. Namely, the bedroom dresser has been heavily tattooed with ceiling plaster when the movers valiantly tried to wedge it up the stairs. Apparently they’ve never played the round-peg/square-hole game. In retrospect, we faired pretty well, considering the balance of two separate cross country moves, a new (old) house, new jobs, and two dogs in tow.
I have several experiences from the last couple of months that I would like to share in forthcoming posts. But right now I’ll throw out some initial thoughts on Phoenix.
It is far better than my expectations. Everybody had feedback on the copper state prior to the move and while feedback was always welcomed, not all of it was accurate or useful. For those that delivered the following advice- “It is a dry heat.”- Thank you. That was insightful. For others that said there’s nothing to do- I’d say you didn’t look hard enough. Phoenix seems to be a city that requires a little investigative effort and some resident guidance to reap the benefit. Our first weeks were spent shopping at Home Depot and eating at chain restaurants. It felt like Gwinett, but with more dirt/less kudzu. But as we talked to people, we teased out some great restaurant and bar recommendations like MyFlorist Cafe and Coronado Cafe, discovered some cool parts of town to visit like the desert botanical gardens or old Scottsdale, and got the lowdown on gay life. No doubt, we’ll continue to shape our opinions of this city as we spend more time here. Fortunately, our house landed us in the epicenter of the gay hood so that's a non-issue. We're even walking distance from a lesbian club, and ya'll know my affinity for some pretty ladies. We'll have pickups and campers squatting in the driveway by week's end.
I have a sneaky suspicion this city will grow on us. We’re seeing it at it’s worst right now- 118 degrees and no relief. Just wait until February and the hordes will be barkin' down the front door.

The End is Nigh

2006-05-18T06:23:00.000-05:00

Five days and counting until graduation.
And I thought it would be one big relaxing month. But then again, who was I fooling? It's physically impossible for me to sit idle for longer than seven minutes.
Here's a quick rundown of all the happenings over the last couple o' weeks.
* Chris sold his condo. Wait- let me rephrase. Chris sold his condo in six hours.
* I wrapped up my last semester by cranking out an exam and three papers. I felt like a meat grinder. It wasn't my best work. Whatever.
* We flew to Phoenix last weekend. We saw eighteen houses in 24 hours. There's a lot of shit for sale in that damn city. And by shit I mean holes.
* We made an offer on one doozy of a home. Barring any rat infestations, asbestos, or missing i-beams, I think we have a place for ya'll to stay now.
* I drove up to Philadephia last night to see my brother, sister-in-law and Thurmonster for two days. After I move to Phoenix, it's gonna be a while before I return. Kerry and I are going to paint the hell out of the TV room. Good times.
* Chris, Brent, and my parents all arrive on Saturday. It's going to be like the Griswolds in European Vacation. I expect Chris to promptly divorce me by Monday.

Below are a couple of pics of the new house. Can't wait to be there.

My First Real Prom

2006-04-24T11:58:00.000-05:00

I only went to one prom in high school. It wasn't even a prom. It was a military ball. And my date's name was Riel Morgiwitz. My parents are still convinced that she was Jewish, eventhough her family sat on the other side of the church from us at 10am mass every Sunday. Perhaps they were Jewish spies. My brother and sister renamed her "Morgabeast". I didn't think she was that unattractive. Although her dress looked like drapes.
This weekend the business school had a Spring semi-formal and Chris flew up to attend. He didn't have to- I've become a pro at going to these things stag. But secretly, I wanted him there. I'm sure this event was as exciting to him as crucifixion, but he's adept at reading me and knew his presence was important. My reasons are selfish, but we're all guilty of needing some validation every now and then.
So what if I wanted to show him off? I wanted people to meet the story I've built up for the last year and a half. I wanted people to put the name with the face. I was waiting for someone to hit on him. I wanted to see what it felt like to be a couple amongst other couples. (It was nice.) I wanted him to be comfortable. I was hoping he'd get drunk. I loved watching him smile. I could have watched that smile all night. I tried to catch his eye from across the room. I think I did a couple of times... when he wasn't staring at Courtney's husband. I was determined to get a picture of him in that new suit. But secretly, I was just as determined to get him out of it.

Before and After

Picture Gallery

2005-02-01T09:13:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving Do-Over

2006-04-13T09:12:00.000-05:00

My sister is a bit off. It's not that she is unstable or lacks a grip on reality- that is reserved exclusively for my mother. It's that she has an obsession with tradition. We're a tightly wound nuclear family, devoid of aunts, uncles, cousins, or nephews. So holidays involved, well... Us.
That's it.
For over twenty years.
Easter. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Bastille Day. Birthdays. That type of acculturation doesn't get wiped from the synapses easily. And now, as our family has been extended through two marriages and countless relocations, my sister carries the Carney torch forward. Eventhough the traditions might not exactly fall on the right day. Or the right month, for that matter.
Since my sister's wedding three years ago, she has made trade-offs with her husband regarding holidays. They decided that Thanksgiving would be spent with his family and Christmas would be spent with ours. To be honest, my family goes fucking ballistic at holidays and I'm sure that my brother-in-law wasn't relishing a lifetime of Christmas carols and Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers at the crazy house.
But my sister conceived a workaround plan.
A Thanksgiving Do-Over in the middle of winter.
Kind of like a Civil War reenactment in Gettysburg, but with less gun powder and (this year) a lot more smoke and fire.
As this year marked my sister's second attempt at the Turkey Day redo, the preparation was smoother. A gargantuan bird had to be pre-ordered because, shockingly, Whole Foods wasn't in the market of stocking oversized turkeys in February. With fourteen people on the guest list, she had planned for everything. Except, of course, for the ridiculous impossibility that the grocer might happen to give away the 25-lb teradactyl to the wrong customer. Thus enter my sister's uncanny resilience. Not to be thwarted by "that fucking moron at the fucking meat counter", she purchased two small 15-pounders. Come hell or high water, there would be turkey for most of Northern Virginia.
Never having the pleasure of roasting two turkeys in tandem, Marf had not accounted for her smallish oven. But she would not be contained by the walls of the GE Profile. She shoved those two birds in like a fat man in a plane seat and shut the door.
Three glasses of wine later, the sting of a near-disaster lost its bite and all was right with the world. Conversation flowed freely, until we noticed the haze that had enveloped the family room. Obviously, someone had turned on a fog machine.
Then Chris pointed to the oven. And the flames.
My sister, already half-in-the-bag and not having witnessed a grease fire in her kitchen before, shrugged it off with the confidence of the Barefoot Contessa.
Over the persistence of the smoke alarm she shouted, "It's just the drippings! It's supposed to fire up every now and then."
Drippings my ass.
3904 North 14th Street was about to burn to the ground.
My brother-in-law, seeing the fate of his house being swallowed by 30 pounds of smoked bird, jumped into action. He turned off the oven and wrestled a turkey from its fiery bowels. The other was left to fend for itself.
A quick call to reserve a neighbor's oven, and John bounded through the kitchen and out the door with potholdered hands and a bird in tow. Who ever thought a man in weejuns couldn't run a sub-10 for the 100 yard dash obviously never tried lighting his house on fire.
The remainder of the night smoothed out as the grease fire was extinguished. The turkeys were salvaged and pictures were taken to document the second annual Thanksgiving Do-Over.
I plan on uploading a couple of pics soon, but will leave off here with a short email exchange between my dad and brother-in-law:

Dear John,
After viewing the photos which Mary Frances sent down today, I feel constrained to suggest that you destroy the negatives dealing with your blatant abuse of what appears to be an underage turkey. I would definitely recommend kicking up my surgical malpractice coverage to 3 million/5 million immediately before representatives of PETA get wind of this. What leads me to believe that this could result in a summary judgement for the plaintiff is the look of sadistic delight you evinced while carrying out what apparently was a pre-meditated barbarous act. It might be wise to consider staying away from the rib roast or the leg of lamb for Easter dinner and sticking with the lasagna or spaghetti and meat balls. Happy Easter.
And John's response:
Thanks, appreciate the advice. If a suit is filed, I'll have to brush up on the med mal law, but I can think of a few defenses, including
(1) the bird had already been lit afire by my wife prior to said atrocities, and
(2) any imprecise cutting was attributable to my wife's refusal to supply the appropriate surgical tools> (i.e., an electric knife)

Spring Fever

2006-03-30T15:09:00.000-05:00

Technically, I'm in operations management class right now, but about every fifth word of this lecture is actually penetrating the skull into my brain.
The prof is yammering on about variable quality control and sample means.
Variable what?
Sample who?
I'm much more occupied with that gorgeous freakin' sun outside, the run I'm gonna be doing in forty minutes, the beer I'll be swigging in the quad at five.
Spring fever.
it's a slow and painful death I'm suffering.

Thoughts from the Confessional: Part One

2006-03-10T09:59:00.000-05:00

This past January, I proposed to Chris while we were on a vacation in the Virgin Islands and... to quell the obvious question: No. This was not a liquor-induced Vegas moment. Rather, I had been deviously scheming for quite some time. While there is no official title to slap on to our current state, I'll borrow from the Nardis humor pool and say that we're man-gaged.
I've only gotten positive responses, albeit a few quizzical looks. But I know human nature and can only imagine that some classify this as a gay experiment doomed to failure. But therein lies the crux of the problem- this has nothing to do with being a queen or even experimenting. I left that back in my twenties. This is a decision about trusting intuition. To be honest, I have never needed to commit to anything with a future timeline longer than five years. So my struggle was to objectively look at my relationship with Chris and determine if the qualities that I fell in love with would be the same qualities that will keep the bond going when we we're old, tired and gray. (Note: blatant omission of "bald".) Obviously, from my proposal, I believed they did- thus enter the "trust" factor.
Now, I know the fickle nature of da gay:

1.) Boy meets boy.
2.) Boy likes boy.
3.) Boys get joint-checking, matching tribal tattoos and new house.

Let's face it. We come out in our teens and twenties and have about a ten-year relationship maturity gap to close on our straight friends. When they get engaged, we're experiencing a broken-heart for the first time. When they decide to have kids, we've just discovered Peter Rauhofer, X and crystal meth. There's a shitload of catch-up to play and many of us skip a few scenes ahead in the race to be established. And that always ends badly... and in a dramatic, vicious fashion.
I think Chris and I have taken the opposite approach, relegated to a conjugal long-distance relationship with monthly visitation rights. As frustrating and painful as 800 miles of separation can be, it has forced both of us to constantly evaluate the strength of our relationship, and so the events in St. John were a natural culmination of these evaluations.
It was never about being gay.
It's not even about proving a point.
We'll save that for the ceremony.

postscript: spell-check just tried to replace "man-gaged" with "man-gagged". Bad spell check. Naughty spell check.

"Tribal Sovereignty" for a thousand, Alex.

2006-03-01T12:48:00.000-05:00

If you find yourself faced with an utterly perplexing question on national television, for god's sake don't pull the answer out of your ass.
Unless you're a Republican.
Then, by all means, act like a damn fool. This link cannot be launched using Mozilla Firefox. Lo siento.

Triple Salchow and a Lutz for Good Measure

2006-02-23T11:28:00.000-05:00

I am a closet ice-skating fanatic. There are many of us out there, hiding in the shadows for two lonely years. Yes, we've got the world championships. But worlds are not imbued with the same pressure, drama and emotion... that medal-hungry viper pit that is the Olympics.
Fuck curling.
I don't care about rocks on ice.
Just give me the slut from Russia and a triple-toe loop.

In my self-induced pre-skate pep rally, I have been purusing websites, feeding on early predictions and pictures. Now don't think for one second that ice dancing is another name for ice skating. Yes, the shoes are the same. And the ice is probably cold in either sport when your ass hits it. But if you've ever seen Strictly Ballroom you'll know what I'm talkin' about, Willis. these people are skating lite. For real real.

Ice Skating = aerial acrobatics and graceful power.
Ice Dancing = sex in a sit-spin.
The pictures below depict the sexual comedy that is ice dancing. And pictures don't lie. Well, at least these pictures don't.