“Actually, an old, fat Elvis porn flick could be amusing. They could play bad jazzy instrumental versions of his songs during the sex scenes, and after the money shot, he could pat the girl on the ass and say ‘uh, thank yew. thank yew verra much.'”
Day: December 3, 2003
First of all, happy birthday to the sublime catsittingstill on her natal anniversary. I’m still entirely convinced that Cat is not strictly human, but somehow a Tolkien elf who never passed into the West, but at any rate, we’re damn glad to have her around.
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I adore Mark Morford. Sometimes he goes a bit over the top, but i love the sensibility that anchors his work. I especially liked column today. I could have written the following about myself:
“I don’t watch NASCAR or “WWE Raw” or “The Man Show.” I don’t read a lot of Maxim or ESPN Magazine or Sporting News nor frequent Gold’s Gym with a cadre of thick muscled dudes named Rick or Tony who stand over me and spot my bench presses with a lot of c’mon dude you can do it pump one more rep yeah yeah yeah, just before we all high five and go out for pizza and beer and talk about SportsCenter and the crazy shopping habits/frustrating fellatio inhibitions of our wives.
I do not spend endless hours of every weekend out in the garage rebuilding my rusty old ’67 ‘Stang. I do not grill giant slabs of beef ribs on the Weber every night. I do not reshingle the house or wear khaki Dockers or pound pitchers of Bud Light at O’Shaunessey’s during the Final Four. Maybe I should. But I don’t.
In fact, I engage in few stereotypical manly guy things largely because I live in the City and enjoy a wickedly urban and decidedly lubricious lifestyle, and tend to find many traditionally “guy” activities to be sort of unfulfilling and uninteresting and occasionally sort of dorky and faux macho and sadly devoid of divine sensuality and intellectual mystery and really good booze. But whatever. That’s just me.”
The truth is, I’ve never been entirely comfortable with “guy things”. Most of my close personal friends are female. I enjoy “chick flicks”. I cry over sentimental things. I find most of the concerns of the “average male” to be banal. I often wonder if there wasn’t some sort of mixup in the Souls Routing department, and somewhere out there is a very tomboyish girl who enjoys auto repair and football who was supposed to end up in this body. Something to think over.
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Dayna is definitely feeling much better this morning, and back to her old friendly self. And I got a voice mail from the vet on her blood work from last week, confirming that she’s negative for FIV and feline leukemia. This doesn’t remotely surprise me, since she’s never been outside a day in her life, but it’s still reassuring to know her health is in top shape.
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Rejoined the Columbia House DVD club for another set of nearly free DVDs (seven for the price of two, essentially). Picked up Willy Wonka And the Chocolate Factory, Harold and Maude, Sense and Sensibility, The Englisman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down a Mountain, Schoolhouse Rock, Forrest Gump, and the amusing Mel Gibson/Helen Hunt film What Women Want. Also picked up the Matthew Broderick remake of The Music Man, because, let’s face it, I’m curious. It takes a lot of guts to step into a part that is so firmly and universally associated with one actor, in this case the late, great Robert Preston. I admit that Harold Hill is a part I’ve always wanted to do on stage myself. And of course, I got Pirates of the Caribbean because it rocks and stuff.
We didn’t actually watch any of these last night, opting for The Daily Show and the last part of the sex in the 20th century documentary that was stacked up on the TiVo. TiVo good. I like the TiVo.
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Almost no one wants to ask me questions? The poll is still open!