For the artisans among us, here is a Sarah Palin stained glass window.
You can find the pattern here.
We here at Look at These Folks Who’ve Made Yet Another Shriekingly Funny Clip Mocking Sarah Palin are taking a short break to commend to you Franklin Habit’s Guys With Yarn: The 2009 Calendar.
I’ve already got Franklin’s word that I can be Mr. February in 2010.
I feel that I ought to apologize for the fact that The Search for Love in Manhattan is apparently morphing into Look at These Folks Who’ve Made Yet Another Shriekingly Funny Clip Mocking Sarah Palin, but I can’t help myself. (Thanks to College Humor for the clip.)
The other night, as I was knitting a pair of socks, E.S. was dancing around to some music he’d just downloaded. He tried to get me to dance with him but I demurred. Later in the evening he had obviously gotten into a very grumpy mood; I could tell because I would ask him questions and he wouldn’t answer them. Then we had the following brief conversation.
FAUSTUS: Why aren’t you talking to me?
E.S.: Because you wouldn’t dance with me earlier.
FAUSTUS: I was in the middle of a round of knitting.
E.S.: Life happens in the middle of rounds of knitting.
FAUSTUS: Not if I can help it.
Then we had sex.
I always thought, whenever people talked about Middlesex, that they actually meant Middlemarch. This led me to believe that a lot of people had some very, very strange interpretations of great literature.
It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized I just hadn’t been listening carefully.
I am now in love with Sara Benincasa.
Go here for more. I’m on #5 and so far they’ve just kept getting funnier and funnier.
There’s a very interesting piece about the future of gay cultural icons in the new issue of The Advocate.
I mean, it’s conceivable that I’m letting the fact that I wrote it influence my judgment unfairly, but still.
As some of you may know, I am not a stranger to waking up and discovering things that weren’t there when I went to sleep.
Well, it happened again yesterday (though this time there were, thankfully, no resins or artificial flavors involved). When I got out of bed and went to the dresser to choose clothing for the day, I found a black T-shirt that I had never seen before. It read, in white letters, “Schrödinger’s Cat Is Dead.” You will be no more surprised than I was to learn that the back read, “Schrödinger’s Cat Is Not Dead.”
I asked E.S. whether he had any idea how the shirt had gotten there; he said he didn’t (and it was way too small to fit him, so it couldn’t have been his anyway).
Perhaps I can extend the thought experiment so that the choices are “Chris Meloni Is Not Naked in My Bed” and “Chris Meloni Is Naked in My Bed.” Because then until Chris Meloni got out of my bed, he would be both naked and not naked, and I could enjoy the first Chris Meloni while ignoring the second.
I am now officially an old person.
I have written before on this blog about my advancing senescence and the debilities that it perforce entails. But I have seen the last nail in the coffin, so to speak.
Yesterday, E.S. and I, having exhausted
everything on the TiVo except his goddamned home and garden shows the cornucopia of possibilities offered by our TiVo, turned to real-time programming for our evening’s entertainment. (Well, for the first part of our evening’s entertainment, anyway.) We settled on a recent teen movie called John Tucker Must Die, only mostly because it starred your favorite bare-chested gardener on season one of Desperate Housewives and mine, Jesse Metcalfe.
About halfway through the movie, a young person who, it seems, is actually named Brittany Snow came onscreen wearing nothing but a red lace bra and red lace panties.
And upon being confronted with this picture I turned to E.S. and said, my voice filled with righteous indignation, “I think that’s inappropriate. She’s too young to be dressed like that.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror but it was too late; I had let the fateful words escape my tongue and they could never be recaptured.
My youth, 1973-2008. Requiescat in pace.
I want, like the Cumaean Sybil, to die.