Reading in the Tub

(NSFWish)

I don't really "do" facebook. I have an account, but I haven't logged into it in months, and haven't updated the photos or information since my sophomore year of college. Maybe my junior year. But still.

The account still exists mostly because my roommate from two years ago wanted to keep track of her ex-boyfriend surreptitiously, and I never used the account anyway. As far as I can tell, it's mostly a hub of quotes that were considered funny while intoxicated, images found elsewhere on the web, and twitter-esque obsessions with letting everyone know what's going on this. very. second.

I suppose I can see the appeal of finding out an ex-boyfriend has gotten fat, or the guy who made fun of you in high school now works for a local heating/air conditioning supply store. But that's a lot of effort to find out gossip about people you don't really care about anymore.

All over the literary blogs in my RSS feed for the past day or two has been the facebook group People for a Library-Based Ben & Jerry's Flavor, with various suggestions like Gooey Decimal System, Cookie Bookie, and Reference Ripple.

And I didn't really care too much until I realized something--I like ice cream and I like libraries and I bet I can use this facebook group as an awkward segue for my habit of posting naked pictures of attractive men using books I've recently read and enjoyed to cover up the good parts.

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Pinball Theory of the Apocalypse by Jonathan Selwood


The Martian Child by David Gerrold


The Lost City of Z by David Grann


Faggots by Larry Kramer


If Minds Had Toes by Lucy Eyre


An Equal Music by Vikram Seth

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On a related note, I used to read in the tub all of the time. Growing up, we didn't have a shower, only a bathtub--my childhood home is over 100 years old, and the way the bathroom was situated, to stand up in the bathtub would have required knocking out the wall, expanding the roof, and all types of financial difficulties. And so we always took baths.

Since I was never a dirty kid, I would use that time to read in the tub. It was fantastic, and I'm kind of disappointed that my last few apartments have only had standing showers and I'm unable to take bubble baths and read after a long day's work. Alas.

The Food Wasn't That Good Either

There are few things scarier in life than meeting friends for dinner and while walking to the table spotting a magician at the table next to yours. Top hat and wand included.

It was more suspenseful than a horror film. Thank god he didn't stop by our table.

Goat Cheese Goodness

Tagging along with a local chapter of some slow-food movement, last weekend the boyfriend and I went on a tour of a local goat cheese farm run by two old lesbians. But that’s not my story. My story happens at the potluck lunch the group held at a park afterward.

Well, I guess my story begins at the park, before the tour, where we checked in and got updated directions to bypass the construction. It was a bunch of middle-to-older-aged couples for the most part, with a few small children tagging along.

I ran to the bathroom in the park pavilion before we left, since I knew that it was a cheese factory run out of a garage and wouldn’t be set up with public restrooms. There was already one of the middle-aged men in there with the same idea as I had, and he was gregarious.

I don’t get small talk between strangers in public urinals. If it was a gay bar and he was cute, sure, but this was a public park with a large playground, and he didn’t seem to be a Republican politician. (Aw snap!)

I responded to his questions--Did I have a ride? Have I been on any other tours? What did I think of goat cheese?—with noncommittal one word answers. There was a divider, thankfully. He finished slightly before I did, and dawdled at the sink waiting for me. His hands were super dry by the time he finished and held the door open for me on the way out.

We were set up in a different tour group, so I didn’t really see him while we were at the farm. Occasionally I thought I saw him checking me out from across the hill, or on the other side of the barn, but I didn’t really pay it any mind.

I mean, he was of average cuteness and older than I would go for, probably mid-to-late thirties, certainly passable for HWP, short sleeve button up dark blue shirt, ill-fitting khakis, short brown hair with the beginnings of a bald spot at the crown of his head. He was nothing special, not worth a second look if I was walking down the street and saw him. But I’m a Leo, and I like being checked out, and it sort of improved my mood. At most it was the occasional furtive glance, easily chalked up to my imagination.

It was a great tour, and the boyfriend was busy the entire time with his camera affixed to his eye, taking photos of everything: the goats, the barn they built when they bought the land, the buckets the ladies used to carry the milk down the hill to the garage they had refurbished for cheese production, the overexcited dog who enjoyed herding the dogs a lot more that she should have. The whole trip was adorable; the only downside was judging by their use of pronouns when recounting the history of how they got into the goat cheese business, they haven’t been a couple for the past five years, but continue to make cheese together.

And the cheese. Oh, what glorious chevre. So creamy and soft and spreadable and addictive.

Afterward, we were one of the first ones back to the park (the boyfriend is a speed demon behind the wheel) and while he was busy setting up the kale salad and roasted red pepper dip we brought, I made my way back to the restroom, only lo and behold to find my secret admirer at the other urinal.

I walked up to do my business, and he glanced over, made eye contact, smiled, and went back to staring at the wall above the flush handle. No conversation this time, but he seemed antsy, and it sounded like he was tapping his foot. He was breathing loudly and heavily.

I finished up, zipped up, and flushed, and as I headed to the sink, out of nowhere he said “W--wait.”

I turned and noticed his right arm moving rapidly, eyes clenched shut, mouth half agape. His breathing stopped and a few seconds later he exhaled in one huge sigh, shuddering. He turned and looked me dead in the eyes and said “Thanks” with a sheepish smile.

Well well my my. That was certainly a first.

I made a face, eyebrows raised, eyes swerving side to side, forced smile, and got out of there lickety-split. He walked out of the restrooms about a minute later and walked directly to a car, against which was a younger, mousy-looking woman leaning against the hood, and she was either was carrying weight awkwardly or had a small baby bump. They got in the car and drove away.

Here Piggy Piggy Piggy

I know this picture is going to be cluttering your RSS feeds for most of tomorrow, but it still hilariously worthwhile. It's arguably NSFWish, so I'm just posting a link. I don't think it is, but I could see how some would consider it so.

What happens in the lilypad, stays in the lilypad.

Growing Up

My parents have been hounding me for ideas for gifts since my birthday is in about two weeks, but I don't really have a whole lot of ideas. There are a couple DVDs on the list and a new shower CD/radio, but really, the bulk of my list is boring, practical, hard to ship things, like a dining room table, dresser and kitchen island.

The boyfriend broke down and bought an iPhone this afternoon, and while we were in the Mac store flirting with the geek we found out just how convenient it would be to add an additional phone to his new plan. And since the boyfriend is searching for a gift for me too, he suggested that we call and see if he could split the cost of a second iPhone.

And so I called, and untactfully brought up my birthday wishlist. And then I had to explain to her what an iPhone is, because she had never heard of it. She asked my Dad if he knew what it was, and he had never heard of an iPhone either. They are going to look into it, but I'm not exactly keeping my fingers crossed.

But my god. They're so old.

Happy Belated Bastille Day!

The Prophecy

(Arguably not safe for work-ish, but since it's art I'd say there's some leeway.)

I'm surprised I hadn't seen this before; it seems like something that would be all over the gay blogs for a few days, slowly but surely being posted by everyone in my RSS feed. I must have missed it, since I'm usually not out of the loop on these sorts of high-concept/cute guy works of art; those who have checked out my many rotating mastheads could have probably guessed that.

Beautiful Mag commissioned this piece of digital photographic art by Aymeric Giraudel as a modern-day fresco about a year and a half ago.

The picture embiggens well, and if you follow the links you can download even larger hi-res pics, if you're into that sort of thing.

This video has a horrible Madonna song as accompaniment, but if you turn off the sound there's some great close-ups.

Six Songs for Summertime

Time for another mini-music-mix since I'm going to be spending the entire weekend working, and I need something to keep me occupied.

As always, right click and save as, play nice with the bandwidth, and go out and buy the cd or go see a show if you like what you hear.

I'm Sorry Now by Jude [mp3]
Fitz & Dizzyspells by Andrew Bird [mp3]
North Adams by Gabriel Kahane [mp3]
Demons by Joel Plaskett [mp3]
Hotcha Girls by Ugly Cassanova [mp3]
Ancient Commonsense of Things by Bishop Allen [mp3]

Dueling Muses

He touristed around the grounds, digital camera permanently affixed
to his right eye, except when he placed it on a ledge to set the timer.

He asked me to wait, to get out of the shade, no, maybe a few feet to the left,
a little more, he wants the sign in the background, smile, put down the bag,
wait for the car to pass, no, smile for real, he’s almost ready just a sec,
take off your sunglasses and then he bounds to my side just as the flash hits.

Without this picture, he can’t prove that we went to City Park
for a picnic on the first Tuesday in July.
Otherwise, it wouldn’t count. It would have just been a waste of time.

As we get into his car, I threaten to write a poem
about how annoying it is to pose for photographic evidence of our dates.
We debate the irony all the way back to his place.

I Do Like Orange Soda

(via Vintage Ads)

Housekeeping

Messing around with the template today, since last night I took a look at my site in Internet Explorer and was disappointed in how it looked.

I suppose if you're still using Internet Explorer you get what you deserve, but still.

Technically the blog hasn't yet upgraded to the major blogger upgrade from like, two years ago. I guess today's the day. Please disregard anything that looks crappy this afternoon, and trust that I'll fix it as soon as possible.

EDIT:: I spent two hours playing with blogger layouts and the "new" XML based designs, decided I hated how inflexible they are, gave up and reverted back to my original design, IE users be damned.

A Patriotic Song

("A Patriotic Finale" from Howard Crabtree's When Pigs Fly)

"Philip Roth featured on 'booty-shaking' dance track"

(NSFWish)

The title of that article scared me but it was intriguing enough to make me click through. It sounds like a terrible, terrible idea.

It's being billed as the "the ringtone of choice among hip literary types this summer," which I don't buy for a second.

I listened to the track, and I was able to dismiss it with a wave of the hand, like a drag queen brushing aside an uppity amateur on Halloween. I mean, it's bad. And unnecessary.

The only good part is that the publisher is quoted as always being on alert for booty-shaking literary artifacts.

Which, of course, is a great segue way to my semi-regular series of photoshopping books I've recently read over the dirty parts of men I'd like to sleep with.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith


A Drifting Life by Yoshihiro Tatsumi


Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout


Kitchen by Banana Yoshimo


Secret Speech by Tom Rob Smith


Q & A by Vikas Swarup


A Short History of Ukrainian Tractors by Marina Lewycha