Yao Ming is quite tall.

We spent some time in the gym tonight (not unusual). But, the thrill was the Republican Youtube.com debates were happening. I’m glad I’m not a member of the Grand Old Party. I don’t think I could easily vote for any of them.

All of the coverage I’ve read on the interwebs since seem to slide over the question I thought made everyone the most weaselly (although really hard to parse that relative scale). This one:

It seemed particularly fucked up to me that Guiliani seemed to take the issue of African American voters to talk about education (or lack thereof), crime and welfare as the dialogue openers with those potential voters. I’m sorry is that the understood meaning our society now adopts? Black = Crime, welfare and bad edumacation. Yeah, I’m sure that’s who the video guy was thinking when he asked his question.

I can’t even look at Giuliani. On the same question, though, Huckabee wants a party that “touches every American from top to bottom.” That would sound fun if it weren’t getting felt up by the GOP.

On a much more positive note. Everyone should eat these cookies. These damn, fine cookies.

Technorati Tags: America, debates, Election, entertainment, cookies, family, GOP, Politics, youtube.com

From the moment I met M., and he glowed in heightening rhetoric, an avid viewer of the Laci and Scott Peterson story, I knew he was a special guy. Together we share hour upon hour of televised real-life crime drama, thanks to CNN’s lack of interest in actual news, and shows like CSI, various CSI spawn, Criminal Minds, and a myriad of Laws and Orders.

M. has discovered a new thrill. Dexter, a Showtime show he bought on DVD. Dexter, an unassuming and cheerful serial killer with a purpose and a code. I haven’t seen M. quite so happy with the old television for a while.

What does it all mean?

(The saving grace, I guess, is what he himself pointed out. It’s good to be with a man who’s trunk is too small to contain your corpus.)

Rather enjoyed four days away from toil. Here’s some pictures to show the festivities:

Weekend of Thanksgiving.

Only other thing I forgot to write about is the ugliness I overheard sort of saw whilst loitering in the Macy’s fragrance department. Shouting voices brought a few curiousity seekers (or nosy parkers) such as myself to crane our necks across purses and cosmetics.

What I ended up seeing was a young woman in a backpack, plaid jacket and pigtails absolutely melting down screaming at a dude with short dreads, whose buddies seemed to be trying to pull him away from her direction. He kept wiggling away and had some retorts of his own before the guys around him gathered him up and away again.

I’m pretty sure the chick was Asian and the dude was African American. Any way you slice it though, you hear one person screaming “nigger” this and that over and fucking over again, punctuated with a “Shut up, bitch,” and it ain’t pretty. Nope, it’s damn ugly.

So last weekend, I was on suicide watch. We spent a day at the mall, where I was ostensibly searching for something appropriate to wear to the fancy holiday part of M.’s employer. Last year found us all dressed up and completely trapped in traffic.

I thought it might portend a better omen to start with a new outfit. But at the mall the clothes neatly divided into two categories — complete whore of Babylon for the 25 and younger set or “Jesus, why bother?” frumpiness for those of us still living post here’s my cooch, I just checked out of the clinic and the chlamydia is clear. Seriously, I’m in my 40s, I’m not dead. I don’t want to dress like either an ex-nun or an extra from the finest in San Fernando Valley’s other film industry.

I actually tried on silk separates, a top and a skirt, in a festive holiday, satin sheen, looked in the mirror and thought, “Fucking Christ, a satin sack.” It may as well have been burlap. By the end of the weekend, I had given up all hope of not looking like the mother of the bride in whatever evening where I could find.

M. offered I could where something with black dress pants, like maybe a fashion-y, stylish tuxedo jacket or velvet jacket. I was equating that look to Ellen and Portia at the Oscars.

I embrace the friends of Sappho, but, yeah, not really my thing.

At work, though, I bitched about my dilemma, and was reminded by the chick from Paris that San Francisco is not a city without hope, or fashion. Although, SF fashion tends towards scarves and layers, because it’s fucking cold and/or unpredictable in that there city with its fog and bay and all, and a certain kind of casual that I can’t describe but you know when you see it. (Check out “Smug Alert” from South Park. About five minutes in an beyond, they capture the essence of SF and the Bay Area.)

So the French chick, who clocks in about the same number of years I do on the planet, made a few solid recommendations. Strolls around Hayes Valley and Haight-Ashbury, I was boutiqued out and poorer. I also discovered labels like Cop Copine and Lauren Vidal. For a couple of hundred bucks and surviving the withering stares of a snobbish sales chick, who I fucking swear was judging me and my pasty, chubby whiteness from her place of adorably and petite-ly and beautifully Asian superiority, I think I’ll look alright at the fiesta. An asymmetric hemline with an under layer of kind of raggedy silk sets off the basic black cotton dress above.

I won’t look French, but I also won’t look 80. (Not that there’s anything wrong with octogenarians.)

M. is getting his holiday freak on a/ thousands of others at the SF tree lighting in Union Square.

I ate too much. I also started off ignoring the greatest hits menu and freestyled with the alternatives. Starting with crab claws, chilled shrimp, sushi and dried fruit. Ending with a miniature fruit tart (who doesn’t love a little tart?) topped with a tiny cube of mango, one raspberry and a slice of fresh fig.

Wherever you are in the universe, if you can get a slice of fresh fig, I’d eat it.

The view was fab, and I have some crapola pics below (crappy, thanks to large glass surfaces on black effect also known as reflection and being 36 floors up) and fond, much better focused, memories. Glad there wasn’t an earthquake, followed by the towering inferno.

(And to whoever out there might want to contact me — judging by the behind the scenes clicking — I fixed the fucking form. I am a ‘tard and slow in fixing, but I fucking try, I do, I really do. New and improved contact page.)

Most of all THANKS FOR READING THIS CYBER-SHITE.