I’ve been trying to solve the style sheet problem, and I finally got through to the host. Turns out I’m not crazy, they had set my preferences to NOT be able to see all the files.

Other than that, I frolicked in the snow with M. and we ended up at the All Asia. Jesus Christ, besides being a plagiarizing hack, that Marlon Baker’s friends have got to be the coldest critics around. After weeks of them staring down all non-Marlon comics, I ask one of them what would she laugh at, anyway. Her answer, “Funny jokes.” Well, fuck you too lady. At least a couple of the guys broke the ice a little and loosened up and actually fucking laughed. I don’t know, I figure that if you’re coming by a place to support your friend, talking through everyone who ain’t your friend and just generally being rude to everyone probably isn’t the nicest way to be. Ahhhhh… The ASIA. It is a taste of the old “chops lounge” open mike, right in my own back yard.

It’s a little sad, because, as M. points out, it is a cliche, but I did enjoy walking around in the snow with my fella. God, I am a middle-class suburban New Englander. I should try heroin just to purge the truth of that statement.

Here’s my quick restaurant review of Fire and Ice: Perhaps my friend Liz is on to something. She’s never been a huge fan of the Fire and Ice concept, to whit that you must gather your raw ingredients in a bowl and carry it to the grill. Her needs are more simple, if you go out to a restaurant, it’s about service and not having to gather your ingredients and wait for the food to cook. For me, though, the real danger of the concept is not the process it’s the people around you. I saw one kid (too young to be unsupervised, since he had to stand on tiptoes to get the ingredients) dropping the tongs, touching them on the tong part, putting them back with the handle touching the food. I saw a grown woman, sampling one of the sauces in a little cup, which she then proceeded to lick clean, while standing at the food station. Nice manners, lady, isn’t it time for you to pick the cloth out of your asscrack, too?

That reminds me, the other night M. and I were at Pho Pasteur, and I was sitting facing a man and a woman who looked like they may have been on a date. At one point, the woman rubs her upper lip and then slides her index finger right up into her nose. I thought it was going to be a casual scratch/check kind of super-quick gesture, but there the finger stayed for a few beats. Wonder if there was a second date?

One last thing, we saw The Last Samurai the other night. Despite the ripping by the critics, especially of the Cruise-centric world where Samurai’s are given context by white men, I liked it. I wept at the historic direction of Japan. I judge a movie by it’s ability to manipulate my emotions, since that means to me that my mind wasn’t wondering too far away.

Since meeting M. I have seen more movies, especially first run ones, than I hate in the previous two years, I think. It’s good to remember how much fun I used to have going to the movies. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that dickwad Solomon and I ever went to the movies. He was probably afraid someone would see him (with me). Did I really have to add the “(with me)” since, of course, all interactions with him implied some sort of embarrassment by me.

I think Solomon was a necessary step for me to more fully appreciate the little things about M. He is a nice man, and I think he’s right that the little things matter.

So, I’ve just wasted hours of my life trying to figure out how to change settings to this blog. Now I’m on hold to the host support, since of all of the databases I’ve newly created, this one is the only one where I can’f find any way to re-configure. Fucking computers fucking suck.

The style is now closer to what I want, but still UGLY.

On a much brighter note, morning came with a foot of snow and more falling, scrambled eggs and English muffins and coffee in bed. Not to mention M.’s invocation, “Since I’m not going to be around, I better take care of you now.” Now he’s gone into the swirling snow and dire warnings from news sources to make it to the gym before it closes. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to want to go to the gym at all, never mind in the first storm of the season that is already getting the joyous hyperbolic spin. My favorite part of winter in New England is the fear mongering. Don’t go out, snow, snow everyone! Save the women and children, buy milk and batteries. Better make sure my vibrator’s rechargeables are fully powered, just in case the lights go out.

On a completely unrelated note, I was thinking about a friend’s joke about knowing someone who worried about the caloric intake of sperm. She tags it with a reference to taste. In some weird wrinkle of synchronicity, I feel as though I have of late heard several references to that specific heady flavor. The conclusion I have drawn is that is a new feminist phony posture on par with “My, the wood notes of this Chardonnay are subtle. They remind me of the notes of a local vintage I stumbled across in a remote Alsation village bordering a birch wood that the locals shared with me. You could taste the bark and a fruit note of damask plums.” In other words, yeah, I get that communication involves a common vocabulary, so the tannic acid in Cabernets does taste like tea. But, naming the subtle nuance of spunk you have swallowed (or not) doesn’t require you to list any ingredients. Besides, at the point you are going down on a guy, are you really reflecting on it’s sensory bouquet. No, of course not.

One last thing to note. If anyone out there is planning to get me a Christmas present,
here’s what I want.

Yeah, I need to hover.

I have to figure out how to update this style sheet, since I can stand these blues everywhere. That’s almost like poetry.

Meanwhile, I realized something stupid about myself, which is embarrassing. So, for years I have dated a variety of different types of men, who mostly could be subcategorized under one universal heading. Of course, that heading would be asshole. Unfortunately, what I realized tonight is that the succession of a’holes has meant a version of post-traumatic disorder. I sometimes wince like the abused (although, thank fucking God, I’ve never been hit). I flinch waiting for the blow, or in my case the more subtle rebuff or fight or insult or something. The proverbial shoe drop, as in the shoe I’m always waiting to drop.

But, like seven months or so in with M., no shoe drop. Not even a hint of leather hitting the floor. He still smiles. He does nice things. He doesn’t mind that comedy and writing are both incredibly consuming and way too largely self-involved. And, he has the best ass of anyone I have ever dated. Almost so nice that I feel unworthy. (If you are reading this, and you are M., I said almost.)

It is going to be weird when he’s gone. But rather than miss him, I plan to value what we do have. Yeah, that’s my fucking experiment in optimism. The exertion will probably kill me.

I can’t decide if I like this new format for the blog. It is much easier to use, now that I had to resort to text editing HTML.

I have done a bare minimum to survive at work this morning. Now, I better go pick up paychecks and a grant, since failure could get me fired.

I got my first comment on my blog from someone I don’t know (or at least I can’t tell who it is). Greetings to “chasmyn,” and O vow to use more paper towels.

That reminds me, I’m on a string of fun search hits to my blog. “Black don’t crack,” being my favorite. I also liked “set up and punch,” because the result had nothing to do with joke writing. The Google result showed my matching text as

… of them are funny, and children do not belong in places like bars (I recently wanted
to punch a mother … I wonder how hard it would be to set up my own server. …

I like that I was writing about punching a mother. Today brought “female belly punch.” I wonder what the fuck that is all about.

Alright, better go earn my keep.