Weight Watchers Recipe Cards

No matter how many times I check out the cards on this link, they never get old. I can’t stop laughing, especially at the Bean and Mushroom Salad card!

The Wire (Lite)

Interesting, in light of Sunday morning’s events. Today a “BG&E technician” has been wandering up and down the alley behind my house taking pictures of “utility poles” and of backyards. He’s also got a little ear piece in and seems to be “talking to himself.” I feel like I am in an episode of The Wire. This guy reeks of cop. His clothes are too nice, his uniform vest and hat are immaculate, and his hands are really clean too. It should also be noted that there is no utility van anywhere in sight and Mr. Dealer just happened to come outside and lock the gate during his normal business hours.

I’ve got doors braced, just in case the fine folks in BPD’s Southern District raid the wrong house. It’s been known to happen. Then again, I’d be more than okay if Det. Kima Greggs kicked in my door and handcuffed me.

Baby Geek

I am no when it comes to computer skills. (See this recent entry of his). Compared to him, I am barely third-string junior varsity. But I do feel like a mini-geek tonight. I blew a chunk of change on a back-up hard drive and the latest Mac OS over the weekend. This evening, I managed to back up my hard drive and also loaded Mac OS 10.4.3 without breaking anything or losing anything. I am so excited because now I don’t have to use a browser that runs on an abacus anymore!

BlackSugarShit

Babes In Toyland
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Oh yes…it’s been one of those days.

Urban Prometheus

When I was a little kid, I used to get so excited when I would hear the ice cream man coming down the street. My brother and I would run into the house, beg and plead for money, and try to get back out the door before he’d get to our block. Since I was the older of the two, my mom would hand me a dollar for both of us and tell me in her Queens, NY accent, “Make shoowuh yous look both ways before crossin’ tha street, yous heah what I’m sayin’ to yous?” My brother and I would haul ass out the door, sprinting to the curb in our Thom McAn Jox Tennis Shoes, with my mom yelling, “And A., remembuh…no chawcolate for ya brutha. It’ll set off his asthma, yous heah what I’m sayin’? No chawcolate, A.”

We’d get right up next to the truck and I’d be mesmerzied by all the colorful pictures of the various ice cream treats on the menu. It was such a wonderful thing because even if you were too young to read, like my brother, you could just point to whatever you wanted. The ice cream man would lean out, look at your selection, and then disappear inside the truck momentarily as he dug around in the freezer. Then he’d lean down with his poorly tattooed arms, push-pops in hand, like a White Trash Prometheus giving the gifts of processed sugar and red dye #5 to the mortals.

But now? Oh how my memories have been violated.

When I moved to the southeast side of Baltimore back in the 90’s, the ice cream truck was everywhere. It wasn’t the Good Humor ice cream truck from my childhood memories. No. Not even close. It was a bastard ice cream truck with hand-painted lettering, misspelled words, and no colorful, organized menu. In fact, there was no menu at all. And the ice cream man didn’t ring bells as he came down the street, but instead played a creepy, tinny electronic loop of Turkey in the Straw, or Pop Goes the Weasel, or You are My Sunshine. When the song ended, there was a pause, and out of nowhere a woman’s recorded voice asked, “HELLO?” and the song would start all over. Very creepy.

I am not always the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I’m saying. That being said, it’s not surprising that I didn’t think it was strange that the ice cream man only operated between the hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. It took a while for me to have my big epiphany – that the ice cream man wasn’t selling ice cream at all. My epiphany came in the wee hours one frigid February morning. I woke up to the creepy Turkey in the Straw recording below my bedroom window, so I got up out of bed and peered through the blinds. There were no children lined up out side of the truck at 2 a.m. Oh no. There was a line of shivering junkies and broken hookers!

I immediately began asking friends in the neighborhood if they knew about the ice cream man and they were all like, “Uh, yeah. Isn’t it obvious?”

I became obsessed with the creepy ice cream trucks. Everywhere I went, I could hear the music, even if I couldn’t see the trucks. At first, I thought there was just one truck, but then I realized there were many. There was Mr. Tasty, Mr. Free-Zee, Mr. Steve, Mr. Softee, and the random truck that sold subs called Elembi Y-1. When the music started playing, I’d see prostitutes and junkies stagger out from alleys and rowhomes and do the zombie-like walk to the ice cream truck. If you think about it, this really is very ingenious and entrepreneurial. My local drug dealers aren’t standing on corners peddling drugs. They play the song and the junkies come to them!

One summer afternoon back in 2001, one of my roommates was determined to go up to Mr. Tasty and attempt to buy ice cream. We went out front and sat on the stoop to watch the transaction unfold. Every time she got within 20 feet of the truck, Mr. Tasty would gun it down to the next corner to get away from her. She was waving her $5 bill and yelling, “I’m not a cop. I just want ice cream.” She never got her ice cream.

As the years went by, I learned more and more about the ice cream trucks. You can buy individual pampers, baby formula by the scoop, “insulin” needles and syringes, rolling papers, individual stamps, potato chips, lighters, individual q-tips, individual cigarettes (Newports or Kools only), crack, weed, heroin, coke, crank, tina, speedballs, heroin, crack, heroin, tina, heroin, heroin, crack, and heroin. I also learned that the different songs indicated the type of drugs the trucks have. One song, like You Are My Sunshine, may be the “We’ve got Crack” song and another song, like Pop Goes the Weasel, may be the “We’ve Got Heroin” song. Again – very ingenious.

I also noticed that the cops pretty much ignored these trucks and let them do their creep up and down the alleys of southeast Baltimore. Every now and again, Mr. Tasty and the rest would disappear for a while. One day, while coming home from work, I saw Mr. Tasty handcuffed over the hood of a squad car on E. Pratt Street as You Are My Sunshine still blared from the truck. Mr. Tasty was gone for a very short while and when his truck reappeared it had a new paint job. And not only did it have a new paint job, the truck’s suspension had been dropped and the wheels sported chrome rims, sadly without the spinners though.

When I would describe the phenomenon of the ice cream trucks to friends who lived outside of the city, no one believed me. The told me to take pictures and send them as proof. I told them I couldn’t do that because I could potentially put my life in danger doing that. What if Mr. Tasty or Mr. Softee or Elembi Y-1 think I am a cop or some kind of neighborhood do-gooder? I could get shot walking up to any one of them with a camera.

Early one morning while walking my dog I couldn’t believe what I saw! The Elembi Y-1 truck was parked along the curb on E. Pratt Street! I went back to my apartment, grabbed my camera, and headed back out for an impromptu photo shoot. I approached the truck with caution, afraid of disturbing it in case it was injured. I took a bunch of pictures, but I still kept my distance.

Here you can see several angles of the Elembi Y-1 “subs” truck. Yeah, I’m thinking I’m not so hungry anymore either.

I moved from the southeast side to the southwest side back in December. I mentioned recently to a friend how strange it was to be in a neighborhood without Mr. Tasty because it just seemed like something was missing. When I got home from work last Wednesday night, I was fumbling around with the keys in the door and I heard the familiar and oh-so creepy Turkey in the Straw song and smiled as I saw an ice cream truck creep by at the corner. They say home is where the beer is or something to that effect. I say home is where the ice cream trucks are.

I’m home.

Good 2 B Gay Day

I’ve been at work for about an hour now. I’ve already heard several mini-meltdowns about Valentine’s Day from co-workers. How husbands forgot or how flowers weren’t as nice as last year or how dinner reservations weren’t made in time, etc. Now I don’t usually sit around and think about the fact I’m a big old dyke. I really don’t. I guess I sit around and think about it about as much as I think about being right-handed or being blue-eyed. But on days like today, I am really acutely aware that I am gay and I am soooooooo thankful that the rules of convention don’t apply to me. They don’t make cards for people like me, they don’t air endless loops of jewelry commercials for people like me, stores in the mall don’t cater to people like me. Trust me, these are not complaints. I suppose I could go off on some kind of rant about the heterosexist society we live in and blah blah blah, but that’s not me. That’s never been me. On this “romantic” holiday, I don’t feel pressured to be happy, nor do I feel pressured to make someone else happy. My misery factor is non-existent.

Today is another one of those Jane Goodall days for me. I just sit back and take it all in, trying to understand the ways in which others communicate what it means to be in love. I see and hear how upset people are, how they punish themselves and others over high expectations, and I feel really bad. Yes, I do have some feelings, even if they are few and far between. On days like today, I actually want to hug people and tell them they are better than this. They deserve more than manufactured “love” alms from the nearest shopping mall.

Don’t beat yourselves up, people. It’s not worth it. Do you really want a crappy necklace from Zales, that you won’t really wear, and a rushed dinner at The Olive Garden? Is that love? Will that make you feel loved? I hope the answer is no. Remember, there are lots of people out there who aren’t even included in this day, the most romantic day of days. And some of us are more than okay with that.

Some days it’s good to be gay.

Mr. February 2006

Introducing my dog, Mr. February 2006

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Name: Junior
Age: 4.5 years
Sign: Gemini
Weight: 80 lbs
Breed: Alaskan Husky
Likes: Snow, cold weather, packing up with other animals (species not important), long walks on the beach, sunsets, mud, streams, fire hydrants, squeaky chicken toy, yellow hedgehog toy, cats, and digging.
Dislikes: Heat and humidity, baseball hats, balloons, and hot asphalt.
Have puppies?: No
Want puppies?: N/A, neutered 09/2002
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And here’s a little bit more about Mr. February 2006:

He’s good looking.

He’s attentive.

He’s athletic.

He recognizes and rescues drunk damsels in distress.

He also knows how to relax…

and call it a night.

Cardio Rage

I’m not even Jewish, but today I almost got all Krav Maga on my gym nemesis. The only thing that kept me from hurting this guy was that there were potential witnesses.

I don’t know exactly how or when this gym rivalry started, but it comes down to the elliptical machine. When he comes into the gym and he sees I’m on it, he wants it. Always. What I don’t get is that my routine rarely varies. I am on the damn thing the same time every day. Does he change up his routine? No. Maybe get there earlier or come in later? No. This is an office building gym, so it’s small and there’s only one of each kind of machine. There are several businesses in the building, so I don’t know who everyone is who comes into the gym. This guy is definitely not one of my co-workers, but I can tell a lot about him just by his gym conduct.

He’s that guy. He’s the guy who blasts Al-Jazeera TV, I mean, MSNBC in the gym so he can hear it over his iPod while he works out. He’s Mr. Office Cooler. He’s Mr. “Hey Buddy.” He’s Mr. Middle Manager. He’s the guy who loud-talks in the break room about inappropriate things like abortion, politics, race, religion, and faggots. He’s the guy who has not learned the art of blind-copying people on sexist email jokes. He’s the guy who looks at your tits (if you are female) or scratches his nuts (if you are male) when you are talking to him. He’s the guy who thinks loud-talking over people, especially women and foreigners, in meetings will hide his incompetence. He’s the guy who walks proudly into the bathroom with the USA Today Sports section under his arm. He’s the guy who will crop dust you in the hallway, without even checking to see if anyone is walking behind him. You know this guy. You work with this guy. Perhaps you are this guy.

Today I was on the elliptical machine, working out next to a polite man on the stairmaster machine. My nemesis came in, saw I was (shock) on the elliptical machine and rolled his eyes. When he came out of the changing room, he walked up to the guy next to me and sighed. The polite guy asked him what was up and my nemesis said, “Well I’m really in a hurry and I really need to get on that machine.” I pretended like I couldn’t hear him over my iPod. He then asks polite guy to lean over and see how much time I have left. The polite guy gave him a “no that’s kinda rude” look and, with that, my gym nemesis walks up behind me and leans over my shoulder to see how much time I have left. I couldn’t believe it!

Now I am polite to a fault in many aspects of my life (or at least I try to be). The gym is no different. I am there to work out. That’s it. I’m focused and I don’t really notice other people. I don’t talk to other people. There’s your space and here’s mine. I even go the extra polite mile and wipe of the weight machines when I am done, just so you don’t have to get my funk all over your expensive Under Armour.

I stopped what I was doing, plucked the ear buds out of my ears, and stared at him. This is how I fuck with rude people. I stop and I stare at them without blinking, without saying a word, and without making any facial expressions. Try it sometime and see how it makes people squirm. I wanted this guy to say something to me. I was hoping he’d say something to me, but no. He’s on the Passive-Aggressive Diet, apparently. Polite guy was made so uncomfortable by this situation that he got off of his machine and told my nemesis to take it, which he did. And don’t you know he kept leaning over to look at how much time I had left on my machine? Every time he did, I completely stopped what I was doing, leaned over, and stared at his timer. It was making everyone in the gym uncomfortable, my blank-staring. When I finished my workout, he didn’t even get on the machine. I think he was a little nervous and a little embarrassed. We’ll find out tomorrow.

And if today’s passive-aggressive showdown doesn’t work, maybe I will crop dust him as I step off the elliptical machine tomorrow.

Better Than Yoga

This soothes and relaxes me and gives me the kind of clarity that only comes with inordinate amounts of booze and TV. This is White Trash Meditation and I am a happy practitioner.

Weekend in (Brief) Review

I have no idea where the weekend went! All I know is I have a dull ache in my side, which I think is coming from my liver. I had the best time with my family, friends, and cousins at the pub. It was also great to see the Three Pats (Patrick, his wife Patricia, and their son Paddy) from Sligo too. I got a birthday shout-out from the band and they played a reel or two in my honor, which I thought was really sweet. I was in no state to jig, however, which was probably for the best.

You can see a couple of pictures of the state I was in shortly after last call.

Here I am after leaving the pub. I am the designated driver:

And here I am trying to get in the car:

As you can see, I bear a striking resemblance to Tara Reid when I am intoxicated.*

I thank the Salty Snack Food Gods for providing sustenance and nourishment for me and my cousins, Mizz K, and my LadyFriend on our day of rest and recovery.

I thank the Satellite Gods at DISH Network for providing hours and hours of drool-inducing programming to distract us from our crippling hangovers.

I thank everyone who came out and made it the best birthday ever. It was well worth the pain yesterday.

And regarding hangovers, the best advice I’ve ever received comes from my Irish grandmother: “If you want to dance, you’re gonna have to pay the fiddler.”

* Pictures really are of Tara Reid and not me.