We're gay, we have candles out the wazoo.

As I'm typing this, it's getting dark outside. Unfortunately, that means it's getting dark inside too. You see, we were in Hurricane Irene's path - Eastern CT, to be exact. We lucked out and didn't get all the rain they had been forecasting (that fell to our west) but we got wind. Boy, did we get wind. we got crazy fucking wind. We lost power (and a good portion of one of our trees) about 12 hours ago.

Last night, Kitty Mom, my dad's girlfriend (and my aunt - yes, it's a weird family I belong too - but it's not like we're inbred or anything), texted us, to make sure we were ready. She had seen my Facebook post about how we were ignoring the mandatory evacuation. When we found out it went something like this:

me: Uhm, Punk? An emergency services truck just drove down the street broadcasting an announcement that we need to evacuate by 6pm.

Punk: Fuck that. We have a gas stove. We're hunkering down.

A knock on the door a few minutes later proved to be our across the street neighbor Rob. As we all talked, he echoed Punk's sentiments. Then again, he & his wife are also the proud owners of a $2000 generator. Fuckers. Shortly after that Heather, our next door neighbor, called. She had also decided to stay put. Our other next door neighbor, Mrs. Duncklee, didn't call. She died a few months back, so that's probably a good thing. Not that she died, but that she didn't call - because I would have freaked the fuck out if a ghost called to ask if we were staying or leaving.

Oh, so anyway, yes, my father's girlfriend/my aunt texted to make sure we were going to be okay. She's adorable, and was all like "You have batteries, and water, and candles?" I could only text back "We're gay, we have candles out the wazoo." 

Sure enough, we lost power 12 hours ago, and now it's getting dark. Our house looks like something out of a Stevie Nicks video, with candles burning everywhere. The food in the fridge may be slowly spoiling, but the great room smells like pears. And freshly mown grass. And grapefruit with sage. Yeah, we're gay. And we have the candles to prove it.

But damn I miss the interwebz.

P.S. The story about how my dad's girlfriend is also my aunt is really NOT that weird. Really.

It was Amityville Horror, without the pig.

We were away this past weekend. Technically we were up at our friend Rich's house camping, but the weather was so ungodly hot that we refused to sleep outside. So I don't think you can call it camping if we slept in the air conditioning. But that's not the point. The point is what happened in our house while we were gone.

Flies. I got a text from Viv (who had crashed at our house Saturday, since she & Rob are in the middle of a bathroom redo) telling me that she killed a shitload of flies. I assumed she was exaggerating.

A little backstory. We always seem to have about a dozen or so flies in our house. I'm not sure why, we just do. It's a constant annoyance. As fucking gross as it is, I've sort of (and this sentence is horrifying to write) become immune to them. So when Viv texted that she killed flies, I just shrugged it off.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, when we walked in the house it was like that scene in Amityville Horror where the window is filled with flies. The frenchwood doors in our back hall had probably a dozen flies flitting around. Okay - kind of weird. But then we started to look at the other windows. They ALL had flies bashing their dumbs fly heads against the glass.. Vivian was NOT exaggerating. She even left the mini vacuum cleaner out to show all the flies she sucked up. There were dozens trapped, flying in and around the dog hair & rug lint. It was one of the grossest things I've ever seen. Punk & I spent the next two hours, two fucking hours, killing, vacuuming & in general, just getting rid of flies. It had to have been over 100. Fucking disgusting. The only thing we can surmise is they came in via the garage, because we had a garbage can that, as it turns out, had some shit in there, and we wound up with maggots. In the explosive heat we've had over the last few days, we think the fly population exploded like 9 months after woodstock.

That was several days ago, and I'm happy to report that we have the fly population mostly under control. But it was a close call for a while there. I swear, if I had seen one set of glowing red pig eyes, I'd have called for a priest.

He's a chinchilla farmer...

I know I blogged about my fear of being judged in my last post. Here's the catch: Snap judgements are fun, and occasionally hysterical.

The scene: A pool filled with 100's of bears. For those of you who don't understand that last sentence, I'll give you a readers digest. A bear is, generally, a gay man who is somewhat heavyset & usually hairy. Intrigued? My job is done - but if you want (or need, you perves!) more info, check this link for the dry, boring explanation. The more daring of you can follow this link, but I won't be held responsible. You click it, you buy it!

Okay - so anyway, we're at the pool with 100's of bears (One more side note. Lots of bears in a pool is commonly referred to as "Bear Soup".) Punk, Frank & I are sitting in the chairs, daintily sipping our Planter's Punch, complete with 151 rum floaters. We watch as one scantily clad (okay - another side note. Many bears wear speedo bathing suits, with wildly varying results.) bear gets out & poses & preens while talking to a friend. This guy was so furry it was overwhelming. He was also wearing ancient, a decrepit cowboy hat, had ratty semi bleached long hair, leathery face, etc. It set Punk, Frank & I to analyzing him. The conversation went something like this:

Frank: You know he's named something unisex, like sky or storm.

Punk: He's probably named after a car.

Frank: I don't think he's a mercedes. He's more of a buick.

Me: And you know he's sad because it's his last day here before he goes back to working at the ranch. I'm sure he works at a chinchilla farm.

Frank: Yes, that's it. His name is a vowel & he's a chinchilla farmer.

Punk: Mystery solved.

At which point we decided the best thing to do would be to order another round of drinks. I was fairly sure Oue the chinchilla farmer would approve.

You made me fucking swear!

Apparently I drove a woman to say fuck, twice.... Details to follow!

Okay, first, some background. Punk owns a restaurant, and one of the things that we do every year is run a booth at local food festivals. We sell fried dough & clam fritters. Its exhausting work, but the money is (weather permitting) good, and, for me at least, it's kind of a fun change of pace.

This weekend the festival was Sailfest - 40-50 thousand people, rides, booths, food, bands, etc. And at our booth, as I already said - fried dough & clam fritters. I'm usually at the front of the booth - taking the money - yelling back the order, etc. I'm the nice one, so I'm the best choice, lol. One of the things we get - a lot - are questions. What are clam fritters? (a dropped batter made with chopped clams, salt, pepper, dill, etc). The more sarcastic question is often "Are there clams in your clam fritters? We jokingly answer, usually, "We usually just dip one by a string in the batter as we make it. If it falls off, it's your lucky day!". We want to say, "Yes, you retard, there are. Are you hinting that you think we're ripping you off?"

So, the story. An older biker couple came up tot he booth & ordered fritters. Didn't ask any questions, but they were just a little... weird. But they seemed okay - as they left, I actually told one of the guys in the booth "sometimes the weird ones turn out to be the best customers." Yeah.....  about 30 minutes later, they come back, and she looks me in the eye and this is what I get from the woman. "You fucked me with the clam fritters. There weren't any clams in them, you took the clams and ran them right past! I can't believe you did that - they were terrible. I hate swearing but they were so bad you made me fucking swear!" I couldn't resist. my only response to her was "Well, in that case I'm really sorry, because I think I just made you swear twice!"

I posted what?

So THAT'S the danger of posting not just buzzed, not just drunk, but seriously fucked up. I have almost no idea what those two posts were meant to say. Well, that's not completely true.

Bitches laying sown is obviously a reference to the fact that everyone who was sleeping over last Friday/Saturday AM was finally going to bed.

I stopped all my heRy medications just for this weekend was a (poorly) typed quote from Randy - "I stopped all my heart medications just for this weekend."

The background. We had our big summer party this weekend. I mean big - probably 100-125 people over the course of the day. Luckily, we've got some great friends who come down the night before to help with the final set up - cooking, cleaning, getting shit set up, etc. This also becomes, as Joe put it - the unofficial party before the party. It's a chance for Punk & I to party without having to really worry about socializing. Everyone there that night knows the house, and each other well enough that we can just have fun - no small talk needed. It's a well earned pre-party party. Did I mention a lot of them stay over? By a lot I mean we had (including Punk & I) 16 people staying over - it was like an air mattress factory exploded. But damn we had fun.

But there's a moral to the story - when posting drunk, try & at least add a sentence or two, so I don't forget what the fuck I'm posting about.

Oh, and the party? It was.... epic. A huge crowd, great food, lots of cocktails & shots, great fireworks and a lot of laughter.



Then there was the end, when we had a rapidly escalating series of dramas - attempted theft of 2 laptops (and the fucker succeeded in getting an iPod), someone peeing in a tent and, I kid you not, explosive diarrhea in the garage. Really people?

As if I need more proof of my ADD.

Or maybe it's early onset alzheimer's. You be the judge. I know I wasn't drunk. I've been drunk this early in the morning before, and it didn't feel like that.

This morning after showering, I had started my regimen. Don't laugh. I'm a gay man with rosacea - I need a regimen. Shit, shower, shave (I shave in the shower - anyone else? I don't, however, shit in the shower - that's just gross.), dry off, hair gel, cortisone cream for my face, deodorant, moisturize, cologne. That's the gist of it. Of course, I could write a whole separate blog about my shower routine.

Anyway, I was getting ready, and I was lost in thought. I was dreaming about winning the lottery, thinking about finishing cleaning/organizing for our big party this weekend, looking out the window at the cute jogger, etc...  I had just put a big dab of hair gel on my fingertips.... and proceeded to rub it all over my face. Sigh...

ADD? Absent mindedness? Alzheimer's? I don't know, but either way, my life is a string of these events. I'm sure by the time I'm in the home, I'll have a brain like a sieve. On the plus side, I'll make new friends every day.

Weekend plans: Our big Summer party blowout! over 100 ppl, booze, food, and fireworks! And nighttime bear skinny dipping. It promises to be epic.

 

Update: Today I put hair gel in my hair. I consider this progress.