Partial Scholarship

Scholarship n. Finanical aid awarded to a student.

I got a phone call yesterday from the University.

25% of my tuition has been waived because of my outstanding GPA !

Woo hoo!

There's still a long way to go, and you can still help.

Click on the PayPal logo over on the right and send a donation to the Chuck Walker Scholarship fund at poizniv@gmail.com.

You can also send some positive energy my way. I've been going in circles with the admissions office.

I'm transfering quite a few old credits to complete my English/Education degree. (The goal is high-school to adult English teacher.) With the transfer credits, all but a couple of the oddball general requirements are done. Now I've only got to take English (Lit.) and Education classes.

That makes it tough to fill up to the max on per semester credits. (Usually a schedule is dotted with core classes then fleshed out with general requirements.) This coming Fall there are only one or two ways for me to get an 18 credit load out of the courses being offered because of conflicting schedules, limited sessions offered, and so on.

What makes it even tougher, is current continuing students are registering NOW for seats in the pitifully few classes from which I have to choose. (Studies in Chaucer and Milton has already closed! AAAGH!)

Transfer students don't even get to talk to anyone until JUNE! That's when I'm assigned an advisor (a harried stranger who glances at my case for the first time) and (I think) can register. So, I'm sitting here watching the available seats dwindle and there's NOTHING I can do about it. Grrrr.

Must . . .relax . . .

The Quiet Car

As I have said previously, regular commuters tend to find and use the same car of the train every time they ride. These cars, then, become known by a certain name and by its own peculiarities. I, for example, ride in the Loud Car, also falsely known as the Party Car. The actual Party Car is another portion of the train who perhaps used to party hearty, but not nearly as much as the Loud Car does now. Logically, if there is a loud car, there is also a quiet car. This is actually a train-approved practice to designate one car as THE quiet car. There are signs and announcements and everything.

"Welcome to the ssskkkrtttch train headed to skrtttackleshh will stop at shhhkreetech. There are two restrooms osshhkererrtrain one is in the last car one shhshrt next to the motor. The quiet car is the car next to the motor. Once again thsskehrkt....."

Now the kinds of people who ride in the quiet car have an AWFUL reputation. It's quite probable that they are very nice people but you wouldn't know it. A simple sneeze or audible (albeit unexpected) passing of gas is enough to get the most evil of looks from the sweetest of ladies. A whispered conversation will get you a "SHHH!" from fellow passengers and, oh, you'd better hope you remembered to turn off your cell phone. It's like the library, only in Hell.

I've ridden in the quiet car a couple times - just when I'm feeling anti-social - and I don't find it very relaxing at all. The hostility is palpable and it's not really that quiet being right next to the engine and whistle, and with the announcements at each stop and the constant stream of people coming through to the restroom. "Is someone in there?" "SHHHHH !"

For the most part, the folks in that car tend to quietly glare or sleep with their heads back against the seat and mouth agape. (I often wish I had the nerve, the aim and a little toy gun to shoot Tic Tacs in their mouth as I pass by.)

Picture it--The Quiet Car Regular sleeps fitfully, mouth agape, dreaming of the next mob riot, and all of a sudden ZZIPP!! "GACK! HACK! COUGH! I think I swallowed a minty bug!"
"SHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"

Coming soon, the story of the Cheerleader in the Quiet Car.

In Transit

I've added a new feature to this blog, over on the right, below the picture. It's a countdown! It counts down to my last day commuting to D.C. for work. It should reach zero as I begin my two-hour journey home on that day.

But I have to tell you, as much as I won't miss the commute, I might miss some of the characters on the train. It's five improv (not for children) performances a week, Monday through Friday, starting promptly at 4:55. Get there early so you can get a good seat.

As creatures of habit, regular commuters tend to find a particular car and ride in it every time, creating a melting pot of personalities --

-loud, quiet,
-black, white, tan
-gay, straight, indifferent, homophobic, closeted,
-effervescent, abrasive,
-thoughtful, thoughtless,
-lawyers, waitresses, cubicle drones,
-generous, poor,
-old, young, new --

Take all of these ingredients, add alcohol, train delays, out-of-order restrooms, unreliable HVAC, and frequent light-hearted and sometimes filthy insults.

Pour into tight quarters on the upper gallery of a Chicago car.
Sprinkle the mix with unsuspecting, infrequent commuters who sit down below--

- the occasional tee-totaller who glares at the freely-passed bottles of beer or liquor

- the woman who thought she'd sleep all the way home

- the prude

- the sourpuss

(It will stir itself).

Finally, just for color, garnish with a hot college girl next to the homosexual.

Prissmas is coming! Prissmas is coming!

Prissmastime is almost here. So unclench and get ready for a stream of "I told you so!"

You may not know that each year, for several years now, we've been celebrating Prissmas in April. Traditionally, Prissmas falls on the Saturday nearest Hitler's birthday. We make this reference not because of any affinity for Hitler, but because it's fun to point out that Lady Prisspott shares the same birthday - perhaps even the same year, we can't be sure, (there's an eraser hole in Prisspott's birth certificate).

"What," you ask, "is Prissmas?"

Prissmas is the celebration of the spirit of "I told you so."

You told your dear, dear friend the Dorothy Hammell look went away with the previous century, but did she listen? No. She went and got the awful bob and is now telecommuting until her hair grows out. You've been tactfully supportive and understanding, but now it's PRISSMAS! Call her up and scream "I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET THAT HAIRCUT!" then bask in a warm feeling that's reminiscent of peeing in the pool.

Let's get you started on YOUR Prissmas celebration.

Traditional Garb:

An apron and lei. You can wear other things in addition to the apron and lei, but it's not required.

Decorations:

A dead tree branch, painted pink. Stick it in the ground outside and adorn it with rats and crabs. The original Prissmas tree also had plastic martini glasses and orange ribbon.

Food:

Anything that can be cooked in a bonfire that would at first cause one to think, "Hmmm. No. I'm not eating that." But in actuality, really isn't half bad.

Mountain Pies: Two slices of bread, slathered with anything, enclosed in a pie iron and stuck into the bonfire.

Pre-Packaged Stuff: Bags of chips, cookies, easily shared finger foods in burnable packages.

Beverages:

Liquor. There's no explanation necessary. Liquor is liquor. You know what to do. Besides, it'll help loosen your tongue. "I told you those pants made you look . . . fatter."

Beer. For those who have to drive.

Other. It doesn't matter which. In fact, don't even bother. If someone needs to drink 'other' beverages, they're probably not at your Prissmas gathering.

Events:

Prissmas Bonfire: It's not Prissmas without a bonfire. And it's not a Prissmas bonfire unless it's secretly doused with gas before some unsuspecting fool lights it (THWOOM!) More than a few eyebrows have been lost in this manner. For many months we've been carting our scrap wood and burnables out to the field at Prisspott Manor and piling high the Prissmas pyre.

The Bonfire Ballet: You set your chairs up around the, as yet unlit, bonfire and chat and gab with your 'friends.' Of course (ala Musical Chairs) there's never enough chairs for everyone, so some have to stand around and chat. THWOOM! You get up from the ground, shield your face from the fire while reaching for your overturned chair to pull it further away from the fire to a more comfortable temperature. (Like, say, Cleveland.) Those without an original chair can take this moment to snag a chair from one of the other people who haven't yet come to. The fire begins to burn down a bit and you start to notice the nip in the air. So you scootch your chair closer. You might take this opportunity to refill your drink - or, if you're drinking from the bottle, to open another. Again - people without a chair can take this refill time to commandeer a seat for themselves. Rinse and repeat.

The Who-Catches-On-Fire-First-Pool (Also known as Flaming Queen): This is probably self-explanatory, given the details of the Prissmas Bonfire. In our circles, we can't actually have the betting pool, because everyone predicts it will be Lady Prisspott. Clearly, she's a crowd favorite, what with the tree incident, and the flaming gas can incident, and, well, these would just take up an entirely different blog entry to explain. Suffice it to say, she's a shoe-in to win every year. (Sometimes, when the spirit of Prissmas hits us, we even try to set her on fire at other times of the year. What fun. Good times.)

Liquor Spitter: Take a swig of cheap, gosh-awful-tasting liquor straight from the bottle. Swagger as close to the bonfire as you (safely?) can. Spit the liquor into the bonfire. The bigger the FWOOSH!--the more right you are when you said 'I told you so.' You'll need others to watch, because after the FWOOSH, you're either getting sick from the icky booze or running around screaming "MY EYES! MY EYES!" like a big sissy.

Walk the Plank: You did it when you were little, why did you ever stop? It's the let's-see-how-this-burns game. Take those little plastic soldier men and afix them to the end of a stick, then put him in the fire! "I'm melllllltingggg!" Empty wine bottle? Most of them melt (some may even explode - or so I'm told by old One Eye). Place it in the perfect spot of glowing embers and argue with the others who try to move it with the stick to the OTHER perfect spot. (The next afternoon, you can collect from the ashes anything that didn't entirely burn up and make jewelry!)

Prissmas Carols: Bore your friends to tears by singing EVERY LAST Prissmas carol in your own Prissmas Carol Book. Here's the first ever Prissmas Carol.

Prissmas is Coming
(To the tune of Christmas is Coming - and can be sung in a round!)

Prissmas is coming
We’ll rub it in your face
Time to bust your chops and
Put you in your place

If you’ve had a lapse in judgement
(A small faux pas will do)
If you’ve made a slight mistake
You know that we’ll tell you
We’ll tell you!

The Burning of the Prissmas Tree:

After you've removed your keepsake crabs and rats, the Prissmas tree is 'uprooted' and with great whooping and fanfare, tossed onto the bonfire. You may even choose to sing O Prissmas Tree.

O Prissmas Tree
(To the tune of O Christmas Tree)

O Prissmas Tree O Prissmas Tree
We’re so much more superior

O Prissmas Tree O Prissmas Tree
You can kiss our posterior

We’ve come to say “I told you so!”
And lift our thumbs up to our nose.

O Prissmas Tree O Prissmas Tree
We know that you’re inferior.

The greatest compliment that can ever be bestowed upon a Prissmas event hostess is -- "You've RURNT Prissmas!" And it must be pronounced 'rurnt.' (It means ruined.) If someone says this to you at Prissmastime, it means you've sufficiently shattered any hopes that some faux pas they've performed over the past year has been forgotten. You've crossed the line then. It's progressed from a frivolous outting of light-hearted, friendly jabs to the true meaning of Prissmas, self satisfaction that you were, indeed, right. And now, everyone knows it.

Thank you for your generosity !

My hopes of a smooth transition to college life is becoming a reality. The donations have started pouring in from all over the country.

Well, THE donation has poured in and it should put a dent into the price of some books.

I promise that everything donated to this college endeavor will be used for college.

So, pull out your change jars and dig in the sofa. Pennies make dollars!

And I swear, we will NOT eat Dora.

Train of Thought

A common term, bandied about on the train, is 'management.'

Management, in that circle, means "my wife."
Senior Management means "mother" or "mother-in-law."
The Cartel is the circle of commuter's wives [management] who know and talk to each other.

Used in a sentence, "I'd love to come to the pub tonight, but the cartel told management what I did last time, so I'm on lockdown."

Now, since I'm gay, I happen to be a curiosity for the eunuchs. There is no female in my household, who is management?

I tell them, there IS no management, but then they insist it must be me. "Because," insert circular logic "Only management would deny being management." [Remember Life of Brian? - "Only the true Messiah would deny his divinity!"]

Seriously, I live in a cooperative. Co-ops, for short "are based on the values of self-help, self-responsibility, democracy, equality, equity and solidarity. . . . Co-operative members believe in the ethical values of honesty, openness, social responsibility and caring for others." - Wikipedia

They vehemently deny the existance of such an entity in a married household.

Once, I told my husband I wanted to go to the strip club (See Strip Club Epiphanies) and did he have any objections? A courtesy, really.

"Ah HA!"
What?
"You asked permission to go out. HE's management."

So, time passes and they ask a question here and there, trying to nail the title of management to one of us.
"Who handles the money?"
My paycheck pays for [list], his paycheck pays for [list].
"Who does the dishes?"
Like that would determine it? We both do.
"Who decides where to go on vacation?"
We both agree on when and where to go out, but I am more social than he is.
"Ah HA!"
What?
"YOU'RE MANAGEMENT!"

[I shake my head.]

Time passes again and we're all at a pub. I am observed coming from the bar multiple times with our beers.
"Ah HA!"
What?
"Your serving HIM ! HE must be management!"

[I shake my head.]

Really, I suspect they only do this to rankle me, but they come across as wild animals, raised in captivity, who have no IDEA that there is a better way of living. Their pea-sized, henpecked brains cannot be wrapped around the philosophy of a cooperative existence. It MUST be dominate or be dominated. (Which, of course, can be fun now and again - but I digress.)

[Still shaking my head.]

It has now occurred to me that the Eunuchs claim I am part of the cartel. I must confront them this evening and solve the conundrum: If HE is management [which they are currently insisting] then how can I be in the cartel?

Hmmmm? One of two things will happen:
1) More circular logic or
2) Their heads will explode.

I need to buy a slicker.

Save Dora !

How to raise tuition for college.

(I)
The order in which we would eat our pets if we run low on funds because of college.*



(II) (These ideas were inspired by my train friends.)

1) $100 dollars for every time I answer a commuter's wife with "I don't know." when she asks about your TR (Train Romance).
2) $30 dollars and I won't 'act straight' and charming when there's a new girl on the train.
3) Sell individual beers to train riders for a profit.**
4) $40 dollars and I'll promise not to do the open-mouth-insert-beer-bottle trick that makes the straight guys nervous.***

(III)
$500 and I'll cut my hair.

(IV)
$100 and I'll wear to work the ugliest sweater (that I'm knitting right now) for a whole week. - This offer has been withdrawn. First I'd have to finish the damn thing.

(V)
$40 + Materials and I'll knit you a scarf or a hat.

(VI)
$50 and I'll retract my statement on this jacket/dress ensemble

(*We would certainly NOT eat our pets.)
(** Probably illegal, so I wouldn't do it.)
(*** Another $40 would eliminate the beer CAN option.)

Strip Club Epiphanies II

I started to watch the women at center stage ply their craft. Chairs line the curved edge of the oval-shaped, knee-high stage, which was divided lengthwise with a mirrored wall.

As disinterested as I was in any parts that the women shaved or jiggled, I focused on their faces and their shoes. Wait a minute. They wear makeup? Aside from me, who's ever going to be paying attention to their faces? That's not where one stuffs the dollar bills. Every single performer had a far away look in their eyes, like the expression a cat gets in the litterbox. Ironically, as disinterested as I was in their bodies, they were just as disinterested in the men looking at their bodies.

Like, I said, I'm watching their faces and when they faced their 'client' they shook and jiggled and gave them a you're-the-only-one look, but when they turned away to gyrate and expose other parts, their faces transformed to a mental shopping list. You could actually see them go somewhere else in their heads--like, "Did I leave the iron on?" Right, like you own an iron.

So, guys - and girls - this epiphany is going to be a little difficult to digest, so you'd better sit down. It's better you learn it hear than face the harsh reality in the field. Ready? When you're getting a lap dance, they don't really mean it.

I spent the rest of the time waiting for my friends with my back to the stages, playing video games and getting multiple high scores in all of the spelling and strategy games until they arrived. (If you ever want to feel really good about yourself play the spelling games at a redneck bar.)

While I played, one of the diminutive performers in her street clothes took the bar stool next to me and ordered a drink. ("Is it her? Can it be? Is she one of the performers?") I tried not to stare and while trying not to stare, I had another epiphany. I was in a place where one is supposed to stare. All this time, I'm politely trying NOT to stare, when I paid a cover charge in order to do just that. (Like I said before, this is not one of my usual haunts.)

She smiled at me as she took her drink and cigarettes and deftly climbed down from the stool, without spilling a drop, then headed to the dressing room to prepare. The performance time was drawing closer and the big, mirrored stage was transforming. The wall of mirrors were slid back into the wall to reveal an entire other room! Chairs were placed all the way around a now 360 degree stage. This new room had couches that surrounded mini stages with poles. There were steps up to another bar, neon and pool tables and a mechanical bull! Very exciting.

All of the non-dancing employees scurried about to make this new room ready. These busy men all wore their "court clothes." You know, jackets and ties, slacks and button down shirts that working stiffs wear to court to appear, I dunno, respectable? Innocent? (I'm sure judges are fooled all the time.) It's hard to describe how these men didn't look natural in what they were wearing. Maybe it was the expression on their faces, or the haircuts that didn't really go with the ensemble, or even the L-O-V-E / H-A-T-E tattooed on their knuckles, I'm not sure.

You'll remember, I took some time to think about what to wear to a strip club. It was a wasted effort. In a sea of flannel and Lynard Skynard t-shirts , I was wearing a nice black button shirt with a subtle vertical design in a shinier black. What a mistake. Do you know how well the black lights pick up ANY specs of lint on a black shirt? So, for you who may take that first visit to a gentlemen's club, dress for a bar room brawl, because whether you look nice or not, what really gets their attention is the denomination you wave near their Jello.

And while speaking of clothing, I was amazed at how stretchy some of the women's clothing was. Some of the girls would finish their shift and pull what seemed like a scrunchy, or one of those sporty rubberbands off of their wrist. These would magically be stretched over their head and arms then be tugged wider to cover their goodies. I'm telling you, I have never seen anything like it, but again, none of my sisters shop at the Hoochies Be Us either. (Well, maybe one, based on what she wore to our sister's wedding, but I digress.)

Next epiphany: Just TWO rubberbands, and all your naughty bits are covered. Why, oh WHY then do women need walk-in closets? Oh, nevermind, I know. The shoes.

Still more to come.

Send Chuck to Finishing School !

I know that many of you would agree that Chuck could use some refinement.

Years ago I was well on my way to a degree in English and Education at St. Mary's College of Maryland. A strong student with A's and B's, Dean's List all that jazz, I overloaded with credits every semester and studied while I worked the night audit at the local motor inn.

But then, tragedy struck. (Cue melancholy music, cut to me walking in park in Winter, as you hear my taped story.)

My father became gravely ill. He was hospitalized and diagnosed with cancer. He was too far gone and remained unconscious. I left my job and took some time off from my classes to be with him and console my sister. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to remove him from life support. When he died, he was penniless and it took whatever college money I had to get his affairs in order and take care of his funeral arrangements, so I withdrew from school completely.

I decided then that I could be penniless and jobless anywhere, so I moved to Washington, D.C. (Cue That Girl theme music.) At first I paid rent with credit card cash advances until I found work as a flower delivery guy - which paid for beer, while I still paid rent with the credit card.

Eventually I succumbed to pressure from friends and found a 'real' job that has benefits and holidays and the like.

But now, after 11 years of cubicle nonsense, I've decided to quit my job in D.C. (goodbye commute!) and enroll at Shepherd University in West Virginia to complete my English and Education degree with the goal of teaching (Cue Laverne & Shirley theme music).

Nearly all of the 'General Studies' and electives bologna have transfered as well as a number of the classic English courses, so I'll be taking pretty much only Literature and Education classes. (YAY!)

But how on EARTH are we going to pay the mortgage and buy groceries and pet food (not the same) on top of college tuition? (Would someone PLEASE think of the children! - Soldier, Maxi, Dora and Blue.)

Here's where you can help Chuck in finishing school.

Sending money with PayPal is as easy as typing in an e-mail address and clicking send, and it only takes a minute to sign up.

My e-mail address is

poizniv@gmail.com

I am, of course, leery of publishing my street address, but if you know it already, I will gladly deposit any checks I receive in my mail box.

When you visit, you could also drop any spare change into the 'College Fund' jar as well.

I am proud, but I am also not rich.

Beauty is in the Eye

On the discussion of beauty, Just Chuck and Lady Prisspott bored some of their good friends with an endless and painful diatribe.

Boiled down for blog visitors:

LP says: there must be things that are considered beautiful in all cultures.

Chuck reply: Are there? I don't think so.

Blah blah blah blah ....nature
Blah blah blah blah ....nurture
Blah blah blah blah ....jab at Chuck's hair

The whole conversation stems from:
LP likes P. Cruz's Oscars dress and Just-Chuck doesn't AND because the majority of people (interested) agree with LP, LP must be more right.

LP feels: a majority attraction must point to a universality.
Just Chuck says: No. It merely points to a majority.

I'd like to put it to a test, but all a response would show is that a portion likes this and a portion likes that.

But on a whim, for the pitifully few people who actually visit my blog:
what do you think of this blonde's dress and jacket ensemble?

Please, no comments about the blonde.

Blasts from the Past.

I hopped on Myspace a little bit ago. Created a profile - which pretty much redirects folks to this spot.

It was SO depressing. It's a place where you link to other friends spots and they link back to yours and your profile keeps a running tally of ALL your friends.

SO.

You create a profile and it says.

"You have ONE friends."

And that's TOM. Just a myspace guy. I guess they feel NO ONE should be friendless. So they automatically stick TOM in there.

Thanks, Tom.

Delete Tom yes/no?

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

Okay so now,

"You have ZERO friends."

Okay, that's just plain awful. SO, you search around (during work of course) for people you know. Send invites and friend requests and you build yourself up to the current, "You have 13 friends."

Okay, not as bad as one or zero, but nothing near as good as the friend whores who still have "TOM" and hundreds of other people linked to their page.

SO, you start broadening your search......

Hmm. Who do I know, who did I know, whom have I ever known my entire life?

Which brings me to my point today.

I located a friend from 20 years ago. We were stationed at the same place.
Hung out with the same folks and had much the same interests and pursuits.

Lots of fun.

We later went to the same college. He and his wife let me bunk at their house for a while. Still good stuff.

But, then I left that college for another one.

We didn't really write.

Pretty much lost contact.

But now he's found again. And I've redirected him to THIS page.

SO- NOW I have to hurry up and add a post here so the FIRST thing he sees when he gets here isn't "GAY CARD REQUIREMENTS."

HI MILES ! Good to find you again. How's Carla?
Click around a bit to get caught up. And I'll chat with you soon!

Gay Card Punch Stock

Okay, thinking some more...

None of the items on the card would necessarily be requirements.

But a certain percentage of punches on the card would signify gaydom.

Divide the card into quadrants: Movies/Shows, Creativity and ?? ??

List the top ten movies/shows all gay men MUST see and quote lines or songs.

The top ten abilities the man must possess
Sewing
Cooking
Figure Skating
Hairstyling
Aesthetician

What about taboos? You, know, for the flip side of the card.

If you do these things, you could lose your card.
Socks with sandals.
Dark socks with shorts.



This is too hard.

How to wash a cat - easy step-by-step video.

"How to wash a cat."

Gay Card Requirements

Sunday night four guys and two girls (three gay, three not) gathered 'round the television set to watch the 79th Oscars, make our predictions and play Oscar Bingo.

"I can't believe no one has said 'Who are you wearing?' yet."
"Come on, just thank your 'amazing wife' and I've got Bingo."
"If someone trips, I've got two Bingos."

"BINGO! He screwed up reading the teleprompter!"

So anyhoo, Lady Prisspott was commenting on all the notched lapels and ill-fitting this and that. When looking at all the long gowns and the care the women are taking to keep people from stepping on their trains, Lady Prisspott said "I know how they feel."

To which I truthfully replied, "Me too."

It occurred to us both, that this could be something that belongs on the gay card.

According to the Urban Dictionary A Gay Card is a mythical figurative membership credential carried by gay men to commemorate the innate knowledge, ability, or sensibility with regard to any subject matter traditionally and generally considered to be the purview of gay men, such as show tunes, color coordination, fashion, hairstyling, interior decoration, or knowing whether any particular man in the vicinity is gay without requiring him to present his gay card.

A Gay Card can also be stamped or punched when a man (usually straight) performs a stereotypical gay action such as interior decorating, color coordinating, etc. At a certain point the card is filled and the person is deemed gay.


So, help me out here. Aside from the obvious sexual events, what ARE the requirements for a gay card? What categories / events / talents / abilities do you think should be listed and punchable?

Hmmm. Let's get you started.

Talents:
Floral Arrangement
Color Coordination
Interior Decorating

Have seen and can quote lines from these movies:
Valley of the Dolls
Mommy, Dearest
The Women

What aspects of fashion are required?
What show tunes must be in the repertoir?

Send them in ! The most appropriate will be chosen and incorporated into the 2007 Gay Card.

Too Stupid to be True

Our local paper, The Journal (Serving the Eastern Counties of West Virginia Since 1907), has a feature on page A6 called the Journal Junction. It's where people call or write in their short comments, complaining or praising whatever has recently soured their milk or sweetened their pot. (In the old days, one would just blame it on the local witch, but in today's enlightened society, you send your 'bitch' to The Journal.)

I came across this gem last Friday. I absolutely cannot believe this was a sincere newspaper entry--someone HAD to be playing stupid when they submitted this entry....

Apparently it's in response to another person's post regarding the outdated practice of daylight savings.

"From Hedgesville:"
To the Inwood caller complaining about the change in March to Daylight Savings Time. Don't you realize that the flowers need all the sun they can get in the spring? Any grade school child knows this.


I love it.


Oh oh oh! THIS JUST IN . . .

In Monday's Journal Junction....

"From Martinsburg:"

To the caller from Hedgesville about changing to daylight savings time in March. It has nothing to do with more sunglight for flowers to grow. The amount of sunlight is still the same. The difference is there will be more daylight in the evening.

New Jersey beats 47 other states in the race to enlightenment!

Teaneck, New Jersey
(AP)

State Officially Recognizes Civil Unions of Gay Couples
Hundreds of gay couples were granted the same legal rights as married couples Monday as New Jersey became the third U.S. state to offer civil unions. More than a dozen other couples applied for licenses for ceremonies later in the week. The civil unions were granted automatically to the hundreds of gay New Jersey coupls who had previously been joined in civil unions or married in other states or nations. (AP)

Terrorist Cell Phones

I just got off the phone with Cingular (Now AT&T).

Months ago, I sent them e-mailed inquiries about sweet deals on new phones (with all the bells and whistles).

I asked them, where are all the huge discounts for loyal customers? The sent me a response about when I was available for an upgrade.

I told them - I don't want to sign a new contract. I want a cool new phone at the outrageously low LOW price!

They sent me information on when I was available for an upgrade.

I wrote back "Don't tell me about your upgrade thingy. Tell me about fantastic discounts for loyal, already Cingular customers."

So they didn't write back.

Okay, so now my contract is up in just a few short months, and I called Cingular and explained their logic to them.

If the only way to get a cooooooool phone that plays music and videos and does the dishes and walks the dog is to sign a new 2 year contract, what's to keep me WITH Cingular?

All the phone companies offer that. If I can't get a brand spankin' new phone without a 2 year contract, I'm going to shop around.

"Well" they say "we can offer you this one time discount bringing the phone down to [something] dollars with a 2 year contract."

"I DON'T WANT A CONTRACT!"

They just kept pushing the contract.

I told them I'm going to shop around because there's no real incentive for me to stay.

Yes, I'll admit it. I want something for nothing. It's that simple.

Consolidating my E-xistance

I've been feeling fragmented lately. Kind of spread thin and in more places at once than I ought to be.

"SIMPLIFY !" Should be my mantra, but I find it hard to self-enforce.

SO, trying to simplify - I'm migrating all my Web existance to this one place.

(LOOK UP AND TO THE RIGHT!)

That means - my pagan notes, my letterboxing, my stage reviews, and the like, should all be linkable from this very spot.

I'm thinking, it's cleaner, it's streamlined, and I can give out one url and let folks navigate on their own.

I have one log in to remember and one template to work from.

SIMPLIFY !

Strip Club Epiphanies I

After a work day of the usual length (leave the house at 6:15 a.m. and get home at 7 p.m.) I flopped down on the couch in zombie state until it was time to get ready to go out.

What DOES one wear to a strip club? I assumed that one would want to look nice. So I showered and took the time to tame my hair and scrape a razor across my cheeks. Clean, stylish jeans, black button-up shirt and black boots.

I stopped to kiss the hubby and promise I wouldn't be at the strip club too long - he didn't seem worried in the least. Along the way, I stopped at 7-Eleven for a small coffee to keep me awake, then drove - almost directly to the strip joint. (Only one wrong turn!)

I finished off the coffee in the parking lot and joined a gaggle of oglers at the door. The gaggle looked like they were on a family outting to the strip club. Two, older parent types with their drinking age children on a lark. (That's why I was there, anyway.)

I paid my $10 at the door and walked in to a surprisingly nice, almost elegant atmosphere. Tasteful lighting everywhere provided just enough glow to make all the ladies passably attractive.

Imagined conversation between regular patrons.
RALPH: Evenin', Sam.
SAM: Evenin', Ralph. Wow, it's kinda dark in here tonight.
RALPH: Yeh, Susan's working.
SAM: Ah, riiiiiight.

There are stages on the left and directly in front of me that are equipped with floor to ceiling poles that are getting a LOT of attention from women who are wearing only high-heeled shoes. So, of course, I made an immediate right to the bar. I found a spot at the end and ordered a beer and turned the stool to observe the scenery.

First thing I notice is the guys sitting at the bar watching "the game." I don't remember what sport was on, because I was too busy thinking that they just paid a cover charge to come watch "the game" at a strip club. I guess that gives a whole new meaning to 'boob tube.'

Interupted by a deeply thought out, insightful theory here -
If you're at a strip club, watching television and it's not "the game" - you're gay.

While looking around some more, a certain women stopped in profile, directly in front of me, quite close and blocking my line of sight. I leaned left, then right, to see around her, and she moved on. I thought nothing of it, until it happened the third time.

I mean, she's standing really close, making it impossible to look at anything but her, forcing me - an avid reader - to ponder what Ramone did to earn a permanant signature upon her hilly valley (not to be confused with her mountainous peaks - I didn't read those chapters). So, as I pondered the depth of her character plot, it occurred to me

- this scantily clad woman is invading my personal space -- a lot.
This was immediately followed by another thought -
"Idiot. She's working and you're treating her like an obstructed-view seat at the opera."
Well, no sooner did I have that epiphany, then I guess she realized I was blind or gay and deleted me from her paper route.

More to come.

Just a Small Tease

I heard about it on the train . . .
Midget dancers at the strip club.

As soon as I heard it, my mind just boggled. At first, I couldn't think in complete thoughts.
"Wha.... "You mean.... "It can't just...."

Then my first complete thought, "I MUST GO!"

You must know by now that a strip club is not my cup of tea. Especially one that caters to straight men. Anyhoo, I wasn't going to go for the boobies or the wahoos.

Need reasons to go?

Reason 1) I've never been to a 'gentlemen's club.' I'm all for experiential living. There are some opportunities one should just not let pass by. If you get the chance,

• Sky dive
• Bungee jump
• Ride the elephant
• Go to a strip club to see diminutive dancers

Reason 2) Cocktail party conversation, which can be delivered in oh, so many ways.

• Taunting - "Guess what I did last Friday."
• Dropping smart bombs - "Oh yes, they have that kind of pool table at the strip club and . . ." "Wait, what were you doing at a strip club?"
• Blurting out - "OH MY GAWD ! I JUST SAW . . ."

So now you know what I did last Friday, but you don't have an account of the evening. This is just a small teaser of an evening that is still burned into my mind's eye.

Be patient, my pretties, I will write about it soon.