Theodicy

How can there be a God?

The pilot light for the gas heater down in the garage is out.
It's chilly in the house.

One of the lenses fell out of my glasses and I can't find it because...
I need glasses to see clearly.

My knees ache.

Barack Hussein Obama is still President
of the United States of America.

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WTF

First this:

Now this:

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I must be getting old

Found on line:

Pig.

Do something remarkable.

Inspire

Respect.



Uh, ok.

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Wow

A former victim of Bush Derangement Syndrome, gay & Clinton-loving, is healed.

HT to LK.

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Hidden In Plain Sight

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Sprung

Last year, when I was mentioning to my ex the fella who is now my boyfriend, the ex said to me, "You are so sprung." I did not know the term. My ex, African American and way more cool and into pop culture than the Caucasian Curmudgeon, was using a term which, I discovered, is the equivalent of "smitten."

Guilty. The man is not perfect (my heart has the scars to prove it) but I am, like, so sprung on him. He'll back back from his European jaunt in a few days and I am looking forward to it.

Exhibit A.

Working out at the gym yesterday, I was stopped by one of the guys who was last year's coverman and Mr. December on the South of Market Bare Chest Calendar. We normally just nod hello, but he broke off from his workout with his trainer to talk to me. The jist of his comment was that I was looking very good. I thanked him and made some remark about how five or six days a week at the gym is bound to give you some results. He interrupted me, "No false modesty. Let's take a look at those guns." At which point he was feeling my upper arm. "Nice. Very nice." Again, I smiled and thanked him. And he returned to working out, as did I.

What entered my mind next was not Mr December, although he is a man both impressive and attractive. What entered my mind was My Guy. The rest I leave to a discreet silence.

Mr. Coverman flirts and makes a move and this leads me to miss The Boyo.

Yeah, I'm sprung.

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Externalized homophobia

I stumbled onto a film on the LOGO channel, Mr. Right. Against my better judgment, I watched it, even though it was described as "a vibrant romantic comedy charting the lives and loves of gay Londoners: a TV producer, an aspiring actor, an artist, a model, a rugby player and a soap star."

Narcissistic hunks, histrionic bitchy queens --galore--, fag hags. Haven't I seen this before...and before? If you want a reason to be homophobic, a film like this will give it to you.

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