In anticipation of poker this weekend, I went out and picked up some cigars. I have to say that I haven’t been smoking as much lately. It’s just something that I’ve been forgetting to do. The fact that I can type that sentence probably means I’m not an addict.

Last night I got some stellar help from the Sainted Blog Mommy and moved one step closer to recovering from last years big crash. Today I’m picking up some risque undergarments for a certain someone. Yeah, it’s a good life.


So Mike has been in town and yesterday he, I, his friend Karen, and Lolita took ourselves off to five hours of liquid satisfaction at Spa Castle. Bliss is a well placed jet of water. If you’re a New York resident or planning a visit, make your host take you there: it’s like a civilized water park with immaculate saunas and a decent food court thrown in. You can get baked eggs. One note though: bring a change of clothes, because you end up so clean that putting your old duds on at the end of it can be a bit of a let down.

We also had two fantastic meals: before we submerged ourselves we had a very civilized brunch with Thor at good. And on the way home we joined Jason and Sue at SriPraPhai (sorry Dan, I know we should have called you), which has expanded and remodeled and yet was still as delicious as ever. Then J was so very kind as to offer Mike and I a ride back to my place, where a not too disgruntled Lehigh awaited her evening walk. There was a little canoodling, and then the Sandman showed up for a three-way.

You could say I was satisfied.


These days, there are two billboard images that give me that special warm feeling down below to the point that I’ve bean developing a couple of crushlets.

Firstly, I’m not much into medical play, but I’ve been hypnotized by the above picture of sneering butch medi-dommme Edie Falco in her new series. Since I don’t have Showtime, I’ll have to just content myself with sighing every time I pass the shot from the campaign, Like I did yesterday when a double decker buss passed by with Edie’s steely blondness shrinkwrapped around it, two stories tall.


Secondly, I’m spending time on the subway wishing I was the guy who gave Zach Galifianakis that sexy shiner and then stole his pants. Just so I could be the one he came staggering up to to make it all better. I’ll admit to indulging in dirty thoughts about him since I saw him as The Snuggler on Tim and Eric Awesome Show. He just looks so pretty hurt.

Luckily I have a guest this weekend, so all this excess energy has somewhere to go!


The eepc is now running eeebuntu. After messing around with it on a stickdrive for a while, I decided to bite the bullet and ditch the operating system Asus shipped it with. But this is being written on the desktop. I’m seated in my office chair and Lehigh is perched on the bed, pawing at my shoulder to catch my attention.

Yesterday’s talks left me with a lot to think about.

First, the problems I have becoming a manager: Because of my training as an artist, I am used to solving problems on my own with my hands. When making work, I have If I need to get something done, I like to speak to the other people involved face to face. I tend to drop in on other people at their desks and ask for their help then and there. I’m uncomfortable with the phone and to a lesser extent with email. So I assume responsibility for every aspect of a project, but not in the sense that I can get my team to do everything I ask of them: I mean it in terms that I believe internally that I’ll do everything. This ends up limiting what I can think of in terms of projects.

Just finished reading The Other Side of Desire by Daniel Bergner. It reads just like what it is: a group of four articles that could have appeared in The New Yorker, or the New York Times Magazine. Each focuses on one personality with a different sexual kink: a foot fetishist, a sadist, a pedophile and a person with a fetish for amputees. Each person then becomes the scaffolding for Bergner’s examination of various schools of thought regarding the structure of sexual desire and the treatment of deviance. It’s all very earnest investigative journalism except where Bergner turns to rhapsody to try to capture the intensity of his subjects’ emotional lives, a ploy that makes for bumpy reading. The quartet of people are both exemplary of some idea in treatment or theory about the brain, and yet supposed to be individuals. As a narrator, Bergner tries to finesse the line that separates “nonjudgmental” from “implicated”. I was highly conscious of his emotional discomforts but left without any sense of his own introspection. The blurb from the Times says that he has a “novelist’s eye”. He certainly doesn’t have a novelist’s brain, since the the four pieces have very little to do with one another from any sort of structural view. Before the mysteries of desire, he displays convention and all of its waffling. From another book I’m reading, Pema Chodron’s Comfortable With Uncertainty: “Instead of transcending the suffering of all creatures, we move towards turbulence and doubt however we can”. To make that move and find pleasure in that turbulence is the value of sex.

From that I guess you can tell that I didn’t much care for the book.

Notes, notes, notes: I’m continually making them, but rarely taking the time to revisit them and turn them into something more substantial. Through out my current life I’m spread among many details. Someone asked me last week what I was working on, and in the larger sense I didn’t have a real answer for it. It’s time to get back to building.

Lehigh’s been walked, the rain is pouring down, and I’ve moved back to the laptop to finish this entry. Less got done today than I hoped, but that’s alright.


I went looking for action on Saturday night and I got it in the wilds of New Jersey. I had much fun and the results were nothing as a traumatic as this (courtesy of marian333). My accent remains intact.

While researching this entry this story came up, which leads me to think that despite decades of ursine identification on my part, truth be told, it’s time for me to come out at a wombat.

An A-List one.

And now I can start telling all of you who is and isn’t a real one.

I was going to write all about this but Thor ( ) has done a much better job than I could have. Suffice to say I was at my first Beefsteak, and for those of you who know me , you can imagine how I felt to be at an event where waiters bring endless platters of food, that you are encouraged to wolf down using your hands. Everything served was admirable. To top it off, Thor and I were drunkely mistaken for brothers who were professional wrestlers. This by a guy who actually had wrestled in college and who was so attractive that I would have said that I was secretary of state had he wanted me to. As you can imagine testosterone ran high in the room. The one thing that irked me was the way that a number of attendees wouldn’t shut up for a second during our hosts’ brief and jovial remarks. It smacked to me of the blase, “I’m too important for any place I find myself” vibe that is the worst aspect of New Yorkers. I mean, if you were coming to an event like this, then get into the spirit of it, or don’t come. Yes I shoveled beef into my face with my hands. Towards the end of the evening, stuffed with meat and flushed with beer, I actually had to stop after a single bite of chocolate cake. It was a ludicrus, privileged, american moment that left me exhilerated and abashed.
Afterwards, the misty walk down Fifth Avenue reminded me of late nights in San Francisco, and also of the thing that I love about New York: the feeling that one is a tiny part of it, and yet the owner of it.

Not time to say anything, but I should say something…how about this: I kissed more longhaired men this weekend than I have in the past five years.

So it’s a week later, and I’m back from London. Washed ashore back in NYC. The jet lag is not quite cleared up. It’s 10pm now and in London it’s 3 am, much later than I stayed up any night I was there. So I’m woozy, and while I want to write about it all, I doubt that I can. The high points? All of the work coming together. Seeing drawings I hadn’t seen in two years or so. Feeling very very supported. A London fling. Finding (being taken to) Fox’s tobacco with it’s back room museum,that had a cigar in the shape of a pipe. There’s more, much but now? I don’t know. Note – first day without alchohol for a week.