Remember Arthur? He’s the sexually ambiguous aardvark who has all sorts of weird growing up experiences in the form of children’s books. The one that, as a young child, I had an impossibly difficult time relating to him as a character because, well, he doesn’t look all that much like a real aardvark. And maybe the fact that my diet does not include termites.

I blame Trader Joe’s for reminding me about Arthur because of this spicy character I noticed on the cereal shelves.

Her face sort of reminds me of the chimp-ish character Francine. Only since she’s made from coconuts and is sporting a fabulous lei and a polka dot bra, she’s like ten billion times more real to me. Seriously, this Kashi Coconut Babe is bringing sexy back.

I’m still in Albuquerque, as I’ve noted previously, and thus I missed out on what could have been my first ever experience of an earthquake. I called up a good friend of mine there when I heard about it, and she was like, “Ho hum, the ground shook a bit, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. Good times.” I’m sure had I been there myself, I would have completely exaggerated the whole event in my head, and convinced myself that the ground shook so much it knocked me on my ass. But I wasn’t there, and so am still left without ever experiencing such a natural phenomenon.

What I did get to do today, though, was go out to lunch. Robert and I met up with a friend of ours neither of us had seen in far too long. When you meet up at 11:30 and don’t leave until 2:30, you know you’ve had a nice time.

At some point during the meal, I had to excuse myself to use the restroom. And, awkward as it is to admit this, I couldn’t resist taking a picture of something that caught my eye while there. Ever heard of Johnny Boards? (If not, it’s because they’re an Albuquerque company. I’m sure the concept can be seen elsewhere.) Basically, the concept is that an ideal placement for advertisements is in a place people always have to go: the John.

Normally, I don’t think much of it, but today was a different story. It pretty much speaks for itself.

And I think it definitely merited taking a picture in the restroom. Just saying.

Here’s a couple of things I’ve learned from my time visiting Albuquerque this second time around.

1.) In June, I fully expected to stay here for two and a half weeks, and thus I completely stuffed my suitcase with clothes in preparation. During my stay, I managed to buy even more clothes, which is completely awesome.

This current trip was intended to last only eleven days, and thus I packed considerably lighter. I ended up staying longer, and it’s now almost been three weeks. While I confess that this makes me happy, I must also disclose that having such a limited wardrobe is extremely difficulty. Sure, I’ve done laundry, but my gay sensibilities get offended when one shirt is FORCED to be worn three times within less than two weeks.

Which leads me to the following: thank heaven for Target. Oh my word*, but Target is a lifesaver. I finally caved and decided to invest in some new clothing. It’s pretty much the best decision I’ve made all week, not in the least because I got the most amazing royal purple shirt of all time.

2.) Just because you bring along certain books to read while on a trip doesn’t mean you end up wanting to read them. I snagged a random two or three books from my shelf and stuffed them in my bag. But, even though I’ve been wanting to read them for some time, I haven’t much felt like reading them at this point in time.

While channel surfing the other day, I stumbled across the movie version of Roald Dahl’s Matilda. It reminded me that I hadn’t read the book in years, and I wanted to change that. We wound up at one of my favorite local used book stores, and this morning, and I found myself a copy. And, over the course of the day, I read the entire thing, cover to cover. All 240 pages. I loved it when I first read it at the tender age of nine, and I loved it when I read it for the fourth? fifth? (I don’t know how many times I’ve read the thing.) tenth? time, over fifteen years later. Talk about some serious staying power. Roald Dahl kicks ass.

*I ran into the parents of an old babysitter of mine while having lunch with my dad last week. The father of said babysitter kept saying “oh my word” to everything I said. Age? Oh my word. Height? Oh my word. Where I’m living? Oh my word. What I’m doing? Oh my word. That shit was crazy.

It feels like a good time to do a list of “All Things Disjointed.” And what better way to follow up a Saturday night rant than by a random Sunday list?

• I’m currently sitting on the couch typing this while watching Hook. I haven’t seen this movie in years, and I’m finding it very refreshing. I do have beef with the casting director for having Julia Roberts play Tinkerbell, but considering she’s way better than she is in, say, Ocean’s 11, I’ll let it slide.

• I guess it’s been a week now, since I took a stab at revamping this website with a fresh, new look. I was really excited about it at the time, only I encountered some problems and nearly lost my website completely. I rescued it, only to find out that amidst the switch and then the switch back, my RSS feed was cut off and thus axed all my readers. If someone more tech-savvy than I happens to read this and has any suggestions about restoring the feed for those who lost it, shoot me an email. Otherwise, I guess the only thing I can suggest anyone can do is resubscribe.

• When we were at the grocery store today, Robert and I had to walk past quite a rude married couple taking up an entire aisle in the frozen food section. More specifically, the ice cream-slash-frozen dessert section. Here’s a bit of the fascinating conversation I heard, centered around one of the sale specials:
  

  Husband: If we get enough of this, it’ll be completely free.
  Wife: But we didn’t even want it.
  Husband: I don’t think you get it. Let me explain.
  Wife: You still have to pay for it.
  Husband: No, no, it’s free. Look, it works like this.

  I’m assuming he went on for some time, and it no doubt turned into a huge argument which, if all works as it should in the world, his wife won. I guess we’ll never know, though, as I lost interest as we walked off in search of cheese.

It seems that Michael Savage, the Imminent Asshole himself, is once again all over the news on account of his usual misinformed yet angry opinions. This doesn’t surprise me, as I remember when, five years ago, the man was “attacked by the liberal media,” to use his terms, for saying the following to a gay man who called in to his television show on MSNBC:

“Oh, you’re one of the sodomites. You should only get AIDS and die, you pig. How’s that? Why don’t you see if you can sue me, you pig. You got nothing better than to put me down, you piece of garbage. You have got nothing to do today, go eat a sausage and choke on it.”

Savage was fired from MSNBC, as well he should have been. So what does he do? He “writes” a book about it. A book that, as it turns out, my own father purchased, read, and loved. That sad fact aside, the reason I put the word write in quotes is because, out of sheer curiosity, I read that poor excuse for literature myself. What struck me most, I suppose, was that I was amazed that a man who regularly touts his two Master’s degrees and his Ph.D. never once bothered to define any terms of his book. I could be wrong, but that may not be the best way to show how educated you are.

Michael Savage, Imminent Asshole, is now under fire for stating that he believes Autism is being over-diagnosed.

“Now, the illness du jour is autism. You know what autism is? I’ll tell you what autism is. In 99 percent of the cases, it’s a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out.”

But wait, he goes further.

“What do you mean they scream and they’re silent? They don’t have a father around to tell them, ‘Don’t act like a moron. You’ll get nowhere in life. Stop acting like a putz. Straighten up. Act like a man. Don’t sit there crying and screaming, idiot.’”

And further…

“Stop with the sensitivity training. You’re turning your son into a girl, and you’re turning your nation into a nation of losers and beaten men.”

Am I understanding this correctly? Could it be that Michael Savage is subtly hinting that he perceives autism to consist of symptoms that, for my part growing up, were considered ’sissy’? I got that all the time growing up with my family, “Dr.” Savage, but I guess I turned into a big, wimpy Sodomite anyway. I suggest that “Dr.” Savage check his references. Last time I checked, autism is more than simply bad behavior, but involves a litany of tests. The reason genetics can’t explain the condition is that it’s pretty damn hard to find out what causes someone’s brain to have difficulty processing the idea that other people share your experiences and feelings.

But I suppose I shouldn’t expect someone who doesn’t now work in the schools to understand exactly what is going on. I suppose he’s never gotten to know a child who simply does not understand why his friend is crying, or who laughs along with kids who are teasing him because he doesn’t understand that they’re being cruel. But according to “Dr.” Savage, this is evidence that boys like this are turning into girls. But what of the girls, “Dr.” Savage? I’ll use your logic, which leads me to conclude that if you told them to “be a man,” you’d be encouraging them to be lesbians.

What makes this whole drama even better is all the people who are actually supporting the Imminent Asshole. There are those who simply repeat exactly what the man says, and those who write very intelligent comments on US News, like this gem from “Gypsy Nick of AZ”:

“Michael Savage is right, the liberal, sensitive, politically correct don’t spank you chiuld bunch calls a lot of spoiled brats by some receently invented disease that requires “Treatment” instead of correction. However there may be some legitimate cases of autism or ADD, but since all misbehavior is swept under the psycological rug, we may never know for sure. It’s spspect when those offering the “treatments” for money, concoct and diagnose nebulous desieases which only they cab fix if you or the government will just pay the price. Kind of sounds like what the old fashioned fortune tellers and quck faith healers used to do, only now with a college degree to back it up, they are legit.

Gyps Nick”

Wow, Nick. I’m amazed that, amid all the horrible grammar and spelling, you actually managed to spell nebulous correctly, and use it properly, too. I suggest you go find out who Michael Savage’s publisher is because I’m sure they’d love to make you the next asshole star. I’m willing to bet Micheal Savage would even make out with you. I hear he’s into that.

I’ve so far spent six months in Los Angeles, taking in all the newness of the landscape. And I’ve ended up back home in Albuquerque for most of the summer. I was talking to my friend Heather yesterday and we had the following conversation:

Heather: I really love Albuquerque, but there’s no beach.
Phil: We may not have water, but we do have dirt.
Heather: There’s a lot that.
Phil: And dammit, when I’m away from it, I miss my dirt. Every time I fly home I get so excited to see the brown.

There’s a running joke that I fear only native Albuquerquians understand. It’s sort of a joke about our special desert vegetation, which in its most natural state lacks many popular flowering plants. The joke goes something like this, starting first with a surprisingly common, yet innocuous, question:

Outsider: Does New Mexico have a state flower?
Albuquerquian: Sure. It’s the Orange Barrel.

Being away from the city for as long as I’d been, I completely forgot just how much roadwork can hit this place. First, spring hits in early April, and trees start to bloom. Next comes the inevitable “unforeseen” winter storm that freezes all the buds on the trees and drops a few inches of snow. And then it jumps right into summer, which means that it’s prime time to work on the roads. Construction springs up, simultaneously, on every other major road in the city. Sort of to the point that whenever you discover new roadblocks, you can rest assured that whatever alternative route you find offers a 95% probability of road construction of its own.

I was out driving today and was fortunate enough to have my camera handy when I discovered a classic setup of construction materials. Given that it’s the height of summer, the orange and white beauties are in full bloom. See below.

I’m not entirely sure what the proper term is for these puppies, but they’re obviously a close cousin to the classic orange barrel New Mexico State Flower, and they’re all over the place here. Cheers to summer!

In order to be fabulously gay, you must, as a general rule, love shopping. Over the past week or so, I’ve noticed a pretty huge change in my shopping addictions. I realized the other day that my favorite shopping, at this very moment in time, is grocery shopping. And I was kinda taken by surprise.

Robert pointed out the other day, after we got home from the grocery, that the refrigerator was so full that we hardly had room for anything we had just bought. When I opened the refrigerator door just ten minutes ago, it was all I could do to keep things from falling out. There’s just no way for me to express how happy this makes me.

In part, I think our newfound love of shopping for food comes from our recent hospital visits. During those visits, we had to wander around and raid refrigerators in the hopes of finding something to snack on. There’s generally very little to choose from. There’s only so many times you can make a meal of a turkey sandwich and jello. And by so many times, I mean once. Other than that, there’s the hospital meals, which while not bad, are not exactly offered to you via an expansive menu. No, you get that chopped meatloaf and by golly you will love it!

Hence, I’ve felt compelled to make sure we have maximum variety in the house. And I’ve been cooking up a storm. Sort of to the point that as soon as we’re done with one meal, I’m already thinking about what to make for the next one. This is a domestic side of myself that I’ve only every before seen when it’s exam time in grad school, because avoiding studying is amazing motivation for cooking something massively complicated.

I’ve also taken to convincing Robert that a trip to the grocery is, among other things, good exercise, especially because it promotes healing via normal activity. And because we both love food, a trip to get milk usually turns into a trip to also get tortillas, Gatorade, green chile, hash browns, eggs, and maybe some cookies. If you’re New Mexican and just read that short list, you’ll probably note that I’ve totally been making my own breakfast burritos (a.k.a. the New Mexican version of heaven, in a tortilla). Seriously. Breakfast time is approximately eight hours away from this very moment, and I’m already salivating over the yumminess that awaits me.

Could it be that someone finally recognized that right-wing groups, mainly run by unattractive people who clearly have unhappy sex lives, are but a few people sending out a huge number of complaints on “behalf” of their “followers” who don’t actually care enough to be bothered to make the complaint themselves? So it would seem.

It’s been more than four years since the Super Bowl-watching world was scarred not so much by Janet Jackson’s less-than-attractive boob, but by the awful sun pendant nipple decoration she was sporting when she and Justin Timberlake decided they’d start the foreplay of their spicy romance in front of millions of people instead of the privacy of their hotel room.

CNN reports the following:

In court filing, the FCC said the network received more than 542,000 complaints — an “unprecedented” number. But CBS disputed the number of and significance of complaints, claiming that 85 percent of them came from form letters generated by well-organized single-interest groups.

All those undersexed conservatives worked really hard together, as a team, and got the FCC to slap a fine onto CBS to the tune of about $1.00 per complaint. Then it took the court four years to determine that, wait, CBS wasn’t responsible for the on-stage fetishes of two pop singers. Or at least, it can’t be proven. And besides, if all the complaint letters look the same, it’s maybe a little suspicious. Like, maybe only FIVE people cared. And so the case gets thrown out and CBS gets to keep their money.

I doubt any of the big conservative groups will even make the slightest fuss. They had their “victory” when they wanted it, and now they have bigger fish to fry. The current battle is to keep us homosexuals from getting legal recognition for the partnerships we already form anyway.

I keep waiting for the day the term “sodomy” gets used more regularly by these whacko groups, mostly because it’s also got a heterosexual counterpart. Let’s just say I just want to see the look on James Dobson’s face when a ballsy reporter asks him if his wife has ever given him a blowjob.

It started out as one of those occasional catches of the eye. The kind where you make eye contact and some sense of familiarity is sparked, but usually as just a reminder of someone you knew in the past, nothing absolute. It’s meant to end there. Except in rare cases in which the opposing party decides to say “hey stranger” and move in for the kill.

At the time, I had no idea where I knew her from, and I was more than happy to keep it that way. After all, I wasn’t the one who went rushing up to hug me. I knew enough to know that if I only barely recognized the face, there was little point in trying to figure out where we knew each other from, much less try to catch up on the six or eight years it’s been since we’d last seen each other. My thought: if I don’t remember you well, I probably never knew you well.

Relief swept over me when her name was called to go into the clinic. Only she clawed viciously against the poor nurse and shouted her phone number to me and told me to call her. “I can’t hear you” was what I said as the door closed, and peace resumed in my little world once again.

Five minutes passed. A door opened and a nurse approached me. She handed me a piece of paper, upon which was scrawled a name and a phone number. Meghann.

As the day has drawn onward, the events have replayed themselves in my head. Images of high school have flashed before my eyes. Remembering events and faces I’d long ago put behind me, perfectly content to let them lie. And with all these memories, the face from the doctor’s office returns. Ah yes, I remember her well. Walking along the hallways before math class, and hearing her blather on about stories about her ROTC buddies and her girlfriends.

So much of my life has changed since those days, and suddenly I’m reminded of just how little I miss that time in my life. The phone number will remain on that paper, in all likelihood never to be dialed. So good to see you, but our brief contact will suffice. I’m very happy to let chance dictate our next encounter, rather than voluntarily make that happen. Until next time…

Murphy’s Law states that if something can go wrong, it will go wrong. I would like to create a variation of this law that states, “If you take a trip home and don’t tell your folks, you will see them everywhere you go.” I think I’ll call it something catchy like Phil’s Law.

During my last trip here, I had a chance to visit my folks. During said visit, I was greeted with excitement, followed immediately by accusation (in very large quantities, mostly about the gay thing “changing me” somehow). Having spent a good deal of my life fielding disparaging commentary from them, I’ve generally decided that opting out of their company is a good thing.

Hence, because this trip was so last-minute and for a purpose they could never understand because it wasn’t on account of them that I returned, I accidentally failed to inform them that I’d be in town. And lo and behold, the first day after I’d flown in, who do I see walking right in front of us as we’re driving through the grocery parking lot? Hi, mom. And then, when we make a quick trip to the hospital pharmacy yesterday… Hi, brother.

Thus far it’s been entirely visual contact, and only on my behalf. It’s interesting because I know if a point of contact is actually made, I’ll be forever branded a criminal in their eyes. And who doesn’t want to have a little more diversity added to their résumé?