RevSpork

Little tidbits o' the space-time continuum

• The last time I bought dinner at Panda Express, I got a fortune from my cookie that read: "A distant romance could begin to look more promising."  To make it even more useless, there were no lottery numbers included.
• I turn the big 3-9 next month.  The numbers add up to twelve.  I hated being twelve; I suspect being thirty-nine will be somewhat less painful, puberty-wise, but that's about it. 
• Tori and I spent Friday night at a VIP shindig at Open Books, which was fantastic.  I highly recommend being a VIP at least once in your life.  Trust me, you'll like it.
• I took a first step into my stumbling back to graduate school with a trip to Dominican University to get some information on their Library & Information Science College.  All in all, I really dig the campus and the professors.  I shall do a little more sniffing around. 
• Last night was taken up with a walk to Uncommon Ground, a lovely little restaurant, where this young lady at an adjacent table absentmindedly (but thoroughly) scratched her left boob while her shirt sagged low enough that half of her right boob was clearly visible.  I'm sure she's a nice lady, but as she was sitting a foot away from my wife, it made conversation somewhat halting and inconsistent. 
• Finally, a question for the ladies: a guy is wearing a nice shirt (not buttoned) that's a smidge too large for him.  Should he tuck it in or not?

That's all for now.  Have an enjoyable and less bloody Thanksgiving.

America askew

I like to babble a lot on my blog, but this time I'd like to make my case using the wonder of maps.  I admit these pictures may oversimplify, perhaps even slightly distort, my point.  Even if moderated, however, I think many of us can agree that there's something very, very wrong here.

I am a supporter of gay marriage and have been since college.  I've recently swung toward a more libertarian bent; instead of legalizing gay marriage, I think states should get out of the marriage business altogether, allow civil unions for any adult couple, and if they want to get "married," whether in their church, a meadow, or a pet cemetery, that's hunky-dory with me.  I'd prefer legalized gay marriage, but I think the latter may be a lot easier for more conservative folks to swallow.  Then again, some folks will never be happy until the U.S. bans not only gay marriage, but gay civil unions, gay adoptions, the Gay Nineties, nosegays, and writer Gay Talese. 

Okay, I've babbled enough.  Here's my proof that America could use a stiff drink and a psychotherapist.  My first map displays which states not only ban gay marriage, but also prohibit civil unions, domestic partnerships, or both.

My second map shows states where zoophilia (bestiality) is technically legal.  Yes, legal. 

Now, let's merge the two maps.  The brown states (green+red) are with the most restrictive gay marriage laws, plus where bestiality is technically legal.

Lotta brown there, eh?  Finally, on my fourth map I include the states with the most restrictive gay marriage laws and where bestiality is technically legal, and the states where gay marriage is legal:

Number of states with the most restrictive gay marriage laws, but allow bestiality: 7

Number of states that allow gay marriage: 5

Is America askew?  I rest my case.

Job hunting again

Today marked the first time in two weeks that I applied for new work.  I currently have two very part-time jobs, and I'm looking for either a third part-time gig or a full-time job.  The pickings are still slim - I wonder how many possible jobs I've missed because I've stopped looking daily. 

It's a tough call - I work only 25 hours a week, and I certainly have the time to rev up the computer at home when I'm not working and peruse the job sites.  Thing is, looking for work is insanely boring, especially when you've done it for months.  Working part-time makes the experience even less desirable, because the situation isn't as drastic.  You're not losing money hand over fist anymore - it's more of a slow financial leak.  You're not thinking, "I can't pay the rent next month!"  It's more like "Well, I can pay the rent - I just need to delay paying the phone bill, maybe cut down on groceries, stretch out the meds, and I can hack it."  It seems like so much of an accomplishment that you managed to cover your expenses for a whole month, looking for work gets shunted aside.  And the part-time work is a mixed blessing: it's good to have some money coming in.  On the other hand, you don't want to lose those part-time jobs, so you devote a full-time job's worth of emotional and mental energies to succeeding at those jobs, whether you're working twenty or fifty hours a week.  Besides, one of those jobs might become a full-time gig.  Or maybe one of the full-timers will leave, giving you a first crack at that position.   Can't screw up, or act unenthused.  So when you get home, the last thing you want to do is look for more work.  You want to watch TV, or turn on the wii, or get some sleep.  Or it's time to take care of the kids, the chores, make sure your spouse knows you still exist.  Either way, it's not time to log onto monster.com and dig for gold. 

Besides, let's face it: looking for work is work.  You might play more video games, or take a longer lunch break, but looking for a job saps your energy just as readily as actual labor.  And there's no paycheck at the end of a week of looking for work: you're working for free.  There's still a reward available - a job - but unlike the paycheck, it's not guaranteed.  Looking for a job is essentially a job with potential rewards, not actual.  After a few weeks of nothing more than an unsuccessful interview and ink smudges from filling out dozens of applications, you're ready for a vacation.  An unpaid vacation, of course, and you can't afford to go anywhere beyond the local Target, but what the hey - at least you can devote more time to video games. 

Every kitty needs a bosom for a pillow

Jack and Mimi have been in charge of our household for over a year and a half now, and every spot in the apartment is fair game for running, barfing, and sleeping - including my wife's bosom.

Last Sunday, my lovely wife sat down for yet another wearily amazing episode of "Mad Men."  She and Mimi have their Sunday nights down pat: Mimi always sits on the couch with her, claiming the right end of the sofa, where she curls up and passes out while Tori watches Jon Hamm do something amazing on the tube.  After the end of the show, Tori checks out Television Without Pity to see what everyone else thought of the episode (almost always their best yet), while Mimi sits impatiently outside the office door, looking up at her and silently demanding she get her ass into bed.  After committing herself to bedtime ablutions, Tori then climbs into bed.  Mimi follows, finds herself a spot along Tori's legs, and soon both are asleep.  It's very cute, and if it weren't a marriage breaker I'd include a photo. 

Mimi apparently decided last week that the end of the couch wasn't cushy enough.  She occasionally walks onto Tori's lap for a grooming and a short snooze, but my this time my wife wasn't sitting up; rather, she was slumped on the couch.  Since the lap seemed out of the question, Mimi aimed higher, climbing onto Tori's chest, padding and pummeling her breasts until they seemed properly comfy, and settled down for a little nap. 

I'm not sure what annoyed Tori more: that Mimi was lying on her boobs, or she was blocking her view of the TV.  I suffered no annoyance whatsoever; I burst out laughing and couldn't stop until I had taken a sufficient number of photos from my cell phone.  Mimi was nonchalant about the whole ordeal; she loves a camera and willingly posed, blissfully perched on Tori's chest.  It almost broke my heart when Tori gently picked Mimi up and plopped her on the couch. 

We knew we had one feline comedian in the household; Jack is usually our slapstick cat, jumping around like a maniac and bonking into anything more solid than water.  Mimi's humor is subtle almost to nonexistence: she's the Margaret Dumont to Jack's Groucho Marx.  I'm pleased as punch to find out she has a screwball streak after all. 

Sexy Reverend

As everyone is painfully aware, I'm a pretty sexy guy nowadays.  We ugly nerd ducklings tend to blossom into full sexiness when approaching middle age, and I'm no exception.  Hundreds of busty young women actually buy Facebook ad space to inquire as to my whereabouts.  My wife has resorted to keeping dirty coffee cups in every room to throw at any busty young woman bold enough to attempt to break in through the windows of our third-floor apartment.  I greatly appreciate this, of course: I may be a sexy reverend, but I'm only human, and I can't hold off the feminine throngs like I used to.

Of course, my studliness quotient was an entirely different number 20 years ago.  I was hopeless as a teenager; I could creep out a girl merely by bumping into her in a crowded hallway.  If this occurred, the afflicted young lady would immediately run to the girls' bathroom, where she would hang the freak-tainted clothing on a hook, take out a 50-pound can of hair spray and a hot pink cigarette lighter from her purse, and incinerate the garment with an Aquanet flamethrower while muttering a prayer to Saint Cyndi, the patron saint of electric blue eye shadow.

The irony of all this was that the girls didn't have anything to worry about.  Before I went to college, I was something of an antisocial freak-nerd hybrid, but when it came to the fair sex, I was hopelessly shy.  I couldn't ask a girl out to save my life.  (In fact, the only time I did ask a girl out was for senior prom, which I had no desire to attend.  The only reason I bothered to ask the lucky 12 girls out was to convince my schoolmates I was at least interested in girls.  I didn't expect an affirmative answer, and those expectations were thankfully rewarded.) 

And actual sex?  With, you know, genitals and stuff?  That was merely legend, an activity so far from possibility that I never considered it, outside of teenage erotic fantasies with hot '80s chicks like Susanna Hoffs of the Bangles and the porn my cousin hid under his mattress.  The problem was, I was under considerable peer pressure to score with an actual girl, those "peers" being my parents.  My mom and dad, sexually active during most of their own adolescences, scratched their heads at my seeming lack of interest in bouncing the ol' boxspring.  My mother would begin many a phone call (I lived with my father at the time) with "Gotten laid yet?" while my father would only half-jokingly suggest that a hooker would make a perfect birthday present for his son.  Being Italian didn't help matters; we young Italian guys are taught from an early age to be mega-virile, banging at anything that moved.  I'm surprised my dad didn't point to a random young lady at our local A&P and yell, "You're going to fuck her and you're going to fuck her RIGHT NOW, young man!" 

I would occasionally tutor students at home in my attic bedroom, and if that student happened to be female, my father would light up with hope.  He would be shattered, however, that my virginity was still stuck to me while the girl improved her math grade.  I would occasionally attempt to go through the motions: I'd have the young lass on my bed with me, and I'd edge closer to her, only to explain the cosine.  My poor dad: he had this Italian boy who didn't care about cars, the New York Islanders, or - seemingly - girls. 

I was interested in girls, but only the concept of girls.  Real girls - girls at school who lived nearby and were therefore technically attainable - I believed were so out of my league that my teenage lust switch simply shut off the moment I walked through the school doors.  I had my share of crushes, mind you, but they were puppy-dog, gee-I'd-sure-like-to-kiss-you crushes.  My first genuinely sexual crush on an actual girl - in one of my classes - didn't occur until my final year in high school.  (Note to my fellow high school classmates who might read this blog entry: no, it's not you.  As far as I know, she doesn't have a Facebook account.)  I wanted to lust for them, really I did, but my brain was too rational for its own good: if I didn't have a chance of screwing them, why lust for them?  Susanna Hoffs was just as attainable as they were, and she always smiled at me.  As it turned out, I didn't have my first sexual experience until my first month in college, and the big V didn't fall until late my sophomore year.  (Also as it turned out, both moments were the product of unbelievably bad judgment on my part.  And how seldom is that?) 

Now, of course, I've got this sex thing licked.  I've attained the apex of True Studliness, and I can get laid anytime I want with the lady I love.  We only need to find some time between our work schedules, pop some Advil for my back, kick the cats out of the bedroom, take my blood pressure medication, kick the cats out of the bedroom AGAIN...

Ten reasons I cannot wait for the Rapture

Lemme tell ya, I don't believe in the Rapture, where all the saved get lifted up to heaven while the rest of us losers have to cope with all hell breaking loose.  In fact, I'd like to think the Rapture already happened, that God only saw fit to lift two crazy homeless people and a nun, and nobody noticed. 

However, every once in a while I learn of some new bit of news that makes me really, really root for a full-blown Apocalypse, even though I'm fairly certain I'm not among the chosen.  Because even if I have to endure trials, tribulations, bleeding moons, etc., at least people will turn their attentions away from coming up with bizarre shit like the following:

1. Personalized vagina pendants.  Lookie here, it's truck nuts for girls!  That they can wear around their necks!  Potential purchasers are told to "celebrate their beauty."  Fine, but I'd like to see what would happen if I sported a personalized pecker pendant while walking about town.  On the other hand...no, no I wouldn't. 

2. The continuing persecution of domestic abuse victims.  Get beat up by your boyfriend?  No problem!  Get thrown out of your home, get threatened with arrest, lose your health insurance.  What next?  Branding "punch me" on their foreheads?  Come to think of it, that actually seems kind compared to the other three punishments. 

3. The fact that people actually care about these people more than they care about their own families.  Jon's a slimy moron, Kate's emotionally stunted, and the kids are going to be so fucked up by the time they grow up, they might not even notice Armageddon.  They're already living it.  What these people need is not more publicity, or even less publicity, but no publicity. 

4. Sexy Smurfette Halloween costumes.  Was I the only 11-year old boy who watched the cartoon because he liked the show and NOT because of a crush on Smurfette?  I just thought she was another cartoon character, not the first step towards a serious Jessica Rabbit / Heavy Metal addiction.  And hasn't the costume industry squeezed the "sexy employee" concept dry yet?  What's next, sexy cabbies?

5.  Douching with Lysol.  Yes.  Because douching with Coca-Cola wasn't gross enough.  

6.  This.  The GOP doesn't harbor racists.  Really, they don't.

7. The perils of online dating.  It only took me eight months and 65 rejections to find the lady who would become my second wife online; if I were as paranoid as this woman, I'd still be single, and good for the rest of the world.  You don't want to pass these paranoid genes to another generation. 

8. I can't deny my own beliefs.  Yes, I consider myself a pro-lifer.  Yes, I believe in some restrictions.  However, I also support universal access to birth control, RU-486, Plan B, and allowing gay adoptions.  I don't even necessarily want to see abortion become illegal: I want to see it become obsolete.  Some freaking pro-lifer I am.  So when I read about jackasses like Randall Terry attempting idiotic publicity stunts like this, I want to respond with a "Randall Terry is a Shit-Spewer" YouTube campaign.  Simply blow up a photo of Mister Operation Rescue, cut out his mouth, and attach it to your favorite mammal's rear end so that any fecal matter emerges out Mr. Terry's oral cavity.  Record and pass it around. 

9. Bob Dylan's Christmas album.  The release of this album is well-hidden but very much present in the Book of Revelations.  If Mannheim Steamroller releases an album of Dylan covers, you'll find me reading the Left Behind series very, very thoroughly.

10. The A-Team movie.  Enough said.  Bring on Armageddon!

The weekend of my cold

It was only a week ago when I first felt a little soreness in my throat.  By Thursday, the sore throat had become a full-blown cold.  Unlike the cold from six months ago, which mutated into a nasty case of bronchitis, this particular cold virus has largely come and gone.  The weekend was ruined, and I had to cancel both my volunteer work and a weekend project this week, but the weekend weather sucked anyway, so at least everyone else in Chicago was miserable. 

Tori was home, but she was unfortunately preoccupied with a Christmas card project, so Mimi took over the job of nursing me back to health.  Although her chicken-noodle soup preparation skills need improvement, she stayed in bed with me all day Saturday, being careful not to hog the comforter as she normally does.  Tori did back her up on occasion, buying me orange juice and Nyquil.  By Sunday evening I was well enough to make pancakes for dinner. 

I'm now sufficiently recovered to go to work this week.  If I had sick time at either of my jobs, I'd be a little bummed about this, but since I don't, hooray for a full paycheck! 

Philosophical musings with 7th graders

Philosophical musings have usually been most effective either in an actual philosophy class, or lying on the carpet of a friend's off-campus apartment, off-kilter on some medicinal substance at 3am on a Saturday morning.  A few weeks ago, however, I had the opportunity to discuss whether clouds rain down on people because they wish to, or because they are slaves to scientific laws. 

Conversations like this are what tends to pop up when I volunteer as a creative writing coach at Open Books, a literacy non-profit where I've volunteered for over a year now.  Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, a class from local schools arrive at the Open Books loft, where a bunch of volunteers attempt to convince 4th-8th graders that writing their stories makes a darned good field trip.  And for someone who typically avoids kids, I get a lot from them, including sentient cloud debates that quite frankly blow my mind.

I prefer sweet paprika anyway. So there.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon painting two walls, including behind and around girders, contributing more elbow grease than I have in months, and other than a little fatigue I felt perfectly fine.  Heck, I felt better after painting two walls than before. Yet barely an hour later, in a spice store with Tori, I took a cautious sniff into (more like over) a jar of hot Spanish paprika. The result was a violent sneeze that pulled a muscle in my left shoulder and very nearly caused me to throw out my back.  

Just before I began typing, I popped a few Advil, and will probably need to do so over the entire weekend. (Thankfully, typing doesn't hurt.  Yet.)  Not because I pulled a muscle busting my butt painting, but because of a sneeze. 

Needless to say, I did not purchase the paprika.  I'll stick to the Hungarian paprika, thank you.  The Spanish can kiss my ass.  Or at least help me smear some Ben Gay on my shoulder.

Burning Questions - Depressed Edition

It's been a while since I've asked you questions.  Why?  Because I have neither questions nor answers for you.  However, I'll ask some questions anyway, depression be damned.

1. Why me?  (Please answer in 800 words or less.)

2. You're a depressed blog.  How would you commit blogicide?

3. Were your grandparents in any way depressed during the Great Depression?  Do you feel recessive during the current Great Recession?

4. Approximately how many suicides would result if Robert Smith of The Cure and Rufus Wainwright released an album of duets?  What if they did Carpenters covers?

5. What is your favorite cide?  If you messily devoured French fried potatoes along with your cheeseburger, would you have committed a cide of fries?

6. Is this the least funny Burning Questions blog entry I've ever done, or what?

Toodles!