Overthunk

Nothing in my power can stop the high school boys in my neighborhood from hooting at me out the windows of their cars. I am fat and slightly old. They are young and stupid. So they hoot. It is what they have done since time immemorial. I imagine that Ice Age adolescents, hitching foolish rides on wayward mammoths, leered and grunted insultingly at the dumpy women of their tribes as these same women stooped and grasped for berries. Well, it wasn't berries I was stooping for the other day as I stood on the corner while walking the pup. See, Pip had done his secondary business a bit too near to someone's yard, so at the very moment I heard the hooting, I was using a stick to flick poop into the gutter in the interest of being a marginally good neighbor (i.e. at least it's not on your grass). So it's good that I am a whisper above the dirty apes. Because it did occur to me that some hurled dogshit smacking against the windshield, or with any luck flying into the open passen

So I had to take Le Puggin in for his yearly heartworm test (which he passed, and is worm free, thank Christ). He's a year and five months old, and I just never have gotten around to getting him snipped. I've told myself all this time that it's because of time constraints and just not having the extra cash free to do it, but in reality, I'm in denial (as usual). It's not about the time or the money. It's about guilt. I've gotten used to him as is, and the thought of sending him away and getting him back a little lighter than before just kinda feels wrong to me. I'm not sure why this is a sudden issue. I've had cats, and neutered them. But I guess with dogs (and male dogs in particular) it would be more obvious and guilt inducing. "You really wanna get this done as soon as possible," the vet advised me as he poked and prodded. "They develop habits from carrying these things around." This just spawned a host of defensive thoughts in

Today as I was driving along in Funkytown (aka ghetto Dallas, aka the Stone Cold 'Hood) (ok none of that made sense to me either, but I am delirious with fatigue, cut me a break here, it was the first effin' day of skizzy today) I saw a trash receptacle similar to the one pictured at left. A plasti-receptacle which is dumped by a large truck, spilling its discarded and/or decaying contents upon a mountain of like refuse, which is then carted away to dump parts unknown. At the bottom of this receptacle or any one like it there ferments a stinky soup of pulpy tomatoes, poopy diapers, used cat litter, rotting vegetable peels, rusting cans, clipped toenails, toilet paper people have wiped their asses/noses on and possibly even worn out marital aids. Still, some hardcore gangsta wanted in on the smelly, sticky ground floor of this virgin turf, yo. Hence, I saw this: Yep. This trashcan is MINE. Don't even try any weakass shit talkin' 'bout stealin' this Oscar the Grou

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ DISCLAIMER The following post is recommended for mature viewers. Graphic images of naked hair, Rubenesque women, and household products follow. Consider yourself warned. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As some of you may recall from previous posts, I've already turned my hair green once this summer, wrangling a box of Ash Blonde. Well, I've done it again. In a completely new way, even. Hence, in celebration of this odd trend of verdant tresses, I've dubbed this the Summer of Hair that's Accidentally Green, or SHAG. It all began with a pleasant evening of night swimming at my friend Jean-Luc Picard's* apartment pool. Wanting to live in a trendy (read: gay) part of town, he pays far too much rent, enabling near, dear friends like me to make use of his, um, amenities. So I enjoy the pool, relax in the hot tub bubbles, steam in the sauna, oblivious to the danger a cheveux swirling around me in insidious, deceptive wave