Thursday, April 25, 2019


I’m still nursing my side after my tumble out of bed and so one night I decided to sleep on the couch so I could try sleeping on my back in a more stationary position.

It worked well, except all three cats opted to crowd me on the sofa, while Other Daddy got a king-size bed all to himself.

And as I was readying my Couch Nest, Carlos asked if I wanted him to move the coffee table; I said it was fine.
“But it’s glass. That would really be bad if you fell off the couch and through that.”
The pain in my side is a reminder to punish him when I’m better.

The couch was nice for a couple of nights, but then I created a Bed Nest for me, and so I slept in our bed again. It worked very well except for the continuing Dream-On-A-Loop where I was falling out of bed, screaming, “Not again!”

Lastly, this morning he was making coffee and he muttered something about doing a ‘half-assed job,’ and I reminded him that it wasn't so bad because he usually does a ‘quarter-assed’ job.

Laughing hurts my sides.
Matt Gaetz, a rabid ______ butt bot and Florida Republican congressman, has hired a speechwriter whose ties to white supremacists were too embarrassing even for the _____ administration.

Gaetz, a complete moron, announced that he was “very proud” to have Dr. Darren Beattie as his Special Advisor for Speechwriting, even knowing that Beattie was fired by the _____ administration in 2018 after his ties to white supremacists were revealed by CNN.

But, hey, he’s a _____ Republican, so it’s gotta be white and it’s gotta be hate.
I’m not saying this means anything, but a photo from the 2000 St. Joseph’s High School yearbook shows an even younger, then senior, Pete Buttigieg being dubbed “Most likely to be President.”

Carry on.
This week, after a group of employees told Bethany Christian Services they would walk out of the job unless their policy of denying LGBTQ people the right to foster or adopt children, was changed, the group announced it was changing their policy.

Take a stand, and see what happens.
This week an Illinois police officer pulled over a black man because his license plates were expired. The man, Ka’shawn Baldwin, told Officer Roger Gemoules that he was headed to a job interview, so he could make some money and pay for new tags.

Then it happened … Officer Gemoules told Baldwin he could not drive the car on expired plates and then gave the man a ride to his interview.

Gemoules said he was just trying to show that police officers are real people too:
“With everything that’s been going on recently in the community around here, police get a really bad rap.”
Baldwin, for his part, was stunned:
“Normally cops, where I’m from, they don’t really do stuff like that. It meant everything. It brought my spirits up.”
Baldwin and Gemoules hope to stay in touch, even with Baldwin getting the job after Gemoules gave him a lift.

Over there to Israel, Benjamin Netanyahu has said he plans to name a Golan Heights town after _____.

I imagine soon after, the town becomes a ghost town.

Meanwhile, I have named my ant farm ‘Benjamin Netanyahu’.
In the My God Does This Man Have No Shame file, Iowa’s racist Republican Congressman Steve King says that the censure he faced earlier this year over controversial statements about white nationalism gave him a better understanding to the suffering of Jesus Christ.

Yes, he believes that being called out for his racist, white supremacist speech is akin to what was done to Jesus.

Fuck off, Stevie, you’re the least Christ-like person on the planet.
Resistance at work … California, Nevada, Washington State, Oregon, and New Mexico will continue to let transgender troops serve in the National Guard. All 50 states—and four U.S. territories—have their own National Guard units that are primarily under gubernatorial control and that chain of command could allow individual governors to challenge—or at least test the limits of—_____]s new anti-trans policy.

The march goes on …
Back to the Fall … I spent most of Saturday in a chair with a heating pad, so I watched a couple of movies. The first was The Catcher was a Spy with Paul Rudd, middle, as Jewish ballplayer, closeted homosexual and WWII spy Moe Berg. Rudd is just so darned cute, even in this drama, Plus, it also starred Mark Strong, top,  as German theoretical physicist  Werner Heisenberg .Strong is a balding man, and an attractive one at that, but in this film he wore a hair-piece; still, though, hot.

Speaking of attractive bald men, I also watched Submission, the story of a college professor who becomes obsessed with a student. The deliciously adorable Stanley Tucci played the professor and I learned, through the pause, rewind, replay feature on the DVR, that he has an amazing ass. It was a brief shot, and although they gave Stanley hair in the film, the Tucci Tuchus more than made up for that.

Here’s Strong and Tucci with hair; I find them hotter as bald men..

Wednesday, April 24, 2019

Architecture Wednesday: Industrial Style Architect’s House

Y’all I love a barn, and even a house inspired by a barn, so this one, on the outskirts of Pretoria in South Africa, is a favorite.

Despite its clear urban and industrial influences, the house was inspired by an old barn, and designed by the architect for her parents. But it’s less rustic and more urban and industrial; less old wood and more clear glass.

The central portion of the house, made of black steel and glass, is the clearest influence of the old barn. This “reception room” with its high cathedral style ceiling is bright and naturally lit, and breathtaking in its industrial simplicity. At the far end, where doors open onto a patio and lawn, is the large family dining table.

The two wings of the home aren’t made from glass and black metals and are a little more natural and slightly more rustic through the use of concrete, exposed brick and exposed carpentry of reclaimed wood.

Off the reception hall and dining room is the kitchen with a wooden island as its central hub; you’ll also find a wooden trap door that leads down into a temperature-controlled wine cellar. The trap door closes flat into the floor but still acts as a decorative piece that looks like it might have been part of a barn.

On the second floor, above the kitchen are the bedrooms and master suite, where you find a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, that can be left open, or can be covered by a sliding shade. On the top floor of the volume built on the other side of the reception hall is an activities space to feature art, gallery lighting, and bean bag chairs for reading, TV and music.

I do so love a barn, but I also love modern, urban, industrial, and this house, along with its own wine cellar … wine cellar … is perfection.

As always,click to emBIGGERate ...

Bernie or Die Supporters Might Ruin This Country

There’s that old saying that you get what you deserve, but nothing pisses me off more than when get what you deserve, too, because of your ego and ignorance.

A new Emerson Poll has found that some 20% of Bernie Sanders supporters in the 2020 Democratic presidential primary would prefer _____ in the general election to some of Sanders’s primary opponents.

Now, in the poll, some 29% want Sanders to win and 24% preferred Biden. South Bend Mayor Pete Buttigieg, Senators Kamala Harris, and Elizabeth Warren, and former Representative Beto O’Rourke got around seven to nine percent each. But, and this is where the ignorance comes in, 21% of Sanders supporters have said they would vote for _____ in the general election if Buttigieg won the primary, 26% would vote for _____ if Warren won the primary, 18% would vote for _____ if O’Rourke won the primary, and 17% would vote for _____ if Harris won the primary.

On the other hand, all of Buttigieg’s supporters would vote for Sanders if he won the primary, and almost all of Warren’s (94%), Harris’s (98%), and O’Rourke’s (91%) said the same.

It’s just the Bernie or Die fans who would send our country further down this rabbit hole of hate, hate speech, racism, of screwing the middle class, the poor, and the minorities, of keeping transgender Americans from serving in the military, of denying Americans healthcare, of poisoning the planet, if they don’t get their way.

They’d choose a man so very different from their favored candidate and inflict him on this country for another four years, rather than vote for another Democrat.

That’s why every single democrat needs to vote, for whomever you choose, whomever you favor, but when the time comes to pick between a racist buffoon or someone, anyone, who can dig us out of this mess, then you Vote Blue No Matter Who.

I don’t care for Sanders, or Warren, for that matter, and while I like some of the others—Hey Pete—I have yet to make my mind up fully. But if it comes down to Sanders or Warren as the Democratic choice, then I will vote for them.

Monday, April 22, 2019

I Should Be Laughing: Beam Forgets To Go Home

The stink of a diaper, saturated with…well, saturated, was what woke Beam up a little before noon that Monday. There were no bacon and eggs frying, the aromas rousing him from a sweet dream sleep; no June Cleaver pancakes, or Walton family breakfast; only those diapers. His was not a life lived in the sepia-toned world of beloved television shows; his was a life mired in reality; actually, just below in reality’s root cellar, to be more precise. It was a life of bills and overdue notices arriving daily; a three-room house clinging to the corner of a rutted gravel road; with two cars, though only one was running these days.  Marriage to a woman who, when bothering to speak to him at all, badgered him to get a job, to feed the baby, to change those diapers, to do…something. His life was that of a son whose mother called only when she had a chore for him; a father who ran out on him when he was a child; a brother and sister he hardly knew; and saturated diapers…

“Emma!” he shouted in a frayed sleep voice. “For cryin’ out loud, open a friggin’ window! It smells like a sewer in here.”

Beam rolled onto his stomach and buried his face deep in the pillows. No more crap, please? No more crap. However, there were other odors with which to contend. Pillowcases and sheets that hadn’t been inside a washer in over a month; and the smell of his own body, unwashed for several days. Kicking aside the covers, Beam had enough. He sat up and dropped his elbows to his knees and, cradling his head in his hands, he wished away the hangover, trying to erase everything: the smells, his wife, and his life.

With his fingers trapped in his knotted hair, Beam was forced to stare at his body. His belly used to be flat, back in the when. In the days of pickup baseball games on the beach; all those years ago when he ran track for Little Lakes Junior High. Yet, these days, in the now, his stomach slopped out of a pair of worn underwear like a tub of whipped cream tipped on its side; the elastic waistband of his shorts etched a deep groove in his gut, pasty white and covered in sweaty, matted hair.

Too many years of beers had done this to him; too many nights of sharing a fat bag of weed with friends, and then stuffing himself full of junk food at the Del Taco in Ukiah. Too many years of looking for work and not finding it; of finding it, and then losing it because he couldn’t get there on time, because he wanted to go fishing with Charlie Bloom; because he called in sick whenever he had a hangover. Because he shot his mouth off before thinking.

Sitting on the bed, a dim light shining through smoke stained curtains, Beam rubbed his stomach as though he was a Buddha and in need of luck. He chuckled, remembering the huge carved wooden Buddha his father had brought home from somewhere in Asia; Billy Seaton was in the Air Force when Jimmy was born, and he spent the first months of his youngest son’s life away from home. Then he was gone for good.

Back in the when, on those nights when the house winced beneath the burdensome slumber of Barbara’s drunkenness, little Jimmy Seaton would lie awake and cry for his daddy to come home. Hours after he had begun to wail, his mother would stumble into the room and rattle the side of his bed, ordering him to be quiet. Shush!  He could smell the bourbon on her breath as she leaned over him. Shut up, James. And he would cry even more. Don’t you dare wake Renny and Harry.  Renny and Harry; back in the when the three of them would stroke the belly of that mahogany Buddha that Billy carried home from somewhere in Asia. Rub it for the luck that never came.

Good luck shied away from the Seaton family, while bad luck rented a room in the house. Billy Seaton had run out when Beam was only a boy, back in the when, in the days when his name was Jimmy. Too young to know anything except Daddy wasn’t home to do ‘Daddy’ things, like stand in the street and clap when the training wheels came off his bike. Renny did that. Daddy wasn’t there to toss a ball around the yard, take him to Scout meetings or root him on at a beach ballgame. Daddy wasn’t there so Jimmy could talk to someone.

His brother and sister left him alone also; though theirs gave the impression of being more of an escape. Diploma in hand, Renny ran away the night she graduated from high school, and she never looked back. She called Mother on occasion, birthdays and holidays, but she hadn’t spoken to her baby brother in twenty-odd years. Harry waited for a while before he left The Landing; he was nineteen, maybe twenty, and had spent two years after high school riding his bike around town, delivering groceries for Dawson’s Market, to finance his run. He would send cards, too, but then, without warning, Mother stopped speaking of Harry. In the middle of the night some five or six years, she called James, so incoherent he thought, for a moment, that he could hang up and pretend she’d never phoned, and begged him to come home and take what was left of Harry’s things to the county disposal site. Harry had been gone six or seven years already, but she had to have his things thrown out that night. She couldn’t wait; she wouldn’t.

Beam would wonder, why, if Harry and Renny could leave The Landing, and their mother, why couldn’t he? What kept him within her grasp, in Fort Bragg—a mere 7.27 miles from the house at the end of Skeleton Road? That was as far as he had been able to run: seven-point-two-seven miles down the coast, inland a bit, away from the sea and that house. Was it Emma and Lyle who kept him from leaving? Why not take them and run? Leave them and…his own father had vanished without a word; he ditched his family. Why couldn’t Beam do the same? Because, you fool the voice in his head snorted, you’re a Mama’s boy, a little chickenshit, tied to her apron strings and her pocketbook.

That was the truth; and it hurt. Beam had long since lost count of how many times he borrowed money from his mother. Before he met Emma, every time he lost a job, she sent a check. A couple of hundred dollars the summer the engine blew up on the Dodge and then another seven-fifty that fall when he bought the Chevy. Here, a few bucks here for Lyle’s clothes, there, a couple of dollars for his toys. Even the money that arrived, in a plain brown envelope, no card, no note, the day he and Emma left for Reno. Gas money, motel money; a bouquet for Emma and a new tie for him. Cash for the preacher.

Stay-close-to-home-James-because-you’re-all-I-have-left money.

Beam could never forget the money, because she would never let him. He heard the reminders of past loans, and the promise of future ones, in her voice every time she called. Why, just last week she telephoned, something about a load of garbage she wanted hauled away, even that day he heard….

“Shit!” He hissed. “Shit shit shit shit shit!”

“Beam?” Emma asked as he hobbled into the kitchen, half-dressed. A cigarette dangled from the usual spot between her teeth, and she held a mug of instant coffee in her hand—“World’s Best Mom,” it said on the ceramic cup. Her other hand pinched a piece of white toast, slathered in grape jelly and margarine, the crusts nibbled away from the edges. She stood in front of a sink full of dirty pots and pans from days gone by; it was a perpetual battle between the two of them as to who would break first and clean the house; who would put away the laundry, vacuum, take out the trash, dust. Change the baby. “You’ll wake Lyle.” She hushed him. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother. Godammit!” He said, hopping on one leg and trying to aim the other down the pants leg of his Levis.

“Did she call?”
“No, Emma! She didn’t call!” Beam dragged out the last syllable. Christ, she could be dense. As if she wasn’t able to hear a phone ringing in the ‘other’ room in a shack of parchment and paste. You could hear the leaves rustling up to the front door on windy days. You could hear the Bryants, who live three houses down the hill, gossip after church on Sundays. You could hear Lyle turn over in his crib, the sheets rustling, the teddy bear tipping over. Couch springs sagging. The foundation settling. The creaks, the groans. Beam could definitely hear the groaning. “I was s’posed to go up there on Friday—.”

“You told me you did go up.” Emma scowled; her lips curled into an incredible snarl and then, for good measure, she repeated herself. “You said you went up there.”

“I lied.” Beam said indifferently. “I met Charlie Bloom in town and we took the boat out instead. I would have gone up on Saturday but you had to have the car.”

The tip of her cigarette glowed hotter than the sun as Emma drew in a lung full of nicotine and tar. Turning her back on her husband, she rapped her fingers on the counter; fingernails polished the exact same color Donna Mills had worn on Knot’s Landing and bitten to the quick. Closing her eyes, Emma clenched her teeth and unleashed a stream of smoky tentacles that came slithering back toward Beam.

This is it, Emma vowed.  If his screw-up pisses off that woman I’m… Lyle’s second birthday was weeks away and he had outgrown every pair of shoes and most of his clothes. Missus Seaton—it never occurred to Emma to call Barbara anything else, and she had never been asked to do so—always sent a good-sized check for Lyle’s birthday, for Christmas, too. She never came by, mind you, but always sent a check, but she wouldn’t, this time, if Beam didn’t follow through on his promise. Emma thought back to the Christmas, right after she and Beam were married, when he had forgotten to string the white lights along the picket fence at Skeleton Road. They didn’t get so much as a fruitcake that year. It wasn’t until the spring that Missus Seaton called again.

Names began crawling up the dark side of her eyelids as Emma thought of whom she might call to beg for an extra shift or two at the store. She would need to work extra days, and double shifts, if that check from Missus Seaton didn’t come through. Overtime hours just to keep that boy in shoes.

“Well,” Emma growled, smashing the butt of a Salem 100 into a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes; yesterday’s breakfast. “I suggest you get up there this minute. And try a different story on your mother.” A high-pitched whine, her voice mimicked that of a child throwing a tantrum. “Uh…sorry Mother…I…uh…I went fishing with…Charlie Bloom….”

The crashing of the door against the jam cut Emma off. It was enough to shut her up, that slamming door, enough to send her own tiny brown bottle tumbling off the shelf into the sink where it landed in the bowl of cereal, right beside a cigarette butt.

Saturday, April 20, 2019

I Ain't One To Gossip But ...

Last year, Amber Heard wrote an op-ed for The Washington Post urging Congress to pass the Violence Against Women Act; in that piece she talked about being a victim of domestic abuse and speaking out about it, and then was punished for it by losing jobs and getting death threats while her abuser … Hey Johnny Depp … ALLEGEDLY … was protected.

To be fair, Amber never mentioned Depp in her story, but we all know who she meant, and if we didn’t we did as soon as Depp got wind of the story and went apeshit and filed a $50 million defamation lawsuit against her, claiming that even though she didn’t name names, her article made it clear that she was the victim of abuse by Johnny Depp. Depp claimed in his lawsuit that he was the victim of abuse in their marriage and that her ALLEGATIONS were just a publicity stunt to further her career; cuz nothing says ‘Hire that girl’ like a story of domestic abuse. And so now it’s Amber’s turn, again, and  she has responded to his lawsuit with a horrific stream of ALLEGED incidents where Johnny “The Monster” abused her.

During their divorce battle in 2016, Amber ALLEGED that Johnny became an abusive, violent monster after swallowing booze, drugs, prescription or otherwise. And, again, to be fair, Johnny has also ALLEGED that Amber got violent with him during their marriage, and in his defamation lawsuit he stated other times she ALLEGEDLY abused him.

So, Amber has brought receipts; like a text she says Johnny sent her in 2014 after he kicked her, threw things at her, and yelled at her on a private plane where he apologizes for being a “fucking savage” via text:
“Once again, I find myself in a place of shame and regret. Of course, I am sorry. I really don’t know why or what happened. But I will never do it again. My illness somehow crept up and grabbed me … I must get better . . . Again, I am so sorry, so sorry. … I love you and I feel so bad for letting you down.”
Amber then goes back to 2012, a year after they met, to claim she saw him abuse drugs and booze, and it turned him into a violent monster. She claimed that, like all abusers, he apologized afterward, and she says she stayed with him because he swore he’d never do it again. Amber talked of the time Depp ALLEGEDLY abused her after going on a three-day ecstasy-booze bender in Australia and choked her, shoved her, threw things at her, and spit at her. She says it all ended with him creating a piece of art in their apartment:
“On the third day of Johnny staying awake without sleeping, I came downstairs to find numerous messages Johnny had written to me around the house, on the walls and on my clothes, written in a combination of oil paint and the blood from his broken and severed finger. Johnny also urinated all over the house.”
Amber says Johnny was finally hospitalized, and that she was left with “a busted lip, a swollen nose, and cuts all over my body . . . to this day, I still have scars on my arms and feet from this incident.”

And still, it goes on; in 2015, Amber says Depp  threatened to kill her and punched her and head-butted her. In 2016, Amber says he attacked her, and neighbors had to come save her.

Amber says in her response that contrary to what Johnny claims, she’s never abused him. She says that the only time she did punch Johnny was during a fight at their apartment in 2015 when her sister, Whitney, got in the middle of them. Amber says that Whitney was at the top of a flight of stairs and she was afraid Johnny would push her sister so she punched him in defense.

Lovely people, who can’t seem to stop talking about one another even though they’ve been separated since 2015 and divorced three years. I think I may get a restraining order against these two ever speaking about one another again.
File this under No One Ever Saw This Coming, but use your sarcasm font.

After saying hell would freeze over before she ever divorced him, Wendy Williams has finally  filed for divorce from her husband and business partner of 22 years, Kevin Hunter, who just had a baby with his down-the-block mistress. And she served him with divorce papers at the TV studio where they both work.

Awkward. Sources say that extra security was on hand in case Kevin got enraged about the split, but he didn’t.

Still, this is the end to years of stories about Kevin cheating and Wendy looking the other way; of Kevin buying a house down the block, with money he made working for Wendy, for his mistress; for knocking said mistress up and then being with her when the baby came; of stories that Kevin physically and emotionally abused Wendy for years.

As recently as last month, coming back to work after a two-month “health hiatus,” Wendy swore she’d never leave Kevin. But then came her stint in a sober house, a stint in the hospital, and the best sign of all, being spotted in public without her wedding ring.
That’s show biz for dunzo. Meanwhile, Kevin Hunter, who sees his meal ticket walking away, is trying to salvage the marriage:
“28 years ago I met an amazing woman: Wendy Williams. At the time, I didn’t realize that she would not only become my wife, but would also change the face of entertainment and the world …  I am not proud of my recent actions and take full accountability and apologize to my wife, my family and her amazing fans. I am going through a time of self-reflection and am trying to right some wrongs … and I will continue to work with and fully support my wife in this business and through any and all obstacles she may face living her new life of sobriety, while I also work on mine. I ask that you please give me and my family privacy as we heal. Thank you.”
You’re a cheater, Kevin, who knocked up your side-piece in a house your wife paid for. It’ll take more than this mea culpa to get you back in Wendy’s favor.

Just go.
Is there anything worse than getting dumped after a five-year-relationship? Yes, there it; it’s getting Dina Lohan’d, AKA being dumped by a man they had a five-year relationship with and yet they have never met.

It seems that Lindsay’s mom, that box of Franzia Chardonnay known as Dina Lohan, has been dumped by boyfriend-fiancé-stranger Jesse Nadler right before they were going to meet and consummate their love … of attention.

So, what ended this fairy tale love story? A book; and I didn’t think Dina could read. But Nadler Dumped Dina after they fought over a book—I still giggle at a Lohan fighting over a book—Nadler was promoting on his Facebook, which Dina thought was about another woman.

She flipped; she walked; she cracked a box of the grape.
Lori Loughlin and her husband, Mossimo Giannulli, facing real jail time, have now asserted their faith as the reason that maybe they lied, cheated, bribed their daughters’ way into college … because they’d do anything for their girls. And they are running to the Bible—AKA PEOPLE—to tell their tale of woe at being treated like common people, at being called cheaters, because regular people are criticizing them and laughing at them.

Loughlin and Giannulli don’t appreciate the backlash over their ALLEGED involvement in the college admissions cheating scam, and after pleading not guilty last week, they have told PEOPLE that they resent how the case is playing out in the public eye.

Oh, in the words of the Great Demi Lovato … Sorry, not sorry.

Oh, and think of a good prison nickname Lori. I like Big House Aunt Becky.

PS And if you think I’m being harsh to these cheating, lying, bribing, self-entitled, Bible thumping one percenters, think about this … Loughlin told PEOPLE this is a “family matter’ because the family that pays 500K, scams the NCAA, a California university and commits multistate fraud should be left alone.

Huh. I wonder if Giannulli is Italian for _____ because that’s who this bitch is acting like.
And if you’re wondering how a parent could do such a thing, just take a look at the actions of Lori’s cheating, lying, bribing, self-entitled, Bible thumping one percenter husband Mossimo Giannulli.

He’s talked about he lied to his own parents about attending the same elite school he cheated his daughters into, while pocketing Mama and Papa Giannulli’s tuition payments.

Back in the 1980s, Giannulli convinced his father that he was a USC student by faking report cards so Papa Giannulli would send him cash for his non-existent tuition bills.

And so, it comes as no surprise that his own children have no desire for containing education since Mossimo faked his way through school. Daughter Olivia Jade talked about her Mossimo’s “crazy” college time in an interview:
“I don’t know if I am supposed to say this, sorry dad. But [he] was like never enrolled in college, he faked his way through it. Yeah, so then he started his whole business with tuition money that his parents thought was going to college.”
In that same interview, the ALLEGED beauty blogger wannabe said she planned to use her time in college to enhance her brand.

Just like Daddy, until the feds came knocking.