Wedding (Boob) Bonanza

I'm finally getting around to flipping through the professional photographer's snaps from The Wedding Bonanza. He was a little odd, as evidenced by:















Congrats on the wedding, girlfriend, and on your sweet rack.















By the by, there were THREE of these photos in the stack of proofs AND several primo bridesmaid cleavage shots taken from above (I recall seeing the photographer on a chair more than once). One would think he'd have the sense to remove his monkey-spank material before submitting them to the happy couple.

Can we say "One Hour Photo"?

Creepy.

Stimulating Education

I'm in tears.

I was crying during an office meeting, trying to pass it off as allergies or something in my eye.

I can scarcely breathe.

I may wet myself.

I'm crying because I must not laugh out loud; I mustn't be unprofessional.
The only recourse for this emotional flood is to pour from my eyes.

My department is submitting an application for grant funding, so we met to revise and complete the proposal. One of the program leaders has a mild speech impediment. Occasionally, she slurs her words, as though she's speaking with her mouth full.

She read her revisions aloud:
"New approaches and new perspectives on the work of teaching critical literacy..."

But that's not what we heard:
"New approshes and new pershpectives on the work of teaching clitorisy..."

I bit my lip - hard.

My eyes went wide and I held my breath because I could not trust myself to remain silent.

And the woman continued without pause, as though nothing was amiss. The entire staff appeared unaware of the verbal face-plant; I was the only one fighting off the giggles.

I'm shy with coworkers and strangers, but I openly admit to a hyperactive imagination with a tendency to automatically pervert even the most dry and innocuous comments. My mind began to rewrite the grant for our new study...

"Clitorisy"
A cunning linguistic study to analyze the biologically coded language of the female form. We propose an in-depth, interactive research project, probing for new data in an established, high-energy field.
The resulting climax of the project will be presented at the annual conference before a panel of professionals, who are qualified to strip the data and anatomize the structure to determine the origin of incitement triggering the cascade in clitoral learning.


At least I managed to remain silent.

Did I mention everyone else at the meeting was over 50?

Good thing I kept my mouth shut about piercing the veil of a stimulated educational structure.

What's in a Name?

For those of you checking in regularly, you'll notice the blog title has changed. It took me a while, but I finally decided on a direction for this little hobby: it's all about you.

I have been very fortunate to meet and befriend some of the best people out there, and I want you to enjoy their escapades and humor as much as I do. If you have a blog, website, or other digibit you want to share, please e-mail the info or post a comment (you can comment anonymously).

I can't promise I'll post it, or that I'll do so in a timely manner, but I'm sincerely interested... Unless it's Kev with his 10-gig collection of pasty-white middle-aged men in women's underwear. That's like being on the centrifugal ride at Six Flags: seemingly all fun and games until someone ralphs up a funnel cake.

This little tidbit comes from a fellow wine lover, Jewels of Rat's Ass, Missouri. Okay, you Missourians will probably recognize the nearest outpost to her home: Wentsville, west of St. Louis. (I just live to give you crap, baby doll):














Are these liquid existential epiphanies supposed to occur with lessening frequency as one ages?

Really?

Crap.

Ravedogg's words of wisdom for today:
Absinthe + rum-and-cokes = big trouble

Before Sunrise

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

At once terrifying and exquisite, it is surrender to the unknown, releasing our inhibitions and dismantling well-developed defenses, pushing past all self-repression to embrace a new piece of knowledge and the possibility of hope renewed and faith restored.

Those individuals who inspire and invoke such radical action beyond our comfort zone with sincere kindness and absence of ulterior motive or passive-aggressive dominance, all for the purpose of gently pressing us into a new world of brighter possibilities, are the muses of modern times.

They're our blood. They're our friends. They have their needs and problems, but they're our family of choice, blood or no.

We love them and stand by them, even when they fail us...
Even when they fail themselves.

We cannot imagine our world, our lives, our souls without them.

Life will take many paths, some which cross more frequently than others.

To all my pretties:
When the shit hits the fan and you feel pressed beyond bearing, you can always come home.

This door is always open; here, you will never be forgotten.

Welcome to our newest addition from Bellevue, WA. Another brilliant inspiration in the dark heart of American apathy. Head high, Starshine: you're more important than you know.

No, I'm Not Your Stalker

In person, I'm awkward and shy until a friendship is solidified.
Then you can't shut me up.

I never approach strangers or speak unless spoken to out of concern that I may offend or annoy.

Yet, I love to engage in a little barroom voyeurism; to sit back and watch others having the time of their lives.

And I love a good party... in almost any form.

My journey beyond the dark oubliette of my little Mole Person hole began with me growing a pair... Of steel-clad ovaries, that is. I decided: I love dancing, I love music on the dark end of the spectrum (though most of my friends don't), and I ain't geriatric, yet, so I'm going clubbing, even if I have to go alone!

And that's just what I did.

Over the past year and a half, I've met some really friendly people, and, although most of them are only in my life for one night (stop snickering, you perverts), I still remember them with a smile.

So when I cruise the 'net, skimming through club listings or Crackbook or StalkerSpace, I get a kick out of rediscovering these friendlies all over again.

On my first solo clubbing adventure - Sept. 2006 in Portland, OR - a charming gent broke my 'stranger barrier' and struck up a conversation:

"Shaun.... Like 'Shaun of the Dead'."

I like him already.

I don't know anything about him, except what he chose to tell me (helloooooo uniform fetish). For all I know, he could be a serial killer named Bubba. But, he made me laugh, which made my first solo experience at a goth club a positive one.

Thank you, Bubba.
You made my night brighter and extroversion a hell of a lot less intimidating.

And I think I see him in this one, too.....



It's like a digital age "Where's Waldo"......




(See, this is why I try to avoid having my picture taken: You never know what loony with a blog is gonna share you with the world.)

Ha ha.