Well, I took a vacation day. I have never taken a day off just to stay at home.

My old friend the Plumber come over and completed an initial cut n paste getting ready for when I tear out the rest of the kitchen. And the Electrician come over to give an estimate for new wiring in the kitchen and dining room. And, it wouldn't be a party unless I had my new friend the Roto-rooter stop by and take care of a little problem that had been slowly developing in the basement.

I rounded up the hilarity by taking Grace to the Vet -- she hadn't fully recovered from her roadkill banquet a couple weeks ago -- and I needed to make sure there was no worms, etc. (A shot of antibiotics in the rump, and all is right with the world.)

On the way back, I stopped by the St. Francis Thrift store, and that's where the party really began. I saw a beat-up, but well-made, chest of drawers for $15 -- I'm stopping back tomorrow to pick it up.

As usual, I was drawn to the self-help books and bought some repulsive Pathways to Perfect Living written by some guy named Vernon Howard, copyright 1968. Guess what, bloggies! Nothing new has been learned! (Live in the now, be aware, blah blah blah.)

Note to self: Write my own self-help book: Use "case studies", use old words defined in a new way. Find a publisher, and make a bazillion bucks.

I bought two novels. I have no idea if they'll be any good, and I don't care: One is written by a husband/wife team and seems to be the drama behind the producing of a tv show (written in 1957). The other looks like it was self-published, a family drama in a college-town, in those turbulent 1960s. We'll see...

This evening, I took in a lot of PBS. I watched the first episode of Shakespeare's life; I saw the Lehrer Report, Wall Street Week, and Bill Moyers' Now.

Now focused on the crisis in the middle-class. The guest, Harvard academic Elizabeth Warren, has written The Two Income Trap. They spent a lot of time discussing credit card debt. Financial services companies, such as MBNA, were the highest contributors to Bush's political campaign, and to legislators who support efforts, among other things, to keep commercial interest rates high, and for bankruptcy "reform" to curb "abuse", but that pinches the middle class.

Maybe once or twice, I've mentioned I was living beyond my means in Cincy. I haven't understood it as I don't live extravagantly and pull down a fairly good salary. (Although, when I say "fairly good", I've never taken the time to study national trends. For all I know I'm horribly underpaid. Or overpaid, eeks!)

After seeing tonight's television, my financial "crisis" seems minor compared to many -- certainly those with kids. I also renewed my pledge to get debt-free as soon as possible. (I was there once, briefly, two years ago. I can do it again.)

Living in this duplex goes a long way toward meeting that goal. (At some points, I've considered accumulating enough rental properties to retire. But that changed because I like to keep such tight control over them that I can't do that with more than a handful.) Owning a few, however, *does* help strengthen the anticipated retirement pot.

Speaking of extravagant living: Tomorrow, D and I are going to be tourists and see the USAF Museum (Free!), and then go see Academy-nominated "21 Grams" for $2 at the cheap fliks movie house down the street.

In a paycheck or three, I'm taking a loan against my 401k (which financial advisors suggest you *not* do), to pay off credit cards. Its interest rate (that I repay to myself) is 4%. Oh, so thrifty, hm?

And if I had a boyfriend, I would be boring him with these details right now and not YOU.

Chip was one of those nubile, hairless men grinding and bumping to the synthetic vibes of DJ Zibble at the original Red Party. It was at Boybar -- back when it was Boybar. It was ripping, nothing like it these days. Wo. A room the size of a football field, filled to the brim with men -- hundreds and hundreds of hot fuckin men -- tripping on acid, on X, on coke, and fuckin horny. For 48 hours, I danced and fucked and danced and fucked. So, I thought this guy looked familiar when I saw him yesterday at the tubs.

Just like metro blog Study 1, there's a few blogs like this floating around. Part-y heart-y.

And it's not a party without favors. Not that I'm so pure, but drugs have held a pretty minimal interest for me. In a world where we are all in touch with ourselves, or are at least striving for that, does anyone other than me think it's odd that drugs play such a heavy part in getting us there? Even if watching 2001: A space Oddysey stoned does somehow positively alter your worldview -- hey and yeah it could -- I'll narrow the focus to drugs brought out during sex.

For starters, they impact performance -- not usually in a good way. For another, they affect your personality: Who wants to be with a paranoid, crazed asshole? (Well... hmm... a lot of people, actually, from my experience.) I don't see how being wiped out on poppers, X, or crystal meth can enhance the mood.

If I had a penny for every time I've met people who stress how "laid back" or "down-to-earth" they are: The desired outlooks. How true to form is it if by being "laid back" you really mean "wacked out"? Chances are, this person won't be able to sustain anything, starting with their willy.

What about the little blue pill? What about it. I have a feeling that if most people ate a better diet, didn't smoke, and weren't totally freaked about sex to begin with, they wouldn't need the little blue pill. But that's just me. And I'm 41, what do I know?

They didn't have the little blue pill twenty years ago. And I slept with plenty of old geezers who didn't always get it up. A few were embarrassed, but I wasn't. I wasn't necessarily looking for that in them. A fact I think they appreciated. But that's just me. (Perhaps we'll write more about that another time.)

Drugs mixed with sex seems to mask other things: Anger? Hurt?

I think there's a lot of angry and hurting people out there.

Just hope I can avoid being one of them...

Still working on this one: Check back later for better-formulated thoughts and links!

flying into la. i hate lax. crissy waited for me at the gate, looking gosh darn cute in her little white suit. we were late for the party, but everyone agreed that i was the sweetest ass to land on the coast this year. i ran into some friends of friendsters and some friends of skweejees. crissy introduced me to lee, a guy in development, and he said to me "i just have to," and he reached out and touched my ass. "damn, boi, you could set the table with that." its nice that all those reverse lunges paid off. later, i got my first official hollywood bj. this guy i met through lee who does imaging at pixar said "with those arms, i speak for everyone that we hope to see more of you." devon and crissy think he's creepy, but i dont know. crissy dont have a set up, but i found a sweet place in weho to do my usual reps, concentrating on pecs and delts.

tee hee hee. Look a little and you'll find a few blogs that are kind of like this. (I'm sure they're nice people in life.) Could this fictional blog be by anything other than a gorgeous, young, guy? And, what about this body -- slim, toned, muscled, and hairless. An ideal gay metro body to match a gay metro blog.

"C'mon people, true beauty comes from within." (See me place hands on hips.)

I learned a new word today: Dysmorphia. While males report a growing dissatisfaction with their bodies in recent years generally, gay men report a higher rate than their hetero counterparts. That's not surprising, given the images on any porn screen or covers of Men's Health magazines. Others might factor in the gay community's traditional emphasis on sex. Another newly-learned term: The Adonis Complex.

Yawn.

I found articles that make correlations between body image, and drug use, including steroids. One guy wrote that when people disagreed with his ideas, they attacked his looks. Ouch.

Can we say "junior high"?

Two years ago, I was transferred to Ohio from Colorado. Moving from a fitness-conscious, outdoorsy state, where everyone comes standard with a snowboard and a mountain bike, it seemed like I would gain 50 lbs just by existing in Ohio. Pass the cheese log please -- hey, is that real cheese?

I had a body crisis. BIPC has a free gym, and I hit it regularly. Funny: For the first time in my life, I grew a chest and a butt. Forty years old and I even grew some shoulders. If you've seen that stupid ad for Viagra (there's another blogrant for the future), where everyone asks the guy "did you do something to your hair?" etc. That was like me: "New shirt, hugshyhermit?" Nope.

In the last few weeks, I haven't been able to get to the gym as frequently. This didn't adversely impact anything; to the contrary, I lost a few pounds and... suddenly my abs popped out. Oh beautiful, dimpled stomach! My shoulders became "cut", and underneath the trapezoids, I see my rib cage.

I've become a twink! (uh, well... No...)

But surprised -- yes, I am. Knowing that I had to work out, then stop, is an unrealistic way to maintain this "look". No wonder supplements are plastered all over the pages of men's health magazines -- you can't eat enough to build muscle mass and simultaneously not eat to keep yourself slim.

And it doesn't make sense.

What also continues to amaze me are statistics on weight generally, showing we are a nation of fatsos. As with income tax brackets or your thoughts on gun control or abortion, it seems as though physicality is another way we're being pushed as a society to extremes: You're either obsessed to be thin, or morbidly obese. Count every last calorie, or throw in the towel.

What ever happened to the saying everything in moderation? Being healthy and looking good does not require a gym membership.

Well, back to kissing my biceps...