Anatomy of a desktop.

In the midst of writing about Piper and Vaughan, revising a scholarly article, and catching the game I looked up to realize my desk could probably tell it's own story. I also needed a break.

I make no apologies for the top of my writing area, as the rest of my space is good . . .

Ignore typos . . . there are a couple in the pic.

Laid, or not.

In the middle of packing my clothes for a month of long needed respite from the crappy economy, shitty work environment, and yada yada yada I got excited about wearing my shiny disco shoes, dresses, going to bars, a Yanks game, and maybe having an adult encounter of the civilized kind. That is when I thought it prudent to pull out my condoms. Okay, I didn't have to look far, but my being a nerd and all I did check them for expiration. Dude, I have six weeks before the laytex gods say they are less useful than a bucket of chicken. Tasty, huh? And did anyone get the low brow pun there?

I am shamelessly wrong.

Since I'm on a roll of being inappropriate, here's one a couple of folks have seen . . . not many.

i need to get laid

two months is too long.
having to write
to pay for batteries.
i should take stock.
doc j isn't cutting it anymore.
saddly nasty,
i know.
I need to get laid.

talked to carl yesterday
long email today.
does he want me?
i think i want him.
he's weird
i'm weird
maybe we will combust again—
would be warm.
he’s never cold.
he invited me over,
maybe he'll carry through this time
i need to get laid
he's fun,
misses me,
was glad to see me,
but i think he's got a girlfriend.
they might be fighting.
who knows.
his hair was spiked.
his beard wasn’t groomed.
he smelled of beer
and last night’s room.
it was all i could do
not to eat him up,
and him me.
i need to get laid.
a friend eyed us
and wanted to know why we aren't dating.
she doesn't know him . . .
only me.
i need to stop missing him.
just when i am fine,
he comes in.
next time i'll make him buy
beer and cigs.
i need to get laid.

talked to charlie today—
a friend of carl.
he came first,
but not for long.
carl came next,
but left before dawn.
charlie stayed
until i left town.
he's weird.
i'm not weird enough.
i lost weight.
he gained his back.
looked jealous of me
in my new body.
i am sexy.
his face is hot.
his body is not.
his gut was over his belt.
wonder if he can see his dick.
i don't need to get laid that bad.
we had a civil conversation.
that was weird.
what planet am i on?
i need to get laid,
but do i need it that bad?
i wondered why i missed him.
oh, i remember.
he got me laid.
we joked about laundry and beer.
he said something about the laundry mat.
think it was a lame ask out.
i passed.
like i said,
i don't need to get laid that bad.

two months has been long,
but not long enough.
i need to get laid.
dick number one
dick number two.
i need to get laid.
i think i’ll hold out
for dick number three.
i need to get laid.

70s Disco

Sometimes things have no meaning . . . they are what they are. In that regard, two weeks ago friend and I were chatting and clowning around. L is getting married in about two months, and she was asked if she bought her undies for the big day. She joked back that she wasn't planning on wearing anything.

Well, a few hours later while waiting in the car for her somehow the conversation got back to her not wearing undies. One of her bridesmaids remarked that she needed to talk with her, since she would be helping her get dressed. I, being a delightful jackass and pointer of the absurd, remarked that she did. Why? Because "there are somethings you don't want to know. Like if she goes bikini, Brazillin, or 70s Afro." At the 70s Afro comment, J doubled over laughing. We asked her why, and . . .

"I've got an image of a 70s disco dancer in my head."

At that I started singing "Stayin' Alive" to a chorus of laughter. At some point, reference was made to Miranda's character on a recent episode of "Grey's Anatomy" talking about keeping her "area" clean with "soap and water like God intended." There may or may not have been a chorus about "thank goodness that got admitted on TV." All should be good, sides aching from pain, and . . .

That night Afro 70s man haunted me in my dreams, as my vagina morphed into the head of said 70s dancer, in white polyester, singing "Stayin' Alive." Oh. Dear. God.