(E:Jim) loves his birthday

Seriously, there will be some new birthday related psychological disorder in the DSM-V with his picture next to it in the future. By calling it a birthday I have already failed to communicate the dire importance of the whole thing. His birthday is in April. In january I am getting reminders that his birthday is coming up soon. Chat begins about how he will spend his pre-birthday month, which would be the whole of march. Then of course there is his birthday month, April, the actual day being the 4th. Followed by his post-birthday month of May. It works really well for him. I usually end up getting him a big present in February and then by the time April comes around I am forced to get a second one.

The birthday is so omnipresent it gives itself great importance. Jim doesn't have to do much of anything. Birthday just starts gushing out of his pores like pheromones from an animal in mating season. The need to get a super-awesome birthday present becomes a great desire, a need. Food and drink take back seat to spending a few more midnight hours debating the pros and cons of each item on my list of potential gifts. If it is a productive night some will move to the next round of elimination.

But, this is, of course, not his birthday, it is my own. I could care less about my birthday. I like hiding during them and appearing the next day as if to say I have outwitted any well wishers. Better luck next year, suckers! Jim has been pestering me about ideas for gifts and whatnot. "Eh, I don't reall need anything." I would say. When he offers to take me out to places like Toro or Left Bank, I would offer some other less glamorous idea. I am such a terrible bore.

Jim's birthday obsessive complex though is starting to rub off on me though. My birthday is Monday, but I am thinking of this as my birthday weekend. There is a birthday tumor in my brain growing larger and larger. Decades from now I will be giggling about whole birthday months. And if future technology can preserve my cybernetic body I can talk about pre and post birthday months as I clank off into yet another century of near-obsoletetude.

And really, do I need yet another excuse to drink all weekend?

I was going to post another tale about the JCC gym, but something major came up.

I am leaving (e:Jim). Things have been going great in our relationship, in fact he is perfect in every way. I will look back upon the time we shared together and think fondly of it. The reason I am leaving is because HE came into my life



wouldn't you leave your mate for a taste of that?


now if you excuse me, I am going to wash my everything in rubbing alcohol.

• Note

I am not actually leaving (e:jim). And you are more than welcome to the tasty bit of man-alanche above.

I have been at the JCC (Jewish Community Center for the goys and others) for two years now. It has been good and all that for a while now, but it is time to go. The staff is wonderful, Kandy and Joe could crush my head with the weakest muscle on their body, but they are so nice, crazy nice. Like, offers to baby sit just for the fun of it nice. It is unreal. But, as their hours are constantly being reduced, they did a horrendously sleazy fundraising campaign (On Monday I got a letter saying they were closing down one center due to financial woes and a plea for donations, on thursday miraculously they were able to find some extra cash. jerks) Well, it is just time to go elsewhere, to mine for more interesting stories. Here is part one of a three part series, the stories, neh, LEGENDS! of the JCC.

1) The Prego Fetish

He is there all the time. I think he is a trainer, but I can't be sure. He sits around and chats with his meat head friends about squats and other vaguely sexual sounding exercises while the world around him is pardoning themselves as they grab weights or benches his massive ass is blocking. Well, he and this other meathead were gym jerking off.

Gym Jerking Off is when you lift as much and grunt as much as you possibly can. In modern, enlightened societies you can be beheaded for this. So, he does a set of cable flys. A very showy exercise, as it looks like you are crushing the skull of an invisible grizzly bear. His friend does a set. He is about to do his second when.... she walks in.

She and her husband were being given a tour of the place. They were not in bad shape. Soft around the middle but of respectable proportion. Oh, and she was about nine months pregnant. Had the tour taken place an hour later I am sure her water would have broke somewhere between the basketball court and the swimming pool.

Well, Mr.Meathead lights up. He claps his hand in skull crushing style and screams "YA! Let's do this!" and does that thing straight men do where they skip in the air, arms thrown back, and buts his chest against his embarrassed friend's.
1! YA!
2! All right!
3!.... if the Count from Sesame Street was never this excited about numbers. It was like Flowers for Algernon, where Charlie is very excited he has learned to count overnight.

His searching eyes the entire time never left the face of the pregnant woman.


Eventually the Gym Jerk Off ended. But the actual jerking off had only begun for him. As his splooge Pollocked his belly I am sure he was wishing it was a round dome like the woman's.

Almost it is time to go.

I love tormenting (e:jim)

subtitles in movies have this hypnotic effect which just puts him to sleep. At least when I get a Russian film the guttural sounds of that language keep him awake, not conscious but not asleep either. But every once in a while I go through an Ingrmar Bergman kick. God I love that man.

He hasn't really directed a film since 1984 (the year, not the Orwell) and I assumed it was because he was dead. Not so! Just really, really old.

I had been gracefully accepting his mortality and an old age fraught, with complication, with dignity from the beginning. Whether it was the Knight buying a few more minutes from death in the Seventh Seal or the reflections of an old professor in Wild Strawberries. These seemed like the films of a man who has reflected on the long years of his own life. Though he was nearly 40 when he directed these movies in 1956-57.

Even through his later films, like Autumn Sonata, his characters have a depth that one wouldn't expect from a young director. This depth does not seem richer with time, but more explored, each a little more from film to film.

Well, thinking him dead for many years I was surprised and saddened to learn of his death earlier today. I have seen perhaps a dozen of his films and found each of them moving and unique. It is a giant film catalogue and great body of work to go through.

Since we have been on a Scientology streak with (e:libertad) [inlink]libertad,40256[/inlink] and (e:paul) [inlink]paul,40252][/inlink] here is a bit of fun

So, there was some mild hubbub about a creative up and coming artist couple; one of whom killed themselves and the other disappeared. I ignored the story because... well... I just don't care. But then, THE LINK!

Here is the juicy quote

"Many were shocked by the turn of events while others noted that the couple had acted strangely in their final months together.

According to several friends and art world peers, the two believed they were being stalked and harassed by Scientologists, an abiding fear that soured old friendships and made some of their respective working relationships difficult."

Stalked and harassed by Scientologists! It is by some grace that the entire staff of Roswell as well as members of the Buddhist center have not plastered their brains to a ceiling.

Did the couple kill themselves to avoid Scientologists? Or was the trigger pulled by the spectral hand of L Ron Hubbard himself? I can't say, but I will caution all to wear aluminum hats when walking past that nefarious building.

Be vigilant, be safe.